Chapter Text
‘My lover is not beautiful in the sunlight. In the harsh light of day, he is coarse, rough. His hands dangle, too large for his wrists, like the fins of some ungainly fish. Daylight reveals his hair to be limp, too much red in it, too yellow to be pleasing. His eyes an ordinary brown.’
“How are you getting on?” Anders’ voice pulls Fenris from the world within.
“I am attempting to pour my soul onto this page,” Fenris replies, without looking up. “As wretched and tattered as it may be.”
“Souls, is it?” The man is entirely unimpressed. “I don’t know about those, but I could help you spill something else…” His voice is heavy with innuendo.
Fenris lets out a reluctant laugh, glancing over at him. He’s lounging on the tiny balcony his room affords, both doors thrown wide in the July heat. Fenris can’t help the way his eyes slide up, up, along long pale legs, soft cock nestled in golden curls, a slender but well-defined chest. Anders is leaning on one elbow, a cigarette in his free hand, and his head tipped back back back, exposing the slender column of his throat as he exhales the smoke to the sky.
“Let me get this down, and I’ll see what I can do.”
‘In daylight his voice is not lovely, sweetly whispering slow seductions. He is brash, and speaks far too loudly. He wears old clothing that doesn’t suit him. He slurps his tea.’
They make love on the balcony that day, dizzy and drunk on absinthe and sunlight and each other. It’s slow, almost torturous. Years pass before Fenris slides home, Anders’ legs around his waist, cries falling from reddened lips. It’s a century before he can move, trapped in the moment, the world vanished into dust and smoke, the only real thing is Anders. Anders, Anders.
Anders who pleads so sweetly, body moving like water, taking everything Fenris can give and then reaching for just a little bit more. The cigarette burns itself out in a brass bowl from Istanbul, smoke tangling around their wrists like chains. Fenris pins Anders’ hands to the floor of the balcony, swallowing the sound of his surrender.
They lie tangled in Fenris’ bed, watching the day burn itself out. Fenris lays his head on Anders’ stomach, and Anders combs his fingers through his hair. They don’t speak much. Fenris bought a bunch of grapes yesterday, purple and swollen with sunlight, too far gone to make wine.
As the last golden glimmer fades, Anders stretches. Stands. Washes away the day. Fenris watches as his fingermarks are rubbed away.
‘At night, my love is beautiful. He outshines the stars. A being of moonlight and dream-stuff, spun into your desires. His eyes are clearest amber, his hair fairy-woven gold. His pale skin a treasure of undiscovered secrets.’
“I wish you wouldn’t,” says Fenris. He’s still on the bed. Still naked, warm with the absent sun.
“Well, I will.” Anders says. He meets Fenris’ eyes in the mirror. The candlelight shimmers in his hair. “Wishing won’t make it so.”
“Hope, then.”
“Hope is worse than wishing.”
“I dream.”
“A dream?” Anders comes and kisses him slowly, tongue tracing his lower lip. “A man can live on a dream.”
He’s gone before Fenris’ eyes open.
‘He is a creature made for the night.’
He’s never looked for Anders at night. He knows he’d probably find him.
‘But I think I love him best in the morning, draggled and drawn, other men’s marks fading with the dawn. He is sweet and slow, then, ready to sleep as the stars fade from the sky. He’s tattered and torn on the balcony over the street corner, fierce and faltering…’
“Fenris? Are you coming to bed?”
He lays his pen down.
“Yes. It’s time for dreams.”