By Quon and Tom
8.
Stretched out half-naked underneath Carlos, Paul felt more inflamed and
aroused than he had ever in his life. Carlos’s face buried in his neck, gently raking
sensitive skin with knifelike teeth and leaving soft pink trails of abraded, tender
flesh.
Carlos propped himself on his elbows over Paul, looking down at him and
administering little nibbling kisses as necessary. The shudder that ran down Paul’s
spine felt sybaritic and terrified in equal measures, and Carlos ached with a need to
ease whatever fear Paul harbored.
“I won’t hurt you,” Carlos murmured. “I promised. I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” Paul whispered, his eyes full of blind acceptance. He stretched,
his pale throat long and slender, sleek flesh marked only by a single pair of dark red
punctures. Carlos felt the allure of that silken, warm flesh, tried to resist, to ignore
the perfection; but he could no more do that than live without blood. He lowered his
head.
Paul shuddered as Carlos’s mouth sank onto his neck, as teeth sank into the
side of his throat once more, the pain less but the fear more. Paul had not been
expecting this, had not expected Carlos to raise his head and to see narrow, taunting
lips dyed crimson with his own blood. Carlos licked his lips; Paul touched his sore
throat, feeling the slickness of fresh blood, and sat up immediately, nearly cracking
skulls with Carlos.
“What is this?” He demanded.
“Paul…” Carlos began unhappily. “Paul, I didn’t…”
“You said…you said you wouldn’t…”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“Sure! Just like you didn’t mean to kill that kid!”
“Paul, don’t do this.” Carlos felt very much like crying, a feeling in itself
that multiplied the pain of Paul’s words. “Anyways, you know I could hold you
down if I have to.”
“You wouldn’t,” Paul said, not incorrectly. He began to extract himself
from under Carlos’s warm weight. “You—Carlos, please—”
Carlos had caught Paul’s wrist. “You have to trust me, Paul. If you can’t
trust me, then I can’t think of any reason I’d want to be alive.”
Paul flushed, a full-blown crimson stain almost to match the one slipping
down the side of his neck and chest in tiny ruby drops, and he looked at his feet for a
moment.
Paul stared at Carlos as he desperately quested for a response. He was pale
and dark and smeared with blood: Paul’s blood. He was a monster, a murderer.
Inside Paul, something snapped and a scarlet wave of pure wrath unleashed. Paul hit
him, harder than he had ever hit anyone in his life. His knuckles hurt, but he hit
Carlos again, and again, and again: his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. Carlos didn’t
respond, only lifting his hands to his face in meager defense.
Paul’s rage grew like intoxication. He tugged Carlos to the floor, brutally.
“Murderer! Animal! Freak!”
The unexpected lust of earlier changed to shame and drove him on. Carlos
was on the floor, at his feet, and Paul kicked, catching his friend’s ribs, his arms, and
his vulnerable pale belly. Carlos cowered under the blows, wondering if perhaps
death would be a blessing, rather than continue to live and be hated and feared by
the very one whom he loved with all his heart. His body ached under the assault. He
never knew Paul had such uncontrollable anger, such ill-contained hatred. His own
self-loathing made escape or retaliation a distant dream. Paul’s hands found his
shoulders.
“Get up! Get up!”
Paul hauled Carlos to his feet and shoved him across the room. Carlos
slammed into the wall, catching a mirror that shattered at his contact. He fell to the
floor, shards of glass glittering like dewdrops on his prone form.
For several long moments the room resonated with Paul’s gasps for breath.
He stared at Carlos’ body, his furious triumph twisting sickly into a nauseous fear.
Carlos didn’t move. A few specks of blood clung to the white-painted wall like an
accusing exclamation mark, and below the blood and beyond all hope lay Carlos, his
body twisted awkwardly.
“Carlos?”
Paul approached him, the numbness in his arm a testament to his own
brutality.
“Carlos? Carlos, wake up!” he nudged Carlos with his foot. Carlos didn’t
move. He sank to his knees, brushed the diamond-like shards from Carlos’ black
lustrous hair. Carlos’ lips were red like before, but now with his own blood. Snow
White, thought Paul, stroking his friend’s pale, ice-cold skin. He still didn’t move,
didn’t stir. He was…gone.
“Please…” Paul was shocked by the violence of the sob that erupted from
his lips. He had killed his friend. He stared at the body, wondering if this was how
Carlos had felt when Christian had died in his arms. No, no, no, that was different.
Carlos had kissed, had licked, had pleasured the boy to the very end, savoring his
body and killing because…he had to. That was the difference.
“I’m the murderer, not you. Oh God, Carlos, I’m so, so, so sorry.” Paul bent
to kiss Carlos, wetting his skin as much with his tears as his kisses. He rubbed his
nose through the silken tresses of the bassist’s hair, beads of glass falling musically
to the floor. He traced those still, firm lips with the tip of his finger, ignoring the
smears of mingled blood the clung to his trembling hand.
“I’m sorry Carlos. I’m so sorry.”
He knelt, bereft. From lust, to fury, to grief: he reeled at the force of his
emotions and the rising tide of loss that grew as each second passed. He studied his
friend’s face, smiling sadly as he traced the features with belated love. How long
passed? Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days. The room was cold, now, and
dark as well. If Paul hadn’t been staring with such desperate longing, he may never
have seen the tiny, almost imperceptible flicker at the corner of Carlos’ eye.
“You’re…you’re…” Paul didn’t finish his sentence, knowing with his heart
that Carlos wasn’t alive; he was dying. He reached for a shard of glass and held it to
the soft flesh of his arm, about an inch above Carlos’ lips.