Velloso by Scynneh
Title: Velloso

Author: Scynneh

E-mail: scynneh@yahoo.com

Rating: PG13

Category: Rath/Michael

Summary: The title is Spanish for ‘fuzzy’.

Disclaimer: Were they mine, there would be fun had by all. Alas, that is not to be.

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Beauty was through long centuries, a careful thing, not having an unbreakable set of standards made that possible, and even necessary. When it found itself moving to another's step one day, the feeling was disconcerting and its very unfamiliarity was terrifying. But as it examined its new partner, it found something that it could relate to. Many things could be attractive without walking what society had set as 'the line.' No, he didn't fit the narrow beam of 'rightness' that so many have failed to match, instead, he danced the line, and never minded if he happened to slip occasionally. His lean figure could be seen on the street, stride confident of his place, and hips swaying in a language that was seductive for its blunt promise of harsh pleasure. Lips were wrong and sweet and Not To Be Indulged all without having to part the tiniest amount. The fearful product of any movement was the foregone conclusion of surrender from whomever he worked his spell on.

Uncombed hair and broad shoulders were easily recognized in a crowd, and he seemed to take some perverse pleasure in throwing his uniqueness out for the rest of the world to gawk at; all the while laughing at their mundane natures. What lure lay in nail polish that when on masculine digits it brought desire to the forefront of so many minds, he wasn't the one to answer that question, but he certainly took advantage of his allure, and moved his carcass into my realm

This is love that I'm feeling. It has to be; the confusing muddle that I slosh through each time I see him or hear his voice as it rasps over my painfully sensitive eardrums is only bearable when he's close. It's perverse, and in the worst sense of the word, but I find that there is nothing that can be done for my condition but to lie back and let him take control, in all activities that might otherwise be points of contention between us. I can't conceal what he does to me, or the way I come unhinged without the contact of our skin sticking together; the sweat of adrenaline acting as an adhesive. Yeah, I need him the way a plant needs water, and a lot of other crappy analogies could be applied to my desires, but I don't feel like analyzing the rest of my life. This relationship that I'm bound up in is enough for anyone to deal with at once.

No, one thing of which I am convinced is that I am screwed. For life, and not just in the 'sore in the morning, but in a good way', and I don't much care. Because when I'm still awake at midnight and look over my shoulder at my bedmate, I am convinced that those eyes are what I was meant for. Made luminous by a hazing of liquid and salt wedded and bound to descend to inevitable demise upon descent over molten flesh. That the union was the result of activities more passionately enjoyed than anguished, make the effect no less compelling. The ballet of light through a window seems the caress of an inebriated third party; tripping joyously over territory made vulnerable for a brief interval by an excess of sensation.

I turn, to do I know not what, and a lean arm snakes out to prevent my escape, pulling me over the bedclothes until I am a bow of meat taut over a silk and wool rack, curving my spine in novel ways, not precisely uncomfortable, but tantalizingly deep concern spirals out of surprise and pleasure to sprout up cautiously beside the precipice on which my conscience teeters. Floating delight holds me to the very edge of the chasm by the barest of margins, and I revel in the peril.

**

I know that our attraction is somewhat incomprehensible to those who might be familiar with our backgrounds, but to me, he became real at the exact moment when my own 'mortal coil' became only a tenuous thing. I had just come to truly understand the way that I was expected to act: a king is resented for necessity. The second-in-command is the pragmatist and scolded for his somewhat brutal grip on reality. I knew that, and even accepted the illusion that Maximillian had to maintain for his peace of mind: good and evil, clear and separate. He was wrong, though I never told him that I had figured out the way that things work.

No one is free of sin. It's in the very air that one breathes, seeping into the marrow of bones, gradually twisting the acceptable into a grotesque warping of docility. That was easy for me to reconcile, after all; I grew up with a man who was the archetype of 'dysfunctional suburban father', but the thing I never expected was to another person recognize my true nature, I was content to hide behind a ruler, even if his ignorance might someday get him killed.

But then someone informed me that I was good in my own right, and that threw me. I was so accustomed to being the runner-up that the winning trophy came out of nowhere and smacked me upside the head. Not that such attention was a negative experience; there's nothing so sacred as private property when one doesn't have access to it, and respect was the Promised Land denied to no one but me, I was simply amazed at how rapidly things shifted around to make me something worth noticing. First a scruffy know-it-all wanted a piece of me, then my leader thought I could be of some use. Next, they thought the other was the enemy and wanted to prove their intentions by fighting for my favor. And such determination scared the Hell out of me.

After that, I ran from our joining, thinking it to be something strange and repugnant, and he pursued. My response to unbearable circumstances was that of anyone pushed beyond the point of tolerance. At last however; I came to realize a truth of human nature: if you run, they will chase you; if however, you turn to face them, they will stop and back away. And that was how I managed to establish some sort of balance in a relationship that otherwise might have smothered me. We progressed in the fashion of couples everywhere: there was a beginning, as tumultuous as some stereotypical 'big bang', and then a slightly less exciting stretch between the prologue and the second act, which is where the action has begin to pick up pace again.

True, we may be morally wrong, and this may be the most convoluted thing to ever erupt out of trauma, but who really cares about the consequences anyway? Fortune has shone down on us, and we're using its glow as clothing for as long as we can. If I'm damned for my happiness, then I'd better get out there and have fun now, because the burning pit is coming.

The way I see things is: goodness will get you all kinds of celestial merit badges, but it's as boring as Amish foreplay.

The End