Cars whisper down the wet roads and leaves commune in the trees. Footsteps quietly echo atop concrete or they fall short, retreat, or ascend into cars. A stable pair storms down the street with an almost silent tip-tiptip-tip beside him. Fabric dances against skin and silence of two is replaced by the loudness of many. Or is it one?
Lights strobe the club as bodies move to its rhythm in such differing paces, styles, that it looks pulsing upon an unfocused eye. Focus and sobriety leave it a mess, sweaty and writhing and hormonal, that isn’t the source of the demigod’s desires. He weaves through the crowd of many, of deceitful youths and escapist young adults, like the shadow following lights that sweep across the crowd.
When one goes, he follows.
He reaches the end of the club and passes its doors to the back without so much of a word. The look in his eyes is haunting, while the taunt line on his lips troubling. People have seen him around enough that his presence needs no explanation. If it does? It comes with a phone call, or a bounty.
“Luca,” he greets the dank hall, ears perking at the slightest drip of water, breath of sharp air when the door opens to the club. Viorel doesn’t see him, so he goes deeper, descending the stair well for a room. Chipped paint coats the door with a well-worn knocker haphazardly angled below a peephole. He knocks it three times as Sorin hovers to his right.
After a silent beat of his heart, it opens.
Lips part and he rushes in like a ghost, sharply closing the door behind him with his boot and he wraps his arms around the man. They become a mess of limbs, tangling one another while undressing each others shirts. Soft breaths greet the air between them, while their hearts soar in their chests. Scars come alive under the lighting in the room whereas features soften and emotions follow through.
Luca’s pinned to the wall as Viorel tosses their shirts aside. His lips caress his beck, where he circles faded bruises with the same things that caused them. A press, a nip, then a glide, he ascends his neck to close in on his soft, pierced lobe. Nails dig into Viorel’s back, running on and into scars, but it doesn’t deter him. No, nothing does, when he’s in the navy room, existing and alive with his man.
The couch smells like faded perfume but it’s not their final destination. The hallway’s partially lit and it’s not theirs, neither. The living room lit only by a small, flickering desk lamp in the corner is their haven in the night, church in a graveyard. Vio loses himself to the man’s voice, body, taste, while soft ‘vio’ and ‘stay with me’ fills his ears like a siren’s call.
One night. For one night, does he feel at home. Only on that one night can he go home, go to that someone whose address is on his heart. Home’s not a place but rather a person, and Viorel’s—
He wakes up, jolting in bed. Estera rolls onto her side nearby while Sorin hops onto the bed and prods his arm. Viorel manages to scritch the dog’s back, but his hand’s shaky and uncertain. Luca’s voice rings in his ears but the blond’s nowhere to be seen. He eyes his hand, as if awaiting him to take it, then drops it in his lap.
Home’s not a place but rather a person, and Viorel Lucaci’s burned years ago.