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Perhaps in another room, at another time, with another boy, those words would have stung him. For one with an ego that has been constructed and hardened over years of men with sharper teeth gnawing away at it, little makes him HURT.

                     But he does feel a gnawing of something self-conscious.

     His hands pause in their work, and he looks up, slowly, eyes roaming over the lines of Bradley’s body. He is delicate and frightening, and Claude thinks for a moment that The Boy likening himself to Lucifer is perhaps not uncalled for.

                             You were the seal of perfection, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty.

Claude shivers, holding his partially unbuttoned shirt closer around him. He is so very BEAUTIFUL. Carefully sculpted, the mysterious twinkle in his big eyes and the cheekiness in his easy smile - all white teeth so perfectly straight, ready to devour him whole. It makes him want to weep. How could such a beautiful creature bathed in God’s light want him, such a vile, ugly beast of the earth? How could he desire such a hypocrite, such a corrupt monster?

          Bradley is one who deserves to be                         Claude only deserves the ash and          decorated with the richest jewels                            dust which he cultivates with          and ores that God’s earth has to offer.                   wicked fingers.

     He lets out a shuddering breath, disguising his disquiet with a confident smirk, and he returns to unbuttoning his shirt. Let Bradley GAZE upon the softening of his body, the slight building of fat in his abdomen, the weakness of his limbs. Let him see what his tightly buttoned cassock normally hides, the decrepit man wrapped in the trappings of his authoritarian position, His dogma spoken through thin lips and crooked teeth. Let him behold and feel only DISGUST. Let him choose a path that does not cause him to FALL from God’s grace.

                                                              “And you are too YOUNG to dictate how I should feel.”                                                                     The words are too condescending, and they are                                                                   out before he has a chance to think them through.                                                               He hopes that Bradley will forgive him, as he knows                                                                                                                               that GOD will not.

“I don’t know what choices and circumstances led to where you are -- but if you care an ounce for Gail, keep her out of it. I don’t want my daughter hurt.”

                    orbs,   FRAMED   by  the  thickness  of  lashes,  will the  reflect  with  the beauty   of a  thousand  celestial  moons,  and  awe  will seep through her   veins,  knotting at the core,    and denying  her  chance  to  feel  anything  other.     there is   a  significant  beauty  that labels   a porcelain   visage  as  auburn  locks  display  their  finery  under  spring’s  first morn.  coral tinged  lips  will coil  with   a neat  delicateness into  a  sea  of  rose;   ━━━━━━━  a colour made   only   to  compliment  the  art  of  her  cheeks,  and  heat  pores with  a  slight wickedness. her digits   would  trace    a  million  paths   over  his  own  skin,   each  touch  would be   signed  and sealed    with  multiple  silenced  hymns,      and  all  would  sing  a  THOUSAND  ways for one to say ‘  i  love  you   ’    to  another.

                her  smile  will  burst  at  it’s  seams  as  fingers   reach,   (   with  intention   )  and delicately  coil  themselves   into  the  span  of  spaces  she  claims  for herself.   just  herself. detailed   pads  of  lithe  digits   will not squeeze  skin,   but press  lightly  into   one’s  hand to secure her   COMFORT.    she  will  silently   wonder  how  a  feeling   can  be  ever  so  light  and  truly wonderful;     and  finally   she’ll  sound   a gentle  song,   a  chime  of  tamed  laughter that filters between parted lips. . . 

                   The world is a haze before him, his body two seconds slower than the impulses that his brain sends to them. What was the question?      Ah, yes. Bradley Hirschal.      How to begin?

                                       The words come slowly, carefully. He does not like to TRIP over them.

    “I first saw him… when I first saw him, all I could see was… an ANGEL, wings rip… ripped from a body CARVED by the hands of GOD himself.”     His hand lifts his glass of wine to his mouth, but misses his lips, and a small trail of red liquid splatters from his cheek down his chin and onto his white shirt. He wipes away it carelessly with shaky hands.     “He has a purity about him, but… it is tainted… so beautiful… so very beautiful.                                        So SWEET.”

                                                                          His thumb rubs against his finger repetitively, but slowly. It is an absent marker of time that no one can read.

               “He is sweet, so very PRECIOUS. An angel if ever I saw one… but…”     There is a quiver in his lip, and he looks down at the stain on his shirt.     “His TONGUE… it hurts so very badly.”     He looks up at the other, flushing slightly.     “No, not that way. His tongue is a delight when… applied in… the right places… but the words that… that it crafts… they sting.”

                                                     He falls silent then, looking absently out the window. His thumb still rubs his finger, and his eyes are vacant, as if he is somewhere else. He is quiet for a long time, before he goes for another sip. He manages to make it to his mouth this time, but his eyes shut before his lips even hit the glass.

                       A small bit of wine dribbles out of the corner of his mouth,                                                                           and he licks it away.

                                   “He is… my downfall.   My corruption.   My pain.                                                                He is the only one that I have ever loved.”

          He masks the revelation with another sip of wine. He manages to spill it all over himself, a quiet curse as the red penetrates the bleached white cotton. It is an intentional diversion from the topic of Bradley Hirschal.     Sometimes, even the THOUGHT of him hurts.

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