Interlude.
The bite of nails, the kiss of marred flesh, Steve was used to it all. He'd had it all, felt it all. He could still feel the rush of breath on the shell of his ear, begging him, pleading for him to stop (they didn't belong, this was the end). He could taste the muted beer on the tip of his tongue, remember the bottom of that very bottle. Even the slick slide of blood on skin wasn't foreign to him anymore. It was a shame, a damn shame.
Everything had been fine before (arguments and clammy summer nights with too much beer). Steve and Ann were together, wedged in like two jigsaw pieces that didn't belong. Ghost still whispered sympathies into his hair, twining their fingers together, unmarred by a drunk Steve's actions and a screaming Ann. It had gone too far, Steve had finally lost control (but Ghost would never leave him).
It took a warm uncensored night in a New Orleans attic to ground Steve, to keep him from tearing out Arkady's dead black heart (that son of a bitch and his bad juju shit). Ghost's lips were like air to a suffocating man, shocking at first, but essential to his well being. He breathed him in, let himself love him in ways he couldn't, but did. He tasted every ray of sunshine, every ounce of care Ghost held for him, saved for him (if it was Ghost, he wasn't a fag, he'd tell himself).
They hadn't talked about it beyond murmurs of being too drunk to remember. Lies. They packed into the T-bird and left (a road trip, they insisted, away from the memories and the blood). Steve had all he needed (his anchor, his best friend), but he carried the guilt of all the demons he housed inside of his own mind. His hands would never be clean.
Everything had been fine before (arguments and clammy summer nights with too much beer). Steve and Ann were together, wedged in like two jigsaw pieces that didn't belong. Ghost still whispered sympathies into his hair, twining their fingers together, unmarred by a drunk Steve's actions and a screaming Ann. It had gone too far, Steve had finally lost control (but Ghost would never leave him).
It took a warm uncensored night in a New Orleans attic to ground Steve, to keep him from tearing out Arkady's dead black heart (that son of a bitch and his bad juju shit). Ghost's lips were like air to a suffocating man, shocking at first, but essential to his well being. He breathed him in, let himself love him in ways he couldn't, but did. He tasted every ray of sunshine, every ounce of care Ghost held for him, saved for him (if it was Ghost, he wasn't a fag, he'd tell himself).
They hadn't talked about it beyond murmurs of being too drunk to remember. Lies. They packed into the T-bird and left (a road trip, they insisted, away from the memories and the blood). Steve had all he needed (his anchor, his best friend), but he carried the guilt of all the demons he housed inside of his own mind. His hands would never be clean.