Lysander cleared his throat, lunging for the inkwell again. A little pool of dark colour remained.
Thinking alone brought a hard power to Lysander’s trousers; something about Rion – his image, his firm hand – excited Lysander. Dipping the quill into the wet ink, he blushed profusely. How dare that man incite such havoc!
Rion, he wrote,
Might you give me any reason for unhanding our love? You have played your tricks too often! Tell me, is it so easy to part from your emotions? Silly question. You are the man I know you are, filled with greed and self-request. I have used up my purpose, have I not?
How much I despise you, Orion. How much I still… No, I will not give away the pleasure of guttural moans in the night. Yes, I shall hold that against you until the next young solider finds his faith in your arms.
If you would pass away our relationship, what else am I to say? A distasteful man you are, in bed if nothing else.
For the meanwhile, foe, you are in choice. Wait for my call – and remember: neither holds prisoners. Your hatred will be your deathbed siren.
His deep breath filled his lungs, but it no longer held its sweetness. Even the scent of summer blossom from outside brought no comfort to his heart. Lysander rolled his head and spent the moment it provided feeling. The hurt did not yet deluge him; moving onwards and up was the way, rather than to hide in selfish misery.
He creased the centre with the blunt slice of his thumb. Into an Archer envelope, mint in hue, the letter was slipped. Lysander sealed it with his dark tongue and lips rather than the wax to which so many others were accustomed. No, this one letter preferred a personal touch. And touch it, he did.
He cradled his abuse, willing the scent of powdered hands to rub off on the fabricated paper. Through clutching the essence of his lover, Lysander felt a little more secure.
But that vanished in one blink. Lysander took a deep, cold breath and let the still air consume him. The open window over his forehead caressed a white finality to each thought. Scraping his chair backwards, Lysander stood.
He grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, but, after thinking twice – and that pattern echoed the dress at which he so tore – dumped the jacket back onto the back of his chair. He straightened his collar.
Lysander strode to the door of his office; he thrust open the door, where the world beyond spiralled outwards through beige-coated walls hugging their carpets closer and more narrow than the channels of Rion’s tiny heart. As for that other practise…
Wicked though it was, Lysander scrunched his nose in a vengeful chuckle.
“Ch–” he began, but he cut his request off with another tipping of the lips. He shook his head at the butler. “Worry not.”
No cure was better for being down than heading up the smooth streets of this arrogant class, high in more than name alone. Lysander knew of a better way to return such message to his black-souled lover.