biting down

Lately you've begun to lose track of the days; well, you've always been this way on your days off. The T.V is flickering while the light from the window begins to dim; where did it go, you'd ask, but it was already gone.

But you're content, you think. Life's good right now, work isn't too hard. You'd stopped feeling guilty from the nights before, the ones with Iggie. You're devout, you were adamant in that aspect as you were many others. You were allowed to make your mistakes if you apologized for them after. You were allowed to make as many as you wanted as long as you repented afterwards; what was the maximum? It was like a credit card, surely, it must have a limit.

Your eyes narrow as you hear something knocking against the door. You're in your boxers, half expecting your sister or someone else just as pointless. (Your sister has never been much to you and it's truly a shame.) With a sigh you pull the door open - and you can't help but grin when you see Iggie standing there, though you're clueless as to what he could want.

"Can I help you, Iggie?" you ask, you ask with that vigor that makes your voice swallow a room.

You stare down at him still, and as always with him you can't say you're surprised. Iggie didn't seem to hide his demons well, the dark circles under his eyes are so apparent against his skin. You're wondering if this is your doing, but of course it's not. You clean up his messes, not make them. You wonder if he knows that sometimes, late at night when you can't sleep, you tick away at your rosary for him. Catch him up, because Lord knows he needs it. 

You sleep well because you're holy, Dmitri. Remember this, you tell yourself as you stand against the door. You sleep well because it's deserved; your favours aren't maxed out just yet.

When he asks, you know; you know exactly what he's talking about. But he's sly. He can't accept responsibility for anything. God, he's something else. "I gave you something you wanted." you say quietly, arms folding across your bare chest now. You shoulder too much for your own short-comings, you won't be one to shoulder Iggie's troubles as well.

"It takes two, Ignatius." you say. You say to remind him that he isn't separate from his own actions. For once you're not crude, vulgar; for once you're the son you were raised to be. 

Oh, your mother would be proud. If only you were so gentle all the time, but as your mother would always say behind closed doors, your father had ruined you. He had ruined you and your sister hadn't a chance. 

But in this moment you are Saint Peter. You are Saint Peter, and this doorway is your gate. 

"Don't what, call you Ignatius?" you say, still staring down at him. This is your game, not his. Intimidation would never be something Iggie could pull off well, and the both of you knew it. Anyone knew it, in all honesty. What possessed his mother to name him after a saint he would never know.

Iggie's teeth are nothing to fear; he's all bark, he couldn't bite if he wanted. This was the Christians with the lions, and you knew Iggie couldn't do a damn thing to you if he tried. If he would even try. You knew, with a sick satisfaction, that he wouldn't ever dare. But here he stands before you, before Saint Peter. You wonder if he's come to confess his sins. Of course not, he's come to shove them on you. Oh, of course. He always does, always has, always will.

You know exactly what he's digging for. "You have too many bad habits for one person, you know that?" you say to him. When the world was flooding you'd stand on high ground, and Iggie would be washed away. Isn't that how it works? You can't quite remember at the moment, your arms still folded as you look down at him.

"I wonder what possessed your mother to name you after a saint." you say, "the way you moan, she should've given you a girl's name, I think it might fit better."

You don't have to answer to him. You don't owe him an excuse, anything. Just guilt him into accepting his responsibility for once, you think, just try.

With that question, there was a realization. You'd never noticed, no, but you had been. You'd been counting Iggie's mistakes, fuck-ups, all the possessed features that made him unholy; everything that made him Iggie. The times you've counted lay across your rosary in the form of finger prints. In whispered words that you hoped might help, or fix. 

You know his pride, and you know it well. What little he has stretches itself across his sleeve, so open. You could reach over and break it right from him, you could take it for your own. But oh, how you do. But you don't take it with force, not now. You take it with solemn words, crossed arms, and an imposing figure. 

He can't hurt you. He never has been able to, but you admire his effort; the few times he's dared to try. As he lurches forward, you grab him by the throat. You always seem to move quicker. You raise him against the door frame with one harsh movement. Just enough of a grip to hold him there so he can still breathe.

"I know this isn't what you came for." you smile at him. It's always that threatening toothed smile of yours, the one where your eyes narrow.  

"This is." you say before shifting both your hands to his hips, to hold him against you, still pressed against the frame. You kiss him with the might of lions, as he's the christian thrown to the arena floor. His arena has become your apartment, and you're so very hungry.

You swear you can hear the coliseum roaring in your chest.

He fights but you really don't care, you don't notice. You can't help but press against him more, your hands gripping even tighter; harsher. This is another battle you've won, and at this point the war was settling in behind gnashing teeth. The coliseum is roaring still. They've given you their thumbs turned downwards. 

You hands press against his lower back now, moving into the apartment and kicking the door shut behind you. In this moment you still haven't let go of Ignatius. You don't think you will, for you show no mercy.

No, not at all. 

You let him breathe for a moment, his back still against a wall, your fingers still twitching against his lower back. Maybe if you dig them deep enough you'll find something decent. Some part of Iggie that makes him worth something; that part that makes you care as much as you know you shouldn't. 

No, Ignatius has never chosen his battles well. Just like his namesake, walking from battles wounded and defeated. But here he was again; maybe he wanted to be defeated.

"You never pick your fights well, do you? идиот." you ask a question you know the answer to.

Another roar, more thumbs down, you sink your teeth into his neck. 

His fingers drag along your chest like the red sun. You wince as he digs into you, it's mutual now, the two of you digging for the best in each other. It's a long way to dig, but you've come with greedy fingers and a sweet tongue. "You couldn't make me." you say with a groan, the red sun still burning down your chest. 

You pull him close against you, biting into his shoulders, his neck; all the parts you can get to. Yes, the coliseum roars, this is the victory. This is what you want, and god forbid you ever grow to admit it. It's a long way down, you know, a long way down to admit this is what you hunger for. 

You're holding him, still, as one of your hands slides down the back of his jeans. "What's your excuse this time, Iggie?" 

You remember your baptism. Maybe this is another one, because you feel drowning again. Or was it burning? As his fingers drag across your skin, leaving it bright red again, you honestly can't decide. Are you the father, or the son? Maybe you're the holy ghost. You're holy, not all there, but holy.

This is what you've come to base your self-worth on. A prayer in the morning, one before the night, and you're all okay. As he speaks your eyes narrow, your nails dig deeper and deeper. You'd find the best parts of him. You'd dig and dig and dig, you'd tear them out and make them yours. Maybe they'll sit on his tongue so you can just taste them, just know they're real.

"I don't need one." you say.