oh, he could die and swallow them both whole.
‘would you like to live in between my ribs?’ he wants to ask. ‘would you be happy there, kept by marrow and sinew, my heart as your pulse?’
but it’s too much to think and to say it would startle them both, and so he folds himself closer, cheeks pink with liquor-laced ardor pressed to horatio’s, fingers furl tight around a hand he would press to his heart, to his axis, the thrumming in his neck. rebel fervor hides beneath innocuous, feather-light gestures that better befit his moonlit romanticism than it does his zeal–anything to keep horatio here, filling all the space that touches him, anything to keep horatio close.
in truth, lou doesn’t care about the painting either.
“you utter lothario,” he murmurs, breath catching in his throat. a fever has already taken hold, it travels red and damp along all his sloping curves, and he bares his neck to be ravaged. what terribly prey he is. when he speaks, he’s only half-aware of his words and how breathily they slip out from lips begging to be reddened, already deep in a limpid, living daydream. “i adore it–everyone has been gracious, and kind, and the whole clandestine nature, the ferrying over like charon and the styx, it feels just magical.” he presses his nose to horatio’s jaw, shuts his eyes. “tell me–if i forgot my obol, will i get to stay here forever?”
horatio wants to be here. in the present. crawling his way into his own body, one with llewelyn, with lou, half-trapped and half-beloved. he wants it to be easy, like this, like the way lou’s lips move against his jaw, the way his breath catches at his throat. this is simple. carnal. burning, but pleasant. but horatio’s never liked simple. never wanted easy, not once.
so he is half-here, half following alistair’s shadow around the house, like lou is following his. don’t think about him, horatio screams at himself. the plea echoes within his insides, unanswered. love him, instead.
“i prefer to be called casanova.” he whispers against lou’s skin. pull me in, pull me in, he begs, fingers outlining the shape of lou’s lips. “but you can call me anything you want.” and now, a kiss. closed eyes, fingers grabbing at skin. horatio releases llewelyn once he runs out of air, grinning, half-here, half-there.
“you don’t want to owe anything to the boatman.” he almost laughs. he should tell llewelyn to flee, to run away before invictus corrupts him. horatio was rotten long before invictus had contaminated them; lou is angelic. he belongs to the sun, to apollo’s warm embrace. but there is something selfish in horatio, as well. he can’t let him go, not after -- not after all of this. so he presses his lips against lou’s, again. loses himself in the softness of him. the purity, the naiveté.
“we need more alcohol,” he says, drawing away. “it’s not an invictus party unless you’re drunk on expensive liquor.”
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