@eglcntine sent: # possessive behavior﹕ receiver shows possessiveness over sender .
Thresholds came easier than consciousness in this new twisting, meandering, nonsensical sprawl of halls and walls and impulse. Where it ended and he began, where creature became victim became monster became them was a delightful conundrum of impossibility too complicated even for a mind like his to grasp. Michael did not bother to lose himself over the riddle he was any more than he sought to make sense of the twitches and reflexes he now possessed. Where once he was a meek, fretful thing, he became a prowler with his own unique network of–no, no, not webs, nothing so basic or sinister as that. No, his gotcha came in the form of doors.
Wood ones, glass ones, wide little short ones, tall thin impossible ones; egresses where there should be only impasses and impasses where there should have been an egress. With these wonderful constructs of substance and nothing he could shepherd the braying, bleating, squawking, screaming little bodies as he pleased. More often than not, they led cleanly into the winding wandering corridors that would break them down into the vaporous kind-of sort-of used-to-be easily digestible version of what they thought they were. There were exceptions, of course, oh of course there were, and one such exception bore a name that broke him down into senseless noxious breathy and breathless giggling fits.
Ironic, wasn’t it? Brass ones, silver ones, jagged teeth and angular notches and blades that wouldn’t cut him, slipping skidding sticking breaking in the locks he made to taunt his query–but make him a Keay of flesh and bone and Michael himself would swing his own doors open with a flourish.
For these doors weren’t predatory. No, no, not here, not these ones, not the ones that didn’t lead into the flat his Keay couldn’t sleep in; not the ones that led him elsewhere where another warm breathing moving stinking person would have been waiting for him; not the ones that didn’t lead into the belly of the never-blinking voyeur that already thought it could claim him for its own. These ones led to the thing that was and wasn’t Michael. These ones led to his halls, his walls, his impossible den not made for two but oh, he could improvise. He could make do.
For a time, at least. Because for as much fun as it was–and as much as it satisfied echoed mirth that was merely a growl dressed like a laugh–Keay, his key, Gerard never Gerry was looking at him like that.
Exasperated. Frustrated. Confused and disoriented without the slightest insult of dawning comprehension. And wasn’t that wonderful! Wasn’t that sweet. Sweeter still than flowers or candies or a peck on the lips before a pristine evening’s end. His Keay for all his eyes all his sight all his premature understanding could not seem to understand him and so Michael returned the gesture with a smile that was at once too wistful and too wide. Swung open this door of beaten wood with red-chipped paint, only to let in air that was both too warm and too bright to have been the late London damp he plucked him from.
Well away from the stranger with a devious smile and hands that had no business in the back pocket of distressed black pants.
“Why the look? I wouldn’t dream of interrupting something so important on purpose. My mistake, my misstep! Go on, my Keay, and consider the sun and sand my treat. My apology, if you must. Go, go! I can’t stand when you’re upset with me.”
