#bonesfog

@bonesfog​ inquired:  ❝  we belong to each other.   ❞ (corruption boi)

     Bᴀʀɴᴀʙᴀs ɪs different, lately. It's not subtle changes, but he's still unsure what exactly it is, or what it comes from. It's not just that he's both more clingy and also more skittish — always in that damn garden now, barely at all coming around anywhere, and when he does, he looks a mess, as if he had slept in soil and he probably did if he slept at all — it's also something about the way he moves. The way he doesn't quite look at him right, both through him and into him in a way that's more reminiscent of the way he himself perceives people. The way his touch hurts now, too tight and apparently unaware of it.

     He's always been attached but this is... different.

     Originally, he's just here to give him the news. Not much has to change, but he's about to be a married man, and while he does not much care for the other boy's potential input in that, he feels he should at least mention that. It's a formality, anyway. Nothing to do with feelings. He'd understand; he'd always want to do what's best for Jonah. Even if he dislikes it.

     But this is... not right. There's a fever in his eyes and the hands on his holding them together hurt, and the smell is — something else. He should leave. He should have this conversation another day, when he's less sick. Perhaps he should send Jonathan by. Have someone look at the boy.

     "You're hurting me."

     No acknowledging of the words. It's not the first time he hears them. It's not the first time he gets any sort of such a confession. Perhaps in another life, he'd have actually done more than just dream and wish and made any actual attempt to hold him, but it's too late now, and he will live with that.

Aɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ might be put off by the clear disinterest in the voice, the response, the whole body language. Not him. He doesn't see any of the hints that speak of the fact that at best, he's a distraction and an annoyance, and at worst, he's unwanted, both now and in general. What he sees is the fact that the other turns around to look at him (whether or not he actually sees him doesn't matter, though just in case the shirt is in his favorite color, the hair loose enough to frame his face - and be pulled, because even a painful touch is preferable to none, the fainted bruises and specks of crusted blood pooling in shallow cuts testament of it). What he sees is that he gets a response, and as usual, it's hardly any consequence that he's been taking before, that he's been lingering, waiting for permission to enter, come closer.

He wants to help. Genuinely. It doesn't matter if a lot of the things Barnabas says only somewhat make sense to him. It's not that he's too stupid to understand, it's just that there are different priorities on his mind and he finds it hard to extract himself long enough from the subject of his obsessions to do anything useful, and even then only in the hopes of being helpful, being appreciated even for a second, half a breath, the blink of an eye.

That, though, is forgotten for the moment, same as the book stuffed full with notes and letters and cross references clutched against his chest, more an excuse in the first place than anything else. How could such a thing be of any importance when he's addressed, acknowledged, heard? Breath hitches in his throat, and words are escaping. It's not that it was hard to admit now: if anything, the easiest thing ever. It sings through his skin and his gestures and the blood on his hands when someone gets in the way. But it's every time as if an angel deems him worthy of talking to him, and he has to keep his composure enough to make sure he doesn't overstep, gives the proper respect.

"Ah. Yes. Of course. I merely meant it's... too many things, to define just one. It's the amalgamation of everything. Each and every single bit more than enough on it's own, but all together — "

@bonesfog​ inquired:  [ TRAIL ] :     sender presses a trail of kisses from receiver’s chin down to their waist.

      Wʜᴀᴛ's ɪᴛ like to be a god?

      Perhaps the comparison is crass, but it does not feel like it, not when he has his dark haired boy look at him with fever in his eyes, like he is divinity come on earth. Not when he has him be enchanted by small gestures and movements. Not when every word from his own lips is taken like honeyed venom, swallowed eagerly no matter the consequence. Not when he is worshipped in a way most could never relate; more than kings and queens are, more than gods are, more than any living being should be. Not when he is treated as if the ground he steps on is sacred and his kisses communion.

      His attention is a cage of iron bars, and Barnabas willingly crawled inside and locked himself up to then toss the key away. He holds him in the palm of his hand. He holds him in between his teeth. He could bite and tear his heart out, and his beautiful, foolish boy — he'd likely be thankful for being made a part of him, for being his, if only for a moment.

       What is this, if not religion? What is this, if not divinity?

      His hand comes to rest against the other's hair, but it's not entirely gentle. There is something else in it, possessiveness, ownership, a deep understanding of their dynamic and who holds the power. There is no mistaking that.

      "Good boy." Perhaps, if he does a good job, he will be rewarded with a proper kiss, or something else. But now he makes no move to stop, or guide him. Simply watches. Observes. Commits to memory. Dissects.

Iғ ɴᴏᴛ for all the blood, anyone that ever looked at him wouldn't have thought that'd be a thing he would do, or even be capable of. Oh, sure, his anger management issues are well known, but they rarely amount to much, especially not if Barnabas is right there. A single look and he calms like a dog being called back, ready to sit at it's master's heel. (And what else does he, even if not always literally.)

But his small frame seems barely able to hold any weapon with enough force to do serious damage, and he's much too skittish, trying not to disappoint, to display too much of his own agenda. Or any interest that does not turn around the taller boy, who's eyes he's avoiding now as if the gaze burns, as if being seen hurts. Perhaps it does. Perhaps he is terrified of the expression he might find.

The tip of his shoe taps against the corpse, not with much force, not really kicking, just enough to push it over so the face lands in the mud. Petty, certainly. It's not like it's worse than what he's already done to the man. But he'd hate to given even just that little bit of grace and respect here now, not when the lack of the very same is what got them here.

Given, he hadn't meant for his dearest to find it before he got rid of it and cleaned himself up. It's not the first time it happened. Careless, to be found like that, to worry him unnecessarily, make it his problem when it should be a solution instead.

Tʜɪs ᴡᴀs a mistake. The whole being here is; but it's not like he had much say in that. At some point his father just decided it was time he would spend time with someone that's not him or a teacher, and in their social position, it was this or a boarding school. Well, in theory. Such a school would have required sharing a room with someone else and then all the hard work would be undone. He's still slim and short enough without any heavy leaning into either side that it might have been dragged out a little longer; as long as he had been careful, but not impossible.

This, too, could be a gamble, but he's tired. It's a lie, of course, but not out of malicious intend (not yet: there's something inherently wrong with him, but that's not here nor there just yet, not this young). He hasn't slept near a living person since his first governess died along with the rest of the house, and the stillness is no longer unnerving. (Even if it sometimes still feels like being trapped behind locked doors, with the house so quiet and the stench starting to fill in through the keyhole and the threshold.)

So far, none of their conversations had drawn more than perhaps a dozen sentences from him, usually short, but that didn't seem to stop the slightly older boy. The attempts were surely in good will, but mostly... they reminded him of himself, trailing after an older brother, one that's clearly annoyed by being followed around by the baby sibling but so flattered at the fact everything would be mimicked. Not that he could talk about that, too. An older brother never existed; he's that, now.

"Why not?" Brows furrowed, and he thinks maybe it would have been better if the door had remained closed, because he's not entirely sure why he's even here. Why he made his way out of the room assigned to him, a rare occurrence as is.

(You'll have to integrate yourself, boy, or we'll cut this whole experiment short. A marriage isn't as favorable as an heir, but it will do.)

Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴛʜᴇ hint of a crease forming between his eyes - glasses discarded, not that he sees too terribly well without them, but they start giving him headaches lately, and besides, they get in the way once alcohol and drugs make their way through his bloodstream, be it with moods of one or another sort. Usually, something like that happens rarely. Oh, he's no stranger to showing his emotions, explosive and bold and sudden, taking over everything surrounding much like a volcano burying everything under molten lava and ash. But this is something of not irritation, but a confused concentration, something that's more suited the other type of long nights - ink on his fingers, the quill ruffled and plucked, books everywhere and his notes only half readable all from hurriedly taking them, fleeting thoughts that don't quite connect and smearing his sleeves over too fresh ink. It's not usually a look he bestows on his eldest, longest, dearest - friend.

(In lack of a better expression for the dance they have been in for many years now.)

Besides, a braver man could point out easily how much of a hypocrite he is. How he wouldn't have any grounds for jealousy - if he admitted to it, truly - given how many nights are spent elsewhere, and how they are both in well aware of how far spread his own affections are. Of the physical kind, anyway; emotionally, that's a different story altogether.

@bonesfog​ inquired:  [ THROAT ]:     sender pins the receiver to the wall by placing a hand or forearm against their throat. (corruption boy OFC)

     Iᴛ's ʙᴀʀᴇʟʏ that long ago that he would have laughed at the idea of Barnabas, dear sweet poor Barnabas, could ever pose any threat to him. The boy was way too obsessed with him, would rather tear his own heart out before attempting anything that would harm Jonah, and yet he's been trapped in this house for days, with these plants overgrowing everything, and the vines blocking off every exit, and the sight of him is something to send a lesser man into shock alone. Maybe not just them. The logical response, of course, would be to burn it all down, but he's not gotten very far with it. A couple burnt leaves and scorched twigs before it had suffocated under the sheer mass of the plants shifting onto it to kill it, and the vine shifting and pressuring against his throat — not enough to be a serious danger yet, but a very clear threat, and he doesn't need a demonstration of how easy it would be for the thing to crush his windpipe — there's a very real and deep terror in all of this, and the realization that the possibility he would die over a temper tantrum of his longest friend became a very real one.

     Instinctively, he had tried to pry it off, but all it had managed to do was getting splinters under his fingernails and a warning squeeze that had made his vision blur for a moment. In another context, this might even be enjoyable, in this the fear chokes out what words the lack of air flow doesn't.

     He wants to bite, verbally, metaphorically, physically, but that's hardly an option when it kept him up against the wall, firmly and with very little room to shift. He needs to get back out of this green hell.

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ not be too much nutrient in this: some more that he freshly hunted and the blood is still not entirely changed over, but it's not what this is about. It's a thing of control much more, of knowing well how tight the grip on his lover still is even if he didn't turn him himself (a thing of chance, really: when he'd been on his doorstep, dripping wet and hurting, it had been a near thing, although he cannot tell if it would have been that or death, and which one would have been the more favorable option). And of the sensation that travels through his own body at that. More potent at the neck, of course, and while he knows he trained his little puppy well years and years before they became what they are now, there is some small disappointment at the fact he'd rather be polite. But the toxins coating his fangs do their work anyway, a relaxing liberating feeling, something hot and feverish in the best of ways. Better than any mortal drug.

     It won't last very long: hardly minutes after Barnabas retreats, with the nature of it all, and there's disappointment in that, too. Nothing he can blame the other boy for, not really, but still it's one of many many things sitting underneath his tongue begging to be let into the world like the venom they are.

     Not now. Not when he's behaving so well.