His eyes burn crimson. My smile widens.
I feed him the face of the man that haunted him.
Bit by bit.
Ripped to pieces between my fingers. Every morsel delicately placed between his wide lips.
When the head is no more, I gather all signs of the man’s existence in a heap.
Putrid hands, every rotten limb.
We devour it together like it will be the last thing we’ll ever eat.
Every bite is a curse swallowed.
The sigh of the ages lies upon us like fog.
Each petrified piece is ground between our teeth to ashes. As his body vanishes, the fog lifts, leaving only freedom and peace behind. Not mine, but something far older.
Then, it is done. Nothing of him is left.
I feel different now. It’s so new, I still don’t know its name. But for the first time in my life, I feel full.
I look up at Lazarus. His eyes glow like raw garnets. Bile and blood stain his clothes, streaks of it running down his chest. His legs are spread wide and fearless. His red-dipped hands are placed on the throne like a prince.
XXV
“Teach me,” I say, as Lazarus lathers my back in soap.
“Teach you what?” he asks softly.
I let my head fall back, enjoying the feeling of his soapy hand on my skin. He takes it as an invitation and begins rinsing the blood from every strand of my hair.
“Astaire,” he whispers into my ear.
I answer with a quietmmmhhof delight.
“You were saying, almenara?” He nudges me.
“Oh,” I reply, dazed.
His hands feel so good, I can hardly focus on coherent thoughts. I close my eyes, enjoying his fingers massaging my scalp. The hot water warms me to the core, and the dim light of the room is too soothing, lulling me half to sleep.
Lazarus starts to soap my chest, then my legs, and the feeling of his fingers around my cock makes me hum. I want to turn around and face him, but my clumsy movements make the water splash over the rim of the tub, making a mess on the floor. I have to squish my body tightly so I can fit between his legs. He lifts a curl and twirls it around his fingers.
“Auric tresses, made of molten or,” he whispers.
I look down at my hair. I still haven’t gotten used to the new colour, but I kind of like it. It’s still unusual, only less human now, and much shinier. Just like Lazarus’. I run my wet hands through his still dry hair, mussing it up. Had his been a different colour before he turned, or was it always this black?
“Teach me how to live.” I cup his cheek.
“How can I?” he asks sadly. “I have never lived, myself.”
I look at him; his gaze is lowered, as if he’s hiding his true emotions. Seeing his features this close is almost too much, but I can’t stop looking at them. I brush my finger over each of his eyebrows, paying close attention to smooth the furrow between them. I draw my hand over his nose, following each line and bump. I trace his cheekbones and the hollow under his jaw.
And then I see his lips.
From the first time I noticed them, I couldn’t look away. I’m drawn to them like flowers to the sun. I slide a finger over his newly formed mustache. It feels much softer than expected.
