A kiss, cold as a November rain, kiss of a traitor, cold as a snake-skin

[morsus_et_mors]

Date: Friday, 7 July 2000
Time: Late afternoon
Location: Cobalt Viriconium antique records shoppe, Muggle London
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus and OPEN (Please, ask before joining)
Status: Incomplete
Rating: PG-13 at the very least

Comments

[terry_schtiwl]

Dark brows still clashing over his glasses, Terry continued to look worriedly on at Montague, eyes wide. He bit his lower lip lightly as cold fingers woke and became animated with still frigid life. He felt like shrinking, curling up into himself, and disappearing into white. Momentarily his mind went back to the spider, so small- and he envied it.

It was already walking paths towards an Unknown Terry wouldn't discover for years.

But his thoughts were jarred quickly- eyes focusing once again on the small ships, white sails snapping, sailing on high seas, as the man came in closer. The galaxies bewteen them were collapsing! He was destroying them! Terry, feeling frightened, inhaled quickly, about to pull back- when he heard the words that were being spoken to him. His brow smoothed as a fearful sort of realisation fell upon him. Concede?

Sell him your soul.
Why not? I refuse no one! I refuse nothing!
Which is why you bleed for others. Isn't that what he'd said?

"Undoubtedly it is your nature to bring form to me," Terry said- for once, in a steady voice, if still quiet. His eyes ached to look away. The words threatened to choke him. "As I concede unto your force."

[morsus_et_mors]

"What a darling one," Montague whispered, voice as detached-sounding as always. There was a sudden sadness to how his skin glowed, tanned and darker than Terry's. It had never happened to him before. But there was a first time for everything, wasn't it?

There was a first time for a kill. It had been a snowy day (winter came into England early). His high leather boots left subtle imprints on the fresh slush and his coat listed with calaber billowed lightly at the either side of his corpse - as he walked. He'd entered the large mansion meeting no one on his way, and then there was no one on the large marble stairway, and no one in the darkly-lit corridor - no one around the house. Where had all the House-Elves gone that night? Scurried away like rats, dastardly, unclean. It only took three minutes for Montague to be done with the white-haired couple in their masterbed. "Well, they were already rotting, old fucks," he said later on, cleaning his knife.

There was also a first time for a kiss. Inside the Slytherin dungeons, pushed against the wall - sloppy tongues, desperate for their lust, as they fought the first fight of the mouths. "You're far too enthusiastic," he'd said to the Third-Year girl indifferently, leaving her sobbing in the cold dungeons afterwards. He'd mocked her the next morning at the Great Hall and she wanted to die.

See, there was also a first time for this. Montague's fingers slid further around Terry's neck, bringing the boy steadily to himself, closer and closer, until the younger male's head was on his chest. He hoped the other boy wouldn't hear the beating of his traitorous heart, because he didn't have a heart. He'd cut it out ages ago and it was hidden behind the bricks in the walls where the four-eyed angel slept.

"I'll mould you into perfection, my little boy."

[terry_schtiwl]

The velvet on Terry's cheek was unable to completely stifle the low sounds of Montague's heart. Although, it took the boy a minute to figure out if he was really hearing the beatings of the other man's heart or if it was the sound of his own blood pounding so loud. But the soft pulse that could be felt through the painful fabric was surely Montague's. --And, quite honestly, this surprised Terry. (He was certain, by now, that Montague didn't have a heart. But rather a miniature machine that did the heart's business without all of the emotion.)

And as usual, his face betrayed him. An expression of shock, not just from being pulled in so (so, so, so) close, fell upon his featues with familiarity. Eyebrows high and together. Mouth open slightly. Terry swallowed hard, dropping his long burnt-out cigarette to the shop floor involuntarily. His eyes, peering through slightly crooked specs, adhered themselves to a rack of records for lack of anything better to look at.

He could feel the movements of Montague's chest as the man breathed and could feel his words being formed in vibrations before they were said. It was strange- being this close to someone and was not a position Terry was used to in the least. It was also strange being able to hear life moving so through another person, especially when that person was Montague Morsus. (Was he mortal then?)

Words failed Terry. He couldn't focus on a response anyway. His breathing was starting to become wild again and the boy had to fight to keep himself from hyperventilating. (It had been a while since he was supposed to take his pills...) So, instead of talking or pulling away, he merely let out a small sort of cry- a small 'help.'

[morsus_et_mors]

And so they stood - a brother holding a brother, alone in the world of maelstroms, safe and secure in their solitude. This would find its way into Montague's memory and etch itself there, making sure that Montague never forget, and return to that place in moments of disquietitude.

But soon (time could fly so fast), Montague felt that familiar feel creep into his very insides. He called it detachment - the poetry of detached connection - neither here nor there. And not really caring, when it came down to that. The most beautiful concept in the world, better than the flashy concept of Ubermensch, than the psychotic surrealism of Dadaism, than the gritty realism of the knife being stabbed into the skin and up through the chin and into the mouth as the fountains of blood sprouted forth - all merely aspects of this one thing.

With a bland smile, he let the boy go and away from him. Taking the record in his hand and adding it to the one of Wagner in his own, Montague nodded slightly, motioning for Terry to follow him.

"These," he dropped the two records on the cashier's desk haughitly. "Wrap them up," he added imperiously, before extracting a few ruffled Muggle banknotes of an obviously valuable standing.

[terry_schtiwl]

Oh- what? The cold hands that had been holding Terry close released him- and the body he'd been pressed against moved aside, forcing the boy to take a heavy step forward to catch himself. He blinked at Montague.

It took a few moments for things to come back- thoughts, memories, emotions. Terry, when he (or his body, anyway) had been leaning against Montague, had been 'somewhere else.' Not that he remembered where that place was now. -And he was feeling more than a little spacey.

With hesitant steps Terry trailed Montague, after he'd gestured, to the cashier's counter. And he stood a good metre away as the employee began ringing up the records, idly tapping his left sneaker on the dirty floorboards. Eyes were kept on a strange burn (that resembled someone Terry couldn't quite put his finger on) on the floor next to the 'R & B' rack.

The boy could hardly collect his thoughts for even a second. --A sure sign that medicines were in order.

[morsus_et_mors]

At the sight of Montague (and Terry quite the distance away), the sales-girl stood up from her seat, abandoning her previous occupation of polishing her nails. Something about the couple seemed slightly off, the tall man in front of her giving off even stranger vibes. She would later on swear that she felt hairs on her back stand on end, the moment she laid her eyes on him.

"Faster," he said, a thin smile on his lips not reaching his cold oceanic eyes at all. The order sent the girl into a momentary stupor, in which she wondered if the man was a maniac - a thought that instantly sent her into an accelerated bout of usefulness and servitude. "Here you are," she said, holding out the records in the plastic bags and the change from the Muggle banknotes.

"Have a ni--" the employee did not finish her sentence with Montague leaving the desk abruptly and walking toward the exit in a decisive stride. "Fuck you too," she muttered quietly, wondering slightly whether he was a Satanist and would all of her words. Not that he cared.

"Think of me when listening to it," Montague said finally, as they were out of the Cobalt Viriconium. "Think of me, because you belong to me." He stood towering above the younger boy, not paying attention to the scared looks thrown their way by the scarce buyers that were entering the record shoppe.