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Nikolai is ecstatic. He's been with Fyodor since childhood days, but the times are changing now.
Instead of white fingers interlocked in kinder hands, Nikolai leaves a stain with every touch, blood spilling from where their souls intertwine.
He thinks of his beloved with his mouth wrenched open, skinny lips bleeding with words. Vessels of blood curling inside Fyodor's thin wrists, veins blazing blue and pulsing, life fading with the chapped chokehold Nikolai has around his throat.
Fyodor pants under him, breathless. He doesn't seem as lively as Nikolai would think him to be. He is not left with composure, twisting in his grip, his skin seems ashen under the shifting light.
He thinks of pulling Fyodor to the sullied ground with him, where his coat serves as a burial sheet – their wedding bed, joined in deathly eternity. Nikolai thinks of slicing him open, bearing his core before him, like Nikolai has done many times, reaching his dirty fingernails inside and pulling each vital organ out.
It scares him worse, worse than echoes of the terrors he has seen, dreams filled with nails in his hands, urging him into the cross. Nikolai's mind overflows with ideas, snapping Fyodor's collarbones in half, tearing open the birdcaged ribs, dipping into the hollow of his chest where a heart beats and beats and beats.
Fyodor is so ghostly, haunting everything Nikolai knows behind the curtains of their drafty apartment foyer. His breath is icy on Nikolai's lips, the hands are cold on Nikolai's warm chest, cold wrapped around his own half-beating heart sitting in Nikolai's hands like a trophy.
He smells it. The burning hot, copper scent of their lure, of the joinment of their hands when he presses Fyodor's body deeper into the grave – the bedsheets. Callousness, red in sense and sight.
He imagines the distant pounding of a pulse in the see-through veins, flowing like bloodrush. The heart beats in his hands, it tastes candy-sweet like an apple crushed beneath his swollen lips, spilling like juices down his chin.
"–Kolya?" Fyodor moans, in chosen torment. He suffers deliriously, so holy at his mercy.
Nikolai doesn't answer. He stares at Fyodor's lips – rose red, copper sweet. Fyodor wipes away a tiny droplet of blood, dripping down to the ground, seeping through the earth.
Nikolai reaches down to kiss him, bites down on the fullness of his lip until more and more blood seeps out into his mouth, coating his tongue – drinking down the honey in his throat.
His body is tense, and draws up pulling the strings of a puppeteer, hiding the invisible wings. Fyodor falls into the kiss as Nikolai tugs him off the precipice's edge into crashing waves of a blood-flowing sea.
The water clatters against the shoreline rocks of his white, grinning teeth and Nikolai chews down on the piece of tender heart, warm and pulsating in his mouth.
Iron-sour is the stench of Fyodor's glory, sweet is the fruit he tastes in the vibrating words, leaking from Fyodor's mouth like a prayer. God would be blasphemously envious of the devotion Fyodor has for this sin.
Kolya.
Fyodor says once more, confesses to him, even. Beneath him, offering himself as the bearer of sin willingly, fragile lips so sweet, he as he falls into Nikolai, religiously devoted.
He's gorgeous, sacrilegious reverent, he's everything Nikolai has ever failed to find in anyone. He's beautiful in the light from Nikolai's halo, in the shadow of his golden eyes, every kiss is a wedding bell and a funeral ring unheard.
He pushes further, breaking the fragility of Fyodor's bird-thin bones underneath dead skin, unwrapping the crux of his body with every push, each lip-bite and sung whimper.
More blood spills, and Nikolai withdraws. Hotness seeps down their chins, red against burned rosy skin, against white fields. Fyodor is crowned underneath the sun in his pupils and his breath clashes against the roses rendering Fyodor's lips, proboscis underneath.
Fyodor looks up at him through his lashes – ice cold eyes, gold wanting, gold seeking, plucking flowers from the daffodils garden behind Nikolai's lids, hidden treasures waiting to be found.
"Do you know," Nikolai whispers against the thorns, tearing down the walls of skin, savouring and devouring him. "That you taste of me?"
The blood tastes divine, like sweet paradise. His bites are in God's will, so delicious he could never refuse the flesh.
The taste of gore is fresh, and Nikolai craves the life of river flow and blood flourish in joint sin, he licks the stains falling in the hollow space of Fyodor's collarbone. His legs wrapping tight around Fyodor's waist, reaching deeper, oh so much deeper into his core. He wants to rip open the space over his heart, forcing his fingers to dig into Fyodor's waist, nails puncturing the bloodied membrane.
He is feral, desperate, so far from sacred that it's deathly for him to be ever denied this.
His claws, bitten and sharpened and all unwitting kinds of razored, are tearing through Fyodor's skin, welts and wounds, suffocating the life in him. Hands place themselves on his back, where wings should be, Nikolai picks the flower blossoms from Fyodor's crown of blacking thorns.
He shifts, they drown underneath the cliffs, oceans swallowing them up. His vision spins. His mouth is full of blood and yet he still speaks softly.
They're divine, sacrilege.
Fyodor is immortal, God, perhaps and Nikolai cuts himself on the roses blooming from Fyodor's rotten insides, spreading out of hallowed grounds. They overgrow them both, the sweet smell defeating nauseous copper scent.
He falls, like an angel and into a grave underneath the sea, his laughter bubbling up to the shimmering surface.
The waves baptise him, hair clinging to his face with sweat, eyes burning brighter than ever, he is unmade and holy, glowing with white light much like Icarus. Teeth clash into him, bloodied grin grinding against him, fruitful from his sweet blood, salty from the taste of delicious wet and liver upon his lips.
He pours into Fyodor, gifting him a piece of his own wretched, blood-drained heart, planting a flower in the empty space of Fyodor's chest.