eternity_dreams: (Default)
eternity_dreams ([personal profile] eternity_dreams) wrote in [community profile] veiledallegory2011-04-29 05:54 pm

Damned/Xenosaga: Gluttony.

Title: Gluttony.
Fandom: Have an AU of an AU.
Warnings: Pedo-gay-incest. =|
Word Count: 712.
Characters: Nigel, Albedo.
Notes: Part of a series. This is based off a party thing where Albedo and Nigel met, and furthermore, Albedo stayed with Nigel.

Summary: Over-indulgence--of this we speak of many things. To swallow down another is yet another excess; a weight pressing deeply from the inside.

There was something far too addicting about the feel of soft flesh under his fingers. There were no words of caution, no false hesitance in the guise of being coy. The body poised above him was all too willing to give and receive--too much at times--and perhaps that was the true addiction. He didn’t question as much as he possibly should have; it faded away in the end, became static on the line.

Albedo refused to call him Nigel. And every time the other name fell from the boy’s lips, the man felt a part of him dying. A shock, a rupture, a bloom of red; a petit mort in all its essence. Perhaps this was why Nigel acquiesced with little fight to touch lips to like in show of brotherly affection, the image marred by the man’s tongue touching the boy’s teeth in exploration; the child making soft, helpless noises as he clutched at the adult.

That was why, perhaps. Because Albedo’s presence signified death, defined life. And as the child wished, he was no longer stagnating in the ways Albedo had hated. Instead there was a revival, a threat of dependency unwanted for something that could vanish. Something that could be gone when he awoke, to reach a hand to clutch at the other side of the bed and find nothing. With the boy’s presence came rest, more than had been had, as much as he would have once wanted. It was something hated, and half the time Nigel woke in a silent and still panic to pull the still-sleeping child to him, to hear the murmured protests against movement and soft sounds of breath, and try to recall security. His flawless memory sardonically doubted the concept.

He was going mad, as Albedo would never know and could never see; more fully than Nigel had touched before. Give him what was wanted, and it would be doubted--show him a miracle and he would wait for it to disappear. The child became more comfortable in the scenario, moving freely and easily, lacking the harsh edges of want in his motions. And what could the child want, that Nigel had not provided? Little was withheld when asked, less when accompanied by affection. Albedo had broke him carefully, kindly, and Nigel should hate him for it. Not adore him. Not grasp him bruisingly, not trace him delicately. He was loving a ghost, who had only not realized that he would eventually fade, without a memory left of Nigel’s existence.

Fade, Albedo would. Give the man doubt, and he would clutch it, fiercer than a sibling’s embrace. Tighter than the hold on the other as his brother climaxed with no restraint, whimpering into Nigel’s chest at the sensations. The man would pet the child’s hair, wait for Albedo to fall asleep. Then destroy instinct and want in tandem and pull away, sit in a chair far enough so he could not see the body in his bed, so he couldn’t tell if Albedo was there or not. Couldn’t tell if Nigel had finally woken up to realize that nothing had returned. Would ever return.

There was nothing seen in the gloom, a thankful absence of light and form, but the boy would murmur, body shifting restlessly, and Nigel freezes, hope and despair draining away. He wishes the other had never appeared. Because he cannot allow himself to wish that Albedo would stay. In sleep, another’s name is called, and he stills, wondering what would happen if he didn’t respond. Nigel moves to the bed, and Albedo makes a happy sound, arms reaching upwards. He responds, curling around the boy, the child cuddling into him. The knowledge is empty in its clarity. Albedo would love him entirely and never let go, and even so, one day he would be gone. His choice or not, his brother would vanish as if he never existed. Too much like another. Too much like memory. The child tilted his head upward, pressing lips to Nigel’s jaw and something softened, something calling this wanted. Something in him continued to die. Even as the boy whispered love to the man and nuzzled closer. (He would vanish. He would never have existed.)

There was something of death in bliss. Nigel would attest, if he cared enough to say.

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