Feast of Sparks

by Sierra Simone

Poe doesn’t let me. She slips her fingers through mine, halting our steps and bringing her body close. She peers up at me, searching, searching, relentless and probing and sweet, like a tender shoot piercing through the cold earth.

  “You don’t have to pull away,” she whispers. “Not from me.” She reaches up and traces around my piercing, and my eyes flutter closed. I’m not bothered by the cold, so I haven’t noticed how chilled my skin is until her warmth ghosts over my mouth. I haven’t noticed how starved I am for her until the mere brush of her fingertips sends blood rushing down to my cock.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve been very aware of how starved I am for her. Ever since Imbolc, it’s like my body has been lit on fire. Wrapped in thorns the same way Poe and Delphine were.

  I ache to fuck. I keen for it.

  “I can’t help pulling away sometimes,” I whisper back, forcing myself out of my dark, needful places and back into the light, with her.

  “You want to be sad? Then be sad. You want to live in a shrine to loneliness and grief? I think I understand that urge more than I ever could have before. But please, Saint, please—don’t do it alone. Don’t do it without me.”

  I don’t want to.

  The thought surprises me, but the minute I have it, I know it’s true. I don’t want to do anything without Poe. Which is a problem, because she’s meant for someone else. She’s not meant for me.

  I know that’s true too.

  I lean into her, pressing my forehead to hers as we stand in the middle of this narrow country lane. Even though her skin is warm, I can feel little shivers moving through her, and sudden, visceral unhappiness fills me at the thought of her discomfort. I don’t like the thought of her being cold.

  It’s that more than anything else that forces my hand.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go in.”

  She leans back a little so she can meet my eyes, rewarding my bravery with a real smile, a curl of those plush, coral-colored lips that hits me like a punch to the chest. “Really?” she asks. Her cheeks are splotched red from the cold air, and her thick scarf pushes her glossy hair into a dark halo around her face. She looks like she can’t believe that I’m actually giving in, that I’m actually opening up, and it makes me miserable to think she’s been waiting for something so small from me and I haven’t given it to her. I want to give her everything, even if it ultimately means giving her the chance to be with Auden.

  I, of all people, understand the brittle, icy agony of wanting Auden.

  “Yes, really,” I say, and then I take her hand and lead her into my terrible house.

  I’m not sure what I expect when we walk inside—disgust, maybe, or pity—but Poe’s eyes stay bright and curious as we move through the hallway to the sitting room, where the remnants of all my attempts to be interesting and valuable live. An old laptop, an even older guitar—notebooks and sketchbooks. They’re all sorted neatly enough to my mind—lined up on a shelf, propped in a designated corner—but they are clutter. Added to that are the shelves and shelves of books my mother owned, hundreds of books that she could never bear to give away and neither can I, and then scattered along those shelves are her velas and rosaries and holy cards, still organized the way they were when she died. There’s a television I don’t watch very often, an old sofa, and a fireplace I never use, and a picture of the Last Supper up on the wall. Piles of blankets, a bottle of gin, and a stack of books on the floor near the sofa attest to what I do in my spare time.

  We walk into the kitchen, where I say, “I’ll make you some tea. Warm you up.”

  “Do you mind if I . . . ?” She gestures back to the rest of the house.

  I decide it’s easier if she explores without me haunting her steps, fretting about what she’ll think of me and my pointless, bookish life. “Go ahead.”

  She goes.

  I know what she’ll see. She’ll see my mother’s office, still left as it has been for this last year, piled high with papers and clippings and books, with only a small space cleared for the inevitable mug. The visible spill of a busy and inquisitive mind—research for articles, think pieces, and of course, her precious Thorncombe Historical Society. Then Poe will go upstairs and see my mother’s bedroom—as untouched as her rosaries, a realm of clothes never to be worn again—and then my room, which might as well be a library in its own right.

  Aside from some of the dust on my mother’s things, this drab hellhole isn’t dirty. It’s just a testament to a poor and boring life. And bless every moment of self-recrimination I’ve ever had about my habits, because at least I know the poor and boring life is all she’ll see. She won’t see the hidden things I keep for my needs. My shameful little shrine, the one I worship at nightly.

  I stand with my hands braced on the counter while I wait for the water to boil, wondering what’s wrong with me. Why I need the things I need, why I’m consumed with desires more potent than any curse. Wondering why I can’t finish college and wear the clothes Auden wears and talk with the polished ease of a scholar like Becket can. Wondering why grief seems so natural to me, and the same with sadness. Why when my mother died, I thought, of course of course, as if death was more familiar than life, as if I were being robbed by an old friend and not by the sucking void of entropy and decay.

  I wonder why I can’t say the things to Proserpina I want to say.

  I wonder why I don’t follow her upstairs and walk her backwards into my room, onto my bed, cage her with my body and kiss her until she melts. Until she parts her legs for me and I can settle on my belly between them, hooking my arms around her thighs and fucking her with my mouth until I bring back that smile of hers that means so much to me.

  The water goes; I steep the tea, add enough milk and sugar to make even the pickiest child happy—the way Proserpina likes it—and then turn when I hear her footsteps coming down the stairs. She comes into the kitchen, still fresh and curious and in no way pitying at all.

  “Thank you for letting me in,” she says, and I know she means more than the house. “I want . . . to be close to you.”

  Fuck, what can I say to that? Except the truth?

  “There’s nothing I want more, Poe. I just . . . ”

  I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I can’t tell her that I feel like I owe her to Auden, because my rational mind knows that she has complete romantic and sexual autonomy. And for the same reason and others, I can’t reiterate why I feel like she belongs with Auden anyway.

  But she knows. She sees me more than anyone other than my mother and maybe Auden.

  “Is this about him?”

  I look down at my boots and then back up to her, sucking on my lip ring while I think about how to answer. “Yes. Some.”

  She sighs and steps into me, sliding her hands underneath my open leather jacket and burying her face in my chest the same way she does to Auden sometimes. It makes me feel about eight feet tall. It also gets me hard.

  “You, Auden, and I need to talk,” she says into my shirt, as her hand drops to play with my belt. My head drops back and I let out a low unh when her palm brushes over my zipper and the erection straining there. “I’m tired of dancing around what happened on Imbolc night and the night after.”

  “Mm.” It’s hard to think when she’s stroking me, even over the denim.

  “Can I ask? What happened between you two?”

  I tense, all desire tightening into barbed wire around my chest and throat. “It’s—I—”

  She holds me tighter, but doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

  “I hurt him first,” I manage. “I started it.”

  “And him? Did he finish it?”

  I close my eyes, thinking about the money. About my mother’s tears, about hunting him down at his fancy fucking university to confront him. “Yeah. He finished it.”

  “Will you ever be able to move past it?”

  What was the M for?

  Mistake.

  “I don’t know,” I say, but it’s in my voic
e what I really think.

  No.

  No and no and no.

  She drops her hand with a sad noise, and pathetically, my hips chase her touch. After having felt the heaven of her cunt, the delicious hell of Auden’s rough fist, is it any wonder I’m struggling to go back to satisfying myself? Nothing is as sweet as servicing Poe with my erection. Nothing is as primally powerful as being at Auden’s mercy.

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispers. “Not until the three of us figure everything out.”

  She’s right, I know she’s right. Even if she wasn’t, I’d do everything in my power to make her happy because her happiness is as necessary to me as air. So I swallow down the discomfort of my full, aching cock, and walk her home.

  And then I spend the next hour at home before my shift fucking a toy over and over, draining myself a full three times before I have to clean up and walk to work.

  It’s still not enough, and I’m beginning to wonder if Poe is leveraging my unslakable lust on purpose, because at this point, I’d agree to almost anything. Including talking to the man I hurt, and who tried to starve my mother in return.

  Chapter 12

  Eight Years Ago

  Auden began to touch St. Sebastian in small but possessive ways.

  At first, the touches started with a politely uttered may I? before each one. Before he’d take St. Sebastian’s elbow to show him something—may I—or before he dunked him in the river—may I—or before he brushed dirt and grass off his back—may I, may I, may I.

  The asking bothered St. Sebastian for reasons he wasn’t sure he entirely understood.

  Finally, one lazy evening out on the moors—St. Sebastian preferred the moors to the village, less chance of running into the scowling boys there—he told Auden, “You can stop asking before you do that shit. I know you like doing it.”

  Auden, who’d been holding a half-empty wine bottle up to the sunset and watching the colors it made, made a patronizing noise. “Obviously, I like it or I wouldn’t do it. The crucial question is if you like it.”

  St. Sebastian was sitting with his back to a large rock, the wind whipping at his clothes and hair. It flapped and blew and gusted noisily enough that it made honesty feel safer somehow, like if he could barely be heard, then he was protected from the consequences of what he said.

  “You know I like it,” he whispered. “You know I do.”

  Auden looked over at him with one of those stares that made St. Sebastian feel like his every thought was scrawled in marker on his forehead. Then Auden looked away. “It’s not good to touch people without asking first,” he said philosophically, going back to his wine and tilting the bottle this way and that.

  “What happens if I want you to stop asking?”

  Auden kept watching the wine, but St. Sebastian knew that he wasn’t thinking about sunset palettes or claret pantones anymore. “Why,” Auden asked carefully, “would you want me to stop asking?”

  What could he say?

  Because I want to touch you without asking? Because I want us to have a right to each other?

  Because I want to feel like I’m yours?

  No, he wasn’t ready to say any of those things, so instead he said, “Just consider right now blanket permission for you to touch me or whatever, okay? I’m saying yes, you may for the rest of all time.”

  “No one says yes for the rest of all time, that would be insane.”

  “Well, I am.”

  Auden dropped the bottle with a huff, seemingly not caring that it landed on its side and began spilling into the grass. He turned to St. Sebastian. “No, you’re not. I won’t let you.”

  “You won’t let me?”

  “I’m trying to be good,” Auden said. “I’m trying to stop. And this is not helping.”

  “Stop what?”

  Auden gestured at himself. “Stop this, stop the things I want. Stop myself.”

  St. Sebastian didn’t understand. “Stop yourself from what?”

  Auden didn’t answer. He just bunched his eyes shut.

  “What if,” St. Sebastian proposed, “I give you my yes, but I promise to tell you the minute I don’t like it and I want you to stop. How about that?”

  Auden opened one eye. Then the other. “Like a safe word.”

  St. Sebastian, who knew about safe words from all those furtive internet searches, was shocked that Auden knew.

  “I read a lot of fan fiction,” Auden said at St. Sebastian’s surprise. And then, “It’s not important. Look, I like how we are together. I like the idea of touching you. But I’m worried I’ll get carried away; I’m worried . . . ”

  St. Sebastian nudged his hand when he didn’t keep going. “Worried that what?”

  “Worried I’ll scare you off,” Auden finished quietly. Ruefully.

  “Let’s just see,” St. Sebastian said. “Let’s just try it and see.”

  So they tried it.

  For the next week, Auden touched St. Sebastian however he liked and as often as he wanted—which turned out to be quite often, as St. Sebastian learned.

  Auden would tug on St. Sebastian’s longish hair to get his attention, or hook a finger in St. Sebastian’s belt loop to steer him in a shop, only dropping his hand when someone else came into the aisle and replacing it the moment they left. He’d insist on sketching St. Sebastian while they rested or lounged—or he’d do it while straddling St. Sebastian’s lap as he had that first Sunday in the graveyard, so he could “get close enough.” One memorable afternoon, he made a game with their supplies from Thornchapel, playing keep away with the food until St. Sebastian, out of curiosity, finally agreed to Auden’s terms of surrender, which involved Auden feeding St. Sebastian the sandwiches by hand and having St. Sebastian drink from his own water bottle, which he’d tip to St. Sebastian’s lips at exactly the moment St. Sebastian found himself thirsty.

  He traced the lines of St. Sebastian’s mouth with his finger—repeatedly, religiously. He’d tug off St. Sebastian’s shirt—always slow enough for St. Sebastian to say no, which was slow enough for St. Sebastian to get impatient and tug the damn thing off himself—and then Auden would spend what felt like hours consuming St. Sebastian’s stomach and chest and back with his eyes, often without even the pretext of sketching.

  St. Sebastian had never felt so adored, so worshipped—never felt as interesting or as sexy—as he did as the lord of the manor’s obsession. He was delirious with the feeling of it, drunk with it—

  And yet he was frustrated as hell, because they hadn’t kissed.

  Why hadn’t Auden kissed him? It wasn’t as if St. Sebastian had been able to hide the jerking breaths he took when Auden touched his mouth, or the way his nipples gathered into tight little points when Auden ran his pencil over them. And there was certainly no hiding what happened to his cock nearly every moment he spent in Auden’s presence.

  Surely Auden knew St. Sebastian wanted to be kissed. Surely.

  And surely Auden wanted to kiss him, right? You didn’t caress boys you didn’t want to kiss, you didn’t watch their nipples harden and the muscles along their ribs and stomach judder under the skin with each shaking breath if you didn’t want to taste their lips on your own.

  Then one day Auden coaxed St. Sebastian to Thornchapel with promises of some new Xbox games, and after they’d played for hours, they’d snuck some wine into the walled garden and sat on the edge of a fountain with their feet in, watching the blooming lavender and baby’s breath bob in the breeze. And with his linen pants rolled up to his knees and his hair flopping just so, Auden looked like something off the cover of a book, he looked like the dictionary entry for handsome, perfect rich boy.

  Just looking at him made St. Sebastian’s heart ache.

  And he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, go another moment without knowing what it felt like to kiss Auden Guest.

  “Auden,” he said. Just that. Just his name, because he didn’t know what words to say next and he didn’t know that he ever would.

&nb
sp; Except then he did. “I want you to do more than look at me and draw me,” he managed, the words pushing out of him. “I need you to kiss me like you touch me, as if . . . as if I already belong to you.”

  Next to him, Auden froze, bottle dangling from his fingertips.

  “Please,” St. Sebastian said on a swallow.

  A broken groan.

  A moment voltaic with possibility and with the heavy, burning charge of potential rejection—

  And then St. Sebastian hit the bed of lavender and baby’s breath, Auden atop him and staring down with blazing eyes, his sides heaving violently.

  “I just—” St. Sebastian started, but Auden shook his head, a single quick jerk.

  “Hold completely still,” Auden ordered. “Don’t move until I say.”

  Unsure where this was going, St. Sebastian gave a slow, nervous nod.

  Auden bent down until his mouth hovered just over St. Sebastian’s, and St. Sebastian wanted to buck and whine with how close they were, how fucking close they were and why wouldn’t Auden just kiss him? Why had he denied St. Sebastian the right to surge up and steal the kiss he needed to keep living?

  But St. Sebastian held still. And held his tongue—literally and figuratively.

  “I wanted to wait,” Auden breathed over St. Sebastian’s mouth, “until I wouldn’t scare you.”

  “Scare me with what?”

  “With how much I want to do this.”

  And then Auden didn’t kiss St. Sebastian—he bit him. He took that bottom lip he loved to sketch and to touch so much, and he bit it. Right in the middle. Hard enough to leave marks, and hard enough that St. Sebastian grunted against his bite. Hard enough that when he pulled back and blinked down at St. Sebastian, St. Sebastian could feel the hot, shocking roll of blood—just a single, small drop—welling from the very center of his lip and tracing down to the corner of his mouth.

  Auden’s eyes darkened as he watched, and then he dipped his head and slowly . . . carefully . . . licked the blood away while St. Sebastian trembled underneath him.

  “Did I scare you?” Auden asked, now trailing his kisses everywhere, all over St. Sebastian’s jaw and neck and cheeks and eyelids. He finally brushed his lips against St. Sebastian’s mouth; they were warm and firm and damp with wine and blood. “Did I scare you away?”