Wings by Heather C A crescent of flesh emerges from the dark as an unseen candle sparks; shoulders, hunched, skin stretching over lean muscle, tendons winding, the knot of bone erect and hard at the base of the neck. His hair is barely distinguishable from the black, and Matt can hear breathing -- weighted, rhythmic. Words float toward him, but are not for him; they are unfamiliar, foreign, spoken with the intensity of lyric. The glow of candlelight swells. The room is old, the walls vibrating their age, the cracks in the plaster bleeding colors, images he has only seen in books, museums. The sheen of years has faded their vibrancy, but not their power. Face after face gazes at him, martyred, in rapture; a patina of knowledge softens them and their fear. His fear is not soft, and is unknowing; his palm is cool against wood as he takes careful, silent steps down the table. Every angel watches, expectant. He is naked, kneeling over -- something. Matt sees little else, for the skin of this back is a canvas unto itself. He longs to touch it, to pull the blanket of colors from the walls and watch it settle into the concave at the base of his spine. Part of him expects to see wings thrust from the expanse, but they do not. He is getting closer, and he smells -- something. A hand lifts; it is wearing a glove of crimson to the elbow. He sees it now, moving past, turning to face this being carved of ivory, ebony, and emerald, perched atop the table, hovering over his kill. Matt thinks of the Angel of Death, firstborns (or loves? he wonders), and streaks of lamb's blood over doorways. He thinks of birds, and prey. Elena's chest is a flower: a glistening, exotic burst of reds and purples. At its center, a quivering, and he watches in fascination as Stefan bends to it, tongue barely flickering against the still pulsing muscle of her heart. There is tenderness in the gesture, a gentle intimacy that Matt is almost ashamed to witness. Jealousy is bitter down the back of his throat as the heart responds to the touch, becoming engorged and impossibly large. A smile curves the corner of Stefan's mouth, his eyes a green so deep as to be nearly black when they focus on him. So close now. "Matt." He stretches the M from consonant to promise, and echoes of Elena erupt from wounds that have yet to fully heal, and with it a hatred for the obscenity of her lying upon the table, flayed and spread before so many eyes; a butterfly pinned. But still...still, this jealousy as those disturbing eyes leave him, peering into the maze of meat and vein, a single finger prodding. "Stefan -- " But the words tangle. Stefan does not look at him; instead he pulls himself up, unfurling, and Matt marvels at the quiet, unearthly perfection of him -- the subtle definition of his chest, nipples like pale wine, an abdomen Michelangelo could only dream of molding, or holding. His hipbones raise from the skin in permanent invitation, his cock full and flushed, and trembling, like his hand, which he is raising to his mouth. He tastes one finger, eyes narrowed behind stray curls, but Matt can see the shudder pass through him, tightening his shoulders and jaw, running a line down his neck and into his arm and lighting the very air afire. Compassion beats in Matt's breast; lust buckles his knees. Elena is no more, leaving only her blood as blessing. Stefan's lips part as Matt crawls up onto the table and takes his hand, tongue and teeth moving over nail and knuckle. He gasps aloud, and the sound pervades Matt's skin, pulls the strings in his groin. Stefan's eyes are glazed -- with desire or unshed tears, he is not certain. It does not matter. The blood is mending now -- finding the edges of the rift that has split them, kept them apart for too long. A talon pierces his chest as teeth break his throat, and he surrenders wholly to this kiss. Pin me. Open me. His hands move over the canvas; his intentions paint wings.