"I'd learned that some things are best kept secret."

Nicholas Sparks, Dear John

🆂🅴🆇🆄🅰🅻
🅲🅾🅽🆃🅴🅽🆃
🆆🅰🆁🅽🅸🅽🅶!!
The next scenes contain sexual description between two men.
If you have a different concept of intercourse please stay away.
Thank you.
...

His pale, flimsy face enlightened with a hesitant chuckle.
His heart was beating faster now he had been dragged inside the shadows in Florian's bedchamber, reminding him of the way it had always felt to be around this man.

With every step his coval-colour shoes crashed against the trillion mirror pieces scattered on the floor, as those beryl eyes fell over him like hypnotic poison.

"You wouldn't hurt a fly," he said to Florian with a fashion that echoed doubtfully, staring at his almost completely naked body. His ashen skin ruffled to the feeble cold touch of the fingers that started unbottoning the sky-colour shirt.

"You don't know anything about me, Eric."

His bleak hands traced Eric's bony chest, as both bodies embed closer.
Eric caressed his beautiful lover's hair, sighing in surrender. He knew well he was only a toy for Florian, a man he had been longing since he met him as Marina Dayholt husband, but being a toy -his toy- was the kind of painful pleasure he couldn't refuse.

Everything about Florian Hamil was a complete mystery.

No one had ever heard any stories of his past; they could only focus on his captivating talent with the paintbrush. He remembered seeing him for the first time as one of the new guides at the gallery. Florian gave him an explanation about a replica of  "Dante and Virgil" that was exhibited in the gallery, with such exalted passion, Eric could feel all the emotion kept in that artwork, becoming an unforgettable memory to him. Since that moment, he visited the gallery daily and bought as many paintings as his father's credit card could afford.

Eric never imagined that the circumstances that led to Marina's sudden death, might've led as well to their approach and their so said romance.

Since the day of the funeral, Eric had been visiting the beautiful mansion surrounded by woods, and falling every hour he was there, into Florian's spell.

He couldn't tell himself what was the thing he liked the most about the slender, alluring man. Was it the delicate features of his face, or the lovely caramel locks that twirled in his deeply painted mane?

Perhaps the sharp green of his eyes...Or was it the mystery?

The mystery of a man who emerged from the nothing like a simple gallery guide, to Marina Dayholt husband. Ten times younger than her, probably coming from a poor family, but incredibly talented and smart, Florian conquered everyone's gaze at everyone who visited his wife's business. His knowledge about art was simply marvellous as much as his manner of speaking was mesmerizing and captivating. Sometimes, he seemed to come from a different era or even a different world.

Eric's lips were now sealed by Florian's. The intense hot growing around them as a blissful blanket, drowning them in naked delight, whilst both of their hands travelled excitedly through each other's skin, almost digging inside the flesh, aiming to trace and hold the last drop of it.

Florian pulled Eric's shape, at the moment shirtless, to the wide soft greenish duvet, taking over control of the fleshly battle of their bodies.

Sitting over Eric's piercing member, placing his thighs on both sides of his hips, Florian's torso bent to kiss him again, nailing his sharp fingers into the man's ribs. The white-haired one, drunk in maddening feelings, struggled to breathe, parting the kiss and guiding his lover's lips towards his pale, uncovered neck, as he took a chance to bathe his fingers into the dark locks of the starving paramour laying over him. His drowsiness haze broke at a stinging ache of fangs nailing on his skin. A loud moan escaped his lungs, and his back, demented by the enjoyment of the unexpected bite, arched in search of Florian's sharpen hip bones and burning groin.

Two hours of uncontrollable love burst in the room but ended quicker than usual. The sweet Eric was lying inert tangled among the sheets and pillows; lids closed and eyes looking to the secret paradise of his dreams.

"Will this last forever?"

He had asked Florian before falling asleep. The green eyes diving into murky shadows, tried to give him some comfort. Although only silence and pity were felt. Eric couldn't help but feeling sadness.

"I know I'm just a toy. I can't be more for you. Nevertheless, sometimes I dream I am. It is cute, the way you look at me in my dreams, as if you loved me...is almost the same as the look in your eyes when we make love."

Eric's eyes crashed on the emeral curtains, hoping to shut his racing heartbeat and hold back the tears. He wondered why did he ever fall in love with such a cold man, only naked in bed, and still though in there he kept being distant; Eric knew he was wearing a mask, a disguise, which was certainly not made for him to be the one to see. Florian was saving his lonely heart for someone else.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't say such things. I'll go now."

Notwithstanding, his so planned quick departure got interrupted by Florian's grip, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back to his arms.

"Nothing lasts forever, my sweet Eric, but we shall make eternal these little moments. I would advise you to stay away from me; I am as poisonous as the ivy, but I can't deny how much I enjoy your moans of pleasure."

These words were not loving words. In all their confusing meaning, still, they were not a confession or a surrender. They were no goodbye or rejection. Those were words that kept him right where he already was.

What did this man want after all?

Eric didn't know, nor could imagine. Although he convinced himself that staying, possibly unwanted, wasn't so bad, as going back to his empty, lonely flat was.

So the night fell earlier that afternoon, and he woke up completely lost of wherever he was at or what was he doing there. Then, Eric remembered, he only came because he loved Florian more than he even loved himself.

The room was now darker, in spite when he thought it couldn't be more lightless. He found his phone on the floor, among broken fragments of glass and cold clothes. He turned on the lantern, as he dragged himself out of the huge bed. Once his feet touched the ground, where he thought there were no broken mirrors, he stumbled with a tiny piece that penetrated his delicate feet flesh and made a bloody mess of pain. He wobbled, dropping his phone and crashing against a bookshelf. He held himself from a weird small protuberance on the wall he could barely see, hoping to use it as a stand to recover his strength and find somehow a way to turn on the lights; but something roared in the dark, something like a stone door which had been moved, heavily dragged on the floor.

A cold, freezing breeze hit on his nudity, ruffling his skin and his bones from head to toe, as his eyes locked to a new entrance he had never seen before.

"A wardrobe," he thought. Rich people  always had big wardrobes, like huge rooms in their bedrooms. "Perhaps he has a medical kit somewhere in there."

Eric walked across the cleft that had shown up mysteriously, complaining about the awful pain that was immobilizing his right leg. He thought he was about to find a good solution to his problem, although what he didn't know, he was digging his own grave, not needing a racket; it only took to stare at secrets that were meant to be hidden.