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anatomies; Metanoia, M(ature)
anatomies
Milo watches Star. Even the most expensive monitoring equipment retains a bit of fuzz at the edges. Star’s face is blurry moving out of frame. Milo switches cameras. Better.
Star is fucking someone in their bed. Someone has hair dark as Milo’s is fair; someone has skin tanned as Milo is pale; someone hides his face in Star’s neck and bites his shoulder. Someone has white, white teeth. Star’s ass flexes as it fucks someone. Milo watches.
“I’ll give you a show while you’re on your business trip,” Star had promised. His grin was lascivious. He knew just how to rile Milo up. Fucking someone in their bed when Milo was airplanes away. His dick buried in someone’s ass. Milo watches.
In the afterglow, Star turns his head. He’s looking into the camera set in the corner of the room, high up near the ceiling. Milo switches cameras until he’s looking through the one Star is gazing at. Star’s face is lineless and flawless. The camera’s resolution isn’t good enough to pick up the exact shade of Star’s sex sated eyes, but Milo can recall their glow. Star smiles, and rather obviously palms his dick.
Milo feels his lungs expand, his chest cavity tight. Star pulls on his dick until it’s hard, erection tilted up to his stomach, his legs spread. His cheap screw is sprawled beneath blankets by his side. Milo ignores the extra body in the room.
Star’s cupping his balls. He puts himself on display. He closes his eyes and arches his back, his neck. He strokes his shaft.
He comes.
Milo is panting. He hasn’t touched himself – he wouldn’t have lasted, if he had – Milo is hard, erection leaking. Star smirks up at him and cleans his hand on the duvet and stands, exiting the room for the bathroom.
Milo presses the ‘stop record’ button.
…
“You’re not put together the same way as everyone else,” Star says one morning in the kitchen, a rare domestic morning, Milo shirtless with his pants loosely hanging off his hips. The light is warm as are Star’s hands as they trace Milo’s shoulders. “Your joints are different, smoother.” Star is standing behind Milo as Milo flips the open face of an omelette double, cheese melting out the sides. Star nuzzles the back of Milo’s neck. “You smell different, too.”
Milo stifles his shiver but not his laugh. This close, he knows Star will feel the reverberations; he knows Star will feel mildly unsettled, disgruntled, at the possibility of being laughed at. “You go around smelling a lot of people?”
“I have,” Star says. He doesn’t sound as put out as he should. “More than I wanted to, I have. It’s not something I really notice. Humans all smell the same. But you don’t.”
“I don’t smell human.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Maybe a warning – maybe apprehension, maybe the slightest edge of fear – except Milo Sterne is not afraid of anything. Fuck.
Star inhales against the back of Milo’s left ear and nips its edge lightly. “No,” he says, thoughtfully. “You don’t.”
…
A new gun, lover’s token, placed on Star’s pillow for him to come home to.
Milo knows how to do Valentine’s Day right.
…
Occasionally all Milo wants to do is kiss Star.
Naked in bed or clothed on the couch (clothed in bed or naked on the couch), their legs comfortably tangled, Milo tilts Star’s head to the angle he likes and leans in and kisses chapped lips. Star doesn’t take care of his lips in the winter. His skin cracks. He occasionally bleeds. Milo gave up on the smaller hints to use chap stick. Instead he liberally smeared chap stick on his own lips and kissed it onto Star. Star’s mouth is rough, the texture of it raspy and uneven. Milo kisses him until his lips are soft, spit slick, swollen.
Then he kisses some more.
This is one thing Star can be sweet about. Or allow sweetness.
…
The man is terrified. It’s pointless, he’s going to die anyway. His fear serves no purpose other than as amusement – and Milo is amused – but nothing the man says or does will save him.
“Resonator,” Milo intones, and Star steps forward out of shadow, his glasses reflecting light ominously, gun in his grip. He lifts the gun, takes aim. He fires.
Milo doesn’t watch the man fall backward, perfect spherical hole in his head, neat and tidy in front and exploded brain matter in back. Milo watches Star.
Killing together is more intimate than having sex together. It makes no pretence at a sharing of souls rather than bodily fluids. For an instant it strips you bare and you’re naked in front of someone, naked in the truest sense of the word, borderless and without guard.
Star’s face is hungry for death. He swallows it down. He yearns.
Milo watches.
…
Demonic, in the afterglow, Milo waits until Star has fallen asleep and then lightly presses his ear against Star’s taut abdomen. He’s not listening for Star’s heartbeat, which is reassuringly loud, as is the gurgle of Star’s digestive system and the inhaling exhaling sound of his lungs.
Milo is listening deeper than that. To the cellular level, microscopic; the production of energy otherwise known as ‘life,’ and further – Milo is listening for the sound of the power he has seen in Star. Magic makes noise. Milo will trace it down.
…
Star leaves.
Milo doesn’t remember much of what happened after, only the repeating litany of He’s gone, he’s gone, echoing dim and horror-struck in his mind. It wasn’t love. It might have been love. It wasn’t. It doesn’t matter.
Star leaves.
Milo is a creature of routine. He likes his silences and his noises to be daily planned. He likes being sure of things, of people. He depends on his own control.
Star leaves.
Milo disables all of the surveillance equipment in the bedroom. He’s not masochistic enough to watch footage of himself sleeping alone. He keeps the recordings.
Star leaves.
Milo watches.