and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding
that never stopped exploding
He wants to touch him, more than he has wanted many other things. The thought is in him bigger than Warden, bigger than Delumine, bigger than his singing rage and the endless thunder in his heart. He wants to touch Pilate so badly it aches in his jaw, his knees, a warm pain that radiates in every direction. Oriens help him.
Andras grins like a punch, wild and bright.
He is a living verb, a compass needle always spinning wildly with no true north: immense anger, immense joy, immense boredom and here in the hazy winter light and the fist of some nameless desperation he is filling with immense need that crashes into him over and over like so many stormy, gray-green waves.
He is impulsive. Savage. Reckless. Explosive in every direction--even this one.
Or what. Pilate asks, dark and vivid but so, so quiet that he almost cannot hear it over the blood in his ears. It sounds like rich chocolate. It sounds like the color of fat, juicy strawberries. Andras does not feel his whole body shiver until it is sprinting over the hill of his shoulders.
Pilate touches Andras, a warm breath on his dark throat and far warmer lips on his shoulder before he leans back, smiling the way Andras imagines that he must be smiling--like it's a challenge, a dare, a command--with eyes so deep and so patient that it makes the warden angry. His heart beats so loud and so fast he is dying, surely. There is no crime, no duty, no old library, just him and his racing heart and this big dark hole that he didn't realize he had until it was out in the open--
--and a pool of lava, daring him to jump. Andras looks at the many pairs of eyes that look back at him, all gold, all smug, like they've known all along he would jump. He would. He does.
When their lips touch new electricity crackles out of his skin.
@
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
