Sanguine Affair [Chapter One]

Lansef sat on the corner of the bed, vanilla tresses pouring over his fingers as he stared at the ground. His eyes were locked on a stain, a certainly disturbing indescribable indiscretion for which there was many along the carpet. The carpet which had once been lush and clean, he presumed, but now was threadbare and filthy. A roach scuttled over his pump and he indulged his slender figure in a shudder.
“Fuckin’ bugs,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he fought back a wave of nausea. When he reopened those crystalline greens, Lansef stared into the nearly empty bottle of whisky in his hand, swaying it and smiling as the amber liquid sloshed pathetically along the sides. “All gone.” The phrase rang out in disheveled melody against the dirty clapboard walls and filthy, smoke stained ceiling. What would bring the dainty blonde boy to a rent by the hour and no questions asked room at this dingy dive bar? What could have gone wrong in his life to send him fleeing from his gorgeous Manhattan lifestyle to a cheap motel room with a double bed that was covered in more bodily fluids than the ex whore would like to imagine, given the chance? When had he decided that his lavish luxuries and the beautiful husband he’d acquired weren’t enough? The questions were good. Lansef knew the answer well, nearly as well as he knew the solution to that problem. Angel Joseph Michel Dubois. The raven haired assassin who’d murdered Lansef’s sanity in the four months they’d spent together. The man who promised that rags were the same as riches if they were doused with love. Lansef’s sense of adventure, his walk on the wild side. He’d left his partner bound easily, slipping from his adoring hold into the arms of another man with the flurry of steps a dancer might take to perform. Afterall, Lans was nothing if not a performance artist. His mind went blank then, and he was glad for it, slipping another antidepressant from his pocket and shoving it into his heart shaped mouth, to be swallowed with the rest of his liquor. By sheer despicable malice the tiny dancer rose from the edge of the filth ridden bed and carried himself into the washroom. The size of a closet and with much less clean air, it was an unimpressive sight.
Lansef stared into the partially shattered and suitably grimy mirror into the face of a doll. He was still gorgeous, by most standards, with his glass cutter’s cheekbones, pouty lips and large, innocent eyes. But he was not as he once was. It wasn’t the face one would see if they were to happen upon wedding photos. No. His white blonde tresses needed washed, needed brushed, needed dyed, needed tamed, and his eyes no longer shone with the white hot passion he’d once had for nearly anything he set his mind to. His skin was still as smooth as it had always been, but it was translucent rather than milky, lack luster instead of shining. His spindly digits curled around the basin of the sink, long nails, their paint chipped and carelessly removed, snagging against the porcelain bowl while he stared at the phantom of his former self. He couldn’t help but wonder if Andrew would still have found him pretty. Would he still have offered those doting kisses to his upturned nose and held him bone crushingly close? Lansef lifted a slender hand, fingertips brushing over his cheekbone. He didn’t know. Not that it mattered. Andrew was dead. As dead as he could be anyway, rotting eternity away in the same bed they’d shared so much love and passion in. As far as Lansef was concerned, Andrew had done that on purpose, the ironic bastard. He’d meant to ruin every lovely memory Lansef had had of that house with his now stinking flesh. Not that he shouldn’t have been allowed that little bit of happiness, Lans supposed. He’d taken enough of Andrew’s happiness away while he was alive, afterall, to give him that in his death. He could almost hear that voice, crooning and husky, as though it were passing over the back of his neck as it had been prone to do.
“What’s it matter, Baby? You didn’t care anyway.”
Andrew’s voice. The blonde’s knees threatened to buckle under the weight that was thrown onto his shoulders, and he leaned over the sink. “I did care,” he whimpered, mascara and shadow covered eyes closing tightly to fight off the visions as they came. Visions of Andrew as he cursed the Xmas lights while they continued to tangle. Visions of he and his mate spread out on the floor after filling their apartment with high priced smoke, laughing themselves into obliteration. Andrew’s hands pressed firmly in front of Lansef’s shoulders as he grunted behind him and that delicious trickle of agony washed over his spine. The voice cut through his thoughts again, a welcome distraction from his forced walk down memory lane.

“If you’d have cared, you wouldn’t have left! Wouldn’t have went to him while I worked...”
Lans grimaced, grayish pink tears streaking over alabaster features as he shook his head. The boy teetered in his heels, dropping to the smudged tile floor rather like a baby fawn. He drew his knees close to his chest, swaddling his nearly nude body as best he could in hopes to hide from the memories. A shaking hand withdrew the pill bottle from his pocket, and he dropped a handful of the pills down his throat. What was the worst that could happen? He couldn’t overdose, afterall, though he’d have loved that, too. He swallowed hungrily each plastic capsule, staring bleakly at the pipes in front of him. “No, Dove. That’s not true. I cared. I still care. Please, believe me.” He reached out, succumbing to the illness’ will, and stroked the face of his ex-husband, the stubble on his jaw pricking Lans’ soft fingertips.
“I believe you. Keep touching me.”
He moved onto his knees, grime covering his fishnet clad legs as he leaned forth, pressing his lips to the parched petals in front of him. They fit so perfectly, puzzling together as though they belonged. Lans sighed a hopeful breath, eyes closing as he nuzzled his cheek to the man’s five o’clock shadow, his fingers curling in the red fabric of the shirt Andrew had loved so much. All at once, he fell forward, unable to support himself at such an awkward angle. He tumbled to the floor, chin hitting the tile with a jolt of pain. Blood pooled from the face wound, and the boy relaxed into it as his tears began to fall heavier, slender physique shaking with the racking of his cries. He clawed at the ground, a fingernail splitting with the effort.
“I needed you!” He cried into the otherwise empty motel room. “I fucking needed you, and you killed yourself! Fucking bastard! Fucking stupid, selfish bastard!” He shook with his own pointless rage before falling immobile, hands pressed flat to the floor, his cheek resting in a smear of his own vitae. Soundless, Lansef eventually fell into a placated sleep, a dreamless rest from his dream filled world.