10 years in a bitter chemical haze

He remembers the ticking of the clock. The groaning of termite-eaten wood, the dust and smell of the old books. The squeal of the springs in the mattress, the scratchy bedsheets. The way the outside world felt distant, left behind to wallow in its perpetual misery, while the two of them found a temporary solace here, in eachothers arms.

He remembers his fingers on pale skin, tracing old scars, studying the constellations of them. The air that was too humid, the body heat that kept the chill from creeping into his bones...

It was the day they brushed with death for the thousand first time, high on adrenaline and buzzed from the cheap wine they celebrated with. It always was days like this. Being reminded that they're alive and how easily it could change never came easy.

So a hand brushed against a hand, eyes met and the forces of magnetism brought their lips together.

Fabrics rustled when the long fingers dug into it, pulling him closer still, seeking. Comfort? Reassurance? Momentary distraction? Did it matter?

He followed nonetheless.

Whatever Garrett was looking for in him, he delivered, choking back on the bitter knowledge it would never be the same thing he longed for.

The body spread out under him was so much smaller and slimmer, graceful in a way he'd associate with dancer's for how it was art in on itself, and yet when he took in the sight of it, none of the thoughts in his head dared to associate it with fragility. Garrett wasn't a damsel to be saved. He long since learned to save himself. Still, with his hands almost fully encircling his waist, he foollishly wished he'd let him do some of the heavy lifting.

He kissed timid hopes into his skin, praying to the Old Gods he wouldn't realise what they meant. Listened to the pleasured sounds very clearly held back, elated beyond what joining of flesh could bring, for the closest he'd get of vulnerability from the other man.

They didn't speak when it was over and he was collecting his things to leave. He didn't hear a goodbye, when he slipped into the first rays of the sickly sun. He didn't get to have those things.

All he got were the patchy memories of the night he stole like a dilletante thief he was. The sounds, and smells and ghosts of a touch.

That, and an empty space in his ribcage, devoid of the heart that instead rests in the Clock Tower among many other shiny trinkets Master Thief claimed for himself.

He could only wish one day he'd exceed his teacher.

Trying to overcome writer's block, god knows it's been a while since i wrote smth. Posting online is so scary, too... Eugh.