[ Enri watches in what could pass as mildness, where one inferno compared to another may be called mild. There's still a razor-sharp hunger in his eyes as they hold Daddy's, but it lingers distant, prowling the edges of their conversation. At the fore is attentiveness, is interest, is warmth of a different kind.
He loves hearing about Daddy's past. He loves holding it up side by side with Daddy's present and knowing with certainty which one is better.
(Darius was in Paris, alone and unliked, doing a job Enri thinks he might not have enjoyed very much.) (We'll go to Paris, he thinks idly. Maybe next summer, he thinks, and a tingling pleasure rolls through him, because they'll have next summer, and they'll have places they visit together, and because they'll be together, it'll be a first for both of them. (He'll use Darius's name in hotels. He'll speak to clerks in the right language, and wear decent clothes, and he'll use Darius's name. Instead of Enri Anderson from Iowa, he'll pretend to be Enri Scarlett from New York.) (This thought, deep, barely in awareness, threatens to jar his hand with a shiver.) (Enri Scarlett-))
(Darius was alone in Paris and someone cut him.
Fast forward to now. He's not alone. He'll never be alone again.
And Enri is going to cut him.)
His eyes linger a moment past the end of the tale, and then he shifts, stretching his arm to continue pinning Daddy at the wrists even as he extracts himself from the leg wrapped around him, brings himself even with the scar. His thumb strokes the old wound, slowly charting its course. ]
No.
[ He raises his chin a little to catch Daddy's eye again. With a fond, assured voice, he continues - ]
You're not remembering right.
[ And then he grins, wicked, and nips at the flesh beside his hand before he explains himself. ]
It was twenty-twenty-one, and you were in an apartment above a bar. Your Puppy - who loves how you look at him - pinned you to the floor and split you open with his Leatherman. You told him to do it, and you watched as he cut you.
[ The point of his knife presses the end of the scar, right where it began the first time. Huskily, cocking his head, Enri breathes - ]
Don't move. It's gotta be just right, so it's mine. So there's no Paris, no Kieran Hawk, no alley. So it never happened.
But this did. Null Set, and me, and my knife.
[ A beat, and - ]
I dream of the scars you've already got. You're perfect the way you are, Daddy. Just got the wrong memories to go with the scars. So - we'll make all of them mine. When this one heals, we'll find another one. And another, and another.
Don't move.
[ And, whispering with a laugh: ]
Be as loud as you want, though.
[ And the knife eases, following the scar like a seam ripped open; Enri draws his hand slowly, eyes full of malicious fascination.
(It's like there was nothing in the world was meant to be cut with knives but this, this, Daddy's flesh, parting like the Red Sea. Flooding with something other than water.) (He cut a god. He cut open a god. He cut open his god-)
He cut open his god. (His head swims. His arousal is a throbbing counterpoint, a desperate pounding of need, his voice is hoarse and he doesn't register his own speech any longer but it must be prayer. It's always prayer.) His god bleeds like everyone else, which is why he can't have been cut by anyone but Enri. This isn't mundane. This is sacred. If the blood comes and the scars remain, then history needs rewriting.
Someone's whispering my god, someone's hand is lifting from the wound, and if the only one who could cut Daddy is another god, then it must be Enri. If the only one who could love him the way he needs is another god, then Enri is whispering, and Enri's hand is bloodstained, and Enri summons life from under Daddy's skin.
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He loves hearing about Daddy's past. He loves holding it up side by side with Daddy's present and knowing with certainty which one is better.
(Darius was in Paris, alone and unliked, doing a job Enri thinks he might not have enjoyed very much.) (We'll go to Paris, he thinks idly. Maybe next summer, he thinks, and a tingling pleasure rolls through him, because they'll have next summer, and they'll have places they visit together, and because they'll be together, it'll be a first for both of them. (He'll use Darius's name in hotels. He'll speak to clerks in the right language, and wear decent clothes, and he'll use Darius's name. Instead of Enri Anderson from Iowa, he'll pretend to be Enri Scarlett from New York.) (This thought, deep, barely in awareness, threatens to jar his hand with a shiver.) (Enri Scarlett-))
(Darius was alone in Paris and someone cut him.
Fast forward to now. He's not alone. He'll never be alone again.
And Enri is going to cut him.)
His eyes linger a moment past the end of the tale, and then he shifts, stretching his arm to continue pinning Daddy at the wrists even as he extracts himself from the leg wrapped around him, brings himself even with the scar. His thumb strokes the old wound, slowly charting its course. ]
No.
[ He raises his chin a little to catch Daddy's eye again. With a fond, assured voice, he continues - ]
You're not remembering right.
[ And then he grins, wicked, and nips at the flesh beside his hand before he explains himself. ]
It was twenty-twenty-one, and you were in an apartment above a bar. Your Puppy - who loves how you look at him - pinned you to the floor and split you open with his Leatherman. You told him to do it, and you watched as he cut you.
[ The point of his knife presses the end of the scar, right where it began the first time. Huskily, cocking his head, Enri breathes - ]
Don't move. It's gotta be just right, so it's mine. So there's no Paris, no Kieran Hawk, no alley. So it never happened.
But this did. Null Set, and me, and my knife.
[ A beat, and - ]
I dream of the scars you've already got. You're perfect the way you are, Daddy. Just got the wrong memories to go with the scars. So - we'll make all of them mine. When this one heals, we'll find another one. And another, and another.
Don't move.
[ And, whispering with a laugh: ]
Be as loud as you want, though.
[ And the knife eases, following the scar like a seam ripped open; Enri draws his hand slowly, eyes full of malicious fascination.
(It's like there was nothing in the world was meant to be cut with knives but this, this, Daddy's flesh, parting like the Red Sea. Flooding with something other than water.) (He cut a god. He cut open a god. He cut open his god-)
He cut open his god. (His head swims. His arousal is a throbbing counterpoint, a desperate pounding of need, his voice is hoarse and he doesn't register his own speech any longer but it must be prayer. It's always prayer.) His god bleeds like everyone else, which is why he can't have been cut by anyone but Enri. This isn't mundane. This is sacred. If the blood comes and the scars remain, then history needs rewriting.
Someone's whispering my god, someone's hand is lifting from the wound, and if the only one who could cut Daddy is another god, then it must be Enri. If the only one who could love him the way he needs is another god, then Enri is whispering, and Enri's hand is bloodstained, and Enri summons life from under Daddy's skin.
Impulsively, he licks the fresh-made wound. ]