VESPERTINE

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<center><H1>VESPERTINE</H1></center><center><i>A Goncharov (1973) fangame.</i></center> <center>Save me, Lord, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues.</center> <center><b>[[ENTER->1]]</b></center><center><i>[[Content Warnings]]</i></center>

<i>You remind me of the martyred saints, [[hair aflame.->red1]] </i>

Through all of the <<button "bodies">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p1").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> he inhabits- every assumed identity purloined from false-saints, botched dye job<sup>[["[1]"->A1]]</sup> in cracked ceramic sinks, and bleary blinking fit after swirling a coloured contact lens into place, Andrey keeps careful hold of a small, battered book.<sup>[["[2]"->A2]]</sup> The elastic has worn out more times than he can count. He’s memorized the contents years ago. The hard cover is dented and scarred, dinged up from being tossed into the bottom of carry on bags in Paris, Milan, New York. It’s plain, unadorned, often tucked up beneath his arm alongside a crisp newspaper, a cup of coffee<sup>[["[3]"->A3]]</sup> in his left [[hand.->2]] <center>[["<<"->START]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->2]]</center>

<blockquote><i>VESPERTINE</i> contains text-based portrayals of the following: - Major character death - Ecclesiastical content - Infidelity - Violence and injuries - Allusions to consensual sexual encounters - Brief cannibalism - Mentions of alcohol and smoking</blockquote><center>[[RETURN->START]]</center>

His fingerprints are inky, marred with black: Andrey has a terrible penchant for fountain pens, apologetic smile at the ready as he charmingly dyes a new dress shirt ten shades of blue for the nth time this week. His smile comes easily, and people can’t help but fall a little in love<sup>[["[4]"->A4]]</sup>: the coy flutter of long lashes, a grazing glance beneath their veil, the soft, hesitant touch as he returns to them their daubing hand by the wrist, <<button "handkerchief">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p2").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> or scrunched up paper towel crumpled in their grip. The whisperingly sweet voice, so gentle from a man<sup>[["[5]"->A5]]</sup>- <i>if he were a woman, he’d be beautiful,</i> Goncharov’s muttered: drunken eyes hazily raking over his frame. That too- he’s [[memorized.->3]] <center>[["<<"->1]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->3]]</center>

Some things are too painful to say aloud. He watches the interplay of light<sup>[["[6]"->A6]]</sup> shine over his knife, tessellations of stained glass refractions swimming over the ceiling. A tip of the blade: and the light distorts, runs its cool touch over Goncharov’s skin, laid bare beneath him. He is alight with colour. Andrey leans down- presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, where in another lifetime: <<button "seraphic wings">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p3").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> might have unfolded. There is a trail of angry red furrows dug into his back, clawed at until his fingers came away rusted with blood<sup>[["[7]"->A7]]</sup>. The silence in the room is deafening, the scrawl of Goncharov’s pen over the page centre stage. Andrey presses his palm to Goncharov’s back, now- a silent entreaty to keep him still, to keep him in [[place.->4]] <center>[["<<"->2]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->4]]</center>

It’s futile, of course. Still, there is comfort in the solidity of his frame<sup>[["[8]"->A8]]</sup>, in the radiating warmth of another body twisted up in his silk sheets. The <<button "knife">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p4").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> is silently folded back onto itself, slid into the nightstand under the pretence of tidying up. Andrey folds their dress shirts in tiny, fastidious gestures: <i>neat as a married woman,</i> Goncharov remarks drily, having turned over now. The black book is closed with a snap. Another entry, another memento of their [[affair.->5]] <center>[["<<"->3]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->5]]</center>

Their slacks join the pile of folded clothes, set off to the side. He can hear his lover pawing around on top of the nightstand, restlessly searching for the dog eared carton of cigarettes<sup>[["[9]"->A9]]</sup>. Andrey has already flicked his lighter in anticipation: flame dancing, warming the cold planes of his face: too haughtily beautiful to break into <<button "domesticity.">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p5").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> <i>Not like Katya,</i> Goncharov says: Katya, who Andrey admires- a heartbreakingly beautiful face, ingenue eyes, a foreign softness to her that begs to be thoroughly explored. She knows: she has to know. And still- her face haloed in the light spilling over the threshold, fuzzy at the edges like an angel, a smile gracing him<sup>[["[10]"->A10]]</sup> and all his vespertine [[visitations.->6]] <center>[["<<"->4]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->6]]</center>

Andrey knows he can’t keep doing this. They’re living on borrowed time- the complexity of watching eyes weaving close and the limitations of saintly patience wearing thin. Painted on disguises melt under stage lighting<sup>[["[11]"->A11]]</sup>: and he feels the <<button "halogenic">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p6").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> floodlights, the searing question in his superior’s eyes, the glint of a whiskey glass tipped just so: to reflect his guilt right back at [[him.->7]] <center>[["<<"->5]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->7]]</center>

One day, and someday soon, he’ll have to commit- to the <<button "plunge">> <<script>> Dialog.setup(""); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("p7").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</button>> of a knife, to the pull of a trigger. The choice is his, they’ll say: they’re leaving it in his capable hands: stained indelibly to the wrists in blood. <i>What’s one more body to the count?</i><sup>[["[12]"->A12]]</sup> A thin lipped smile- tight with amusement. Everything, when the man looks at him like he <i>sees</i> him- unafraid, [[unflinching.->8]] <center>[["<<"->6]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->8]]</center>

The endless litany of borrowed faces will come to an end. How many more airplane tickets, hotel bookings, and rented cars do they have? When he cradles Goncharov’s face between his palms, he’s haunted by how easy it would be to break his neck. Still, he gentles him- still, he kisses him, soft and slow and sweet: like it’s their first time, a thousand times over. <center>[[120:2->START]]</center> <center>[["<<"->7]] ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ [[">>"->START]]</center>

The red hair dye had dripped down the sides of his collar- giving the general impression of Andrey having had his throat slashed. The tub looked like the aftermath of a knife fight, spatters of blood congealing in the lines of grout. Andrey had scrubbed his skin raw afterwards, cursing quietly at his clumsiness: it’d been awhile since he’d had such particular guidelines for a mission. Flushed and pink as a new bride, Goncharov had half hidden a smile behind a beer bottle, lips brushing against the green glass as he studied Andrey like a Rubens [[painting.->1]]

<i>I mended that ridiculous little handkerchief of yours: a few new flowers to take with you to [[Florence.->hankie1]]</i>

He kept a variety of them on his person: Andrey was perpetually tipping over glass ink bottles or spilling ammonia cleaners about when servicing his fountain pens. Most were plain squares of cotton, cut out from forlorn secondhand dresses he bought on a whim. When he was relocated to a new destination, burning the remnants of his briefing: Andrey would leave the fabric to the birds, a patchwork quilt deconstructed across cold cement, fibres picked to pieces, colourful threads woven into a beating metropolitan heart. Years from now, the city will still be riotously alive with their colour. The embroidered flowers will sit just so in his pocket- dahlias forever [[abloom.->2]]

<i>In another lifetime: I would have been a reliquary for your [[bones.->church1]]</i>

For a few years, they’d met furtively in the cover of the church. Here was neutral ground, a silent truce called between warring bodies. Fingers brushing as they handed over verses long committed to memory. The smell of his cologne cutting through the dusted incense and beeswax candles, drooping roses wilting in their heat. Touching the tips of their shoes together, leather resting against leather- pressed thigh to thigh, squashed up together in the pews. The thrill of an outlined holster crushed against [[him.->3]]

<i>I had a feeling this would appeal to your [[sensibilities.->knife1]]</i>

The balisong flicks open with a delicate motion of his wrist, smooth steel snicking into place effortlessly. Goncharov is finishing off a cup of coffee- the mug looking slight in his hands, cradled carelessly. He smiles, takes an especial pleasure in watching Andrey work the knife, acquainting himself with its balance, the heft of it in his hand. Damascus steel swirled with patterns dances through the air, and Andrey is silent, entranced by how quickly it feels like a mere extension of his [[body.->4]]

<i>The problem with you, Andrey- is you always think you have more [[time.->winter1]]</i>

The snows will come, whipped up into a frenzy. Sleet will lash against the sides of buildings, ice encrust the electrical wires until they bend and break: snapping in a cascade of sparks. His hands will be buried in his pockets, blood soaking into the silk lining. The fingers wrapped around the knife will shake. He’ll clench them tighter. His palm will split along the seam of his heart-line. Blood drips down in thick rivulets, intermingling with the dead man’s on his [[hands.->7]]

<i>Married life wasn’t made for men like [[you and I.->venice1]]</i>

They’ll spend a summer together in Venice, listening to the slow lapping of water against crumbling stone. Countertops dusted in flour, fresh fruit cut into slivers- feeding each other languidly. Tangled up together, the quiet intimacy of his legs in his lap- snuggled beneath a light blanket and reading through sunfaded novels. Walking side by side through winding cobblestone streets. Listening to the dryer rumble, as he takes in the countenance of the man- in blousy linen, carefree: undefined by the stark, sharp lines of his closely tailored [[suits.->5]]

<i>I’ll be there for you if I [[can.->hotel1]]</i>

He makes a cathedral out of the man- his kisses shower down like cold northeastern rain: a breathtaking deluge crashing from the heavens. Goncharov is the last person he expects to see. Andrey is lifted off of his feet- hands around his waist, spun around like he weighs nothing. He’s crushed close- kissed until he’s breathless, mouth bruised. In broad daylight: they are strangers to the city, unknown lovers lost in each other. Later, when they lay against an anonymous hotel’s silken sheets- he listens to the steady beating of Goncharov’s heart: how it rails to be heard, how it demands to be [[witnessed.->6]]

I’ve always thought your natural colouring suited you best: dark hair, doe eyes- eyes you could drown in, pupils barely perceptible: blown wide in ardour, in desire. You have to look closely, to notice that desperate wanting on you- how tightly you control yourself, try to school your twitching mouth, the stern set to your jaw. How you lean unconsciously into my touch all the same- chasing after that gentle warmth. But I’d want you all the same as a blonde- like the wheat fields we painted portraits of each other in, summer sun baking over our shoulders. Alla prima: all at once. You and I know something about that. I’d have eyes only for you as a brunet: church mouse brown, a shy, faltering touch over communion. Such a devoted man. And as a redhead- you captivate the room, eyes drawn to the flame, to the way you liven up a room. I long for you, as you [[come.->1]]

I bought this in one of the stationery stores you are so inordinately fond of. For a man who cannot leave overt traces of himself behind in his line of work: you certainly love the art of archiving. I don’t indulge in the habit myself: I know little about the glide of buttery smooth tines, of the balancing act of posting a cap: I’m afraid the intricacies of urushi bodies are lost on me. But I like to listen to you as you speak- the way your eyes glitter, your posture perks up, the fluttering of your heart in your throat, so excited your fingers shake. I know that you love the touch of pen to paper. I’ve seen you trace your fingertips over the indentations of my letters, pressed firm into the page. I hope that you’ll think of me, late in Barcelona- bring your fingers to your mouth, press them to the page: that too, is an approximation of a [[kiss.->1]]

I know how you take your coffee. Two sugars, a splash of cream, poured over ice. When winter falls, and the temperatures plummet: holding your hand in my own to warm you through after you’ve been holding onto the cup is a pleasure. I love the way the cold leaves you: flushed cheeks, a shivering frame- overcome with the desire to be close, to be held: to be cherished. How you burrow your face into a borrowed scarf, pulled from my neck and wrapped around yours. Slipping an arm around your waist, drawing you close to my side: there’s something a man could die for. There’s something a man could live for. Loving you comes so [[easily.->1]]

To ask me when I knew that I loved you is a fool’s errand. Better to ask how I love you. I love you like Lake Superior swallows her damned, refusing to let a single ship breach the surface. The way that cicadas burrow into the earth, laying dormant for years, slow and still and patient. As the smell of gunpowder and smoke lingers on your clothing, tousling your hair, seeping into your skin. With the discipline behind dragging the tip of a knife over shivering flesh, taut- but never breaking it, never splitting you asunder. How forests burned to the ground will bloom anew, sprouting through ash and smoulder. Love, like the brief free fall- before the impact. I love you the way the dead sea loves: caustic, catastrophic, and still- halophilic archaea persist in those blue, blue waters. The way a lighthouse throws its light over the ocean waves: a beacon of warning, to stay away- refuge is not in sight. Those craggy corals and rough rocks will tear into your hull, until there’s nothing left of you. I love you. I love you. I love [[you.->2]]

Your voice is so gentle. It’s always come as a surprise to me, the tenderness strewn through it- how easily you mask it beneath an assumed accent or nicked cadence, stepping into the shoes of whatever performance is demanded of you. It’s so easy to forget, especially as you command a room: as you bark out orders, wheel around and snap. I’ve heard you strident, I’ve heard you despondent: I love hearing you in the early hours of morning best- throat sore, voice barely above a whisper, no borrowed flourishes or articulations. The weight of my hand overtop, the smooth swallow and bob of your Adam’s apple. A hitched breath. A tremulous shiver. The way you say my [[name.->2]]

One of the first times I ever saw you in church- you had your eyes closed, unassuming. The light drifted through tall windows, hazily lighting up dust motes drifting through the air. It touched over you so gently: bathed in radiance, set aglow. I thought you were an angel. I thought you were a saint. I stood, rooted in place. To bear witness. To see you as you are. Isn’t that worship? Couldn’t you make a religion out of it? It’s not my place to judge you, Andrey. Only God can grant you absolution. It is your cross to bear, the burden heavy on your heart- to forgive yourself for what you must do someday. What you will do someday. When you lay me open like a carcass on the killing floor, string me up like a slaughterhouse lamb: kiss me, would you? Let my last moments be an unbearable sweetness, even as I drown in my own blood. They say that it is the body of Christ, his blood- that consumption is the highest form of devotion. Swallow me. Take me in. Allow me to settle in between your ribs. Let me haunt you for years [[on.->3]]

You and I are similar- though you hate to admit it. How many bodies have we felled? How many men have we buried? We know intimately what we will do, when pushed to the brink. Balisong butterflying a man. Pistol ground to his temple. The quick gutting slide, intestinal shine splattering on your shoes. The rapturous bang of a shot fired true. A bruising grip. A reliable left hook. The language of touch that transpires between two bodies in a takedown. Pinioned into place, breathless and hard. When your body is a weapon- tenderness is terrifying. But as you have a profound capacity for pain- so do you too, for love. Drawing it out of you is a joy. To see you soften in repose, how you seek out touch- to be defined by it, to be known through it. There is no greater pleasure than to see how you bloom in [[loving.->3]]

A house from the turn of the century, a remnant from war: in dire need of renovation. A fixer-upper. It could be something beautiful someday. You need to gut it first. Debride it of rot. To go through the meticulous steps of preparation in advance: to make it easy, to stick the landing. Blue tarp. Flat head screw. Sledgehammer. Mark, and measure, cut, and disassemble. Bring it down to constituent parts. Patched up with drywall and a fresh coat of paint. Breathing life into its bones. There’s a foundation to build something on. You fall in love with the potential of it. You picture a life together, the transitionary moment of house to home. Do you understand, now? We could be something beautiful [[together.->4]]

Do you know why I smoke this particular brand? It’s not for the smoothness of the pull, not for the taste that lingers acrid on my tongue. Nor the nicotine buzz thrumming through my blood after a good lungful. It’s because it was the one you were smoking the very first night we kissed, beneath the shadow of the clocktower. As the church bells tolled, announcing the height of the hour- spies sidling by with newspapers tucked under their arms, businessmen power walking in ridiculous suits, fashionistas floating by in tulle and crinolines: and you, in my arms, the haze of smoke obscuring our faces. We could have been anyone. We could have been no one in particular. We were each other’s- and in the end, only that matters to [[me.->5]]

Such a strange question. Of course I love her- of course I know that what exists between us wounds her terribly. But we’re only given so much time, Andrey- and I intend to make the most out of it. I’m sure she does, too. I’ve seen the way she and Sofiya look at one another. I walked in on them, one night- Katya tracing the seam of faux stockings onto the back of Sofiya’s bare leg. She turned to look at me, as the door opened- eyes guileless, wide. There was no remorse in her expression. Only a sense of some mutual understanding passing between the two of us- and then, I shut the door. What transpired that night is known only to them. Since then, she’s come to our house now and then: and I let her in with all the same courtesy and knowing smiles, as Katya does for you. Our love is about forgiveness- what terrible sins we enact on the other, what savageries: and still, teeth bloodied and skin torn- we are who we go home to, even if I miss the absence of you in my bed. I love her, in my own way- and I love you in another. Two things can be true at once. Perhaps we’re both terrible. Well, душа моя, neither of us are in the business of being good people. We made that decision long ago- and it’s one written in blood. Perhaps we deserve each [[other.->5]]

You’re an elegant man. I never took you as one for ballet- but the precision of each movement, the tidy grace: how self assured you are in the exquisite balance of your body- it makes sense. It suits you. One long line of perfection. I’m sure the other dancers did a marvellous job: but I had eyes only for you on stage. You commanded the room. The lights overhead made you a heavenly [[vision.->6]]

There are certain things it’d be best for me not to know. I know better than to ask too many questions of you. It’s to be expected- from a man who makes his living in being interchangeable with any other body, in slipping into thin air like a ghost. It’s dangerous, in our line of work: to draw too much attention to ourselves, our activities. So I don’t ask the details of the takedown. I don’t ask for the briefing of your case. I turn my head the other way, as you knock his teeth out into the slush and grey snow, only stooping down to pick up the remnants: so as not to leave behind evidence that might implicate you. Your reasons are your own. And as we drive down the winding backroads, forests flanking us on either side, the streetlights long left behind: I do not probe. For a man so slight: you know your way around handling a body. It’s [[admirable.->7]]