He sat perched on a high stool of plain black iron, stripped to the waist; the braces for his woollen breeches dangling around his hips. The skin of his remarkably strong body was pale, like fresh marble, with veins like dark silver running beneath. The muscles of his back and shoulders were defined clearly, his impressive hairless physique maintained through manual labour, but gifted to him by breeding.

He brushed a lock of black hair back over his left ear and looked back over his shoulder, almost shyly. The room was a well-appointed bedroom, high on the mezzanine level of his factory. The outside windows looked east across the river; the curved inner windows looked out over the factory floor, his domain.  Plush velvet drapes were drawn for privacy, making the room appear like any well-to-do Gentleman’s sleeping chamber. A pair of brandy balloons next to the decanter on the nightstand, clothes left carelessly on the rug by the fireplace. The memory of breathless passion and unequalled intimacy.

A large four-poster bed of dark stained mahogany took up much of the far wall. The sheets, black Chinese silk, were rumpled around the most perfect being he had ever seen. His friend, lover, brother, whatever you wanted to call it lay on the bed, deeply asleep and breathing softly. Ferrus loved seeing him this way, as only he was allowed. No pomp and ceremony, no dazzling smiles and calculating looks with his astonishing violet eyes. Just him, the Viscount Fulgrim.

His face, so beloved of Society photographers and artists was guileless and innocent in sleep, like that of a young boy. His skin, pale like Ferrus’ own, had a singular luminosity even now in the lamp light. Silver hair, matching perfectly shaped eyebrows, tousled and unkempt across the silk pillows. The eyes, those impossible eyes, closed blocking out the world. The skin around them a shade darker, edging toward purple. His cheekbones, sharp and defined, any woman would kill for.

Fulgrim’s full lips parted slightly, a small frown creasing his brow as he dreamed dreams in vivid technicolour. Ferrus allowed his gaze to linger on his lover’s body, his abdominal muscles taught and perfect, like the rest of him. Ferrus felt his heart beat faster as his eyes found the black silk sheet barely covering his lover’s manhood. Knowing what was beneath; its utter perfection, the need he felt for Fulgrim growled in the pit of his stomach.

He smiled and turned back to his work. He always felt inspired after a night with the Viscount, truly inspired in a way he’d never felt before. Of course, his machines and devices were famous across the Kingdom before they’d met, but Fulgrim had a way of pulling more from him, more than he’d ever felt possible. His designs since had transcended science; gone beyond engineering.

They had become art.

The Viscount Fulgrim was his Muse, he realised suddenly. Ferrus longed for his gaze, a smile, a light touch on the arm. The unparalleled ecstasy of their bodies entwined.  He craved it like other men needed water. To be seen by Fulgrim, truly SEEN was like feeling the sun on your face for the first time.

The perfection of Fulgrim was legendary, like his reputation as a decadent Society fop. But nobody knew the real him. The Big Show, the gorgeous clothes, the scandalous behaviour, the illicit substances. It was all an act, Ferrus knew now. The REAL Fulgrim was asleep in his bed, exhausted by his own manufactured persona. He was safe here and, Ferrus vowed silently, he always would be.

Ferrus would never judge him, never mock, never ridicule. Never get drunk and leave the party with some society sweetheart. As Fulgrim, sharp of mind and sharper of tongue, would likewise never make Ferrus feel inferior for his own failings. Shy, withdrawn, quiet. The very opposite of Fulgrim’s reputation, Ferrus had learned at an early age that trust was a difficult thing to come by. Bullied mercilessly at boarding school for his hands, his size, his intellect, his name. Children are the cruellest of tormentors and will turn your worst fears against you; Gorgon they called him. Ugly, unloved, unlovable. His quietude and sensitivity immediately targeted as clear evidence of his homosexuality, before the other boys really understood what that meant.

fairy lillies come at dawn, sing to the flowers and then they’re gone 🧚🏼‍♂️✨