window. sender presses you against the glass, watching the city watching them. / “ anything you want , i can make it happen . nothing you ask is out of the question . ”
There was a hand on Nezumi's hip.
The city breathed and shivered underneath them. A clearer mirror of a starlit sky as if the galaxy spilled its shine and glimmer into the streets below them, retaining only a few dim stars that flickered against the blackness, poor and feeble in comparison to the radiance of the metropolis. The luminous streets, the bright neon greens and pinks, the red lights of cars, the yellow glow of an older district versus the striking white blaze of a modern one. It was an empire laid in the palm of Nezumi's hand, ready for grasping.
A thumb slipped under silky black fabric of a top and drew circles into Nezumi's skin. Goosebumps burst into life from the point of contact and rippled across Nezumi's back. The exhalation of his breath fogged the window that separated him from the dazzling display of the world like a cloud that disappeared promptly due to the technical advancement of the glass, layered or designed so that it wouldn't retain stain or steam; so that it would always be as invisible and immaculate as possible to allow the viewer the most perfect picture; so that the inhabitants would always know just how far above others they were. As if a reminder was needed.
Up here, in the agreeably perfumed en-suite of a hotel whose name Nezumi didn't care to remember, and in whose luxury he indulged with casual habituality, he couldn't even hear the sirens or the honks of cars that crawled through the streets beneath his feet. He was so high that he could just imagine stepping across the threshold, off the creamy soft carpet and into the night. He could see himself taking flight, cold wind whipping his face as he flew over the ant-like people and their little, insignificant lives. The wind that would be as cold as the glass he was pressed against, the marble-esque barrier that protected him from the possible stench of a poorer district which was — surely — tucked in somewhere amidst the glow, even if he couldn't quite tell where.
Light was no longer a luxury, but fresh air — Nezumi breathed in the mixture of lavish hotel fragrances and the known, warm scent of Him — those were the things one would give their soul for. No kingdom. No empire. No screeching cars and bustling clubs could ever compare to The World.
Nezumi placed his hands on the glass, palms firm and fingers spread as another touch ascended his leg, lifted a layer of fabric and revealed his thigh, milky white against the darkness of the night. He glanced at it, the contrast of its softness and uniformity against the firm, Michelangelian hand that perched on top of it, sovereign fingers pushing aside the matching fabric of the top — technically a dress, but so separated and held together merely by thin strings of silver that it could hardly be considered one piece of clothing.
The colourful shine of the city swayed like a cruise ship in a tropical storm, and Nezumi's vision swam with bliss when warm breath, carrying faint scents of rich red wine, fanned his cheek, enticing another shiver and then another and another until the silent tremors broke into melodic moans that tangled with the gentle orchestra music playing in the background, a repetition of a louder and profound experience from which they had just returned and which filled them with voracious hunger and torrid passion that couldn't be quenched by no other means than a mutual feast. A devouring of each other.
Nezumi felt the hollowness of himself, the emptiness of his stomach, so yawning he could easily imagine opening up and swallowing the city beneath him. Ready to be had. Offered to him on a grey, concrete platter like a sumptuous appetizer.
All of its shine would be his and his alone by the means of one sentence, one question. The city. The people. He could have it all in its sparkling glory.
The Wanton Greed opened him up, slick and invasive, and he keened into it, capriciously expecting to receive. But as he parted his lips, no words came out, he could think of nothing to ask of the World — the World had already entered him. Stretched him and filled him up, finding that yawning void in his stomach and lodging itself in it. Hard and conceptible.
Only the sensual, satisfied chords of pleasure flowed freely from Nezumi's lips, and amid their melody, right into the rhythm, Nezumi mouthed and vocalised the entirety of his desires.
The hand on his hip tightened its grip.
