The Sentimental Feelings

Author: Ciissi

Fandom: Star Ocean III: Till the End of Time

Pairing: Albel Nox x Fayt Leingod

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Ocean III. It belongs to Square Enix, may they do lots of more good games.

Warnings: NC-17, so I am getting somewhere… questionably so. Contains yaoi meaning at least two boys having sex together. And because of the author’s – not Albel’s or anyone else’s – language. You have soooo no idea how much I swear in RL. And somewhat unbetaed because my beta(s) are non-native English speakers. My version of Microsoft Word 2010 does not pick all my mistakes I made in English words, because my version is for Finnish. Sorry about that.

Author's Note 1: Argh! *abusing brain cells and throwing Fayt into washing machine* Albel is being cooperative and Fayt is being uncooperative. … Wait… There is something wrong in that sentence… Albel was alarmingly cooperative when I wrote this chapter, so now I have a baaaaad feeling…

I recall some reviewer wishing for some… *adult*… interactions between Albel and Fayt. From this chapter you will get some sort of action. Hope taste is what you wished for. Some of you are still reading and reviewing ‘The Sentimental Feelings’ even though I have been lazy. Thank you very much. Every review means a world to me. They help me to write more.

*****

Part Two – Chapter One: The Enchantment (Well… I'm used to sleep with you.)

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

A moment of silence and stillness.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

An irritated twitch of a cheek muscle.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

A pattern half developing.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhal-

Covers of a bed flew violently out of the bed and smacked to the wall opposite the bed. A shape of a person growled in a violent irritation with every muscle tense and rigid. Eyelids fluttered and slowly, slowly they rose to reveal a pair of dark eyes to the blinking stars outside the window. Slowly eyes rolled towards the window and the stars and a twitch of the lips turned into a full-blown scowl of disgust and distain.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

The eyelids fluttering and sliding to cover the dark eyes.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

The muscles of the fingers spasming.

Inhale. Stop.

Exhale. Stop.

A moment of silence and stillness.

Inhale. Stop.

Exha-

“Fuck.”

****

A nighttime servant walked through the chilling, empty corridors of the royal castle of Airyglyph. A single, wavering candle lighted his path and he attentively listened at the sounds of possible disturbance around him. It was still ways to the dawn and daybreak. The winter sun was pale and cold and seldom seen above the horizon made of the mountains. But like a vigilant sentinel the silvery moon was there to help the servant navigate through the maze of corridors, halls and rooms. Even though the servant was not entirely pleased he was quite used to these lonely, endless nights.

Perhaps that is why the servant was so badly startled, when shadows started to move and live in the end of the hallway. Freezing to the spot the nighttime servant brought his candle between himself and the shadows, held his breath and watched in morbid fascination, how the shadows twisted, turned and coiled taking a form of a slender, longhaired man carrying some sort of long sword. Without a sound the man meandered past a window and the servant noticed that he was barefooted and wearing only some sort of loincloth around his hips. The servant was not able to suppress a small moan of fright when he realized who this man most likely was.

The longhaired man stopped and turned his face towards the nighttime servant who was gulping nervously. A whiff of cold wind blew in from the nearby window which someone had carelessly forgotten open and enveloped the swordsman into its frigid embrace and swayed the few locks of long hair which had escaped from the restraint of the low ponytail. The moonlight shone behind the tall man casting his face into the shadows. It should have been impossible, but later the servant swore that even in the colorless world of the moon and night the other man’s eyes had shone sanguine like fresh blood.

The swordsman tilted his head backwards slightly and his pale, pale lips twisted into a condemning sneer. A mocking snort left the man’s throat towards the servant.

The servant swallowed and absently realized that his hands and legs were shaking. When the realization hit to him, he hastily bowed to the nobleman although he knew it was hopelessly, beyond rude, late. “Lord Nox, good evening, sir”, he greeted the motionless man. “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” the servant politely inquired with a quivering voice.

The young lord of the famous Nox household, Captain of the Black Brigade Albel Nox only scoffed and with an unconsciously seducing gait and sway of his hips he continued his journey, without caring if the servant was scandalized by the way he moved. It was not a small rumor amongst the servants and nobles that many wanted the Lord Nox grace their beds even for a single breath. But few were those, who dared to approach the cold-blooded swordsman and even fewer were those, who ventured close enough to beg for his presence in their beds. And hardly ever Lord Nox humored himself by taking up an offer.

The trembling nighttime servant crumpled into a heap on the gray-stone floor. He gulped large breaths of air and tried to calm down. He had not known that the infamous Captain of the Black Brigade was back to the royal capital of his home kingdom after absence of several weeks and months. And it seemed to him that the blood-eyed nobleman was as ill-humored as always.

The servant sighed and picked himself up from the floor. Some things never changed.

*****

Albel Nox was not sleeping. *Not*. *Sleeping*. Or more correctly he could not sleep. This time the constant nightmares were not the reason. How could they be the problem when he could *not even fall to a sleep*?! Albel was too tense. He was too aware of the silence around him and vague, distinct lack of warmth beside his weary body. So again – now five nights a row – he gave up of trying to fall asleep. But this night they were lodging at the Airyglyph Castle and there were no guard duty for him to preoccupy his idle mind. So Albel ended up wandering around the freezing halls and spaces of the castle barefooted and less than half dressed. The path which his feet took was aimless, joyless. He was just wasting his time until the next sunrise.

Meeting a nighttime servant in one of the many deserted corridors was a mishap and a mistake. But the reaction which that forgettable servant showed, reminded Albel that not so long ago these nightly ventures were treaded every night restlessly, endlessly, without fail. He sneered at the other man and continued onward. Later on as he passed by a window he stopped and stared down at the abandoned and snow-covered outdoor training grounds. His fingers tightened around the Crimson Scourge and the joints of his claw ground and groaned under the pressure of angry, irritated, *tired* flexing of the fingers, arm, muscles. He knew it would be too severe and windy to go to do some exercising on the training grounds outside.

The eyes still strained to the courtyard down below, Albel rammed his left hand to the granite stone wall beside the arched window. He shut his eyes and slowly breathed through his nose. Getting agitated and frustrated when there was no-one to vent it on was futile. He should just get a grip and accept the things the way they were for now. Come morning he could torment everyone and everybody.

Albel felt an icy glass of the window touch his forehead. His eyes flew open and with a startle he realized that he had leaned forward. He should not have allowed such a blatant sign of exasperation and exhaustion for himself. Such a thing was a mark of a weakness. He should get rid of it as soon as possible. Lack of sleep had not ever before obstructed Albel’s quest to get rid of all personal weaknesses and gain a form of a greater strength. And, he grimly decided, it would not hinder him even now.

Because Albel Nox knew that he had nothing else left but strength of his own.

*****

Sleep is a funny thing. Humans as all other animals, many living things *need* to sleep, but no-one knows exactly *why* it is so. Of course there are scientific hypotheses why sleep is so important aspect of life that one will eventually die if one cannot sleep (1). At first the lack of sleep messes one’s mind up and then slowly kills.

How fucked up is that?

Levolle lasken, Luojani,

armias ole suojani.

Jos sijaltain en nousisi,

taivaaseen ota tykösi.

Aamen (2)

How fucked up is that? A prayer in fear that you will not wake up from your sleep. ‘Eternal Sleep’. Where is a prayer for falling asleep? Why only waking hours are valued?

Swirling images, bizarre situations, alluring smells, intense feelings, endless barrage of flowing consciousness imprisoned inside mirrors and smoke and symbols of ever-changing meanings. Surely there are stories in the dreams. The telltale markings of the unstoppable march of the life, lives. Stories of everyday life. Of friendship, loss, need, pain, happiness, hate, haze, hiding places… But who can interpret all those millions of images, words, feelings, *worlds* correctly?

To step into a dreamscape is like moving into a world with four dimensions. What a creature of three-dimensional world can observe, is merely a partial truth… or lie… Flowing dreams are like truth and lie: Constant and changing, shadows and mist dancing around laughing and leering and mocking…

A virtual reality inside every head and heart. Everyone unique in their cruelty…

So perhaps it *is* best to put one’s hands together and utter a prayer…

“Levolle lasken, Luojani,…”

*****

Fayt Leingod was lying on his back in his bed under his down duvet and wool blanket. In the silvery darkness of winter night his bright-green eyes were wide open and he was staring at the ceiling or what he could see of it in the faint light of the moon and the stars. Fayt was tired but he was unable to fall into a deep sleep. He was only able to have few rare moments of catnap. He was exhausted beyond imagination and it was starting to show. He already knew that his reaction time had dropped abysmally and he could not concentrate long enough to cast even a simplest spell. It was embarrassing and disheartening but strangely Albel had not said anything. And Fayt *knew* that normally the older swordsman would have gleefully seized *any* opportunity to goad the Earthling youngster. But nothing, absolutely *nothing* had risen from the Elicoorian man. So something was wrong with Albel. He had not even sneered in disgust when he and Fayt had been moved into the rear party, leaving the scouting and fighting to others.

Fayt sighed tiredly and shifted restlessly. His eyes wandered for a moment from shadow to shadow before they stayed on a crack in a ceiling tile above his bed. Fayt was not stupid. He had a quite strong inkling *why* he could not sleep a restful sleep. After all this insomnia had emerged right after Albel had regained his adult body. Fayt had never thought that he might get used to another presence this easily. He wondered if this indescribable, uncomfortable lack of something was same one felt after a break-up… He only knew that every time he woke up he strained his ears to hear that faint, soft sound of *other’s* breathing and thumping of *someone else’s* heart so close of his own. And every single time he did not immediately hear those noises of life a feeling of dread washed over him before he remembered that there was not supposed to be anyone else in his bed, that he was no longer sharing his most personal space with… *him*… that he was *supposed* to be alone.

A discontent moan left Fayt’s lips as he once again gave up. Half-blindly he fumbled for his communicator which he had placed on the bedside table before lying down. He snapped the device open and brought up the Elicoorian timed clock.

“2:46 a.m.” read the merciless fluorescent, green numbers and Fayt groaned.

The communicator snapped closed taking away the green illumination and plunging the room back into the misty darkness of a winter night of the cloudless sky and the full moon.

For a little while longer Fayt lay still before pushing his bedcovers aside and standing up. With heavy limbs the scrambled for his clothes and pulled a pair of trousers and a vest on discarding his nightwear on the floor. He did not bother with his armor or shoes. They were important guests of His Royal Majesty, King Airyglyph XIII. Now that Duke Vox was dead and out of the picture there was hardly anyone in Airyglyphian nobility who would try to challenge Fayt Leingod. Because now Albel ‘the Wicked One’ Nox was openly his ally and saw him as his rival and prey and no-one was willing to cross the paths with the Captain of the Black Brigade. But even with that knowledge Fayt grabbed the Divine Avenger from its place beside the bed and took the sword with him before leaving the privacy of his borrowed bedchamber.

The corridors of the gloomy, gray granite castle were arctic-cold and the stone tiles under Fayt’s bare feet sent waves of chills through him. But he did not complain or returned back to his room to fetch his shoes or socks. He continued onward. Carrying the Divine Avenger on his left hand Fayt raised his right hand, concentrated much longer than he should have needed and soon after a couple of small fireballs danced over his up-turned palm and fingertips. Even though the spell was not very powerful – or anywhere near its full potential – it was enough to provide some warmth and light to brighten his surroundings and road.

The halls and the ways of the old castle were not that familiar to Fayt. At least he knew where the library was. On the lonely moments like this he was grateful that king Arzei had granted him an access to the royal library because without it he might have gone insane. Fayt was not too keen to spend rest of his night rolling around in his bed and he did not know what else he could have done to spend his night but by reading.

A sudden, violent sound of a strong metal scrapping against an unforgivable stone brought Fayt out of his musings. Instinctively he snuffed off the fire spell and searched his surroundings for the origin of the sharp sound. When the sound came again and again he was able to pinpoint its source to behind a nearby heavy door. Fayt secured his sword to its rightful place on his belt and slowly, as soundlessly as possible he slid the Divine Avenger out of its sheath. The blue-haired swordsman tiptoed to the door and tried to open it as quietly as possible. He knew that it was very possible that nothing was amiss in the room but he had learned to be rather safe than sorry. If something was wrong it would be rather bad form if he had not checked it out even when he had a chance to do it.

The heavy, old oak door opened up into a rather spacious room. The room was lightened by several torches on the wall and the floor was covered with light, fine sand. There were dozens of weapon racks by the walls so Fayt came to conclusion that the room was some sort of training area, which would explain the earlier sounds he had heard. Relieved Earthling slid his sword back to its sheath. Only after that he turned his attention to the lone figure moving middle of the room.

Fayt was unable to breathe when he recognized the frame which was effortlessly flowing from one battle stance to another. The way this person moved and wielded the katana was so unique and sharp that Fayt had only observed one person fighting like this. Without doubt the person training in the room was Albel Nox. Fayt swallowed and hid behind a nearby pillar when he realized that the Wicked One might not appreciate someone disturbing his nightly training session. The blue-haired youngster saw beads of sweat glimmering on the long-haired swordsman’s brow, face, throat, chest, back, arms, stomach and legs belying that this mock-battle had been going on for some time already. With a startle Fayt realized that aside from his claw, loincloth and collar – and… underwear? – Albel the Wicked was not wearing anything else. The tight coil of every muscle was there for anyone to gaze upon.

Fayt slapped a hand over his mouth when Albel undulated his entire body in *that certain way* before unleashing the furious barrage of the Shockwave Swirl. It felt to Fayt like the older man’s every move was on purpose cajoling, hinting, alluring the enemy closer, closer, *closer*… The way the Elicoorian man licked his lips after the Palm of Destruction and skimmed his clawed finger over his stomach up to his chest and throat to wipe away sweat drops made Fayt wonder what kind of enemy the Wicked One was imagining to fight. Every provocative gesture made Fayt want to step forward, chase away the imaginary foe and have those intensive eyes, arousing body movements directed to him and only him.

Fayt wanted Albel to see him, *only* him!

Suddenly Albel froze where he was standing and Fayt was afraid that the older man had seen or heard him. But when Albel did not call it on him, Fayt relaxed slightly and continued his vigil.

The Crimson Scourge slipped from Albel’s fingers and fell to the ground with a muted thud. He was gulping the air like he had forgotten how to breathe. The muscles on his flat stomach rippled, flexed and his eyelids slid down to cover his glimmering vermillion irises. His tongue slipped out of his mouth to lick his lips slowly, reverently. His ungloved right hand rose up fingers, palm caressing his skin below his navel, traveling up to fondle with a nipple and higher still until his fingers touched the leather collar around his neck. A finger was hooked through one of the many mythril rings. Albel tugged the ring with some force and his breath hitched. His mouth fell open and a guttural sound vibrated in the air. The clawed fingers scratched the outside of his long-muscled left leg, breaking skin here and there. The glazed-over red eyes snapped open and a moan made his vocal cords sing a song of forbidden passion.

Fayt was trembling vehemently. His disbelieving eyes had grown huge and he was pressing his both hands against his mouth and nose so Albel would not hear his laboring, erratic breathing. If Albel would hear him, he would be so dead. No. Albel would not *just* kill him. They could search pieces of his remains for the next ten years and they still would not find all of them. But it was impossible for Fayt to cast his eyes aside from the view in front of him or close his ears from the sounds around him. It was too much. The visual and audio stimuli made him painfully hard. He wanted to touch himself, but he did not dare. Because he knew he would not think it as his own hand touching him. Because he knew he would call out *that* name and the owner of that name was *there* and he would be heard! And, and… oh dear God!

Albel turned his head and eyes to observe the drops of his own blood – the color so same as his eyes – which oozed from the scratches he himself had inflected on his skin – not scarless, not beautiful, not forgiving. He raised those blood-stained claws – the color forged so same as his eyes – to his mouth – not full, not sweet, not forgiving – and slowly, carefully licked each tip clean, not wounding his tongue – now the color only a little bit lighter than his eyes. His throat hummed contently and tentatively he stroked the skin under the collar – not shiny, not forgettable, not submitting. He shivered viciously and outright *moaned* wantonly. This part of his skin – not scarred, not hard, not beautiful – had never before felt this sensitive. And the collar only highlighted the sensations. The power within the collar thrummed and prickled against his skin – not strong, not alive, not accepting – and through his throbbing veins – disgusting, not immortal, not fleshless – making him feel like there would be a redemption.

More. More. More. More! MORE! *MORE!* Admiration. Ambition. Appetite. Aptitude. Ardor. Ascendancy. Aspiration. Atonement. Attraction. Authority. Authorization. Avidity. Bent. Birthright. Brawn. Capability. Capacity. Clout. Command. Competency. Concupiscence. Connection. Covetousness. Craving. Craze. Cupidity. Desire. Devotion. Diadem. Direction. Domination. Dominion. Doting. Dynamism. Eagerness. Effectiveness. Efficacy. Endowment. Energy. Faculty. Fancy. Fascination. Fervor. Fondness. Force. Forcefulness. Frenzy. Function. Gift. Greed. Hankering. Hegemony. Hunger. Imperium. Inclination. Infatuation. Influence. Intensity. Itch. Jurisdiction. Lasciviousness. Law. Leadership. Lechery. Libido. License. Liking. Love. Lust. Mania. Might. Motive. Moxie. Muscle. Need. Omnipotence. Paramountcy. Passion. Potency. Potential. Potentiality. Power. Predilection. Predominance. Prerogative. Prestige. Privilege. Proclivity. Propensity. Puissance. Purification. Qualification. Rapaciousness. Rapture. Ravenousness. Rebirth. Reclamation. Recovery. Redemption. Regency. Regeneration. Relish. Reparation. Restitution. Retrieval. Right. Rule. Salacity. Salvation. Sanctification. Sinew. Skill. Solicitude. Sovereignty. Steam. Strength. Strings. Superiority. Supremacy. Sway. Talent. Thirst. Turn. Urge. Vigor. Vim. Virtue. Voltage. Voracity. Warrant. Weight. Will. Wire. Wish. Yearning. More. More. More. More! MORE! *MORE!* It was like *that person* was with Albel in this room watching him, touching him, begging him.

They were equal, Albel and *him*. Albel did not know when it had happened, but somewhere along the road the Wicked One and the Embodiment of Destruction had become equal in Albel’s mind. Before the blue-haired young man had come to his life, Albel had not considered *anyone* as his equal. Yes, there still were some persons whom he acknowledged as his superior in social status. But try equal in his own standards? *No-one*.

Even in surrender, submission – in the mirage of it – Albel believed that the emerald-eyed swordsman would be his match. Naked – like that night in Peterny. Wet – like that day in the Aquarian baths. Panting – like after a hard battle against challenging opponent. Begging – mouth opening under hard kiss. Giving – like during that first night in Peterny. Demanding – strong legs wrapped around slender hips. Fighting. Consuming. They both would lose and they both would win, together. Together. *He* inside this almost forgotten training room, lying on the fine sand, blue hair mussed and wet, pale skin shining with sweat, naked for Albel to see…

*Only* for Albel to see…

Albel imagined *him* on the ground beneath him. He would be standing, towering over the younger one. *His* clothes would be carelessly strewn around the room, eyes and lips gently, genuinely smiling and without a word demanding Albel to surrender before *his* power once again. The naked blade of the Divine Avenger would be glimmering against *his* bare stomach and chest. *His* fingers would be buried into the light sand. And slowly, slowly the powerful sword would be moved from *his* skin, *his* legs would be opening, *his* back would be arching, his hands and arms would be beckoning Albel to give up the fight, *ordering* Albel to make *him* his in the way which only Albel could. With only *his* body *he* would be commanding Albel to satisfy *him*. *He* would be defying Albel and showing Albel that his old, foolish notions of ownership and submission would mean nothing to *him*. Albel imagined *him* on the ground beneath him. *He* would be re-defining Albel’s entire world with one pleased scream of ultimate rapture. Albel would be the only one able to please *his* body, mind, spirit, life…

Albel’s body convulsed as he imagined what it might sound that call of fully fed hunger, desire of a lover who in fulfillment had gained, had given everything. That sound was something Albel had never heard before. None of those persons he had taken into his bed in past to appease his lust had not really wanted *Albel*. It was the status, the reputation, the money of lord Albel ‘the Wicked’ Nox which had entranced those before. But Albel knew that the Earthen youngster was different. *He* neither knew nor cared about Albel’s titles, lands, fortunes. When Fayt Leingod looked at Lord Albel Nox he did not see a ticket to easy, rich life of idleness and debauchery. And *that* aroused the Wicked One the most.

Standing there middle of the training room Albel wanted to swear that he could hear another heavy breath in the room with him, near him, in him synchronized and harmonized. Two breaths as one. Standing there middle of the training room Albel wanted to swear that he could smell the unique fragrance of the green-eyed swordsman in the room with him, near him, in him synchronized and harmonized. Two which once were separate now as one.

Albel Nox was going insane and only the knowledge that he was in a public room prevented him getting rid of his meager clothing and pleasuring himself immediately. Albel was many things but he was not *that* much of an exhibitionist that he would jack off in a public – even if it was somewhat forgotten – room of the Royal Castle of Airyglyph. He might have done it in a public room of the Royal Castle of *Aquios* just the spite of it.

Gritting his teeth the Wicked One chased away the alluring, tempting thoughts about the Embodiment of Destruction. He bent down to pick up his sword with every intention to continue his late night – or by now early morning – training session. Something off seemed to flash in the corner of his eye and Albel straightened to check if there really was something odd hiding in the shadows. He growled at the thought that someone had come into the training room while he was distracted. He turned his back to the door and stalked into the shadows to check out the unknown glimmer.

The longer Albel kept touching himself, the nearer Fayt came losing his cool, his head – and quite literally with the last one. Fayt knew he had to get out of the room. No. He *had known* had to get out of the room since he had recognized the person in the room as Albel. And when the miracle happened and something distracted the Wicked One, Fayt did not stop to question his good luck or why gods – or some other greater power which *definitely* was *not* Luther – had decided to smile upon him and grand him some respite. A moment of distraction from Albel – and a turned back – was enough for Fayt.

Fayt Leingod escaped from the training room his face beet-red and the body temperature at the boiling point. Silently out of the door and room and then running down the corridor he escaped in shame, *with* shame. His body was hot and heavy and clumsy and hard and *aroused*. But he could not stop or slow down, not now when he was still *this* close to the training room and *Albel*.

Fayt did not stop his frantic escape until he was inside his appointed bedroom. In there he leaned against the closed door and panted – //No!// he tried to correct himself, //I am *not panting* or even gasping.// Yes he was just breathing deeply, heavily – to even out his unsteady breath and throbbing pulse. But the liquid magma in his veins did not cool down. His hard-on did not wither away. If anything the magma burned hotter, whiter and he became even harder still. Hurting. Blazing. Pulsating. Branding. Throbbing. Thrumming. Fayt did not think that he had a way out. He was burning, throbbing, blazing, thrumming. His body, his mind, his *self* was burning, throbbing, blazing, thrumming. Fayt was melting. He needed. He desired. He craved.

Fayt craved. Abeyance.  Ability. Absoluteness. Accolade. Acme. Acquirement. Acquisition. Actualization. Adjournment. Aggregate. Agreement. Allness. Annihilation. Apex. Apogee. Attainment. Aught. Bereavement. Blackout. Blank. Cachet. Capability. Carelessness. Casualty. Cessation. Cipher. Climax. Complacency. Completeness. Completion. Complexion. Comprehensiveness. Conclusion. Concord. Concordance. Conformance. Conformity. Congruity. Consequence. Consistency. Consonance. Consummation. Contentedness. Contrivance. Courtliness. Crest. Culmination. Darkness. Decease. Decency. Decoration. Demise. Denouement. Departure. Desistance. Destruction. Difference. Discreteness. Disposition. Disregard. Distinctiveness. Downfall. Dying. Effecting. Effectuation. Elevation. Eminence. Enactment. Encompassment. Ending. Ensemble. Entireness. Equanimity. Eradication. Eternal rest. Everything. Excellence. Execution. Expiration. Extermination. Fastigium. Finalization. Finis. Flair. Forgetfulness. Fulfillment. Fullness. Grandeur. Gratification. Gravity. Harmony. Heaven. Hebetude. Idiosyncrasy. Illustriousness. Importance. Insensibility. Insensibleness. Integrality. Integrity. Ipseity. Laurels. Lethargy. Loftiness. Loss. Maximum. Meridian. Naught. Neglect. Nihility. Nirvana. Nobleness. Nothing. Nullity. Obliteration. Oblivion. Observance. Omneity. Omnitude. Oneness . Paradise. Perfection . Pinnacle. Pleasure. Plenitude. Preeminence. Prestige. Procurement. Proportion. Quietus. Rarity. Reaching. Regularity. Release. Repletion. Repose. Reputation. Repute. Respectability. Ruination. Sameness. Satisfaction. Seemliness. Seity. Separateness. Serenity. Significance. Silence. Singularity. Sleep. Slumber. Solemnity. Somnolence. Splendor. Stupor. Sublimity. Suitability. Summit. Symmetry. Syncope. Termination. Togetherness. Torpidity. Torpor. Totality. Trance. Trifle. Triumph. Ultimate. Unanimity. Unawareness. Unconsciousness. Undividedness. Uniformity. Union. Uniqueness. Unity. Universality. Unmindfulness. Vertex. Victory. Void. Wholeness. Worthiness. Zenith. Fayt wanted it all and everything.

The Divine Avenger slipped from Fayt’s hands. His knees were getting weaker and weaker, soon they would grumble beneath him. Without sparing a passing thought for modesty, with shaking hands Fayt opened the zippers of his vest and trousers. His knees gave up and answering to the call of gravity he slid to the floor. There was not really lot of thought involved when a hand rose to caress a nipple while other hand parted the material of the trousers and freed the steely proof of Fayt’s carnal desire. A silent moan of unsatisfied relief spilled from his lips. The pressure between his legs was eased some but the sensation of burning to the ashes only grew more intense.

Fayt was dimly aware that seeking self-gratification against the door to the public corridor might not be the smartest idea, but this time around he could not care less. Just this once he thought that is would be alright to be a little careless. Just once and it was not like he had any choices. The craving which flared in his blood was not going away by hoping or pretending it was not there.

The first touch was light and fleeting and hardly there, wondering is this really was the right thing to do. Fayt was 19-years-old. He used to have a very normal teenager’s life. Masturbating as an act was nothing new to him. He had done it before, but for some reason this time around every touch felt different. He was not even truly touching anywhere near, what he considered his erogenous areas like his cock or balls, yet it felt like electric shock running between his fingertips and skin. His skin! Fayt gasped as he ran his fingers over his stomach and arms. His skin was hypersensitive and his clothes scratched his nerves painfully. His clothes were suffocating him.

Quickly Fayt got rid of his vest. Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew that the air outside was freezingly cold thus bringing the room temperature also down. He felt the touch of the cold air all over his exposed skin, but it did not felt like chilly breeze caressing him. It felt like frosty, icy metallic fingers, blades, *claws* prickling, sliding over his skin making his nerves hum with painful pleasure.

It hurt, but not enough.

It hurt, but not in right places.

Fayt opened his eyes which he had closed without even noticing. A sharp glimmer caught his eye and he slowly, achingly turned his towards the glint. The sharp, etheric edge of the sword reflected the light of the moon and the stars and he could feel Albel sitting behind his back and reaching with his steely claw over Fayt’s naked skin. Lazily Fayt extended his right hand and ran his forefinger over the cutting edge. A minor pain flared from his finger and a blood-red flower bloomed. Fayt brought the finger to his lips and gingerly tasted the blood. He acknowledged that even after all that had happened, the blood inside his veins had not changed when many other things in his personality had changed – his mind had definitely, without doubt became more twisted, complicated than before. He proved the change in his personality to himself by gliding his bleeding forefinger over his chin to his throat and reaching to his chest. The arctic air made the drying blood cool off and sensitizing his skin even more. The hot, moist breath hit against the back of his neck. Fayt’s breath hitched as he imagined that the bloody trail on his skin was created by those frigid, uncaring claw-tips as they pierced through the skin parting it and revealing the disgusting, rotting secrets of the flesh and the veins and the sinew beneath their protective surface. The thought, the image made the illusion of Albel voice out his raising lust with a vibrating growl into Fayt’s ear and he could not held in a loud, responsive groan. For some unknown reason the idea of Albel wounding him, shedding his blood – within reason – excited him.

Strangely Fayt’s trousers were getting tighter, more constricting and more irritating even though his arousal was not restricted by the fabric. He moved his bloodied right hand over his pale chest and imagined that the touch was Albel’s. Gently, but firmly, he rubbed his other exposed nipple coaxing it into a hardened nub. Then he pulled the bleeding finger to hover above the nibble. With his thump and middle finger Fayt forced the forefinger bleed more and drip few drops of blood on the nibble. Whimpering he violently threw his head backwards and hit it against the door. But the impact and the small pain only highlighted the feel of the blood sliding down from his nibble to his stomach and pooling in his navel.

Head still tilted back Fayt inserted the forefinger into his mouth and as he sucked his own blood he imagined the finger was Albel’s. Albel’s finger. Or perhaps Albel’s hard cock. Or maybe not the last one: He did not believe that Albel’s erect cock would be as slim as Fayt’s single forefinger. Fayt was uncertain what he was really imagining in his hazy mind as he tried to wiggle out of his trousers and underwear with only help of his left hand. It was difficult so Fayt resigned to remove his finger from his mouth and without standing up took off his trousers and underwear.

Fayt shifted into a better sitting position. Now he was entirely naked and curiously he observed his own body… Was his body acceptable? If Albel would have been here with him, would the older male thought that his body was desirable? Would his body be good enough? Fayt looked at his bare skin which glowed eerily white on the color-sucking light of the full moon. Even after all the past battles his skin was still almost entirely without blemish of the scarring. From what he had observed Albel had clear scars on his skin, but there were fewer of them than one would expect and they were very fine and faint. In the moonlight the color of Fayt’s skin was pale like the finest alabaster while Albel’s was darker telling the tale of constant living outdoors. Fayt wondered if Albel would find the paleness and the smoothness of his skin as a turn off. He took some solace from the fact that under that pale, transparent skin his muscles were well formed and firm. They were the testimony that Fayt Leingod was no sloth and no weakling. He hoped that Albel would notice that and value – at least a little – that hard fact.

And talking about hard facts… Fayt studied the hard flesh between his legs. He was not uncomfortable with his body or manifestations of its biological functions, mainly about the proof that he was attracted to someone. He knew how to pleasure himself and he had tried many things to learn what he found gratifying. Before all this he had lived a normal student life and occasionally he had dated and made out, although he had never before Albel liked anyone strongly enough to think about having sex with them. Or had been curious enough. Sex had never been important issue to Fayt. But now, because of Albel, he was thoughtful about many things about his body and appearances. When he had been younger, Fayt had been highly conscious and hyperaware of his blue hair. It acutely made him stand out and easy to recognize and remember. Now first time in years Fayt was uncertain about his hair color. With a certain amount of detached curiosity he extended his left hand and lightly combed through the patch of the blue hairs at the base of his aroused shaft. A few tremors ran through his body as his knuckles and fingers accidentally brushed against his cock. It felt good for him, but Fayt was able to keep his focus and test the coarseness of the hairs. Would Albel believe that his natural coloring really *was* blue? Would the older man think that this rather unique color would be arousing or repulsing? Fayt thought about Albel’s rather marking coloring and concluded that his colors might not mean anything to the Elicoorian Captain. Was Albel’s pubic hair also black and gold?

Fayt shivered as cold air grazed over his nakedness. If he would be able to lure Albel to have sex with him, would the taller male even bother to remove all his clothes? Slyly, shyly Fayt parted his legs for Albel in his phantasm and offed himself for consumption for their both’s pleasure. Would Albel touch him teasing, arousing or would the crimson-eyed man just bend him over and fuck him hard, painfully seeking only personal fulfillment not caring a bit of Fayt’s? Fayt’s eyelids were heavy and they slid half shut as he used his still bleeding right forefinger to smear some blood onto his aching shaft. The phantom Albel in front of him smirked and urged him to caress the pale, smooth skin inside his thighs. But Fayt was fascinated by the blood droplet slowly freezing, sliding down the erect flesh. Suddenly he wished for a mirror so he could see all these vermillion jewels embellishing his glowing white skin. Would Albel be more excited by the drops Fayt himself had willingly shed or should Albel be the one causing Fayt’s skin to be adorned by the sanguine gems? Albel frowned in displeasure and demanded more forcefully Fayt to touch his legs.

And Fayt surrendered to the demand and his own desire and with light strokes he caressed the skin inside his strong thighs. The stained ribbons of burgundy spread out on his right thigh in the wake of the hand. His back arched. He widened his legs further apart. Fayt felt an icy touch on his cock and intellectually he knew it was just the arctic air, but in his head the feeling turned into Albel’s winter chilled fingers and claw. He parted his lips in offering of a kiss and moved his right hand to fondle his shaft. Fayt gasped. His fingers were frosty but they were warming fast. His heart was beating quickly. His blood was beating against his eardrums. His breath was hitching and wavering.

It was a strange feeling. Fayt had never before felt this wound up without stroking his cock. Feverishly he pondered if this was how the real attraction should be. To feel pleasure just by thinking your important person.

Fayt straightened his bowed back and allowed his misty eyes to watch how his right hand slowly pumped his pulsating, hard cock. His left hand wandered back to caress the inside of his thigh and at the same time he spread his legs even wider. He was feeling more exposed and sexually vulnerable than before when he imagined Albel standing before him, above him sneering and taunting and provoking him to do, to show more humiliating actions which could only make both of them hornier. With a hazy curiosity Fayt used his forefinger to smear the leaking precum over the head of his shaft. His muscles spasmed and his nails left five shallow wounds to his thigh. His emerald-green eyes could only see the alluring mess of blood and precum tainting the undeniable proof of his desire. Suddenly his entire body quaked in a way that Fayt had never before felt. It felt like his lungs were busting and he screamed.

No sound escaped from Fayt’s throat. His left hand was gripping his leaking cock and preventing his orgasm. It was too soon to reach to the fulfillment. There were still some things Fayt wanted to test out to highlight his pleasure. Masturbating had never before been this intense for him. He wanted this feeling to last longer, longer…

Fayt took couple of deep, steading breaths to calm down before he dared to let go of his arousal. Hot and cold waves of pleasure were sweeping through his veins threatening to pull him under. It felt bad. It felt good. It was painful, too good to be a real feeling but it could not be anything else. Fayt kept his left hand loosely around his shaft while pumping up and down deliberately. His right hand wandered downwards. Keeping his touch light he fondled his balls passingly. His hand’s, his fingers’ real target was a bit further down.

Fayt allowed his fingers to travel behind his balls and teasingly move over the now hypersensitive patch of pale skin. He violently inhaled and his left hand gripped more firmly his cock for a stroke or two. Then he wrenched his actions back to under his brittle control and desire to prolong the pleasure. The fingers of Fayt’s right hand reached to the puckered entrance between his butt cheeks. His exhale shuddered when he gently, curiously massaged the muscles around the hole with his bloody forefinger. Fayt let go of his cock and carefully, experimentally he tried to push the finger into himself. It hurt some, but he was insistent and forced the forefinger to sink inside for the depth that reached to the second joint. Then he had to stop because of the mildly irritating and objectionable ache.

Frowning Fayt stopped and slightly wiggled his finger inside. With lust making his thoughts muddled it took him some time to realize that he needed something to make his fingers slicker to make the entering easier. At first he considered just using only his salvia, but he reminded himself that he had no habit of fingering himself *down there* every time he masturbated. Fayt knew enough about the mechanics that he could harm himself badly. And even if the damage would not be severe, walking and moving on tomorrow would be… well… *at least*… awkward. Frantically he looked around in his room to find something that might do the trick and he saw a bottle on his night table which contents he remembered being some kind of body oil.

Without thinking much anything else naked Fayt scrambled to his bedside and reached over the messed beddings for the bottle. As his fingers twined around the bottle his mind and pulsing cock reminded him that he was naked and his ass on right height for Albel to… Fayt froze as his imagination conjured up a vision of half-naked Albel behind, over his back ready to plunge his rock hard rod of flesh into Fayt’s willing, yearning hole. He moaned and gasped loudly as he again almost climaxed then and there without the help of his hand. Fayt’s back arched savagely and he gritted his teeth as all his muscles tightened. But somehow he was able to beat back the orgasm. In the nightly silent room his choking pants were lewd and vulgar in his ears and beads of sweat covered his backside and temples drip, dripping. The release beckoned, called his name with ear-slitting volume but Fayt wanted to have this beak with his fingers buried inside, because he could not have Albel’s cock.

Hands shaking Fayt opened the bottle. He listened to the soft sound of glass stopper clinking against the glass neck and the irregular heaves of his uncontrollable breathing. Trying to steady his hands Fayt poured as carefully as he could some oil to his hand. But still some of it ended spilling to the messy bedcovers. Abandoning the open bottle back to the nightstand he proceeded to cover his right hand fingers with the oil.

Fayt took few calming breaths and stared his fingers uncertainly. He was not sure *how* many fingers he could burry into his anal passage, but when he thought about the size of his cock, he knew that two fingers would not be enough if there would be actual intercourse, not just masturbating alone. Fayt flexed his fingers and without really realizing, what he was doing, he spread his legs. He steadied his chest-down position on the bed elevating his upper body above the bed coverings. His left hand grasped a fistful of bed sheet and brought his oiled fingers to massage around the puckered skin between his cheeks.

What amazed Fayt, was that even with all hesitation, his cock was hard and appeared to coming even harder, when the tip of his right forefinger breached the entrance and the mental imagines of Albel assaulted his mind ruthlessly. Behind him Albel was urging him to use his fingers to open himself up for Albel to ravage, to enjoy. The images relaxed Fayt and encouraged him to push his finger slowly deeper. With an oiled finger he easily slipped his entire finger inside. It felt somewhat odd but not unpleasant. Breathing heavily Fayt begun slowly to move his finger around, in and out. He tried to keep his pace steady and comfortable. Fayt felt Albel inside his head dragging his cold claws along his wet, heated skin and he felt need for something more than just playing with his prick. The weight of Albel against his back, forcing him deeper to the bed as he pushed another finger to accompany the forefinger inside his back passage. The second finger stung some, but as Fayt moved his fingers around patiently the ache made way to the trickling pleasure and he curled his fingers looking for something he had heard should be there. When he found that spot, a series of bolts of lightning shot throughout his body, his left hand fingers clawed the beddings and he called out in the shocked pleasure. Fayt accidentally rubbed the head of his cock against the coarse material of the bed covers and he felt some of the sticky precum at first to stick on the fabric and then to smear on his skin as his muscled rippled and his limbs trembled. The feeling was something so intense that he did not remember ever feeling anything like it.

Fayt felt Albel to seize his right wrist and brutally forced his fingers deeper into his body to abuse his prostate more strongly. If the real Albel would have been there, he might have found the blue-haired youngsters gasps and moans and squirming gratifying and arousing and empowering. The pleasure Fayt was feeling was so overwhelming that he was ready to beg for his release, his little death. He writhed and squirmed over the bed, over the floor but he did not relent the assault of his fingers to his sweet spot or rubbing his hard, leaking cock against the ruff material. His fingers twisted and ripped the linen bed sheets almost tearing them to pieces.

Fayt’s nerves were burning. There was an inferno at the bottom of his stomach. Fayt’s nerves were burning. There was molten lava inside the veins of his body. Fayt was aware of the hot heat and delicious tightness around his fingers buried into his anal tunnel and dimly he wondered if Albel would love to be buried back there down to the hilt before releasing his scorching load into Fayt’s hungry, willing body. He could feel the wave of undeniable lust rising again and he knew that this time he could not deny his impending orgasm. Fayt wanted it. Fayt yearned of it. If only he was not alone in the room… It only it was not his fingers probing his prostate…

If only it would be Albel’s hard shaft…

With a surprisingly violent thrust Fayt’s fingers collided against his sweet spot. In his mind it turned in to the savage last plunge from Albel as the older swordsman reached to his peak and coated his insides with *the white, smoldering proof of desire*. Fayt’s eyes turned over and this time he could not help himself. A vehement scream of shameless pleasure erupted from his mouth. His hardness sprouted a strong jet of white stickiness everywhere. A gleaming string of pearls decorated his front from his stomach to his throat. Some of cum landed on the bed where he crashed.

Fayt passed out half on the bed, half on the floor.

*****

Sleep is a funny thing. It shows one fragment of reality, other fragments of irrationality, truth, lies, half-there and half-here. It shows the places, the people one cannot forget, cannot remember, cannot ever enter, cannot ever escape from. Torments and twists. Soothes and rights. Reveals the road one should follow. Or maybe not.

How fucked up is that?

Levolle lasken, Luojani,

armias ole suojani.

Jos sijaltain en nousisi,

taivaaseen ota tykösi.

Aamen

How fucked up is that? A whisper, a plea for something better to come. ‘Eternal Sleep’. Is it the final relief for those of us who simply cannot rise to greet a new dawn and a day of circling sadness and loss and demands which make one someone they *are not*? Is it really that wrong to give up and never raise to the present, to the future which are no longer, never had been *yours*?

Whimpering sounds, pained screams, choking mists, piercing agony, never-ending stream of battering subconsciousness unleashed from its prison of control and propriety, boundaries legalized by the ever-flowing society. Surely there is another way in the dreams. ‘This way’ and ‘not *that* way’ marking the roads stretching before – behind – oneself to different kinds of answers. Answers of aloofness, loss, need, pain, happiness, hate, haze, hiding places… But who wants to interpret all those millions of worlds, feelings, words, *images* falsely?

To move into a dreamscape is like stepping into a reality with two dimensions. What a varmint of three-dimensional world can observe, is merely a twisted lie… or truth… Stagnant dreams are like curse and blessing: Polluted and pure, light and smog twirling around sneering and cajoling and fading…

A virtual fantasy inside every thought and action. None unique in their charity…

So perhaps it *is* useless to put one’s hands together and screech a prayer…

“Levolle lasken, Luojani,…”

*****

The sun rose. The day came and went. In his shame Fayt avoided Albel as much as possible. He had done something absolutely vile, lewd, *atrocious* while thinking of his friend, his companion. But more than anything Fayt was scared that he would confess his deed in the first possible chance to Albel. Just to see the Elicoorian male’s reaction, to be punished. Fayt wanted to be loathed, condemned. Would the Wicked One find him disgusting, different? Would the Wicked One be uncaring, untouched? Would there be flow of red and green, black and white, steel and magic? Fayt was very relieved that he had so many matters to attend that he hardly saw a glimpse of the Wicked One. His heart was a bit disappointed because of the lack of the Glyphian swordsman.

The sun rose. The day came and went. In his confusion Albel avoided everybody as much as possible. He was finally giving up the pretense he held inside and outside. He now admitted that he had started to acknowledge that he was no longer the same person who he had been before meeting the Earthling youngster. Last night after returning to his own chambers Albel at long last admitted that Fayt Leingod was a young man whom Albel Nox saw as his friend. And that he wanted more than just a simple friendship – although there is no such a thing as a ‘simple’ friendship – from the younger swordsman. All day long Albel was relieved that the blue-haired man was busy with many tasks and responsibilities. Even if Albel felt a strange bang in his heart which time to time made breathing impossible, he was not ready to surrender and beg some attention from the fool.

Neither Fayt nor Albel was ready for the direct confrontation.

Alas…

The sun set. The evening came and went. The night descended over the royal city of Airyglyph. With the night, the moon, the stars and the velvety black sky came the bedtime. Along the bedtime came also the inability to sleep a deep, healing slumber.

Both Fayt and Albel greeted the coldly glowing full moon on their own, inside their walls. The restlessness settled in within the few minutes after the entire castle quieted down and almost complete silence begun its regime. Fayt resigned to his fate and tried to entertain himself by watching the stars in the night sky and then naming all he could. Albel fought against his fate and tried to fall asleep by trying different kinds of breathing techniques.

After ten minutes Fayt was royally bored and tired, but not able to fall into a sleep. He seriously considered bashing his head to the stone wall so he might pass out. Because even *that* had to be better than *this*!

After ten minutes Albel was royally bored and tired, but not able to fall into a sleep. He seriously considered throwing a full-blown fit so he might get something to do. Because even *that* had to be better than *this*!

It was not against Fayt’s policy to fight a losing battle if innocent lives were threatened. But he knew how to choose his battles. Some fights just were not worth the effort.

It was against Albel’s nature to shun away from a battle if it promised him a thrill of challenge. But he knew how to choose his battles. Some fights just were worth the effort.

This time neither of two swordsmen had option of choosing a battle or avoiding it. This fight would last one night, two nights, innumerable nights. There would be no thrill or elation. It would be boring, longwinded fight until the death would claim the combatants. Neither Fayt nor Albel could win alone. They could only loose and the sole, bitter winner would be…

Inside their heads a thousand chaotic thoughts rushing around, passing by, keeping so much noise that sleeping is impossibility.

Not so much because they did not want to sleep, but because they need the escapism of the dream world. Then they would not have to remember all the mistakes they had made. Unless those mistakes were waiting for them, ready to haunt them in the countless nightmares.

So they stay awake alone without anything to occupy their restless minds. Nothing to do so that they could make their bodies to move until they would be so exhausted that they would simply collapse and their minds would simply shot down.

On the other hand… Can you *really* rest when you are not sleeping but simply unconscious without a way to wakefulness? It is like an endless, suffocating sea of white… something. Something formless, shapeless, matterless. Something which fills your eyes, ears, mouth, brains, lungs, heart, veins and turns you blood into a thick dreg. Killing you slowly, without anyone else’s notice.

Minds can be like old hunting traps that have been forgotten to a forest, a meadow, a savannah, a river, a sea. No-one knows, remembers that they lie there waiting until it is too late and something irreplaceable is lost… or gained by tragedy, by luck. You can never foresee these kinds of things. And what if you could? So do you think it might make a difference? *You* could make a difference? Would it make you happy, sad, ecstatic? Or would the worlds around you lose their appeal and color and ultimately… *life*? With your visions could everything around you, your family, your friends became dead and boring? Would there be any kind of excitement or anticipation for the better, for the worse things to come?

Needless to say… A prayer for the waking hours is important. But please, for yourself… A prayer for those moments before the sleep… A prayer that those moments would pass quickly, that they would pass peacefully.

In your hands every night, every morning, every day, every evening, every night… The person so precious. The one who makes you smile, the one who makes you angry, happy, sad grateful, solemn. The one who simply makes you *feel* million things every day, every time… You, yourself. In your hand with every passing minute is your past, your present, your future. With your very own arms you embrace yourself, you psyche, your life… Can you hold someone else in truly high regard if you dismiss your *own* well-being so carelessly, easily? When have you sacrificed too much of *your* self of the sake of *others’* selves…? There is time, when you… just… have… to… stop…

A total breakdown of psyche: P.S.Y.C.H.O.S.I.S.

Fayt ended up rising from his bed, dressing up partly to his clothes and took up a book. He sat on the armchair which stood with a small table in front of a smallish window. Tiredly he lit a candle and sank down to the chair to read. It was not like he had anything else to do. And Fayt *firmly* avoided wandering around the castle after its habitants had lain to the sleep. Because some nights he could have sworn that he heard Albel’s restless steps in the corridors. It was safer to concentrate on the old, dusty books from the library of the Royal Castle of Airyglyph.

Albel ended up rising from his bed, dressing up partly to his clothes and walking to the only window of his room. He just stood there looking down the snow-covered courtyard. Silently, unmoving he observed the glimmering of the stars and the moon on the pure white ground. It was not like he had anything else to do. And Albel *firmly* asked of himself, when he had become so delusional that he thought the *lying* to oneself would make…*things*… disappear, come undone. Perhaps it had come time to stop all this avoidance and try to do something about it.

When the door of his room suddenly crashed open, Fayt almost got a heart attack. His head snapped up and the book on his hands fell down as his hands searched for the Divine Avenger. Only then Fayt’s mind registered that it was half-dressed and very irritated Albel Nox standing on the doorway. Without his sword. Without his claw.

The cold, red eyes ranked over the blue-haired Earthlings body seeing the clear signs of the lack of the sleep. Albel tried to appear like the younger man’s looks did not make him feel concerned. He knew everything about not being able to sleep because too much of nervous energy. But he wished that the reason behind *Fayt’s* sleepless night was something else, something that involved needing Albel in his bed to sleep peacefully.

Fayt’s green eyes met the glowing eyes and he stood up nervously: “Albel…? Is… something wrong?” he asked with unsteady voice and with his hand he beckoned Albel to step into the room and close the door.

But the Wicked One just stood there and waited for his prey to step closer, closer to strike.

And like a fool Albel claimed him to be, Fayt Leingod came closer stopping only when their chests almost touched. He peered up to see the Elicoorian Captain’s eyes without the obstacle of the gold-tipped hair. “Albel…?” he still questioned and raised his hand to check the older one’s temperature to see if this unusual behavior was due to an illness.

Albel’s hand shot out. His right hand took hold of the Earthling’s left hand hovering near his face and his left – his hand badly wounded by the dragon-fire – found its way around the emerald-eyed male’s waist to stop his possible escape. The Wicked One would not allow his prey – his salvation? – to escape from him now that he…

“What the hell are you doing, Albel?!”

*Yesssssss*… The taller male revealed at the sound of his name on those pale, thin lips. More and more. He wanted to hear his name again and again. With a certain satisfaction he noticed the even though the younger one’s words were resisting he did not bodily fight against his capture. So without even thinking of explaining his business Albel grouched just so that he was able to swing the Leingod boy over his shoulder. He straightened and sauntered out of the room without bothering to close the door.

Getting hauled over a shoulder suddenly and without any kind of warning, left Fayt speechless. And when he finally was able to shake of his surprise, he was thrown on to a messy bed. Confusedly he looked around and fathomed that this was *Albel’s* room and he was lying on *Albel’s* bed. Blaring sound of alarm went through Fayt’s mind as he just lie there frozen and watched how the Elicoorian swordsman divested himself from all of his clothing before turning to the bed and the boy on it. Albel’s every move was feline as he crawled over the bed to Fayt’s side and leaned over him.

The green and red eyes locked to each other for an endless moment.

“A-Albel… What…?” Fayt tried to find out what on earth was going on.

The noise, which rose from Albel’s throat, could be only described as an angry snarl. “Either *you* move your clothing or *I* will”, he hissed. “Trust me, Leingod, you would not want *that*.”

Fayt glared back to Albel and made no move to disrobe himself. Not without explanation.  “I. Will. *Not*”, he gritted through his teeth. “Not, if you won’t give me a good reason for you *kind request*” he hissed back when Albel snarled something incoherent. He was no push-over and even without his sword he still had his symbology.

Albel’s eyes narrowed and his face tightened. His lips pulled into an ugly sneer. His muscles tensed and coiled in preparation to attack. But Fayt did not back down in face of this clear signs of hostility. He also tensed and prepared to defend himself with a spell.

Albel shoved his face nearer and his lips touched Fayt’s ear when he snarled poisonously: “I’m fucking sick of this *shit* you make me go through. I don’t know *how* you did it.” His right hand twined around Fayt’s throat and begun to squeeze. “What little sleep I got, you took it away. I won’t tolerate another sleepless night.” Fayt was starting to feel dizzy and tried to pry Albel’s fingers off. “So you *will* take off those fucking clothes one way or the other and you *will* fucking *sleep* with me one way or the other.” Albel let go of Fayt’s windpipe pulled away. “What is your decision, *Fayt*?”

Fayt coughed and sucked some needed air to his lungs and was unable to answer Albel’s demands even though he had understood what was going on. Albel hummed impatiently and started to tear off the blue-haired one’s clothes. Fayt made a bewildered noise of protest and confusion and hurriedly begun to help Albel with his clothes.

When Fayt’s clothes were off, Albel stood to deposit the garments neatly on a chair. Soon he was back and sat down to inspect the body lying on the bed. The expression on Fayt’s face was a one of dazed confusion. Albel admired the swordsman before him and reaffirmed that what he had seen twice before was real. An expanse of smooth, pale skin over well-formed muscles. A blue patch of naturally blue pubic hair at the junction of two strong legs. Albel shivered minutely and moved to lay aside this crystalline creature gracing his bed with his presence. He could not stop his hand from touching the warm skin and he felt the gentle trembling of tension under his fingertips. For a passing moment of insanity Albel considered tasting the boy’s skin but he discarded the idea.

Fayt watched with curious eyes as Albel’s fingers traveled over his skin avoiding any improper places for a chaste, but interested touch. He knew he was lightly blushing by the heat on his face, but said nothing as his body shifted naturally under the wondering touch.

They both apprehended that they were stark-naked and on the bed. Yet still there was not uncomfortable tension. Their bodies, their movements were languid and drowsy and trusting.

Albel allowed his right hand to slide over Fayt’s abs and stomach and travel to the shoulder along the sensitive, pearly white side. As his arm lay over the paler chest even under the color-sucking light of the moon he could see the clear contrast of their skin-color. It was fascinating. It was something he was eager to see in the daylight when they would be lying like this on the morning, during the day. Sunlight playing over the naked skins.

But now there was no daylight or sun. Albel turned his head to meet those deep, mysterious eyes of a youngster who had shown him the other worlds outside his home planet. He was proud how Fayt did not evade his scrutiny, but met it with honesty and trust. Quickly Albel located his forgotten blanket at the foot of the bed. Holding their locked gaze the Glyphian warrior moved closer and pressed the entire length of his naked frame to the Earthian warrior’s. Oddly naturally Fayt’s legs parted some and Albel’s right leg slipped to find its resting place there. Their bodies shifted and moved until they found a suitable position for both of them.

They ended up Albel lying on his back with Fayt resting half over his chest and his right hand around the younger’s waist. And their eyes still held each other. For all this time they had been oblivious for the cold air in the room, but now as sleep begun to weight them down, it made shiver and acknowledge its existence. Albel brought the blanket up and attentively covered Fayt up to his shoulders.

Fayt sighed exhaustedly when pleasant warmth surrounded him. He laid his head over Albel’s heart and listened to the strong, steady beat under the taut skin and flesh. For a moment he did not move and then he raised his eyes to see that those ruby-red eyes were still focused on him. Slowly Fayt lifted his arm and allowed his hand to caress Albel’s jawline. When the gesture received no negative response, he dared to hoist himself up and place an unobtrusive, close-mouthed kiss on Albel’s lips. Then he retuned back to his resting spot and anxiously waited for Albel’s reaction.

The older man blinked slowly staring into those green, green eyes which looked at him expectantly. Albel moved his right hand to the back of the blue head. He bent his neck a little, pulled the younger one closer and connected their lips again. Unhurriedly Albel coaxed Fayt to open his mouth for a drowsy, but deep kiss with a hint of lust.

When they separated Fayt’s smile was happy, but worn-out. Albel also felt the pull of sleep in him. Albel’s head sunk into the pillow and Fayt’s set over Albel’s heart. The Wicked One’s hand returned back to the fair-skinned waist. Their eyes closed and their breaths become synchronized.

A half-mumbles of goodnight wishes were the last words before the sleep claimed the two men as its own.

TBC…

*****

Author's Note 2: This one turned into a monster it was not supposed to ever be. I hope those of you, who were strenuous enough to reach the end without skipping, I truly hope it was worth of you time and patience. I really should pull myself together and finish this story before everybody die due to an old age. And once again I thank all of you reading this little story of mine.



(1) Some time ago – year or two perhaps? – I saw this document about sleeping and dreaming on TV. It was very interesting and I would recommend it, but I cannot remember if it was made by BBC or some other company and you can forget me remembering the name of the document. Before that document I did not know that a lack of sleep can literally kill you. It is quite scary thought when I take a moment to ponder. Personally I remember many of my dreams and I know that everybody – unless they have this illness – sees several dreams every night. However it is still uncertain, why humans and animals dream. What function the sleep and dreams have…?

(2) The same prayer is in English: “Angels East and Angels West, North and South, just do your best. Keep her/him safe, watch her/him while she/he rests. Amen.”

The other prayer (which is more accurate) is: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I shall die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”

The more literate translation would be something like this: “As I lay down to sleep, my Creator, merciful be my protection. If I would not arise from my sleep, to Heaven take me with You. Amen.”

That is why when intercepting the meaning of the prayer (in this fiction) you should prefer the second English prayer which (if I have understood correctly) dates back at least to the beginning of the 18th century England.

// 14 pages in Word 2010

// 11 230 words