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Nightly Illumination

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Bruno had fallen asleep on the sofa again. Nothing unusual about that, nor about the hellish pounding in his head - the feverish sensation of being awoken from an alcohol-induced dozing off was also customary.

What he hadn't previously experienced was the pleasurable torment accompanying that night: as he struggled to gain control of his head he still partially remembered what he had awoken from, and it was beyond anything he'd ever come to classify as acceptable.

He'd dreamt of Guy . . . Well, of course he had. He couldn't recall a single dream without Guy in it, ever since he'd met him, as fate had permitted. No . . . it wasn't that. It was something he tried to put his sweaty finger upon, almost immediately losing track of it again, what with his brain closing in on him. He needed another drink, that much was certain.

After ungraciously slumping down on the floor and proceeding to crawl towards his bottle of Scotch, he was suddenly stopped by his mind clearing off just enough for him to realize what exactly he had dreamt of that had made him feel even more on edge: he had dreamt of kissing Guy. Which in itself would have been perfectly fine, considering their unearthly connection that no other mere mortals could ever dream of acquiring. No . . . not that, something else . . .

Satisfied with his reasoning that kissing the one he had a brotherly – oh, but more than brotherly! – bond with was still somewhat acceptable, he made another more determined attempt at grasping his Scotch and be done with it.

Right then, of course the images hit him hard again, and he was nearly toppled over by the vivid sensation once more. Oh Christ, no! He couldn't think, but one thing was sure: he'd dreamt of Guy in a way that Guy would never allow for, in a way he himself would never allow, in a way that might have tarnished the whole purity of his feelings for Guy, his Guy – he could never forgive himself!

Why did he feel this hot, fuming need in him, then?

He sprang up to his feet, head spinning like never before, felt bile rising up in his throat and knew he should have run straight to the bathroom in time to prevent splashing out on his mom's carpet – he'd never hear the end of that, and who could blame her? He'd spoilt everything by creating those incoherent fantasies of Guy, and although he probably wouldn't remember any of it the next day, he was sure the damage had already been done to his subconscious.

He could never look Guy in the eyes again! Not without his mind sending off some vile projection of how he'd pictured Guy coming on to him, with his thick black hair sleek with sweat, his dark eyes intent on doing . . . something both of them would regret, most of all Guy. Those full lips searching his, his own cracked from anticipation (and lack of drink, most likely; his dreams always remained realistic to an extent after all), finally being claimed. Just like he'd always wanted . . . In the end it hadn't been clear who was who, like they'd immersed into one another just like was meant to be, like Bruno knew had to be . . .

But couldn't be. He knew that. Not in the way his treacherous dream had depicted.

He dove in for his bottle, shakily unscrewed it and didn't care to register how much of it he swallowed, or how much of it dripped into waste down his chin. Feeling better already, he let out a hoarse, whispery laugh.

They'd killed for one another, they were brothers, the closest to true brotherhood the world could get! Bruno wanted to smother the bitch Anne who had ensnared Guy, how badly he wanted to go find her and kill her too! Then Guy would be just as free, just as clean as him . . . But wait, Guy was not impure to begin with, not really.

It was all Bruno.

 

 

 

Guy slithered out from his dream, feeling hazy and cold, despite the comforting warmth of Anne right next to him.

His first instinct was to turn on the lights, to soothe his suspicion of being watched – just like he always felt, ever since he'd killed Bruno's father. Instead, he blindly reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, letting the liquid calm down his nerves – to no avail, of course.

Lying back, he tried to recall what might have awoken him this time. The reliving of his heinous crime? The fear of being caught? Dreams of suffocating interrogation?

No . . . This time – it was Bruno again, he was certain of it. Nothing out of the ordinary about that either; he'd dreamt of Bruno countless of times, so strong was his desire to get victory over the man who mercilessly continued to torment him.

But somehow . . . somehow he felt different. Calm in comparison, although on edge still, yet . . . He remembered how Bruno had plead him to . . . To claim him? That couldn't be right . . . Guy frowned to himself, turning on his side to breathe in the scent of Anne, his Anne.

Abruptly he felt like jumping off the bed to – to smash something.

He realized he had dreamt of Bruno hovering in front of him, urging him to do something, and whatever it was, the pair of them would regret it . . .

He'd pushed Bruno down most violently, as was customary in his dreams, tried to strangle him, defeat him . . . Once he'd noticed Bruno was not fighting against any of this, he'd felt frustrated beyond belief. Now, what could he possibly do to antagonize Bruno further, to finally beat him?

The answer was clear: he needed to use something else against Bruno, something unfamiliar to the other, something that would push him off balance furthermore, to render him under his power entirely.

Guy had kissed Charles Anthony Bruno, the bastard. Guy had wrapped his arms around him and desperately kissed him, silently possessing him in that simple act of affection Bruno had always been deprived of . . . And, oh, Guy felt sick of how pleasurable, how empowering it had felt.

Guy shook his head, gaining nothing but headache out of that feeble act of physical denial.

The dream meant nothing, of course. What he was worried about was to what extent Bruno had sneaked his sickly way into his system, whether he was ever going to be truly liberated from the web the lunatic had spun around him.

 

Damn you, Bruno, for not leaving me well alone in restful sleep even!