A/N: Finally got one out! Yes! =w= A little Dorian + Charles drabble for my own gratification and for Chamun, who indulges me and stuff.
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When Charles grips Dorian’s wrist, he does so hard enough to leave behind five points of red, indentions of where his nails dug in to ascertain his hold. These, like any other wounds inflicted on the vessel of Dorian Gray’s mad soul, fade in sweet time. Usually, by the time that Charles has excused himself, after giving Dorian yet another questioning, confused glance, the marks are no more. Dorian, inexplicably, is disappointed.
Often enough, he reminds Charles that he needn’t be gentle with him. That he could bear with the boy’s ravenous appetite and the manner that it impresses upon him. It only seems to annoy Charles, though, so ‘often’ does not become ‘always’.
(He strives to be gentler with him, after such comments, as if in stubborn retaliation, and this is where Dorian remembers that for all intents and purposes, his friend was still a child)
Dorian stares at the claws that hide underneath Charles’ delicate hands, and wishes to be intimately acquainted with them, have them buried in the deepest crevices of his corporeal form- in this, he is ultimately jealous of the prey that Charles kills when Dorian is not with him. The blood that adorns the other boy is telling, and if ever Dorian adopts a disapproving expression upon the sight of it, he is not saying ‘I wish you would be more careful’, instead, he means, ‘Why can’t you do the same to me?’
When Charles catches him staring, and notices the nature of Dorian’s gaze, he smiles. Beatific and benevolent, he caresses Dorian’s cheek, and over the rose-hued curve of flesh, Dorian feels the grazing, gentle touch of his nails, trimmed into perfectly harmless crescents.
There are noises coming from the abandoned classroom, and if that isn't the start of a horror movie then you don't know what is. You're an aficionado in the subject of things that go bump in the night, and in this case, the specification of just about sunset is easily overlooked. It was past seven, anyway, and there shouldn't have been any noise at all- the students were being herded back into the dorms, and if you hadn't come up with the brilliant idea of signing up as hall monitor, you wouldn't even have this chance.
It's easy to creep in, taking advantage of the well-oiled hinges of the door and the soft soled-silence of your shoes. The fading sunlight is a great addition as well, you know dramatic lighting brings a good air to any story.
Although the best part may have been the fact that the boy bleeding against the chalk board was porcelain skinned and golden blonde and with eyes as blue as the sky. The sight of blood stained fangs against his neck completes the picture, and you are rendered speechless and immobile.
And while you'd moved in silence, they had not- it is only now, with you as their audience, that the boy -the vampire, you think- pauses from his suckling and catches his breath and fixes you with an accusing, violet stare, while the other boy -the angel, you are sure- falls into an almost protective hush, a pale hand coming to rest on his companion's head. His eyes gleam- turn from blue to brown, and the smile that stretches his lips is sick with sweetness.
The last thing you remember thinking is this: oh it was a trap
