[ The resounding dictate of that ’No’ permeates the world. Signaling change, signaling decision. Signaling an advance in Enri’s plan.
’No’; a word that only Puppy, Enri, this god is allowed to speak to Darius.
’No’; a word that holds no power in any other voice.
In Enri, it becomes reconstructive. In Enri, it’s a prelude to some clever stratagem or pleasurable divergence. (Enri understands Darius, perceives Darius. They inhabit a world of shared terms, parameters, ideals. So of course Enri may speak revision. So of course Enri may redirect existence.) Here, accompanied by the shift of Enri’s thumb along the scar, accompanied by the knife held near, accompanied by attentive, hungry eyes (eyes Darius could fall into forever) (eyes Darius could trust, does trust with his wholeness), ’No’ promises delight, mercy, a gift.
The shape of that promise comes clear with (a bite, loving, tantalizing, and) a little more speech, Puppy’s voice reworking phrases that held no fondness, held no place in Darius’s (torn, gifted, resurrected) heart. Puppy placing himself in the story of this wound; Puppy reaching back through history to turn a hollow into something exultant, something loving.
Enri is going to give him the knife, draw blood. Write himself into Darius’s skin again (and again, and again for every scar, oh, when Puppy’s finished, there won’t be a piece of Darius unmarked, unblessed by his love, his god) (as if any part of Darius were sealed from Enri now; as if the boy hasn’t curled wholly through Darius’s being, through whatever passes for Darius’s soul), a promise of ecstatic blood to follow. A promise of Enri rewriting every wound, turning every scar into his own (with that Leatherman; with the knife that wrote Enri’s name), a thought that tilts the world precipitately on its axis, dizzies Darius’s thinking and draws a laugh from him like wonder.
It’s a better story. Yes, it’s a better story by far.
It’s briefly surprising, when Enri mentions Null Set. Because they are there, aren’t they? In Sen and Rin’s apartment, though before Darius can wonder where those two’ve gone, he’s trilled to fond distraction by Enri’s dreams of Daddy’s scars, by Enri who calls Darius perfect. God to god, like to like; of course he’s perfect, and of course Enri’s perfect, but the words still warm him.
And Darius thinks, absently, of all the places he and Enri might rewrite his scars. Of all the locales where Enri might draw blood; of all the places they might turn into their own, laden with meaning.
There’s no time to consider specifics, however (and no need now; he and Enri have plenty of time, all the years in existence), because Enri advises stillness, Enri invites sound, and as Darius watches, Enri draws the knife into his skin.
He doesn’t howl.
For several heartbeats he doesn’t make a sound at all, rapt in watching Enri’s eyes, the fascination the focus the reverent care. (Worlds different from the first time, in that Paris alley.) (That first time no longer exists. That first time needn’t hold a thought in the world. Banish it; it has no place on his body.) For several heartbeats, he feels the cut almost at a distance, building louder and sharper in awareness until he lets himself step into it, flicks his eyes upward and feels the bright of pain come crashing in.
As his breath catches; as his lungs stagger. As he exhales a harsh and shuddered huff, half-laugh. As a sound builds in the back of his throat, a sigh that becomes a moan, a moan that turns itself into a word - ’Enri’ - clamored rough within his voice, that yelps upward nearly to a howl. Another laugh, louder, and an exaltation— ]
My Enri.
[ And, tensing his shoulders against an impulse to jerk against the pain, tensing his chest against an impulse to jerk against the knife and invite a deeper cut— ]
Good.
Boy.
[ Again his breath catches, and though the knife has gone, still the wound burns beautifully. Still Enri’s work drives agony against him. And Darius hears worship, hears his name or hears the name of god, which is his own, which is Enri’s also, and Darius is speaking, ’Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ and ’Enri, my Enri, such beautiful work.’
And Enri’s tongue is at Darius’s chest.
And Enri has done so well; Puppy has been so good.
So Darius’s eyes find Enri. So Darius straightens, wrists twisting in Enri’s hold.
So Darius leans forward to set a kiss to Enri’s hair, to Enri’s cheek, to Enri’s bloody lip. ]
Well done, my love. My future and my all.
[ There's a hum, and Darius nudges Enri's temple. Nips at Enri's ear. Aware of the burn in the chest, the wet of blood welling. Aware of an ache in his arms. Aware, above all, of this perfect man before him. ]
no subject
’No’; a word that only Puppy, Enri, this god is allowed to speak to Darius.
’No’; a word that holds no power in any other voice.
In Enri, it becomes reconstructive. In Enri, it’s a prelude to some clever stratagem or pleasurable divergence. (Enri understands Darius, perceives Darius. They inhabit a world of shared terms, parameters, ideals. So of course Enri may speak revision. So of course Enri may redirect existence.) Here, accompanied by the shift of Enri’s thumb along the scar, accompanied by the knife held near, accompanied by attentive, hungry eyes (eyes Darius could fall into forever) (eyes Darius could trust, does trust with his wholeness), ’No’ promises delight, mercy, a gift.
The shape of that promise comes clear with (a bite, loving, tantalizing, and) a little more speech, Puppy’s voice reworking phrases that held no fondness, held no place in Darius’s (torn, gifted, resurrected) heart. Puppy placing himself in the story of this wound; Puppy reaching back through history to turn a hollow into something exultant, something loving.
Enri is going to give him the knife, draw blood. Write himself into Darius’s skin again (and again, and again for every scar, oh, when Puppy’s finished, there won’t be a piece of Darius unmarked, unblessed by his love, his god) (as if any part of Darius were sealed from Enri now; as if the boy hasn’t curled wholly through Darius’s being, through whatever passes for Darius’s soul), a promise of ecstatic blood to follow. A promise of Enri rewriting every wound, turning every scar into his own (with that Leatherman; with the knife that wrote Enri’s name), a thought that tilts the world precipitately on its axis, dizzies Darius’s thinking and draws a laugh from him like wonder.
It’s a better story. Yes, it’s a better story by far.
It’s briefly surprising, when Enri mentions Null Set. Because they are there, aren’t they? In Sen and Rin’s apartment, though before Darius can wonder where those two’ve gone, he’s trilled to fond distraction by Enri’s dreams of Daddy’s scars, by Enri who calls Darius perfect. God to god, like to like; of course he’s perfect, and of course Enri’s perfect, but the words still warm him.
And Darius thinks, absently, of all the places he and Enri might rewrite his scars. Of all the locales where Enri might draw blood; of all the places they might turn into their own, laden with meaning.
There’s no time to consider specifics, however (and no need now; he and Enri have plenty of time, all the years in existence), because Enri advises stillness, Enri invites sound, and as Darius watches, Enri draws the knife into his skin.
He doesn’t howl.
For several heartbeats he doesn’t make a sound at all, rapt in watching Enri’s eyes, the fascination the focus the reverent care. (Worlds different from the first time, in that Paris alley.) (That first time no longer exists. That first time needn’t hold a thought in the world. Banish it; it has no place on his body.) For several heartbeats, he feels the cut almost at a distance, building louder and sharper in awareness until he lets himself step into it, flicks his eyes upward and feels the bright of pain come crashing in.
As his breath catches; as his lungs stagger. As he exhales a harsh and shuddered huff, half-laugh. As a sound builds in the back of his throat, a sigh that becomes a moan, a moan that turns itself into a word - ’Enri’ - clamored rough within his voice, that yelps upward nearly to a howl. Another laugh, louder, and an exaltation— ]
My Enri.
[ And, tensing his shoulders against an impulse to jerk against the pain, tensing his chest against an impulse to jerk against the knife and invite a deeper cut— ]
Good.
Boy.
[ Again his breath catches, and though the knife has gone, still the wound burns beautifully. Still Enri’s work drives agony against him. And Darius hears worship, hears his name or hears the name of god, which is his own, which is Enri’s also, and Darius is speaking, ’Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ and ’Enri, my Enri, such beautiful work.’
And Enri’s tongue is at Darius’s chest.
And Enri has done so well; Puppy has been so good.
So Darius’s eyes find Enri. So Darius straightens, wrists twisting in Enri’s hold.
So Darius leans forward to set a kiss to Enri’s hair, to Enri’s cheek, to Enri’s bloody lip. ]
Well done, my love. My future and my all.
[ There's a hum, and Darius nudges Enri's temple. Nips at Enri's ear. Aware of the burn in the chest, the wet of blood welling. Aware of an ache in his arms. Aware, above all, of this perfect man before him. ]
You, your knife, and Null Set.
Daddy is— Oh. Unspeakably pleased.