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The moonlight was fractured on the wooden floor, dissolving into pale, luminescent drops.
The air outside was getting warmer. During their patrol, Rhaast had seen pink flowers hanging like delicate ornaments from the branches of trees. He had meticulously observed them through the lookout of his orb as they traversed the familiar route, walking by the river. They were quite striking; the flowers—he pondered their smell. He pondered gently about something futile and inconsequential. He felt a spark left somewhere deep within, in a place where he could still bluntly regard the shape of a flower.
When they returned back to the temple, the Sun had already departed. It was dark now; the air in the courtyard must have been chilly with the lack of warmth. He thought so, as Kayn was forced to retrieve a long jacket from his room before commencing his lesson, instructing those stupid, naive fools he called students.
After training, Kayn brought Rhaast back to his room and propped him against the wall, muttering a few words before he left.
It was some time spent in solitude until the boy's inevitable return. An unbearable hour or two, of solely listening upright, listening as the boom inside the temple stilled and night fell completely.
Kayn was back, eventually, with his hair damp and flowing, as dark as the sky. Eyes like gold, of unreachable depths.
He promptly went to lay on his futon, without conversation, with an urgency in the way he pulled on his blanket and slipped inside.
Rhaast stood still as a shadow, he was deep inside his consciousness, submerging further down the chasm. It was his own, rehashed way of slumber, although it wasn't as peaceful as the ignorance mortal sleep would bring.
Though, in the dead of night, something in the air propelled him back to the surface, not long after he had succumbed to its gravity.
A gasp, he focused on. So subdued and private that Rhaast’s first presentiment was that of a dream.
The boy often had nightmares. Ones that he wouldn’t hesitate to share with Rhaast—when their minds blurred into each other, after a day spent so impossibly close.
But the way he huffed, so sweet, so carnally, was different. There was a deliberate effort put into hiding it—to keep the sound in the back of his throat.
He could hear the ruffle of fabric, the hiss of his restrained movements.
Rhaast closed his orb. He would not look.
The boy took a sharp breath—something incomplete, as he gasped for air again.
Rhaast promptly realized that he couldn't take much more of this. He wondered if this torture was a planned one. If it was for Kayn's own amusement; inducing a pitiful disgust to drive Rhaast crazy.
He looked again, like a damnable fool. He was almost glad that he couldn’t see much in the dark—he could only make out the pale flesh of his legs, his raised knees.
He seemed to glow with sweat, as if he were standing outside in the spring rain. There was a faint light shining on his face, the other side lost in shadows, and his lips parted. They were similarly wet. His eyes were closed shut, and he shifted, a sob escaping from his mouth.
Rhaast—he had never wanted to break free from his prison as much as he did, upon witnessing the pleasure of his companion. Of that fresh body, with the way he convulsed, searching for that spot where it glistened, pressing a thumb against it.
He could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his black, undone robes. His hair, sprawled out like the branches of a tree.
Rhaast wondered about what Kayn was thinking of—what he desired, what he craved as he touched himself. He wondered if he was thinking of a maiden, one with plump cheeks and a beautiful smile. He wondered if he—if he were to think of something else, of another man. He wondered if Kayn had ever thought in that manner. It would be unbecoming of a temple boy such as himself.
The thoughts made him curse. He didn’t understand why he sought that knowledge. He didn't understand that spark, the fire within his core—just from witnessing this. A desperate cry under the moonlight. Juvenile and insignificant.
If he were to claim the boy in that manner; with obscene intentions, he would make him cry much louder. He would call him by his name, just to spite and tantalize him—stretch him wide until he bled and make him get used to that pain.
He watched—and diligently formed his own fantasies, as the boy pleasured himself with a jerk of his hand. A mortal body would be so warm, if he were to fill it up from the inside. Kayn wouldn't be able to take all of him. No—he would gasp and squirm, he would try to break free.
Rhaast would grab him by those locks, like a hound on a leash—to pull him closer, and closer. Just like that, just like the way he was closer now, to spilling over the edge.
The depths of his soul wavered restlessly with the desires—virtually impossible to achieve in his current state. But still, every time Kayn touched him, grabbed him by the snath to raise the blade up—his warmth would be carried over, reshaping that crimson thing of his prison. Such a clear feeling, so sheer that it made Rhaast feel alive.
He wished Kayn would get up, approach him. Touch him like this, as he touched himself—and come against the sharp peaks of his weapon. It would be sweet, just like blood. Maybe even sweeter, for he had tarnished his youth and revealed himself to Rhaast.
He watched in agonizing silence, as Kayn shuddered, like he had been freezing all this time, he saw the way he pressed his legs together, pushing—until he was calmed.
He heard the deep sounds of his breath as he finished. He was alive.