[M] I threw us into the flames
#21
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destiny, thy cruel mistress



In the hellfire and brimstone world of his father’s faith strict laws and rules were made to be followed. Pentecostalism (thought neither Gabriel nor his son knew it by this term) was a religion dominated by madmen. It had been for this reason that it drew the father in, and their cannibal ways bled onto his son. He felt these flames lick at every part of his soul in this moment of surrender and for one brief and terrible instance knew what his father would think.

Then everything vanished into the sharp, driving pain. Ezekiel arched his back instinctively, sucked in one deep breath, and his eyes widened in the dark. He had never thought that losing this one thing he had saved (stubbornly, wishing to prove his sister wrong, himself somehow purer) and now it was being ripped away from him one minute at a time. Amber eyes gleamed, wanting to betray this secret (and perhaps they did) but he said nothing and gave no sign of the pain which, slowly, and minute by minute, was eased into pleasure.

His hips rocked in time with the dark man’s and Ezekiel, for all his virgin knowledge, moved like an ocean getting ready to storm. Instinct told him this, and he had believed (and still believed) that instinct was the Voice. The Spirit was infallible and the Spirit did not lie; he opened himself to the language of his God and, with one deep-throated moan, spoke in tongues. Rust-colored hands gripped at the arms holding him, needy, and the hard length of his own exposed member rubbed deliciously against Sirius’ flat stomach.

For long, terrible minutes they were locked in this pattern of thrust and rocking hips, of low-murmured words and soul-searching gazes. It was as if the ocean had been caught in the swell of a hurricane and now rose to meet it. Pressure built within his groin and something like white-hot fire rushed up as Ezekiel hugged himself to the dark, muscle-bound beast atop of him. He cried Sirius’ name into the night and heard his own echoed in the devil’s tongue. Then they collapsed into the earth, reeking of come and blood, panting, saying nothing.

They did not linger long. Again, and again, they sunk to depravity held aloft only by the breath of salvation. Ezekiel did not know if he still carried Grace. He thought of The Spirit and the Voice and screamed the name of the Lord to a sky of silent, indifferent stars.

Then they finally came to rest, with Ezekiel curled against the lanky body and listened to him breath. There were promises spoken, in those soft undertones, and Ezekiel lay wide-eyed in the dark and said nothing.

Slowly, gradually, Sirius’ breathing deepened. His sleep was that of a troubled man given rest, dark and deep and dreamless. Hours might have passed. Ezekiel no longer knew, but even as his heart fretted and worried and filled him with doubt, his mind closed off slowly and gently like black water.

The scarred, amber-eyed man slipped from under the arms of his (brother/lover/enemy/rival). Still seated, he pulled the ring from his finger and carefully slipped it onto Sirius’ hand. It fit perfectly. Of course it would, he thought bitterly.

Then without a word, with hardly a sound, Ezekiel de le Poer slipped away and into the night.

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