Interlude: "First Encounter" fic

[matrixrefugee.livejournal.com]

A small masterpiece by Ruby: again, contains slash



Once he felt Meroveque's lips pressed on his own he knew the awkward stage was over -- how he hated initiating such things, but it didn't matter now, did it? The mixture of adrenaline and revulsion and a healthy dose of fine-grain Columbian snow coursed through his system and the room went suddenly electric, and he smiled to himself inside. He was faintly aware of saying something, of having something said back but none of it mattered now...no, nothing mattered except what he was going to get from this, what he would gain and what he would become. Nothing else mattered more.
Meroveque was not new at this, obviously -- it took barely three minutes for Ilia's crumpled clothing to hit the floor and there seemed to be a pause while the former regent inspected what he'd uncovered, like a child glancing into the shell of an oyster for a peek of the pearl. Come on, come on, he thought irritably. Let's get this over with already, okay? He shifted uncomfortably and that seemed to trigger something, and he felt the talons scraping thin lines
down the skin of his back. His brain slipped farther and farther away with every touch, floating higher until he felt something break in his mind, saw a flash of white and then he was out of his body, watching the proceedings with a casual eye but otherwise not noticing it, not noticing anything but still quite active and thinking over everything that had happened and everything that would happen. Ilia had become unstuck in time, and he enjoyed it immensely.
He instinctively went through the motions of passion as he'd done many times before-- arched his neck to kisses, his back to touches and made small cries where he felt it appropriate. If Meroveque noticed he wasn't exactly being a full participant, he made no mention of it and continued his ministrations with ever increasing fervor. He seemed to be enjoying himself-- well, let him. Wasn't that what this entire arrangement was about? Let Meroveque have his fun, and in return-- ah! G-d, G-d he hadn't been quite ready for that yet, *G-d* that hurt-- let him have his fun, and what would he get in return? What he'd wanted for years, the stage of the Paris Opera House, that bright
glittering-- *G-d! Stop it already, that's enough; sonofabitch, do you want to tear me to shreds?*-- ethereal stage, where every dancer, singer, actor dreamed of gaining stardom, gaining legitimacy, gaining the rest of their lives. G-d, it
was so close, it was so damn close he could feel it, hear it, touch it and smell it...he almost screamed with frustration then and there: I'll do whatever you want, be with you four nights, five nights, the rest of my fucking life, I don't care, just make me a star! but he restrained himself-- how foolish would that sound? Nothing was certain yet-- oh, something was certain, all right, it was certain that some wheels would be set in motion for him, it had to be certain or he wouldn't be here. Meroveque wouldn't go back on his word, he wouldn't not hold up his end of the deal. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Please, G-d, say he couldn't...
A sharp scratch on his rib shoved him back into the present, and he snapped back to reality to find himself staring directly into Meroveque's eyes. His heart jumped-- G-d, no, he didn't want to see what was in there, he didn't
want Meroveque to see what was in him-- and he slipped out of his body again, gazing at a spot over Meroveque's left shoulder and feeling himself drift again. It was odd being in this state, a state where he knew exactly what was
happening to him and what he was doing, but it never really registered as him doing it. He'd felt this way often before, felt it when he held the social worker's hand at his mother's funeral, felt it when he watched his first instructor be packed into the back of an ambulance and knew he'd never see the man again, felt it when he saw Natalia torn to pieces in the snow...
No, he wouldn't think about that. Not here, not like this, not when he was lying underneath the fucking bastard who'd made that possible. He could kill him right here-- the thought had entered his mind more than once. He was small, to be sure, but Meroveque was smaller and so enraptured in his work that he would not even notice...would not even see if Ilia's hands slipped from the bedpost or the sheet and wrapped around his neck and snapped -- no, G-d, he couldn't do that. He couldn't...he did not care that doing so would mean his immediate, excruciating death at the hands of the mechanical buffoons outside the door. He would die a martyr for his country, a hero of the Revolution. But he did not care for hero-worship, he did not want to be called a martyr for the cause...he couldn't do that because deep inside he knew he was too selfish to die in such a manner.
He was selfish, vain, he was an asshole and he used anyone he could to improve his social position, and he knew this. He'd always known it, known it since he was a child and then a teenager when he actually could start to rely on what G-d had given him to open doors. He lived a shallow life, he knew, a life that craved all those old-fashioned bohemian ideals of Love and Truth and Beauty and Freedom, but did not want to have to go through the trouble that it took to attain them. Starving in the street, taking dishwasher jobs on the side and dreaming of stardom-- who needed that? Financial security, that was real Love. Beauty was what he used to secure it, that was the Truth, and if doing so meant he lost some of his Freedom...well, so be it. Besides, it was not like he was doing this for a lark, finding patron after patron and spending half the night in somebody's bed for fun. He was ruining his youth, he knew that, but he was
doing it now so he would not have to keep doing it for years to come. Far better to be ruined and successful while still young and beautiful than withered and gray without a penny to your name.

It was over.

The first night had been concluded with the most horrendous racket coming from the Eighth Dwarf, something so disjointed and grating that it had made him shut his eyes and grind his teeth against it, waiting and praying for it to stop. When he thought that he couldn't take it one second longer, the noise drained away like the last clattering notes of a John Cage symphony, until it ceased completely and the little repugnant creature had vacated his position of the past -- what was it, two hours? Three? -- and rolled onto his side, looking somewhat dazed at it all.
Fine, be dazed, Ilia thought as he closed his eyes and started to breathe again. G-d, G-d, everything hurt, he'd forgotten it could feel like this and nearly always did for him, and now he lay perfectly still as to avoid twitching
an eyeball and exploding into a thousand shards. "You..." he managed to breathe out when he felt capable of forming cohesive sentences. "Sound like a baboon passing a kidney stone."
"Hm?" the Dwarf seemed not to have understood, but then chuckled, a deep contended noise that Ilia couldn't tell was a good sign or not. "That's original..."
"It is true," he countered. "G-d, I think you killed me."
"I tried to avoid that..."
Sure you did, asshole. "It is okay..." Ilia closed his eyes and took a breath, steeling himself before he rolled over onto his side, facing Meroveque. "It has been three years since I have done that, I am just a little not used to it anymore." And I was hoping to remain not used to it, he added to himself. But desperate times...
"It *does* require some getting-used to," Meroveque remarked, and dug his face in the crook of his arm to hide a yawn.
"No shit..." Ilia muttered, nestling further into the pillows and pulling the covers further up. G-d, it had become so cold all of a sudden...his eyelids drooped and he suddenly felt very, very tired, all the expended energy seeming to leave in a rush. "Is it possible for me to stay here a moment?" he asked sleepily. "I cannot go quite yet...I do not think I am up for it..."
Meroveque's voice was equally tired. "Stay as long as you wish, little faun..." was the last thing Ilia heard before falling asleep, the bright stage lights of Paris beckoning him into the darkness and the roar of an unseen crowd
ushering him to rest.