And he most assuredly wasn't going to mope. Sean sighed and nursed his bottle of Newcastle. Perhaps, if he held up the wall long enough in this shadowed corner of the room, he could blend in, become part of it, part of the wall, the shadows. Becoming inanimate would be a lovely thing. Inanimate would mean he couldn't feel -- would mean his brain wouldn't stutter, his heart wouldn't weep. And all over a boy half his age. "You stare at him with such sadness," a low, heavily accented voice stated. Sean paused, beer halfway to his lips, panicked eyes resting on the man next to him. Marton -- decent chap, nice guy. Sexy as sin, in that exotic Slavic way, with lush skin and a killer body. Good friend of Karl and Craig's. "Stare at whom?" Sean finally answered, pitching his voice to be heard above the din of the music and boisterous voices. Marton gestured toward the light, the living room, where Elijah was wrestling with Billy, pinning him to the floor with a triumphant laugh that rang over the noise. The sound tore straight through Sean's heart. "Him." Marton didn't need to say anything else. "It's not sadness." And it wasn't sadness, not really. Sean had been alive long enough to know that there were things he'd never have, places he'd never go, lips he'd never taste. But he was still human enough to watch. And yearn. "Whatever it is, he is undeserving of it." Sean glanced into knowing dark eyes. "Undeserving?" Marton tipped his bottle of triple boch back, throat muscles working under dark skin as he swallowed the bitter liquid. "He's too..." Marton waved an elegant hand... "csinos. Ephemeral." "Csinos?" "Pretty," Marton clarified. "Unreal. A tündérmese grandmothers spin to help children dream." Sean turned back to Elijah, now trading what looked to be good-natured jokes or insults or some such with Dominic, slight body vibrating with excitement, wide, pure eyes alight with laughter and friendship. And Sean knew, if he were to leave this comfortable wall and stand next to Elijah, those beautiful eyes would light up for him, and that cupid's bow mouth would curve into a grin, showing the sexy gap between front teeth. It was part of Elijah's charm. And Sean's personal hell. "He's not just pretty." "No, he isn't," Marton answered, running a hand over his closely shaved scalp. "He's also tistza. Pure. Too pure." A slow smile, followed by another sip of his beer. "You don't need someone pure." "I don't?" Amused now, Sean glanced back at the man next to him, taking in Marton's slouched, muscled body and the small smile curving full lips. "No. You wouldn't know what to do with pure." Marton's already low voice dropped another notch, becoming something indefinable. And that unspoken quality sent a shiver down Sean's spine. "So, what do I need, then?" Sean asked, still amused, but also curious. What did this exotic man see when he looked at plain-old, boring Sean? A slow, insolent look traversed up Sean's frame, starting with his toes, lingering over thighs, groin, and chest, stopping when they reached Sean's eyes. Not so amused now. The tenor of the conversation, of Sean's life, had changed. The air was fraught with something dangerous, something raw. "You need something darker, richer." One of Marton's hands traced the length of Sean's arm, coasting over the bicep and forearm, trailing over the fluttering pulse point in his wrist. "Kegyetlen. Vad. Szenvedélyes." The deep, guttural language engulfed Sean in heat. He was vaguely aware that the CD had changed -- no longer happy pop, but driving beats and heavy guitar. "What does --" Sean licked dry lips, unaware that he'd shifted closer, that his breath had quickened. "What does that mean?" "It means you need someone who can fuck you into the ground, yet still treat you like a god." The voice was right next to his ear, chest pressing into his -- and why had Sean never noticed the ring of gold surrounding Marton's irises? Or the heavy muscles in the thigh brushing against his? Or that the air seemed thicker, wild? "Do my kisses burn?" Marton crooned softly, singing to the song blaring from the speakers. "Do they take your breath?" Suddenly, Sean was dying to find out. * * * The child was no match for the passion in Sean's soul. Marton wondered what Sean even saw in him. Csinos...and, while the corruption of purity was a fun thing, Marton had no patience for teaching children. What he loved was shadow, what he craved was unlocking secrets. Another half-step closer, chest firmly pressed into Sean's -- felt the shimmer, the slow burn. "You gotta lesson to learn," he continued, singing the lyrics directly against Sean's open, waiting, lush lips. "I'm the kiss of death." Sank that extra inch, took. Sean's lips were firm, supple, his mouth tasting of yeast and sin. Dark ribbons of want wrapped around Marton, weaving a promise of twisted desire. Oh yes...Sean had secrets. Marton delved in deeper with his tongue, pressed closer to that firm body, wanting to discover every single one of them. Wanted to expose Sean, lay him open, bare him. Muffled groan, choked gasp, hard slide of tongues -- insidious and black. Marton was swirling, churning, hands fisted in baby-fine strands of blond hair, thigh wedged between Sean's legs. Hot, molten, hard. And Sean kissed him back with a hunger that only drove Marton to press closer, tongues battling, mouths crushing. Marton shoved Sean's shirt out of his waistband, eager for the feel of skin under his fingers. Sőt. Crisp hairs tickled, solid flesh warmed. It wasn't enough. "Eletbe," he murmured, licking a slow path down Sean's throat. "Wha --?" "Entyi-pentyi." Marton's other hand closed around Sean's inseam, groaned as linen conformed to a hard erection under seeking fingers. "Oh God," Sean gasped, cock jumping under Marton's rough downstroke. "Fuck God...you are a god," Marton breathed against Sean's adam's apple, unzipping, tugging, finding... sőt. Hard heat filling his palm. He licked the bead of sweat on Sean's neck, gazed into cloudy green eyes. "This..." another rough stroke, watching in savage delight as Sean's legs trembled against his "...is what you need." Sean tightened his fingers along Marton's buzzed scalp. "Then show me," he growled, cutting off whatever reply Marton would have made with a brutally thorough kiss. Marton shoved Sean into the wall, deeper in the shadows, hand working with tight, fast strokes. Sank his teeth over Sean's upper lip, licking the small droplets of blood and saliva. Continued the kiss -- intense and hard -- no time to breathe, think, move. Only time to react. Wanted Sean's scream inside his mouth, come on his fingers. And got them both on a particularly fast stroke, Sean bucking into him, mouth hot on his, the scream of relief echoing through him. Marton lifted his head, watched Sean's struggle for breath with satisfaction. "Not pretty," he stated, voice raspy as he placed his sticky fingers against Sean's swollen lips. Felt the jolt hammer straight from his fingers to his cock when Sean sucked his fingers clean, soft tongue rolling each digit around, extracting every drop he possibly could. Not pretty at all. But something all-together more interesting. Szép. Onto Eletbe
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