De Lantejoulas e Amor pt. 2
Title: De Lantejoulas e Amor
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: straight-up porn, yo
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~11k
Warnings: dub-con drug usage (nothing intravenous). shameless abuse of the Portuguese language, also complete lack of knowledge of anything concrete about Brazil. but there's a sequined g-string? that helps, right?
Betas: the lovely, the gifted, and the fucking hilarious medea_fic and lousy_science.
A/N: in honor of the approaching mardi gras/carnivale season... so, this was originally a fill for a prompt on the kink-meme, the link for which i have now lost. i wrote the first bit of it quickly, but then got tied up, and didn't finish until tracked down and promised muffins by the lovely the_deep_magic, so, this one's for you, bb. :) thanks muchly.
3)
He wakes late in the afternoon, sheets wrapped around his legs in an impenetrable tangle, one arm dangling off the bed. His mouth is dried and foul, and he rubs at his eyes, fragments of vari-colored dream still clinging to the edges of his mind.
It’s the work of a full minute to release himself from the bedding, but he manages, wincing as he realizes he’s stark naked, and reaching for a towel. He showers, letting the cold water run over his skin as he replays the events of the previous evening in his mind. He thinks he remembers it all, though admittedly, things are more than a bit fuzzy in places, courtesy of the the drinks before, during, and after, but he feels like he’s got all the salient points. The beautiful stranger. The float. The incredible orgasm. What more could he possibly need to remember?
There’s enough food in the fridge to make a sandwich, so he slathers on mayo and mustard, adds some cheese and meat and pickles, then wraps it in a handkerchief and grabs his daypack. Refills his water bottle, borrows his roommate’s map to locate the Catedral, and sets off into the afternoon heat.
-
The Catedral looms huge and ugly in the late afternoon sun, its long shadow permeating the south-eastern side of the building for more than a block. It’s some fever dream of sixties architechture, one part gothic romance and two parts white man’s interpretation of native design. The result is a concrete behemoth, neither inspiring nor impressive, but merely imposing, squatting the size of a city block on the edge of the slums.
He moves toward it cautiously, creeping into the shade of its facade and blinking when the colored murals spring to life as his pupils dilate in the dimmer light. He finds himself climbing the steps, pushing through the heavy door into an enormous light-filled narthex, silent and cool as a tomb.
He’s never been especially religious himself- he goes to church maybe once, twice a year, but really only because he still feels vaguely like he’s supposed to. But he’s not against it, not at all, and he takes a moment to just stand in the space, letting the cool stillness seep into his still exhausted form. It’s wonderful, he can feel every muscle in his arms, along his spine, start to relax from their knotted, booze-fueled stupor, letting his fingers hang heavy and his head loll on his neck. He’s out of time, removed from the coursing dip and roll of people and things and minutes and thoughts that clamour just outside these doors, and he breathes deeply, feeling the muscles of his belly inflate as he draws in a lungful of air.
He exhales, and the door in front of him opens soundlessly, pausing in front of him, an overt invitation to take the first step.
--
The interior is vast, solid concrete beams arching into the cool gloom overhead, wildly colored murals of a dark-skinned Christ and brown-eyed disciples glowing in the spaces beneath the lurid stained glass. Faithful members are moving throughout the space, some kneeling, some standing, some genuflecting.
The display in the middle is intimidating, all huge stone altar and enormous hanging crucifix, and he finds himself moving to the edges, slipping off the sides of the pews and into the cool overhang of the window ledges, skirting the dais in the center of the room. There’s a smaller chapel off to the left, and he makes his way toward it, stepping silently around a group of elderly nuns working their way diligently through a second decade of well worn beads.
He can see the back of a man in vestments standing before the small altar, his black hair slicked back, his deft fingers manipulating a long match to flare the wick of a jar candle. He moves closer, standing quietly behind the last of the three pews set before the chapel, pausing in deference to the man’s absorption in his ritual.
“Jesus, Cordeiro de Deus, tende piedade de nós...”
It’s like a punch to the gut, the sound of that voice, and he’s sucking in air through his teeth in shock, his fingers gripping frantically at the back of the pew in front of him.
It can’t be…
“Jésus, portador da Carteira de nossos pecados, tende piedade de nós.”
That voice, that voice, it’s insinuating its way into his brain, into his belly, into his balls with a curl of fricative that slides over the man’s tongue and straight into Chris’ nervous system.
No... it’s just not possible...
“Jesus Redentor, Redentor do mundo, dai-nos a tua paz, dá-nos a tua paz.”
He palms his dick frantically, hiding the motions behind the curving wood of the pew back, pulling desperately at the constriction of the cloth. The man is backing up now, turning to blow out the tapered match, mouth moving in reverent recitation, and any second now Chris will see his face…
The man turns, light shining across his features, and Chris feels the breath freeze in his throat.
---
It’s not him.
Fuck, it’s not him.
The man in front of him is beautiful, yes, and the voice… he could be a twin. But the eyes Chris has seen through the mask have been dark, dark as sorghum, dark as sin, and this man is now staring at Chris with a steady blue gaze.
A steady blue gaze that is getting increasingly more suspicious, Chris realizes, and he forces his panting mouth closed with a snap. The man is still staring, and with a sinking feeling Chris knows that if he continues to stand here, he’s going to be approached and spoken to, as is only polite. And as would be fine, if he weren’t, at the moment, still rock-hard in his jeans, a state that is not only noticeable, but likely to be exacerbated as soon as this man opens his full, shapely mouth.
Forcing his movements to the realm of nonchalance, he glances around the space. To the right is the larger open area of the church; no good. To his left… aha.
He nods once to the priest, who nods back at him with a slightly questioning look, but does not walk toward him as Chris turns and walks down the back of the pew until he reaches the small door, opens it, and lets himself in.
He sits down on the small bench with a breath of relief, and fights the urge to giggle madly. He’d never thought he’d find a confessional a place of refuge, but here he sits, alone in a small dark room, just him and his throbbing dick.
Christ, how ridiculous.
It’s insane how wrapped up he is; he could have sworn it was his masked… friend, and just the thought of it had pulled him from zero to orbital in a matter of heartbeats. And that voice, that voice…
He unbuttons his shorts, sighing at the release of pressure on the press of his dick. He can just sit here, and wait. He’s still hours early, he can wait for it to go away. He’ll have plenty of time to find somewhere nice, eat his sandwich, and wait for his mysterious companion by the appointed hour. There’s no reason to rush things, and accidentally scandalize the resident nuns by wandering around sporting a hard-on on sacred ground.
He’ll just wait.
He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as he unzips his pants to allow his swollen dick space to relax. Confessionals lock from the inside, and by all the saints is he grateful for that right now.
It’s peaceful in here; quiet. Even if the only thing he can see behind his eyelids are the dark eyes of the masked man, the swell of his lower lip, the white of his smile.
His dick twitches, and he wills the image away, deepening his breathing and feeling the muscles in his abdomen flex and hold.
Lost in the sensation moving through his body, the exact color of the slick-dark eyes in his mind, he doesn't hear the click as the door on the other side of the screen opens.
---
“Em nome do Pai, do Filho e do Espírito Santo, amém.”
Chris jumps about a foot, slamming his head against the wall in surprise. He fumbles frantically at his fly, but with a moment of devastating clarity knows that he can’t zip up- the noise would be unmistakeable in the small confines of the confessional booth.
“Quanto tempo se passou desde sua última confissão?”
“I… I’m sorry, Father…” It’s that voice, dear heaven, it’s the voice of that priest and it’s moving through his blood like a drug, sliding into his veins and arteries more surely than oxygen, thinning the flow to his brain. “English only, I’m sorry…”
He shifts, readjusting himself as subtly as he can manage, his dick full and aching again between his legs.
“Ah, American, si?”
He shudders, pressing the palm of his hand against his erection in a fruitless attempt to discourage his very… prominent… interest.
“Yes.”
“An American…” the man rolls the word around in his mouth, and Chris bites his lip painfully to stifle his moan. “An American here for Carnivale, surely you have many things to confess, my son.”
There is a chuckle, a subterranean rasp in the liquid dark of that tone, and Chris wonders helplessly when it was that he went from pressing on his dick to stroking it, sliding his hand up and down its thickness, twisting his wrist the slightest of degrees as he moves to better grip the base.
“…I… yes. I do.”
“Tell me, my son.” He can hear the shift of weight, the rustle of cloth from behind the screen, and he’s struck with a sudden blinding vision of the look-alike priest taking himself in hand, shifting his robes to pull out his thickening length and stroking it, taking the fingers that had so deftly lit the altar candles and fondling himself with the same reverent dexterity and economy of motion.
He feels something wet on his tongue, and realizes he’s bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
“Tell me.”
The priest’s voice is husky, and in Chris’ vision his eyes are not light, not blue, but dark, full of heat and dusk and promise.
“I…” his voice sounds wrecked, and there’s really just fuck-all that Chris can do about it, so he pulls his cock a little faster, giving himself over to the motion, the idea. He’s apparently already made the decision, so why go half measures now? “I have committed sexual sins.”
He’s close, he’s definitely getting close. There’s more rustling on the far side of the screen, and the image before his closed eyes may be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. The man in the mask, his panting mouth laid wide open as his hands reach into his cassock and jerk, rubbing himself fervently to the sound of Chris’ voice.
“What sins, my son?”
His thumb presses on the top of his cock, making his heart stutter in his chest as he basks in the sound of that deep-throated sound.
“…I have performed sexual acts…” it’s going to be any second now, everything is going hazy and there is a roaring in his ears, “… with another man.”
He’s gone before the word has left his mouth, his back arching and mouth opening in a toneless exhalation, his hand clutching at the well-worn wood of the bench as his brain faintly registers the heat of his emission as it falls on his chest and belly. He slumps, aching and exhausted, in the suddenly stifling heat of the confessional.
“I see.” The man sounds breathless, undone. “Dez Ave-Marias.”
Chris manages to mumble something vaguely in the direction of the screen, and then the man is gone, the breeze of his passing wafting through to Chris’ half as he leans, brainless, legless, and nerveless, against the antiquated wood.
--
4)
It’s the tickle on his inner thigh that wakes him, his hand reaching down to swat sleepily at whatever is dragging along the inside of his knee. His fingers connect with a fistful of thick strands, and there’s a deep chuckle as the wet heat of an open mouth presses itself to the underside of his hamstring, making him gasp awake, fingers clutching instinctively to the strands in his grasp.
“Olha o que encontrei, dormindo sob as árvores ...”
The mouth moves closer to the edge of his denim shorts, the man’s smooth lips brushing the hairs of his leg as he murmurs, his voice as dark as the shadows clinging to the edges of the mausoleums surrounding them.
Chris shivers, and a warm hand creeps up to slide under his shirt where he lays on the stone bench, reassuringly real and solid in the face of the grave silence all around.
“...um belo adormecido, um anjo caído do céu e deu em minhas mãos ...”
Chris reaches for him, an unthought need for reassurance. The day has fallen into darkening twilight while he slept, exhausted from the heat of the day and lulled by the soporific peace of the graveyard behind the Catedral. Now the stars of the city illuminate the low-hanging clouds, the colors of the lighted floats flickering against the insulating gloom. The shade beneath the trees is thick, and he feels goosebumps rise on his flesh in response to the moist evening breeze.
The masked man’s eyes meet his, warm and amused as he presses his hand more firmly into Chris’ belly, forcing him to lie back down on the cool marble slab.
“Não tenha medo, meu amado. Eu não sou um fantasma.”
His fingers are sure as they stroke down his belly, his touch firm and welcome, and Chris lets himself go, tangling his hands into the heavy pelt of hair and groaning, letting his legs fall open before the advancing onslaught of the masked man’s mouth.
“Respire, pequena. Eu não quero que você seja morto apenas ainda ...”
With a shuddering sigh, Chris gives himself over, a banquet entire to the devouring hunger of those beautiful, persuasive, lips.
--
It’s his hands first, those warm, clever fingers, that slide up the legs of his shorts as Chris lies sprawled on the marble bench, a study in slack-lipped chiaroscouro, a debauched, over-grown cherub deep in the process of ravishment by the handsomest of devils.
Chris shakes as the tips of the fingers finally reach the crest of his hip, slipping under his sweat-soaked briefs like undertow, sliding into the crease of his groin like they belong there. He works his fingers into the thatch of hair covering the masked man’s head, rubbing his fingers hard across his scalp and earning himself a deep throated groan in response. The man’s hair is slick with oil, gritty with the dust in the air and warm where it meets his skin. Chris pulls his hand to his mouth and licks, savoring the taste of sea-salt and sweat, lightly flavored with what must be the man’s own peculiar taste.
Chris licks his lips, and the man laughs, his breath hot against Chris’ stomach.
“O sabor de você me faz bêbado...”
The eyes behind the mask flash with desire, and Chris can feel his breath hitching in his chest, the humid air thick and choking in his throat as a hot, damp tongue forces its way past the waist of his shorts, caressing the shrinking flesh of his pelvic wall as the fingers cup his balls and pull. He can feel the whine pulling from his throat, and spares a moment’s thought for the person whose tomb he is lying atop, the bones buried in the bench below him. Someday he, too, will lie in dirt, his flesh loose and his bones fragile, but this, this rush of blood through his veins, this touch of heated skin on his, the press of the stranger’s hardened length against his calf, this is real, this is now.
--
It’s like he’s drugged, or drunk, or slipping through quantum waves; the leaves on the tree above him shiver, and he feels their rustle in the bottom of his gut, his back arching away from the cool marble and into the confining heat of the mouth attached to his hip.
All thought of reciprocation has been driven from his mind, and he is reduced to a pile of synaptic firings, a trembling hindbrained creature with his fingers wound inextricably into the tendrils of the head in front of him. He can hear the rise and fall of the masked man’s voice, murmuring nonsense in that liquored drip of voice. It washes over Chris, sinking into his skin like spit, like rain, like honey rubbed into the curve of his groin, like heavy wine onto a waiting tongue.
“Deixe-me sentir de você... deixe-me sentir na minha boca...”
There’s cloth around his knees, and the shock of stone against the bared flesh of his ass, but it’s entirely forgotten in the bliss of that mouth’s descent around his dick, making him shudder and grasp at the bench as he moans uncaringly. He can feel the fingers pressing his hips into the marble, and knows that each point of pressure will leave a mark, a tiny dimpling explosion of capillaries to show that this was real, that he was here.
“...deixe-me escavar meus dedos em sua carne e esculpir gostaria de barro...”
He can feel the lips moving around his flesh as the stranger speaks, the irregular press combining with the motion of swirling tongue, and the tension in his limbs is suddenly urgent, drawing him taut and shivering beneath the man’s firm and definite hands. His muscles clench, his teeth grind, and he can taste the electricity in the air as his head tips back, his neck curving white in the darkness.
“Sim, dar-te mais para mim...dar-te a mim agora.”
The note in that voice is all command, and it doesn’t begin to matter that Chris has no idea what was actually said, he’s coming, exploding into pieces of light, his body tensed and throbbing, breath caught in his lungs as he bites his tongue until blood floods his mouth. Le petit-mort indeed, he thinks as he floats back down to his lax body. He can hear a shaking moan, and feel the bite of fingertips into sinew as the other man finishes, gasping a stilted breath against his stomach.
It takes a moment, but Chris manages to release the death grip he’s got on the other man’s hair, his hands falling limp to his sides as he breathes in and out, in and out.
--
When he wakes, the pale light of dawn is breaking, fading the the spaces between the stars into a wan glow. He’s been cleaned up and tucked away, and he feels a sinking in his stomach as he realizes he’s alone. It’s chilly now, and he can hear the faint sounds of revelry in the distance, wrapping up as the last strings of celebrants wind their way home.
Alone.
He checks his arms, his stomach. No scrawl of writing this time, no thread of leading pen. He hangs his head, shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cool pre-dawn air.
A crinkle at his fingertips- a slip of paper in his pocket, and he smiles, his face warming as he pulls it out and examines the curving lines.
“Mãe Lua, amanhã à noite. Vou vê-lo lá, meu amor.”
--
5)
He’s been stood up.
It’s the only possible conclusion he can draw at this point, but Chris is desperately, desperately trying not to draw it. It’s staring him in the face, all ugly teeth and smirking eyebrows- it is the last night of Carnivale, and he is sitting here, alone, in a dive bar, because he has been stood up.
It’s well past one in the morning- he’s heard the bells ring the time for the past five hours, so he’s pretty clear on how very late his... what? Date? Companion? Lover? ...on how very late the man in the feathered mask is. He’s broken his pattern, and Chris just doesn’t know what to think- every one of the past nights he has shown up exactly as promised, at the location he provides, without a hitch. What’s different now?
The clock chimes, sonorous rings audible above the roar of the crowd, and it’s late, not that late, but late enough to know when you’ve been taken for a fool. He stands, tossing back the last of his drink and moving to the bar, tipping the buxom barmaid with a smile and the expected leer before hanging his head and heading for the door.
He almost pauses on the threshold, waiting, waiting for something, someone to stop him. To stop you for what, idiot? This isn’t a fucking movie. He’s not going to chase you down at the perfect moment, life just doesn’t work that way. One foot, then the other, and he’s over the lintel and out into the street, the debauchery loud and chaotic just below him.
There is no hand on his shoulder, no voice in his ear, and he’s far too proud to turn around and look behind him just in case, so he makes his way to the curb, determinedly heading into the mob.
He makes it two blocks before he gives in and turns back. He doesn’t know who he was kidding anyway- he’ll wait all night if he has to. And the really sad part, he thinks as he pushes his way against the current of the crowd, is that it has nothing, well, not as much, to do with the admittedly fucking incredible sex, and everything to do with the look in those deepened eyes, the tone in that ineffable voice as it whispers in his ear. He’s hooked on the masked man like a habit, craves him like sunlight and star-glow, needs him like oxygen and water and blood and every other cliche he can possibly think of. He aches for his presence in the way he thinks one must ache for a vital organ removed- like the pains of a kidney donor down one renal gland, like someone with half a lung longs to take a full breath.
He doesn’t know where it’s come from, and he’s too far gone to care. All he can do is be, and all of his being is waiting- for the touch of a finger, for the taste of a mouth, for a breath at his neck.
He doesn’t notice at first; the crowd is all around him, pushing and jostling, so he shrugs it off. Harder to ignore is the arm that wraps around his waist, pulling him down off the patio steps and into an alcove. His heart is thumping triplets in his chest before he can even turn around, because the fingers on his ribs, the shoulder pressed against his back, he knows them, knows this.
“Sinto muito pelo atraso. Era inevitável.”
“It’s ok, it doesn’t matter.” Chris has managed to get his hands into the thick hair of the head behind him, and he’s only slightly startled to realize that it’s really true- now that the darkly familiar stranger is pressing against him, closing his hands around Chris’ hips, it doesn’t matter at all how many hours Chris sat and felt a fool. It was worth it.
“Abra sua boca, um bonito. Tenho uma coisa para nós.”
At some point, Chris thinks, one of them has really got to start learning the other’s language, and the thought stabs a sudden pain into his gut as he remembers the tickets back to the states that sit at the bottom of his bag, bearing tomorrow’s date. He knows his face falls, but the man is turning him around, holding Chris against his wiry chest as he grips Chris’ chin and slides a thumb between his lips. Chris bites down unthinking, enjoying the throaty gasp that catches in the other man’s chest at the pressure. The masked man’s full lips twist, and he pushes with his middle finger at the joint of Chris’ jaw, the pressure point pushing his mouth open in accquiesence.
Fingers reach and grab, and then there is something in Chris’ mouth, a small piece of dense chocolate. The other man is already chewing, so Chris obediently closes his mouth, letting the dark cocoa begin to disolve on his tongue. The taste is deep and musky, and he bites down contentedly, watching the other man’s eyes flash as he chews. There’s a thick undertone to the taste, and his eyebrows knit together as he struggles to identify it; it’s familiar, but clouded, something he should know...
“Sim. Cogumelos.” The man pauses, wracking his brain. “’shrooms.” He looks quizzically at Chris, and Chris nods, the flavor slotting into place in his memory. He chews, tasting the bitter notes as they spread through the back of his mouth. He grimaces, swallows, smacking his tounge against the roof of his mouth in distaste. The other man laughes, his stomach vibrating where it’s pressed against Chris’ own, his teeth shining wetly in the dark. He leans forward, the feathers of the mask tickling Chris’ cheek as the stranger brings their mouths together, sweeping the taste of the chocolate and organic additives out of Chris’ mouth, off the surface of his tongue.
Chris gets lost in this, out beyond any concept of time, any understanding of physical location. All that exists is the press of tongues, the grip of mouths pushed open and the bitter aftertaste dancing out from between their teeth. There’s a hand on the back of his neck, long fingers pressing into the tight curve where his skull joins his vertebrae, grasping into the base of his hairline to hold him still at the apex of his arc into the other man. The masked man’s hands are greedy, pinning him and glutching at him in equal measure, and it’s when he begins to feel them all over that he realizes the drug has come on fast and hard, his muscles tight under his skin, the breath rushing in his chest. He pulls back just enough to look the stranger in the eye, their fingers unconsciously twining and untwining as the manic energy starts to crest.
The other man’s eyes are pitch black, so dark he can’t even see the ring of iris. The lights from the floats glinting on the mask’s feathers are rainbowed and shivering, pearlescent drops of color that he can taste on the back of his tongue. He takes a deep, steady inhale, and the man smiles at him, showing all his teeth.
I’m in love with a shark, Chris thinks, and then the man has grabbed his hand and they are running, running, running, pelting through the streets at untouchable speeds, their heads and torsos flying out in front of their feet, hands clasped as they dodge carts, pedestrians, stairs. Chris feels like he could run forever, heart pounding in his chest, blood pumping fiercely in his veins; like he could lift off the earth and fly, flinging open his arms and riding the curve of the planet like so much atmospheric jetsam. They run and run, blocks, miles, decades, he couldn’t begin to say, and then they are running not on pavement, but on sand, their gait slowing as their bodies adjust to the shifting surface beneath them. They make it to the edge of the tide-line, the last remnant of dry dunes, before they collapse into a gasping heap, sprawling half on top of each other as their chests suck in oxygen.
He can feel the air inflating his lungs, deflating on his exhale, inflating again. He can feel every pore of his skin, every hair that twitches in the balmy night air, every blazing line where his body is pressed agains the other man. His body is solid and limp, but he can feel his mind flying, racing along the clouds as he watches the starburst flash and move in the night sky. He is aware of every ounce of pressure gravity is placing on his frame, aware of his own fragile form being pressed against this hard surface, of how fast the Earth is spinning, her own mass holding him in place on this speedily rotating orb. It makes him feel dizzy, so he stretches out his hands to press into the sand, clinging to the land so he won’t fall off into space.
There’s a chuckle beneath him, warm and dry, then another; the sound comes from all around him, deep and rolling with mirth, so he begins to laugh too, the sound bubbling up from inside him and spilling into the darkness in translucent twinkly orbs that float away and burst. They laugh and laugh, rolling apart, then together, and Chris thinks that he could happily laugh himself to death like this, expiring between one exhalation and the next, but then there is a hand on his cock and he nearly chokes in surprise, shivering with his whole body as the man moves his hand back and forth as though hypnotized.
The lights on the feathers have coalesced into something beyond colors he’s ever seen before, and Chris is riveted, staring like a slack-jawed idiot as the man rises up and flows over him, a warm wave of caramel skin that slides into postion and blots out the stars. He writhes as he feels hands on him, the sensations nearly too much, his eyes spasming closed even as he reaches to dig his fingers into whatever piece of this other human he can reach.
The night air hits his dick with a carress that has him hard instantly, his hips arcing up from the sand, his ass gloriously bare to the nighttime breezes in ways that feel like childhood, like innocence, and every beautiful impending sin. He manages to lasso his exploding mind long enough to haul the shorts off the man leaning over him, earning himself a stuttered moan as he fastens his mouth and teeth to the side of ribs in front of his face and feasts, letting the flavors of sweat and heat and booze write their tale across his tatsebuds.
He hasn’t seen the other man yet, not properly, not naked like this, like he walked out of Eden dripping with nectar for Chris to lick. He still can’t, not really; it’s at least mostly dark, but he sees lights everywhere he looks right now, and his sense of touch seems to be hardwired into his ocular nerves, and he feels the light trails his hands are tracing onto the heated flesh that is being wrapped around his own frame. There’s a pull, and then he is standing, the world tipping on its axis for a moment until he’s steadied, and then he’s being led, a small child held by the hand and pulled forward in naked abandon into the sea.
The water is warm and gentle, embracing him on all sides as he steps in and in and in. It’s like returning to the womb, sliding back into the primordial sea. He’s not alone this time, though- he’s found his other half, his lost self, and he can see now the lines of shimmering lights that flare between them, drawing himself and his other self closer and closer, bellies pressing up together, hands moving to define every plane, every curve of flesh. The feathers of the mask tickle him, but he’s glad- he’s never seen this man’s face, and he thinks if he did now, it would be too much, too much, and he would be completley gone, sunk into the glorious over-whelming beauty of perfection, hung to dry somewhere between Fibonacci’s curve and the golden mean.
There’s a hand on his cock, pulling it harder and faster, and he hadn’t realized he was moaning until there were teeth in his neck. He’s got his own fist circling, fingers tattooing words in a language he doesn’t know into the solid mass of thrusting skin as the water laps at their chests. They’re buoyant, floating on the surface of the Deep itself as they rupture into ecstacy, the water cradling them as they add their salt to the rising tide, shouting their transcendance into each other’s mouths.
--
+1)
He wakes up wrung out, sticky, and overhot. There’s a bottle of water by his bed that he chugs, slopping wet down his chest as he swallows. He has vague memories of making it back at dawn, the streaks of light the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, making his eyes water as he slumped on the stoop to breathe his way through the immensity of it all.
He can’t remember when the masked man disappeared, and he hauls his exhausted body out of bed in sudden sinking fear. He staggers to the bathroom, faint chasers of light trailing around the room, and strips, examining every inch of himself in the mirror in desperate, fading hope.
Nothing.
He swallows hard, again and again, shoving his head under the water to wet his face and breathe slowly until his body is done shuddering against the tiled wall. The water is cool, sluicing the stuck-on sand from his skin and soothing his queasy stomach. He forces himself to turn the water off, towel dry, eyes skidding past the imprint of teeth on his hip, fingers on his ribs.
It’s only two hours till he has to be at the airport, so he packs his things, the world muted and dull, his head aching at the light. He lugs his pack into the main room, settling it on the couch and digging out his phone and the number for the airport shuttle, flopping onto the ratty sofa with a sigh.
“Hey, man- think this is for you.”
Chris looks up in curiousity. He doesn’t recognize the guy; must have come in in the last day or so. But he’s holding out a slip of paper, and Chris’ heart gives a sideways lurch that does nothing for his nausea as he reaches out to take it.
The paper is small, a ripped off piece of what looks like a cigarette pack, with two short scrawled lines of writing.
1241 Ste. Ana Plaza
Por favor.
--
The taxi drops him in front of a small yellow house with a low stoop. He nearly forgets to pay, but remembers in time, shoving money indiscriminately at the driver as he manuvers his backpack out and stumbles into the small bricked space in front. He makes it up the steps and knocks before the fear hits him, the knowledge of what he is doing here, missing his flight to go on a wild goose chase in a city he barely knows to... what, exactly?
The crack of the door saves him from hyperventilating, but only by virtue of cutting off his breath entirely. He freezes, sure he’s got the wrong house, his face falling as he tries to remember the words for I’m sorry, but then he looks up again and the world falls out from beneath him.
Those eyes.
It’s him, it’s the masked man- Chris would know those dark-edged eyes anywhere, but now... now the look in them contains jubilation like he’s never seen, the face that frames them breaking into that same wide, toothy smile, and even if he’s never seen the forehead, the nose, there’s no mistaking that mouth with it’s bruised arch.
The man across from him raises a hand, his face open and warm and more beautiful than Chris could ever have imagined. He steps forward involuntarily, and the man traces his fingers across Chris’eyebrows, his cheek, his lips.
“Você veio…”
The man takes a shuddering breath, slides his hand down Chris’ shoulder to take his hand, lace their fingers together tightly.
“Ficar. Por Favor.” He shakes his head, his fingers tightening, then looks Chris in the eye, pulling him ever forward.
“Please. Stay.”
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: straight-up porn, yo
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~11k
Warnings: dub-con drug usage (nothing intravenous). shameless abuse of the Portuguese language, also complete lack of knowledge of anything concrete about Brazil. but there's a sequined g-string? that helps, right?
Betas: the lovely, the gifted, and the fucking hilarious medea_fic and lousy_science.
A/N: in honor of the approaching mardi gras/carnivale season... so, this was originally a fill for a prompt on the kink-meme, the link for which i have now lost. i wrote the first bit of it quickly, but then got tied up, and didn't finish until tracked down and promised muffins by the lovely the_deep_magic, so, this one's for you, bb. :) thanks muchly.
3)
He wakes late in the afternoon, sheets wrapped around his legs in an impenetrable tangle, one arm dangling off the bed. His mouth is dried and foul, and he rubs at his eyes, fragments of vari-colored dream still clinging to the edges of his mind.
It’s the work of a full minute to release himself from the bedding, but he manages, wincing as he realizes he’s stark naked, and reaching for a towel. He showers, letting the cold water run over his skin as he replays the events of the previous evening in his mind. He thinks he remembers it all, though admittedly, things are more than a bit fuzzy in places, courtesy of the the drinks before, during, and after, but he feels like he’s got all the salient points. The beautiful stranger. The float. The incredible orgasm. What more could he possibly need to remember?
There’s enough food in the fridge to make a sandwich, so he slathers on mayo and mustard, adds some cheese and meat and pickles, then wraps it in a handkerchief and grabs his daypack. Refills his water bottle, borrows his roommate’s map to locate the Catedral, and sets off into the afternoon heat.
-
The Catedral looms huge and ugly in the late afternoon sun, its long shadow permeating the south-eastern side of the building for more than a block. It’s some fever dream of sixties architechture, one part gothic romance and two parts white man’s interpretation of native design. The result is a concrete behemoth, neither inspiring nor impressive, but merely imposing, squatting the size of a city block on the edge of the slums.
He moves toward it cautiously, creeping into the shade of its facade and blinking when the colored murals spring to life as his pupils dilate in the dimmer light. He finds himself climbing the steps, pushing through the heavy door into an enormous light-filled narthex, silent and cool as a tomb.
He’s never been especially religious himself- he goes to church maybe once, twice a year, but really only because he still feels vaguely like he’s supposed to. But he’s not against it, not at all, and he takes a moment to just stand in the space, letting the cool stillness seep into his still exhausted form. It’s wonderful, he can feel every muscle in his arms, along his spine, start to relax from their knotted, booze-fueled stupor, letting his fingers hang heavy and his head loll on his neck. He’s out of time, removed from the coursing dip and roll of people and things and minutes and thoughts that clamour just outside these doors, and he breathes deeply, feeling the muscles of his belly inflate as he draws in a lungful of air.
He exhales, and the door in front of him opens soundlessly, pausing in front of him, an overt invitation to take the first step.
--
The interior is vast, solid concrete beams arching into the cool gloom overhead, wildly colored murals of a dark-skinned Christ and brown-eyed disciples glowing in the spaces beneath the lurid stained glass. Faithful members are moving throughout the space, some kneeling, some standing, some genuflecting.
The display in the middle is intimidating, all huge stone altar and enormous hanging crucifix, and he finds himself moving to the edges, slipping off the sides of the pews and into the cool overhang of the window ledges, skirting the dais in the center of the room. There’s a smaller chapel off to the left, and he makes his way toward it, stepping silently around a group of elderly nuns working their way diligently through a second decade of well worn beads.
He can see the back of a man in vestments standing before the small altar, his black hair slicked back, his deft fingers manipulating a long match to flare the wick of a jar candle. He moves closer, standing quietly behind the last of the three pews set before the chapel, pausing in deference to the man’s absorption in his ritual.
“Jesus, Cordeiro de Deus, tende piedade de nós...”
It’s like a punch to the gut, the sound of that voice, and he’s sucking in air through his teeth in shock, his fingers gripping frantically at the back of the pew in front of him.
It can’t be…
“Jésus, portador da Carteira de nossos pecados, tende piedade de nós.”
That voice, that voice, it’s insinuating its way into his brain, into his belly, into his balls with a curl of fricative that slides over the man’s tongue and straight into Chris’ nervous system.
No... it’s just not possible...
“Jesus Redentor, Redentor do mundo, dai-nos a tua paz, dá-nos a tua paz.”
He palms his dick frantically, hiding the motions behind the curving wood of the pew back, pulling desperately at the constriction of the cloth. The man is backing up now, turning to blow out the tapered match, mouth moving in reverent recitation, and any second now Chris will see his face…
The man turns, light shining across his features, and Chris feels the breath freeze in his throat.
---
It’s not him.
Fuck, it’s not him.
The man in front of him is beautiful, yes, and the voice… he could be a twin. But the eyes Chris has seen through the mask have been dark, dark as sorghum, dark as sin, and this man is now staring at Chris with a steady blue gaze.
A steady blue gaze that is getting increasingly more suspicious, Chris realizes, and he forces his panting mouth closed with a snap. The man is still staring, and with a sinking feeling Chris knows that if he continues to stand here, he’s going to be approached and spoken to, as is only polite. And as would be fine, if he weren’t, at the moment, still rock-hard in his jeans, a state that is not only noticeable, but likely to be exacerbated as soon as this man opens his full, shapely mouth.
Forcing his movements to the realm of nonchalance, he glances around the space. To the right is the larger open area of the church; no good. To his left… aha.
He nods once to the priest, who nods back at him with a slightly questioning look, but does not walk toward him as Chris turns and walks down the back of the pew until he reaches the small door, opens it, and lets himself in.
He sits down on the small bench with a breath of relief, and fights the urge to giggle madly. He’d never thought he’d find a confessional a place of refuge, but here he sits, alone in a small dark room, just him and his throbbing dick.
Christ, how ridiculous.
It’s insane how wrapped up he is; he could have sworn it was his masked… friend, and just the thought of it had pulled him from zero to orbital in a matter of heartbeats. And that voice, that voice…
He unbuttons his shorts, sighing at the release of pressure on the press of his dick. He can just sit here, and wait. He’s still hours early, he can wait for it to go away. He’ll have plenty of time to find somewhere nice, eat his sandwich, and wait for his mysterious companion by the appointed hour. There’s no reason to rush things, and accidentally scandalize the resident nuns by wandering around sporting a hard-on on sacred ground.
He’ll just wait.
He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as he unzips his pants to allow his swollen dick space to relax. Confessionals lock from the inside, and by all the saints is he grateful for that right now.
It’s peaceful in here; quiet. Even if the only thing he can see behind his eyelids are the dark eyes of the masked man, the swell of his lower lip, the white of his smile.
His dick twitches, and he wills the image away, deepening his breathing and feeling the muscles in his abdomen flex and hold.
Lost in the sensation moving through his body, the exact color of the slick-dark eyes in his mind, he doesn't hear the click as the door on the other side of the screen opens.
---
“Em nome do Pai, do Filho e do Espírito Santo, amém.”
Chris jumps about a foot, slamming his head against the wall in surprise. He fumbles frantically at his fly, but with a moment of devastating clarity knows that he can’t zip up- the noise would be unmistakeable in the small confines of the confessional booth.
“Quanto tempo se passou desde sua última confissão?”
“I… I’m sorry, Father…” It’s that voice, dear heaven, it’s the voice of that priest and it’s moving through his blood like a drug, sliding into his veins and arteries more surely than oxygen, thinning the flow to his brain. “English only, I’m sorry…”
He shifts, readjusting himself as subtly as he can manage, his dick full and aching again between his legs.
“Ah, American, si?”
He shudders, pressing the palm of his hand against his erection in a fruitless attempt to discourage his very… prominent… interest.
“Yes.”
“An American…” the man rolls the word around in his mouth, and Chris bites his lip painfully to stifle his moan. “An American here for Carnivale, surely you have many things to confess, my son.”
There is a chuckle, a subterranean rasp in the liquid dark of that tone, and Chris wonders helplessly when it was that he went from pressing on his dick to stroking it, sliding his hand up and down its thickness, twisting his wrist the slightest of degrees as he moves to better grip the base.
“…I… yes. I do.”
“Tell me, my son.” He can hear the shift of weight, the rustle of cloth from behind the screen, and he’s struck with a sudden blinding vision of the look-alike priest taking himself in hand, shifting his robes to pull out his thickening length and stroking it, taking the fingers that had so deftly lit the altar candles and fondling himself with the same reverent dexterity and economy of motion.
He feels something wet on his tongue, and realizes he’s bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
“Tell me.”
The priest’s voice is husky, and in Chris’ vision his eyes are not light, not blue, but dark, full of heat and dusk and promise.
“I…” his voice sounds wrecked, and there’s really just fuck-all that Chris can do about it, so he pulls his cock a little faster, giving himself over to the motion, the idea. He’s apparently already made the decision, so why go half measures now? “I have committed sexual sins.”
He’s close, he’s definitely getting close. There’s more rustling on the far side of the screen, and the image before his closed eyes may be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. The man in the mask, his panting mouth laid wide open as his hands reach into his cassock and jerk, rubbing himself fervently to the sound of Chris’ voice.
“What sins, my son?”
His thumb presses on the top of his cock, making his heart stutter in his chest as he basks in the sound of that deep-throated sound.
“…I have performed sexual acts…” it’s going to be any second now, everything is going hazy and there is a roaring in his ears, “… with another man.”
He’s gone before the word has left his mouth, his back arching and mouth opening in a toneless exhalation, his hand clutching at the well-worn wood of the bench as his brain faintly registers the heat of his emission as it falls on his chest and belly. He slumps, aching and exhausted, in the suddenly stifling heat of the confessional.
“I see.” The man sounds breathless, undone. “Dez Ave-Marias.”
Chris manages to mumble something vaguely in the direction of the screen, and then the man is gone, the breeze of his passing wafting through to Chris’ half as he leans, brainless, legless, and nerveless, against the antiquated wood.
--
4)
It’s the tickle on his inner thigh that wakes him, his hand reaching down to swat sleepily at whatever is dragging along the inside of his knee. His fingers connect with a fistful of thick strands, and there’s a deep chuckle as the wet heat of an open mouth presses itself to the underside of his hamstring, making him gasp awake, fingers clutching instinctively to the strands in his grasp.
“Olha o que encontrei, dormindo sob as árvores ...”
The mouth moves closer to the edge of his denim shorts, the man’s smooth lips brushing the hairs of his leg as he murmurs, his voice as dark as the shadows clinging to the edges of the mausoleums surrounding them.
Chris shivers, and a warm hand creeps up to slide under his shirt where he lays on the stone bench, reassuringly real and solid in the face of the grave silence all around.
“...um belo adormecido, um anjo caído do céu e deu em minhas mãos ...”
Chris reaches for him, an unthought need for reassurance. The day has fallen into darkening twilight while he slept, exhausted from the heat of the day and lulled by the soporific peace of the graveyard behind the Catedral. Now the stars of the city illuminate the low-hanging clouds, the colors of the lighted floats flickering against the insulating gloom. The shade beneath the trees is thick, and he feels goosebumps rise on his flesh in response to the moist evening breeze.
The masked man’s eyes meet his, warm and amused as he presses his hand more firmly into Chris’ belly, forcing him to lie back down on the cool marble slab.
“Não tenha medo, meu amado. Eu não sou um fantasma.”
His fingers are sure as they stroke down his belly, his touch firm and welcome, and Chris lets himself go, tangling his hands into the heavy pelt of hair and groaning, letting his legs fall open before the advancing onslaught of the masked man’s mouth.
“Respire, pequena. Eu não quero que você seja morto apenas ainda ...”
With a shuddering sigh, Chris gives himself over, a banquet entire to the devouring hunger of those beautiful, persuasive, lips.
--
It’s his hands first, those warm, clever fingers, that slide up the legs of his shorts as Chris lies sprawled on the marble bench, a study in slack-lipped chiaroscouro, a debauched, over-grown cherub deep in the process of ravishment by the handsomest of devils.
Chris shakes as the tips of the fingers finally reach the crest of his hip, slipping under his sweat-soaked briefs like undertow, sliding into the crease of his groin like they belong there. He works his fingers into the thatch of hair covering the masked man’s head, rubbing his fingers hard across his scalp and earning himself a deep throated groan in response. The man’s hair is slick with oil, gritty with the dust in the air and warm where it meets his skin. Chris pulls his hand to his mouth and licks, savoring the taste of sea-salt and sweat, lightly flavored with what must be the man’s own peculiar taste.
Chris licks his lips, and the man laughs, his breath hot against Chris’ stomach.
“O sabor de você me faz bêbado...”
The eyes behind the mask flash with desire, and Chris can feel his breath hitching in his chest, the humid air thick and choking in his throat as a hot, damp tongue forces its way past the waist of his shorts, caressing the shrinking flesh of his pelvic wall as the fingers cup his balls and pull. He can feel the whine pulling from his throat, and spares a moment’s thought for the person whose tomb he is lying atop, the bones buried in the bench below him. Someday he, too, will lie in dirt, his flesh loose and his bones fragile, but this, this rush of blood through his veins, this touch of heated skin on his, the press of the stranger’s hardened length against his calf, this is real, this is now.
--
It’s like he’s drugged, or drunk, or slipping through quantum waves; the leaves on the tree above him shiver, and he feels their rustle in the bottom of his gut, his back arching away from the cool marble and into the confining heat of the mouth attached to his hip.
All thought of reciprocation has been driven from his mind, and he is reduced to a pile of synaptic firings, a trembling hindbrained creature with his fingers wound inextricably into the tendrils of the head in front of him. He can hear the rise and fall of the masked man’s voice, murmuring nonsense in that liquored drip of voice. It washes over Chris, sinking into his skin like spit, like rain, like honey rubbed into the curve of his groin, like heavy wine onto a waiting tongue.
“Deixe-me sentir de você... deixe-me sentir na minha boca...”
There’s cloth around his knees, and the shock of stone against the bared flesh of his ass, but it’s entirely forgotten in the bliss of that mouth’s descent around his dick, making him shudder and grasp at the bench as he moans uncaringly. He can feel the fingers pressing his hips into the marble, and knows that each point of pressure will leave a mark, a tiny dimpling explosion of capillaries to show that this was real, that he was here.
“...deixe-me escavar meus dedos em sua carne e esculpir gostaria de barro...”
He can feel the lips moving around his flesh as the stranger speaks, the irregular press combining with the motion of swirling tongue, and the tension in his limbs is suddenly urgent, drawing him taut and shivering beneath the man’s firm and definite hands. His muscles clench, his teeth grind, and he can taste the electricity in the air as his head tips back, his neck curving white in the darkness.
“Sim, dar-te mais para mim...dar-te a mim agora.”
The note in that voice is all command, and it doesn’t begin to matter that Chris has no idea what was actually said, he’s coming, exploding into pieces of light, his body tensed and throbbing, breath caught in his lungs as he bites his tongue until blood floods his mouth. Le petit-mort indeed, he thinks as he floats back down to his lax body. He can hear a shaking moan, and feel the bite of fingertips into sinew as the other man finishes, gasping a stilted breath against his stomach.
It takes a moment, but Chris manages to release the death grip he’s got on the other man’s hair, his hands falling limp to his sides as he breathes in and out, in and out.
--
When he wakes, the pale light of dawn is breaking, fading the the spaces between the stars into a wan glow. He’s been cleaned up and tucked away, and he feels a sinking in his stomach as he realizes he’s alone. It’s chilly now, and he can hear the faint sounds of revelry in the distance, wrapping up as the last strings of celebrants wind their way home.
Alone.
He checks his arms, his stomach. No scrawl of writing this time, no thread of leading pen. He hangs his head, shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cool pre-dawn air.
A crinkle at his fingertips- a slip of paper in his pocket, and he smiles, his face warming as he pulls it out and examines the curving lines.
“Mãe Lua, amanhã à noite. Vou vê-lo lá, meu amor.”
--
5)
He’s been stood up.
It’s the only possible conclusion he can draw at this point, but Chris is desperately, desperately trying not to draw it. It’s staring him in the face, all ugly teeth and smirking eyebrows- it is the last night of Carnivale, and he is sitting here, alone, in a dive bar, because he has been stood up.
It’s well past one in the morning- he’s heard the bells ring the time for the past five hours, so he’s pretty clear on how very late his... what? Date? Companion? Lover? ...on how very late the man in the feathered mask is. He’s broken his pattern, and Chris just doesn’t know what to think- every one of the past nights he has shown up exactly as promised, at the location he provides, without a hitch. What’s different now?
The clock chimes, sonorous rings audible above the roar of the crowd, and it’s late, not that late, but late enough to know when you’ve been taken for a fool. He stands, tossing back the last of his drink and moving to the bar, tipping the buxom barmaid with a smile and the expected leer before hanging his head and heading for the door.
He almost pauses on the threshold, waiting, waiting for something, someone to stop him. To stop you for what, idiot? This isn’t a fucking movie. He’s not going to chase you down at the perfect moment, life just doesn’t work that way. One foot, then the other, and he’s over the lintel and out into the street, the debauchery loud and chaotic just below him.
There is no hand on his shoulder, no voice in his ear, and he’s far too proud to turn around and look behind him just in case, so he makes his way to the curb, determinedly heading into the mob.
He makes it two blocks before he gives in and turns back. He doesn’t know who he was kidding anyway- he’ll wait all night if he has to. And the really sad part, he thinks as he pushes his way against the current of the crowd, is that it has nothing, well, not as much, to do with the admittedly fucking incredible sex, and everything to do with the look in those deepened eyes, the tone in that ineffable voice as it whispers in his ear. He’s hooked on the masked man like a habit, craves him like sunlight and star-glow, needs him like oxygen and water and blood and every other cliche he can possibly think of. He aches for his presence in the way he thinks one must ache for a vital organ removed- like the pains of a kidney donor down one renal gland, like someone with half a lung longs to take a full breath.
He doesn’t know where it’s come from, and he’s too far gone to care. All he can do is be, and all of his being is waiting- for the touch of a finger, for the taste of a mouth, for a breath at his neck.
He doesn’t notice at first; the crowd is all around him, pushing and jostling, so he shrugs it off. Harder to ignore is the arm that wraps around his waist, pulling him down off the patio steps and into an alcove. His heart is thumping triplets in his chest before he can even turn around, because the fingers on his ribs, the shoulder pressed against his back, he knows them, knows this.
“Sinto muito pelo atraso. Era inevitável.”
“It’s ok, it doesn’t matter.” Chris has managed to get his hands into the thick hair of the head behind him, and he’s only slightly startled to realize that it’s really true- now that the darkly familiar stranger is pressing against him, closing his hands around Chris’ hips, it doesn’t matter at all how many hours Chris sat and felt a fool. It was worth it.
“Abra sua boca, um bonito. Tenho uma coisa para nós.”
At some point, Chris thinks, one of them has really got to start learning the other’s language, and the thought stabs a sudden pain into his gut as he remembers the tickets back to the states that sit at the bottom of his bag, bearing tomorrow’s date. He knows his face falls, but the man is turning him around, holding Chris against his wiry chest as he grips Chris’ chin and slides a thumb between his lips. Chris bites down unthinking, enjoying the throaty gasp that catches in the other man’s chest at the pressure. The masked man’s full lips twist, and he pushes with his middle finger at the joint of Chris’ jaw, the pressure point pushing his mouth open in accquiesence.
Fingers reach and grab, and then there is something in Chris’ mouth, a small piece of dense chocolate. The other man is already chewing, so Chris obediently closes his mouth, letting the dark cocoa begin to disolve on his tongue. The taste is deep and musky, and he bites down contentedly, watching the other man’s eyes flash as he chews. There’s a thick undertone to the taste, and his eyebrows knit together as he struggles to identify it; it’s familiar, but clouded, something he should know...
“Sim. Cogumelos.” The man pauses, wracking his brain. “’shrooms.” He looks quizzically at Chris, and Chris nods, the flavor slotting into place in his memory. He chews, tasting the bitter notes as they spread through the back of his mouth. He grimaces, swallows, smacking his tounge against the roof of his mouth in distaste. The other man laughes, his stomach vibrating where it’s pressed against Chris’ own, his teeth shining wetly in the dark. He leans forward, the feathers of the mask tickling Chris’ cheek as the stranger brings their mouths together, sweeping the taste of the chocolate and organic additives out of Chris’ mouth, off the surface of his tongue.
Chris gets lost in this, out beyond any concept of time, any understanding of physical location. All that exists is the press of tongues, the grip of mouths pushed open and the bitter aftertaste dancing out from between their teeth. There’s a hand on the back of his neck, long fingers pressing into the tight curve where his skull joins his vertebrae, grasping into the base of his hairline to hold him still at the apex of his arc into the other man. The masked man’s hands are greedy, pinning him and glutching at him in equal measure, and it’s when he begins to feel them all over that he realizes the drug has come on fast and hard, his muscles tight under his skin, the breath rushing in his chest. He pulls back just enough to look the stranger in the eye, their fingers unconsciously twining and untwining as the manic energy starts to crest.
The other man’s eyes are pitch black, so dark he can’t even see the ring of iris. The lights from the floats glinting on the mask’s feathers are rainbowed and shivering, pearlescent drops of color that he can taste on the back of his tongue. He takes a deep, steady inhale, and the man smiles at him, showing all his teeth.
I’m in love with a shark, Chris thinks, and then the man has grabbed his hand and they are running, running, running, pelting through the streets at untouchable speeds, their heads and torsos flying out in front of their feet, hands clasped as they dodge carts, pedestrians, stairs. Chris feels like he could run forever, heart pounding in his chest, blood pumping fiercely in his veins; like he could lift off the earth and fly, flinging open his arms and riding the curve of the planet like so much atmospheric jetsam. They run and run, blocks, miles, decades, he couldn’t begin to say, and then they are running not on pavement, but on sand, their gait slowing as their bodies adjust to the shifting surface beneath them. They make it to the edge of the tide-line, the last remnant of dry dunes, before they collapse into a gasping heap, sprawling half on top of each other as their chests suck in oxygen.
He can feel the air inflating his lungs, deflating on his exhale, inflating again. He can feel every pore of his skin, every hair that twitches in the balmy night air, every blazing line where his body is pressed agains the other man. His body is solid and limp, but he can feel his mind flying, racing along the clouds as he watches the starburst flash and move in the night sky. He is aware of every ounce of pressure gravity is placing on his frame, aware of his own fragile form being pressed against this hard surface, of how fast the Earth is spinning, her own mass holding him in place on this speedily rotating orb. It makes him feel dizzy, so he stretches out his hands to press into the sand, clinging to the land so he won’t fall off into space.
There’s a chuckle beneath him, warm and dry, then another; the sound comes from all around him, deep and rolling with mirth, so he begins to laugh too, the sound bubbling up from inside him and spilling into the darkness in translucent twinkly orbs that float away and burst. They laugh and laugh, rolling apart, then together, and Chris thinks that he could happily laugh himself to death like this, expiring between one exhalation and the next, but then there is a hand on his cock and he nearly chokes in surprise, shivering with his whole body as the man moves his hand back and forth as though hypnotized.
The lights on the feathers have coalesced into something beyond colors he’s ever seen before, and Chris is riveted, staring like a slack-jawed idiot as the man rises up and flows over him, a warm wave of caramel skin that slides into postion and blots out the stars. He writhes as he feels hands on him, the sensations nearly too much, his eyes spasming closed even as he reaches to dig his fingers into whatever piece of this other human he can reach.
The night air hits his dick with a carress that has him hard instantly, his hips arcing up from the sand, his ass gloriously bare to the nighttime breezes in ways that feel like childhood, like innocence, and every beautiful impending sin. He manages to lasso his exploding mind long enough to haul the shorts off the man leaning over him, earning himself a stuttered moan as he fastens his mouth and teeth to the side of ribs in front of his face and feasts, letting the flavors of sweat and heat and booze write their tale across his tatsebuds.
He hasn’t seen the other man yet, not properly, not naked like this, like he walked out of Eden dripping with nectar for Chris to lick. He still can’t, not really; it’s at least mostly dark, but he sees lights everywhere he looks right now, and his sense of touch seems to be hardwired into his ocular nerves, and he feels the light trails his hands are tracing onto the heated flesh that is being wrapped around his own frame. There’s a pull, and then he is standing, the world tipping on its axis for a moment until he’s steadied, and then he’s being led, a small child held by the hand and pulled forward in naked abandon into the sea.
The water is warm and gentle, embracing him on all sides as he steps in and in and in. It’s like returning to the womb, sliding back into the primordial sea. He’s not alone this time, though- he’s found his other half, his lost self, and he can see now the lines of shimmering lights that flare between them, drawing himself and his other self closer and closer, bellies pressing up together, hands moving to define every plane, every curve of flesh. The feathers of the mask tickle him, but he’s glad- he’s never seen this man’s face, and he thinks if he did now, it would be too much, too much, and he would be completley gone, sunk into the glorious over-whelming beauty of perfection, hung to dry somewhere between Fibonacci’s curve and the golden mean.
There’s a hand on his cock, pulling it harder and faster, and he hadn’t realized he was moaning until there were teeth in his neck. He’s got his own fist circling, fingers tattooing words in a language he doesn’t know into the solid mass of thrusting skin as the water laps at their chests. They’re buoyant, floating on the surface of the Deep itself as they rupture into ecstacy, the water cradling them as they add their salt to the rising tide, shouting their transcendance into each other’s mouths.
--
+1)
He wakes up wrung out, sticky, and overhot. There’s a bottle of water by his bed that he chugs, slopping wet down his chest as he swallows. He has vague memories of making it back at dawn, the streaks of light the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, making his eyes water as he slumped on the stoop to breathe his way through the immensity of it all.
He can’t remember when the masked man disappeared, and he hauls his exhausted body out of bed in sudden sinking fear. He staggers to the bathroom, faint chasers of light trailing around the room, and strips, examining every inch of himself in the mirror in desperate, fading hope.
Nothing.
He swallows hard, again and again, shoving his head under the water to wet his face and breathe slowly until his body is done shuddering against the tiled wall. The water is cool, sluicing the stuck-on sand from his skin and soothing his queasy stomach. He forces himself to turn the water off, towel dry, eyes skidding past the imprint of teeth on his hip, fingers on his ribs.
It’s only two hours till he has to be at the airport, so he packs his things, the world muted and dull, his head aching at the light. He lugs his pack into the main room, settling it on the couch and digging out his phone and the number for the airport shuttle, flopping onto the ratty sofa with a sigh.
“Hey, man- think this is for you.”
Chris looks up in curiousity. He doesn’t recognize the guy; must have come in in the last day or so. But he’s holding out a slip of paper, and Chris’ heart gives a sideways lurch that does nothing for his nausea as he reaches out to take it.
The paper is small, a ripped off piece of what looks like a cigarette pack, with two short scrawled lines of writing.
1241 Ste. Ana Plaza
Por favor.
--
The taxi drops him in front of a small yellow house with a low stoop. He nearly forgets to pay, but remembers in time, shoving money indiscriminately at the driver as he manuvers his backpack out and stumbles into the small bricked space in front. He makes it up the steps and knocks before the fear hits him, the knowledge of what he is doing here, missing his flight to go on a wild goose chase in a city he barely knows to... what, exactly?
The crack of the door saves him from hyperventilating, but only by virtue of cutting off his breath entirely. He freezes, sure he’s got the wrong house, his face falling as he tries to remember the words for I’m sorry, but then he looks up again and the world falls out from beneath him.
Those eyes.
It’s him, it’s the masked man- Chris would know those dark-edged eyes anywhere, but now... now the look in them contains jubilation like he’s never seen, the face that frames them breaking into that same wide, toothy smile, and even if he’s never seen the forehead, the nose, there’s no mistaking that mouth with it’s bruised arch.
The man across from him raises a hand, his face open and warm and more beautiful than Chris could ever have imagined. He steps forward involuntarily, and the man traces his fingers across Chris’eyebrows, his cheek, his lips.
“Você veio…”
The man takes a shuddering breath, slides his hand down Chris’ shoulder to take his hand, lace their fingers together tightly.
“Ficar. Por Favor.” He shakes his head, his fingers tightening, then looks Chris in the eye, pulling him ever forward.
“Please. Stay.”