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Time Through Fire;

Time Through Fire; oneshot,.

How did we find ourselves here?

We are relying on brass.

This safety is brass. Here, in this dark room, ignited only with the flickering flame on the wax, candle, our safety was a simple, cheap piece of brass. This bronzed, cheap, weak brass. I only wonder why we trust it so severely. We depend on it, rely and here, in the warm, dark room, we have lay our life on this little piece of old brass.

Sadly, it is all we have to hold on to, besides ourselves. Even as inviting as we may be to each other, we will be the end of the other, should our safety falter. A second contradiction for our sin is home.

We are finally here tonight; somewhere we have wanted to be for eight fucking years. It was a home, a safety of the heart, a peace of the mind. The years, so bitter, so torturous. Finally, tonight, you touched my arm and the years toppled, spilling and spewing molten rock out of an active volcano.

So many years, molded by us, lives changed, lives destroyed. Everything we have spent our entire lifetime building up was broken down tonight. When your fingers met my skin, the years split, shattering across the floor in a mutual touch of lips. And just like glass, if I touched the splattered years, attempt to mend them back into place; I would only end up with a hand littered in fresh cuts. Just more wounds to bandage. Bleed the years like pen on paper.

Like the paper where you have, written words I never knew belonged to me. You told me just a few moments ago. I felt like an imbecile for not knowing. The blatant statements that were just right there... and I never saw... a foolish blind idiot I have been.

But I see tonight. I see the years that tumbled out of your fingertips; I see the danger, the lives ruined and the infamy gained. I see the world shirting. I see every con and every hazardous syllable.

Then I see you. Thus, the brass, the dirty, cheap brass (!), it is our safety.

You push your cushioned lips against mine, our words forgotten, trapped in our sin. Your clumsy fingers are thumbing the hem of my shirt; I can tell you are frantic. However, I am, too. The anticipation has been building up for eight years...!

Those years that split from your fingers...
With them, tumbled secrets from your lips.
Now, desire rushes from your hips.

So much was exposed tonight; it is a wonder why the candle is not anything but a slump of dead wax by now.

The cotton fabric of my shirt lifted easily over my head, your fingers trailing happily after it. Against your cold fingers, my skin was warm and inviting. You trailed them across my waist, where you curled them to grasp my hipbones.

You lips clasped against my own, forcefully and demanding. I sighed against your lips but pushed back just as demanding. Your hips crushed against mine, out hipbones gnashing against each other. I swore my heart exploded.

It is only brass...

I broke our contact to lift off your loose shirt. The two started a pile on the floor.

Our bare chests met; skin against skin. If my heart has not yet exploded, then I was positive you could feel it racing against your own. Your bittersweet fingertips littered up my spine slowly. My eyelids fall shut. A shiver traveled downwards and I felt my knees tantalized to bend in submission.

I resisted.

My lips clasp against your neck and you gasp but quickly quiet the sound, knowing any noise could give us away. There is only so much with which you can trust brass. Despite myself, I wish to hear the noise again, a moan; my name, even.

I work my lips eagerly against your skin, kissing and nibbling. With every sound suppressed, you bend your neck to expose it further and roll your hips appreciatively against my own. When I finally let free your nape, you attack my lips with your own, sweetly. Tonight is all we have...

I believe that if that brass should fail us, the all-knowing brass... should it fail us, we will die. Our lives shall halt, our time and everything we have worked so hard to build up... it will collapse. No one can know what travesty we have committed here. Shall our secret spill, oh the horror.

You push forward to move against me in a friction and the springs squeak.

You stop, frozen in movement. You are sure we have been caught.

The only sound heard now was the click and hum of the radiator. A relief passes through us. Knowing we are not caught yet, we resume. Quiet and frantic as we are, nostalgia will collaborate with memories to plague us later.

You push forward again. I bite my lip heavily. Oh god, I am positive I have gone mad...

...or just drunk with lust.

Yet, ever other sound in my ears is the nonexistent horrific clicking of the brass, as it is unlatched. I feel your push again; we need now to rid of these clothes... I bite harder.

You push; the bed does not move the headboard does. Another push and it clambers harshly against the wall. You stop. I almost whine but I must refrain. Every move, every noise, every breath and every kiss has the ultimate potential to condemn us.

I roll up to meet your hips again in a rush. Your lips press against mine then remove themselves.You slide up to kiss my forehead lovingly. Your bare skin... is moving swiftly against my own. Everything felt incredibly raw, so terribly enhanced against bare skin. I made a mental note of it.

Now, your breath is near my earlobe. You are determined to make me moan, even though you know I cannot. Your lips close around the cartilage on my ear and tug softly. I let a groan slip from the bottom of my throat but you do not stop. You encourage it, selfish dick.

You push again, slow this time but hard. The groan is louder now. I return to bite my lip and your lips let free my ear. Your breath litters down my cartilage. "I love you."

I recoil.

My eyes shoot open in shock. Nonononononono. NO.

This cannot happen, not to me, not today and not now. I refuse to believe the words you have spoken, whether I want to repeat them or not; whether I want to believe, or I need to believe them so desperately or not. I refuse.

And just as your features distinguish in my vision, I spot something bright. Recognition strikes and suddenly, I am nauseous. I turn abruptly, most likely striking you in the face. If that is a fact and you are reading this now, I do apologize, my dear.

Nevertheless, at the moment, I was positive I was having a panic attack. The candle... oh the idiotic cut of putrid wax! You followed my gaze and muttered, "Holy shit."

I push you away and panic.

Flames have engulfed our discarded clothing.

The clambers from the headboard must have forced a shudder across the wall and down the cabinet. Then as the drawer shook, the shit piece of wax toppled over the edge and spilt the pyre across the floor, igniting our juxtaposed clothing.

You must think faster than I do because you sprang for the pillow and rushed at the flames. With your arms flinging across the air, specks of fire flying up and disintegrating. You struck and butted out the small batch of flames.

It was not long before the sprout of pyre orange and violent red had disappeared. However, it was not early enough for an alarm wailed and screeched outside of the wooden door. If it had not already, my heart had definitely just stopped. You dropped the flame-charred pillow onto the floor. Your venomous fingers...

Slams and smashes were head against the door. Slams and shouts. They want in they want to know. I can no longer feel my breath, toiled in between the scent of sulfur somewhere....

Yet, I am hyperventilating. I am terrified, I want to squeal and cry, brake down on the floor and wither away. Eight bitter, ugly years.... I can't do this anymore.

We cannot tell them.

They would not understand!

We cannot hide it from them any longer.

The will not understand.

Breath, I remind myself.

In a second, in a shudder, in a sob, a comet, the pyre spilt, like the years. Should I attempt to mend it, fix the pieces of raw shards, all that will occur is cuts and wounds across my fingers and across me. Damn your poison; I have to leave....

I cannot leave.

My knees bend, this time I cannot resist; they slam against the floor. They are slamming against the door, they want to know, and they want to know.... The ache in my knees dematerialized after a few seconds. I can practically feel the second crack of knees next to me. You drop down next to me, just as helpless and defeated.

They have slammed through... with a thundering sudden bang. The brass failed... our lives are about to be mulitalated. I wince and grimace then look down at my hands, rested in my lap. My eyes are wide and I wish my throat was too because there is a hazardous lack of oxygen occurring in my system.

We are klutzes; we never should have relied on the brass.

Yet all you could think to do in the inquiring silence, this painful silence, was to place your hand over mine. Despite me, all I could think to do in this stunning silence with their eyes glued to us, asking every question, is to weave my cold fingers through your poisonous ones.

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