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A few nights ago, the man he had been rooming with attempted to hang himself.
Despite the event still being considered fresh, the memory held a fuzzed edge as the theorist recalled it. It felt like it'd been a dream. He'd awoken to the sound of a struggle in the dead of night, the sharp sound of pained choking, the creak of what sounded like a leather belt straining against too much weight. He'd been delirious as he turned his head quickly toward the noise, blinking away the blur in his vision.
His brain blacked out as he attempted to recall the sight, clearly deeming the detail as unimportant. His stomach seemed to remember, however. There was threat of losing the minimal food he'd been given.
He could only remember mustering up a foreign amount of strength to push the man up by his legs, offering him short bursts of air while the theorist repeatedly shouted for assistance from anyone that resided in other rooms. A few individuals responded to the call, a man in a green cap and a foreigner with mouth wounds, but the shock had rendered them useless.
Eventually, the owner of the home had responded, aiming his gun right at the ceiling and shooting a bullet through the belt.
The theorist recalled how harshly his ears had been ringing. The mutual collapse of both him and the blinded man hardly compared to that ringing. The bullet had lodged itself into the wooden cabinet after hitting its initial target, shattering a grand amount of ceramic and splintering the smooth wood.
His roommate had survived, at the very least. When his hearing slowly returned, hacking and coughing was heard. The homeowner had rushed to where they both collapsed, pushing the blinded man off of the theorist.
The theorist had managed to push himself into a sitting position with shaking arms, examining the scene as the homeowner assisted the blinded man into leaning against the fridge. The coughing and wheezing only continued. It wasn't too surprising when the blinded man eventually leaned over and vomited onto the tile.
The entire room was silent minus the ringing and heaving. There were no dramatic askings of why, no yelling, no cursing. It was a far cry different from how the theorist always imagined suicides to be. He couldn't get any words to crawl up his throat.
When the blinded man's coughing reduced to only wheezing, he finally leaned his head back to thunk softly against the fridge door, vacant eye sockets staring into the theorist's own. Despite not harboring eyes, he seemed to know exactly where the theorist resided, vacant gaze pinning him in place.
And then, he had smiled. A weak ghost of a smile. Fake and phony. If the man had the strength to speak, he was sure an apology would've been uttered.
He had always been partial to the smile, but in that moment, it could've been enough to make him vomit.
The crawl of days that had passed since the event felt unreal. The other residents of the house remained in the kitchen more often than not, offering their own muttered apologies and attempting to extend their support out to the near victim of suicide. Even the owner of the household was a smidge kinder, saving the man from the relentless testing and the barrel of his gun. The blinded man was polite, as he always was. But the theorist could tell his gratitude was all for show, exhaustion and exasperation defining every line in his body.
The theorist knew the man detested the attention.
The nights were the most unbearable to deal with. The sleep that had used to come reasonably to the theorist was now brief. A distinct fear welled up in his chest whenever he felt himself drifting off. He could still hear the echo of struggle in the depths of his mind, the stink of gunpowder clinging to the air of the room only enhancing the sharp twinge in his stomach.
While forcing himself to remain conscious, he found himself staring more often than not. The blinded man went back to sharing the same table, slumping in the same chair. It was hard for the theorist to gauge how he was feeling. He spoke less, moved less. Subtly mourning the fact he had to continue the life he tried to end.
The black and purple ring around his neck became more prominent each day.
While doing his staring, he took note of that. The blend and hues of different colors, all undoubtedly painful, were compelling. He could see a small strip of irritated, scabbed flesh from where the belt had dug too hard into his neck. It was a sight he was sure the blinded man would appreciate being spared of.
The theorist, however, couldn't look away.
It made him sick to his stomach, but he just couldn't ignore it. The evidence of a body trying tirelessly to stay alive despite the owner not having that same desire. Contradiction.
He attempted to understand how the man next to him was feeling. Despite never caring much about the emotional aspect of things, he suddenly wanted to know. What was it like to feel your body attempting to smooth over your decision? How could one process the pain from a failed attempt knowing that if you'd succeed, you wouldn't have to suffer it?
And most importantly, how does one process the fact the reason for your failure continued sitting at the same table as you?
He had no answers, and he didn't have the guts to ask.
It was another late night. Another instance where sleep kept attempting to claim him. Documents flooded the table, low light illuminating the cramped words. He couldn't make out the sentences. They all blurred and melded together no matter how he squinted.
The house was far from cool, a sweltering death trap. He could feel himself sweating, to add to the discomfort of lack of rest. He wondered if things could possibly get any worse.
The man beside him seemed just as uncomfortable. Despite the constant supply of painkillers the owner of the household was supplying him, he always seemed in pain. A small frown was etched into his face, slumped in his chair as he stared at the table in front of him.
The theorist decided a trip to the bathroom was in order. He needed to splash himself with water, wake himself up. Though a sink resided in the kitchen, he was tired of the scenery.
It would be quick, he assured himself. He wouldn't have to be frightened of returning to a dead man.
He excused himself, informing his blind companion that he'd be back shortly. His statement earned him a tired hum. The theorist wasn't sure if it had actually been comprehended.
He exited the kitchen and walked the short distance to the bathroom, sliding a hand under his glasses to rub harshly at his eyes. As he entered the small room, the sight of a woman seated on the washing machine greeted him. She cracked one eye open upon his arrival, revealing the dark black of her sclera. She paid him no mind, eventually shutting her eye once more.
She had arrived a few nights ago. The theorist had heard the echo of her voice from down the hall. She always sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't point out from where. If he were in a less troubled state of mind, he would've interrupted her attempt at sleep to inquire. Instead, he left her alone.
The water that fought its way out of the faucet was lukewarm at best, a far cry from cold. He couldn't be picky. He removed his glasses from his face before cupping his palms under the water.
Yet, when his palms couldn't hold anymore water and began overflowing, he still didn't move to splash himself, too distracted by the sight of his reflection.
He hardly cared about his appearance. Who had time? Instead, his eyes fell to his own neck, skin perfectly clean of bruises and scabs. He thought about what sort of consistent ache would be provided with the sight. He was no stranger to bruises, but usually they only ached when pressed on. What his companion was harboring was sure to ache constantly.
He'd seen the flinching from the blinded man, the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the small hisses and inhales. They echoed quite harshly in his usually cramped brain.
The theorist's own mouth turned into a frown before he finally resulted to splashing himself harshly in the face.
He left the bathroom after a few long minutes, wiping his face with his sleeve and slipping his glasses back on as he went back to the kitchen. Even though he knew the man wouldn't have had enough time to do anything rash, he still held his breath as he pushed the door open.
Instead, the room presented itself as empty.
He remained puzzled by the doorway. The chair that the blinded man usually sat in was vacant, the room eerily silent. He stepped inside slowly. Before jumping to panicked conclusions, he decided it best to take a full look around. The man couldn't have gone very far, after all.
When he peered into the gap between the fridge and the cabinets, he found the man seated on the floor, back pressed to the wall.
Utter misery exuded off of him. An unopened beer was pressed against the side of his neck, perspiration running down the length before soaking into his button-up. The sight rendered the theorist motionless for a moment, eyes fixated on the exposed skin. He quickly snapped himself out of it, frowning at his own reaction.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
The man on the floor didn't startle at the sound of his voice, already aware of his presence by footsteps alone, but there was a hint of exasperation as the blinded man shifted slightly. He pressed the beer to the opposite side of his throat, twinging at the pressure before relaxing.
"Yes," he answered, "just fine."
A silence followed the answer. The theorist understood it to be a default. He'd heard the man utter it to every other house guest, a simple way to brush off the troubled haze plaguing his mind. He knew it to be a lie. Even with the polite tone, it was a bitter thing to process.
Still, he knew better than to call it out.
"Have you decided to change spots?"
"The floor is a bit cooler."
"Ah, I'm sure." He tilted his head slightly as he observed the man. "But I doubt you'll achieve proper rest this way."
The comment earned him an amused exhale. There was a hint of sarcasm to it that even he could detect. The blinded man's fingers flexed around the can.
"Proper rest is a distant goal," he admitted.
He shifted awkwardly on his feet. This was far from his area of expertise. "There's no harm in trying to make it more achievable."
"Well," he began, "I already tried, you know."
An image flashed into his head, blunt and heavy. The man suspended from the ceiling.
The theorist forced the memory back, frowning down at the individual. The air of resentment remained prominent, the growing suspicion that he was detested only being fed.
Though exhausted, he stepped forward to crouch in front of the man, observing him closely. The blinded man seemed aware of the movement, empty gaze turning downward to where he presumed the theorist was located. For only losing his sight a few weeks ago, he had adapted quite well.
"You don't have to stay awake alongside me," the man informed. "I'll be alright."
He decided to tell a blatant lie. "I'm not feeling particularly tired."
His answer earned him a small, unconvinced hum. The blinded man tilted the can to press deeper into his skin, agitating the bruise in search of relief. The theorist's attention fixated on the flinch of a frown, the pained narrow of eye sockets. It made him reflexively swallow.
"Well, there's no use sitting in silence." The blinded man shifted, pressing his back firmer against the wall. Despite suggesting conversation, he didn't look too up for it. "Have you come across any new findings?"
The conversation being shifted toward him wasn't thrilling. He couldn't put his finger on why. In any other scenario, he'd be thrilled to do a deep dive.
"That doesn't seem important."
"It doesn't need to be." the blinded man stated politely. "You have an interesting brain. I enjoy hearing what goes on in it."
It was meant to help distract, he knew. But the theorist had a sneaking suspicion that anything he were to provide wouldn't be listened to. The man before him was always polite when they engaged in conversation before the terrible event, but now, he always felt distant. He seemed to just want an opportunity to zone out of conversation.
The theorist wasn't going to allow it.
"I've been considering the idea that you may detest me," he delivered bluntly.
The silence that followed suit wasn't comforting.
The man hadn't stiffened or shown any hint of guilt, but he could see the way his fingers continued to flex around the can he was holding. The theorist only stared. He'd never been one to back away from the truth.
"You did what anyone would have, I'm sure," he answered simply.
"But you're wishing I hadn't, yes?"
The lack of response said it all. He didn't have to inquire any further. An ugly feeling was arising in his ribcage. He lacked the confidence to describe what it was.
"It doesn't matter. This is the aftermath I have to deal with," he spoke simply as he maneuvered the beer to the opposite side of his neck once more. The theorist could see how rough the particular press was. "It's no one's fault but my own. I just have to deal with the unsightly consequence."
As he spoke, he motioned vaguely to the state of his neck. The theorist took it as an opportunity to shamelessly stare. Not that he would've been caught had he previously, but the fixation felt inappropriate.
He felt an urge to gnaw hit him, but he lacked the pen that usually remedied it. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth.
"It's not unsightly," he blurted.
That earned him an unusual shift in expression. A small, surprised frown that eventually turned into something more amused.
"You don't have to sugarcoat the statement. I can't see it, after all," a quick laugh.
He leaned closer before he could think not to, invading the blinded man's personal space. "It's the truth. I'm not fond of lies, my friend."
His mind was being consumed by the urge to examine. He slipped into a kneeling position, knees brushing against the blinded man's crossed legs. Despite the close proximity, the man being examined didn't shy away.
Up close, it was much more compelling. A mix of colors only the human body could create. His fingers twitched.
"It's a considerable bruise, don't get me wrong." He reached out, fingers unnaturally shaky as he placed them lightly near the edge of the wound. "But in comparison to other victims of the same act, it's not nearly as bad."
His head was swimming. The skin under his fingers was damp from perspiration as they remained near the front of the man's throat. The wound was hardly a centimeter away from his touch. He could hardly consider what the man before him was thinking, all attention fixed on the sore spot.
"It's not terrible to look at," his voice shook dramatically as he uttered the words. He cleared his throat quickly.
He finally gazed upward at the man. The look on his face couldn't be discerned. Surprise was evident, perhaps discomfort. The theorist's mind couldn't untangle the mess of emotions on his face.
He could feel the vibrations of speech through his fingers as the man spoke, shifting the beer he was holding just slightly.
"Is that so?"
The tension in the theorist's body was unbearable. He knew he should back off. But it was right there.
He slid his fingers up, pressing carefully into the bruise.
"It is."
The blinded man before him flinched, body tensing and a puff of pained breath exiting him. But he didn't move away. His mouth didn't utter a single word of aggravation.
The theorist could hardly think, sliding his fingers to the left with minimal pressure.
He seemed to hit a particularly sore spot. A hiss rewarded him, a sudden startle so heavy that the man before him released the beer from his grip. It fell to the ground with a thud, rolling to rest a few inches away.
He didn't remove his fingers.
"Sorry," the theorist apologized.
He pressed harder.
A sweet, pained expression rewarded him, a furrow of eyebrows, mouth parted and teeth grit to vocalize short waves of discomfort. The theorist saw the man move to dig fingers into the cloth of his pants.
"Are you?"
The blinded man uncrossed his legs clumsily, adjusting himself to allow the theorist to slide closer if he wanted, to slot himself between them.
The theorist fell for the bait. Who wouldn't?
He removed his hand from the blinded man's throat as he adjusted. He should be sorry. He should. He had no earthly idea what he was even doing! No sane person should be engaging in an activity like this. He was only making the bruise worse in the end, all for his disgusting curiosity.
But it felt good.
"In a way."
The man said nothing in response, expression unchanging. The theorist hadn't the slightest idea what was running through his head. They all had to be vile, hate-filled statements. He was nothing but a freak of a man in the moment.
Yet, hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, dragging him forward instead of pushing him away. Entrapment
He placed hands on either side of the man to stabilize himself. Warm palms against cold tile. The bruises circling the blinded man's neck were calling to him, a pull he couldn't help but respond to as the man clung to him.
The theorist drew his head closer to the length of his neck, breath quivering as he neared. He'd never allowed himself the privilege of acting on such odd tendencies, so used to shoving all the impulse down until he couldn't bear it. His fingers dug into the stationary kitchen tile, turning white from the force.
He pressed his lips against a particularly nasty section, pushing roughly against the mark. He inhaled deeply as he did so, relishing in the feel of warm skin against his lips. The mere contact was enough to make him feel like he might pass out, glasses slipping to the edge of his nose.
The small, pained breath the man uttered only did more to overwhelm him. Something so miniscule yet so large. He could hardly conceal his shaking.
He moved his lips across the curve, pressing harder against each patch as he led himself to the front of the blinded man's throat. He felt the man shift below him, the hands gripping his shoulders tightening as the pain flooded him. Disgusting thoughts entered his head. This was simply comfort, was it not? There was no room for depravity.
Yet as he approached the front of the man's throat, he couldn't help the intense, sudden urge to draw out a louder reaction. His body itched for it. His breathing quickened as lips pressed against the marking just below his adam's apple, pulling back slightly to unveil teeth.
He sunk his teeth into the bruise, quick and sharp.
The man below him did well to attempt to conceal his reaction. The theorist could feel the way his breath hitched under his teeth, the quiet, strangled sound of pain crawling up his throat. Yet the blinded man didn't shove him away, bearing it with fingers digging deeper into his shoulder.
He felt intoxicated. The way the man's body tensed and relaxed, the change of breathing right next to his ear, the quickness of his pulse under his lips, he couldn't get enough. He felt as if he'd never experienced true excitement until then and there.
He continued the onslaught, responding purely to the need in his body. The scent of aluminum and sweat clung to the blinded man's skin, an odor that left him reeling. Everything about the man before him was shockingly appealing. He couldn't get enough.
He moved an inch to the right before delivering another nip, a tad lighter than his previous bite, but it still held its edge.
Another choked noise left the man, a small arch gracing his spine as he reacted to the pain. The sound was almost angelic compared to the one that had been uttered a few nights prior. So much more alive, so much easier to process.
The memory brought a harsh, constricting feeling to his chest. He inhaled sharply through his nose. A morbid thought creeped into his head that if he had awoken a few seconds later, he would've never gotten to become familiar with the distinction.
The urge to drag out more proof of life from the man dug its claws into him. There was no thought of stopping. One hand came up to rest on the blinded man's cheek, caressing his face and tilting it slightly. The man responded well to it, baring even more of his neck.
He couldn't comprehend the fact that he was experiencing a real moment. Every little movement was too good to be true.
There was a growing desire for more. More of what he wasn't quite sure. He wanted to feel skin under his palms, feel the physical intake of breath and the shift of movement. It was the first taste he'd gotten in the matter of intimacy, and oddly, he wanted it all.
He was briefly aware of his mouth moving up the blinded man's neck, lips becoming familiar with his jawline. It was overly gentle, not at all comparable to the biting he'd just been doing.
The nails digging into his shoulder only seemed to clench harder.
He reluctantly dropped the contact once he'd trailed too far up, backing up slightly examine the damage he'd done. He could see the indents of teeth, the obvious signs of agitation from the constant pressure. The theorist swallowed, trembling gaze dragging to gaze at the affected party.
He looked good. It was a rare, simple thought from him. He never cared all too much about how a person appeared, but it was hard to ignore him. His head was pressed back against the wall, body language evidently frazzled. There was an interesting look on his face. He couldn't discern it.
"Are you sure you're not trying to... make it more unsightly?" the man in front of him asked.
He realized the blinded individual had something on his face that resembled a grin, a small tug of muscles. The theorist was almost convinced he was imagining it, the lack of blood being provided to his brain only fueling the delusion. He'd been shameless in his fixation, determined on seeing the full range he could drag out of the man seated on the floor. He hadn't been treating the wound with any sort of kindness. There was nothing grin worthy about it.
He straightened himself out quickly, shame and alarm flooding him. The blinded man startled at the sudden reaction, releasing his grip from the theorist's shoulders. The absence of pained nails biting into his skin was disgustingly disappointing.
"No," he stammered, "I was just—!"
He cut himself off with a distressed wave of the hand, something he quickly realized would not be recognized. He could feel the embarrassment rising. He had no idea how to explain himself.
"You still have good circulation!" he exclaimed. "I was simply checking. You don't seem to be numb. That's fantastic." He removed his hands from the floor, moving to sit on his heels as he adjusted his glasses. "Fantastic."
It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. It didn't make any sense. He cringed internally, even if he himself sounded confident, he knew the blinded man in front of him was intelligent enough to recognize it as one large ass-pull.
Still, he was kind enough to play along.
"Ah, thanks for checking," he said, rubbing the front of his throat. "I was a bit worried."
He couldn't bring himself to look at the blinded man. He didn't want to observe the knowing expression on his face. The theorist's own burned. He was still embarrassingly worked up. His hands itched to do more extensive research on the man before him, each thought more perverse than the last.
What had gotten into him? He had no room for such obscene thoughts. It was viable space that could be used for more sane information. He frowned to himself, staring at the floor.
The blinded man recovered easily, something the theorist considered wildly unfair. Even though he'd just been mauling the man's neck, he was acting as if it were an everyday occurrence. Did he partake in activities like this often? The thought filled him with an odd, unpleasant feeling.
"I'm sorry to ask this of you," the blinded man began, shifting to grab the beer can beside him. "Could you get me a different beer? This one's gone a bit lukewarm."
His head snapped up at the request, mouth still a tad dry. He cleared his throat before wordlessly taking the beer from the man. He wanted to express that there was no need for apologies, but his tongue was useless in his mouth.
He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, maneuvering to the front of the fridge. His entire body was shaky. To be asked to do something so normal after the sensation was torturous.
He swapped the beer clumsily. He could hardly pay his actions any mind, running on auto pilot. He shut the fridge door, facing the blinded man.
The blinded man raised his head toward the noise, rubbing carefully at the new marks at his wounded throat. It was only after a short silence that he decided to speak.
"Would you mind?" he asked. "My arms are a bit tired."
As the man spoke, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned his body to the side, parting his hair in the back to expose his nape. The sight sent a jolt right down through him. The damage to the back of his neck was hardly comparable to the front, but he could make out a much thinner bruise, angry and upset.
The theorist felt he was being teased.
Still, he had no brain power to deny. He felt like he was being guided by an invisible thread as he stooped down behind the man, hands trembling as he lifted the beer. He couldn't help but note the small quiver in the blinded man's own fingers as he placed hands in his lap, awaiting the cold contact.
The theorist held his breath as he pressed the cold can against bare skin, not allowing the sound of his breathing to mingle with the exhale that left the taller man's lips. The theorist could see a brief tension in his roommate's body, a soft breath leaving his mouth.
The things he wanted to do at the moment were filthy.
His hand gripped the beer harshly as he allowed himself to breathe again. He wanted to be close. He wanted to breathe down the man's neck, push his chest up to his back. His fingers itched to press into that purple marking, see how much pressure it would take to make the man cry out.
His heart rate was skyrocketing. He was frightened by his own train of thought. Any attempt to regulate into something more normal was swallowed up entirely by the need coursing through him. He wanted to be close. He wanted to be so close.
The blinded man shifted his head just slightly, peering back at him with empty eye sockets. The theorist could see the way his hands were folded in his lap, fidgeting relentlessly.
"The beer feels pleasant, but, you know. I think..." he began, voice quiet. That grin was wider on his face now, almost nervous. "...I prefer your mouth."
The words didn't sound real to his ears. His mind went blank, eyes widening as he stared at that nervous and excited grin. For a moment, everything in his body was at peace, processing slowly.
But reality slammed down on him like a gavel, and suddenly, everything was suffocating.
He dropped the beer can from the man's neck as his hand shifted down to the collar of his shirt, yanking on it as he shifted closer on his knees. His breathing was short as he hovered his mouth above skin, poised to deliver exactly what was being asked for.
When he bit down on the thin bruise, a shaky laugh left the man before him, filled with the distinct sound of pain and excitement. It was a quick burst that melted into a sharp inhale, yet it rang in the theorist's head.
He continued his assault. He felt as if he could engage in the activity for hours. The pain the other was experiencing was far more muted, but the small hints of agony were just as exciting as the large ones.
Yet, despite enjoying himself, he couldn't bring himself to move any closer. The concept of getting as close as he wanted was frightening. He'd never engaged with another person in such a way. His hands remained firm in staying to himself, only occasionally shifting the collar of the man's shirt to continue biting and kissing at exposed skin.
The blinded man seemed to be on a different page.
When a gap arose where the theorist's lips parted from the man's skin, his companion suddenly took the initiative to shift backwards, pressing his back to the theorist's chest. The sudden action was a bit rougher than expected, pining him between his object of desire and the hard surface of the side of the fridge. He made an awkward sort of noise, shifting by reflex parting his legs to allow the man to sit between them.
The body warmth only fueled the intensity. The blinded man was resting on him fully, uncaring about pressing too much weight into him. He was using the theorist to prop him up into a half-sitting-half-laying position, his head leaning back against his shoulder.
The man tilted his head up at him. The exhaustion and despair was still evident, yet the barely concealed grin on his face took priority.
It was only then that he registered a small ache in his own face, result of carrying an expression for too long. He brought a shaking hand up to his mouth to feel the expression. He recognized the curve to be something similar. A grin.
The blinded man brought a hand up to where he assumed the theorist's face would be. Fingers made contact with the side of his face before dragging to capture his chin. His eyes widened, his entire body felt like it'd been lit on fire. He was being guided to the other's mouth.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he braced for the connection, not at all prepared. He'd never engaged with such an activity. He only ever held eyes for information. The act of romance was a bore to him. What good was kissing? It only assisted in spreading germs.
Yet that illogical feeling was arising, the one from a few minutes prior. He wanted to experience it. He was always infatuated with gathering new intel, was he not? This was just another opportunity.
When their mouths met, all breath locked up in the theorist's throat. It felt difficult to register the feel of the other's lips when he was so overwhelmed. His mind jumped to the idea of biting down on the man's bottom lip, but he withheld.
It was a long handful of seconds before the blinded man withdrew with a tiny, perplexed hum. The sound was somewhat sour to his ears, evidence he wasn't doing something correctly.
"You're tense," he muttered. His tone held a self-conscious edge.
He didn't care for the tone. He didn't know how to explain his lack of experience without sounding a tad lame. His lips felt numb, almost useless.
"For unrelated reasons!" he exclaimed, nervousness evident. "I mean, it's not everyday you..."
His words trailed off as the hand holding his chin firm allowed a thumb to wander, pressing to the theorist's lips. He recognized it to be an ask. A sign for exploration.
Nervously, he allowed it, opening his mouth just slightly.
The blinded man's thumb seemed more infatuated with his teeth, running along the length of his top row. All the words that wanted to leave him were no longer prevalent as a finger ran gently down the crack engraved in his canine, pressing the pad of his thumb against the point.
"What was that?" the man leaning against him inquired.
It was considerably more difficult to speak with a finger pressed against his teeth. He knew the man could feel the change in his breathing as he awaited an answer. Again, there was an intense urge to click his jaw closed, bring his teeth together on the digit, but he refused.
He lost all urge to play off his inexperience. His fingers tightened against the tile as he pushed himself to speak.
"I haven't really... traveled into something of this sort."
The pad of the man's pointer finger pressed harder against his canine. "No?"
"No," he breathed.
The self-consciousness had disappeared fully now that the theorist had explained himself. He could see that small, enthusiastic grin attempting to stretch back on his face. The urge to bite only worsened at the reveal.
"Biting at wounds is a big first step," he chuckled out, "your mind continues to be an interesting place to be, hm?"
The pad of his finger finally eased off of the point, hand dropping from the theorist's chin entirely. He leaned back further against his chest, tilting his head carefully. The expanse of color blooming across his neck was on full display. Though the sight called to him, he could only gaze at the man's face.
He was forced to snap into some sort of reality, realizing that the horror of what the man against him had been experiencing was still at full strength. Though he was evidently enjoying it, the theorist could see an underlying desperation in the depths of empty eye sockets.
"Why don't you let me in awhile?"
A full spread of permission was being granted to him.
The theorist stared at the man for a long moment, a clash of morality and excitement happening in the depths. He was rendered motionless. Even if both parties at play were finding pleasure in the action, there were obvious issues he needed to account for. The man leaning against him was only using the supplied pain to shock his senses, force himself away from the thoughts and memories he was being plagued with.
Was it really right?
His fingers twitched, his mind a whirlpool. He knew what he wanted and he knew what was responsible. The two things couldn't coexist.
Yet he failed to withhold his own desire. An unsteady hand circled around to return to the man's neck, thumb lingering just below the abrasion. He recognized there to be a lesser of two evils.
He pressed into the wound roughly once more, earning him another sound of agony. His head swam as he leaned forward to swallow it whole, reuniting their mouths clumsily.
If the pain would keep the man away from the rope, who the hell cared?