Chapter Text
Tanrak stood between the silence of his guilt and the call of his temptation. He never expected to break so easily because of Barth.
He was not the typical man one would consider reverent, yet somehow, in Tanrak's mind, he could fix him. Lead him back to the path that was meant for the holy.
He failed.
Not in the sense that this test was graded, but within the confinements of his own being... by his own hands.
One night, after they had retired for the evening and everyone else had surrendered themselves to dreams and snores, Tanrak found himself frustrated with his own mind. It gifted him flashbacks that caused a warmth to bloom within him—a warmth that had never existed before.
The air was cool. The fan was set to its highest setting. Yet beneath the covers of his own space, he felt as though he were burning... much like a fire waiting to be extinguished.
There was no firefighter—only Tanrak himself.
He had always kept to himself, content with his quiet life. But once notions of the past began to surface, Barth's shadow crept into his thoughts. The way his hands moved in tempo, much like the wind crashing against one's skin. The way his face lingered upon his being. His body, like stone—cold on the outside, yet waiting for the right touch to melt it away.
He allowed these obscene thoughts of passion to linger. He twisted and turned, yet to no avail. He could not silence the question stirring within him.
Then instinct overpowered judgment.
He turned his own fingers into keys, tuning lower and lower until the final note had gone flat.
Eventually, he rose from his chambers and made his way toward the cubicles, much like an artist stepping onto the stage for either his final bow or an encore he had never planned to perform.
Through his trails no applause was made, just the reminders of the trace of the past that he had been combining with the present. Such guilt ran over him as he felt the cold water rush through the faucet urging him to cleanse himself from the seed of temptation he had bestowed upon him.
Only reminders of the past, traces of memories he had begun intertwining with the present.
Guilt washed over him as he felt the cold water rush from the faucet, urging him to cleanse himself of the seed of temptation he believed had taken root within him.
Then, the man made a decision.
One that seemed destined to become a pattern.
Oh, he took an encore.
He placed himself in the middle ground—the middle cubicle holding onto the Son, his spirit drenched in sin while both mind and body fought desperately for dominion over the other.
Morning arrived, and the player rose once more, taking on the day as though it were merely another ordinary affair.
But a single touch led him once again onto the trail of serendipity—a path known only to him, for the curtains had yet to rise for the open casting.
Or so he thought. This time the door opened. Yet he did not notice until his senses told him to wake.
As he performed his usual show, he was surprised to discover that he was no longer alone. One became two, and two formed a duet.
Barth and Tanrak.
Two souls seeking serendipity through the lens of each other's composition.
"When will the next round occur?" you ask.
We'll never truly know what happens next.
After all, the show is only just beginning.