The Leper Affinity

[perfect-oasis.livejournal.com]

Title: The Leper Affinity
Author: Laura -- silentnumbsmoke
Pairing: Sorta DM/BB, DM/EW implied, BB/Ali implied
Rating: R -- morbid, grotesque, disturbing
Feedback: Please, I would love to know what you think of this!
Disclaimer: I know for a fact this hasn't happened.
Warning: Death!fic. Don't say I didn't warn you. This is morbid. Disturbing. Grotesque. I've never written anything like this... enjoy. ;)
Notes: Thanks to lots of people for read-throughs, and to azurepolkadots for betaing!

Really, this story wrote itself. I was looking at Opeth lyrcis, found "The Leper Affinity," and wrote this in about forty-five minutes. I had no idea it'd turn into the morbid story that it is now.

By the way, the story is in Billy's POV.

The Leper Affinity

Lyrics by Opeth

We entered Winter once again
Naked, freezing from my breath
Neath the lid all limbs tucked away
This coffin is your abode from now
and onwards

You have gone cold, the heat leaking through your fingertips like the blood oozing from your wrists… and you're so pale - an unsurprisingly death pale, a morbid pale, so pale you're almost translucent… just like your personality. One could see through you so easily, yet it's made difficult by the aortas, arteries, vessels, smoke-filled lungs, and heart, which should cease beating any moment now, if it hasn't already.

Your body is mine to avail
Such a tragic sight you are
Slave under my creed
Spurring me with those tears

It wasn't easy, you know. Getting you away from your precious Elijah, getting away from chipmunk-cheeks herself… but I did it. You entered innocently, without qualms, without worries, absent of any thoughts that you would never leave the room again. Alive, that is. You failed to go through the standard what-ifs in your mind, the possibility that the near future held murder, post-mortem rape, and obsession. You felt you had no reason to be paranoid, Dommie. You were wrong.

I am beyond death
Midst a dreaming affinity
Saving strength now, faint whispers
Come erotic communion in its splendor

It's hard to imagine that even a part of you is still alive, not with all that blood. I'm sure the hotel maid only cleans the carpet when absolutely necessary, as it must be quite tedious. She'd have to when some desperate tosser wanks while watching one of the pay-per-view erotic films - or, if he's that pathetic and cheap, not buying the movie, but merely listening to the groans, moans and screams. The maid'll have to clean the carpet this time as well, because you've made a god awful mess, Dommie, with all that blood. Y'know, you don't look so well. I hope it was your wish to be cremated, love, because I don't think it'll be possible to make you presentable for an open-casket funeral… unless you want Elijah to pass out buckets for upheaval at the door.

Fever mirrored ghosts
Night time consolation, cross the line

The bruises make immaculate, perfect handprints, like when I was a child and, behind Nan's back, ran over to drying cement and pressed my hands into it - of course, Nan figured it out when cement began to dry on my fingers and we had to hurry to wipe it all away. Admiring the accuracy, I replace my hands where they were earlier and squeeze your throat again, through obviously not with as much strength as last time, because I hear no snaps, cracks or pops, no sounds that Sean's Allie would claim comes from her cereal. Nothing happens. No repeat performance. You are silent: you don't sputter, swear, and gasp. The blood, which has settled on your lips, doesn't bubble and trickle from the corner of the mouth. Your eyes, now blank and staring at the ceiling (no doubt restlessly counting the panels as you always do), don't widen and squeeze shut as if that'll make it all go away, and I don't have to tighten my grip to avoid being hit by your flailing limbs, which now lie still.

To tell you the truth, Dommie, I'm disappointed.

Draw murder into art

You are beautiful, just as you always were. You were always artwork, always a carefully constructed masterpiece, containing the style of a modern artist, Picasso's imperfections, Van Gogh's vivid pain, and yet still possessing Rodin's breathing, living contours.

You remained a masterpiece, something to be proud of, a painting even self-doubting Cézanne would hold pride in signing, even as you entered the room, worry-free, even as your amazingly constructed features contorted with Vincent's wild, unmasked pain, and Nussbaum's confusion and helplessness, as your Mona Lisa-esque lips, differing from their usual cheeky grin, mouthed silent words, mute 'whys,' 'hows,' and last minute wants (because everyone wants something), as your breath was lost, constricted by my hand, my imperfect, coarse hand.

Laying there, still, you hold the perfection of Monet's water lilies, the vivid, clear sense of the individual dots created only by the hands of Seurat. You continue to amaze, yet you do nothing. You lie quietly and wait as the judges inspect you before inevitably declaring you The Masterpiece and sticking you with the blue ribbon and gold trophy. Although you wear the ribbon, it does not belong to you. It is mine, for I am the creator. The artist. I am the one that carefully molded you from bronze medal winner to gold, using a flick of my wrist and the razors the hotel so helpfully supplied me with.

Sleep inside through days
In the wake of this relief
Shivering, longing for more
Insanity at it's peak

I do hope you enjoy your rest, Dommie, that you wake up refreshed and ready for another round, to begin again. My fingers are itching to take the clay, pound it into the ball of perfection it began as, and commence with my creating yet again. I can't do it yet, not while the cuts from my last performance litter your face. I am not ready to sign this piece - I am not yet satisfied, and therefore must start again. The handprint bruises will heal, your bleeding will cease, I shall gather my materials, you will wink at me, and I will begin.

Love me to my death
Lost are days of Spring
You sighted and let me in
Keep the beast inside
Shackled within my hide
Screaming out too late
Losing to my hate

I had never heard your voice so high-pitched, Dommie, never so squeaky (so like your damned lover), never so frantic and panicked. You arrived expecting our usual banter, which began just like any other… yet this time, I closed in and you pulled back, the name 'Elijah' on your lips, a reminder in your mind, a curse or swear word in mine.

It only took a split second for all the swirls and bouts of worry to form in your care-free glance - your gray-blue eyes never stood a chance, all the blue skies escaping out the door as I slammed it shut, the stormy clouds of fear remaining as I kissed you, as I stripped you, as I choked you.

And then it only took minutes for the squeals and the worry to disappear with your breath, rising up and floating away like clouds of dust aroused by the rainstorm.

You really never stood a chance against me. Against my love.

Grew together with your skin
And paced the trails of sin
Your gaze covered with virgin snow
Rigid features
It's the shallow deeds who is to blame
Deafening shrieks pierced the night

You are still. I dimly know that, no matter how long I wait, no matter how long I ignore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knocking on the door, calling for you, you won't wake up. I will never finish my masterpiece. You stand finished. Now, I know, it is time for the signature.

Smiling, I stare at your moon-lit figure, cast in an eerie yet beautiful glow. Making my way from the now-locked door towards you, my clothing falls to the ground. The plaid shirt you made fun of so often, the jeans, tight-fit just for you, and the underwear that you would never strip off me.

Settling my body on top of yours, I let out a soft whisper, telling you that you can take it, that I forgot lube when I came here, that you won't mind, and I push myself in.

The pen is inked in no time and I pull out quickly, allowing the signature to flow easily over you, the artwork.

My masterpiece is finished. The door unlocks and gasps, screams and hands surround me. I merely smile.

"I call it…" I can't help but grin, staring at the beauty that is you. "The Leper Affinity."

A step from oblivion
Moving into the dim lights
Hiding within a reverie
It was worth it for the wait alone

Comments

[perfect-oasis.livejournal.com]

Oh, dude, I've been on the darkside for a looong time... but thank you! *grins*