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Description
   "Mercer, I wish to speak with you." Beckett stood, a shadow in the doorway. Standing there, light on his face and darkness on his back. The wide open hallway stretching out behind him made up of all those greys and blacks and browns. All those inconsistent colours blending into nothing. That hallway stretches on past the door and its outline of gold, past the streets, and the wharf. On past that drop of blood that called itself the sun. Past the tears that cried over that drop and turned the sky into a radiant pink.
    And Beckett stood there, mindless of the blood, and the tears, and the hallway. He stood there with his dressing gown gathered round his body and he knew that it wasn't speaking he came to Mercer for. Not speaking, but rather touching. Touching, kissing, feeling. He wanted to die in Mercer's arms and wake up in a warm bed. Sheets all rumpled and hair in disarray. He didn't want the perfectly straight line of the folded linen. He didn't want the starched sheets ridding up to his chin and making his skin itch.
    He wanted to feel good, to heal whatever wounds he had made. To watch the older man shiver under his touch, to whimper. He wanted sweet, hot, moaning. Fingers between thighs and a tongue sliding up his cock. Everything all at once.
    He wanted the world to fold in on itself then be cut in half in one solid strike of a silver sword. He wanted it to bleed and laugh all because of the joys of death and the sorrows of life.
    "Yes m'lord?" Silence hung in the thick air.
    The candle flickered then went out, a deafening darkness. He couldn't breath, could feel anything, didn't know anything but those warm lips suddenly on his, and those warm hands suddenly 'round him. And he trembled in the darkness, felt the wet nightshirt paste itself to his skin as he shook, as he surrendered himself to it all.
    A feathery kiss, light and soft, and the sun set on that sorrowful world, letting the moon rise on the joyous void.

Description
   "Mercer, I wish to speak with you." Beckett stood, a shadow in the doorway. Standing there, light on his face and darkness on his back. The wide open hallway stretching out behind him made up of all those greys and blacks and browns. All those inconsistent colours blending into nothing. That hallway stretches on past the door and its outline of gold, past the streets, and the wharf. On past that drop of blood that called itself the sun. Past the tears that cried over that drop and turned the sky into a radiant pink.
    And Beckett stood there, mindless of the blood, and the tears, and the hallway. He stood there with his dressing gown gathered round his body and he knew that it wasn't speaking he came to Mercer for. Not speaking, but rather touching. Touching, kissing, feeling. He wanted to die in Mercer's arms and wake up in a warm bed. Sheets all rumpled and hair in disarray. He didn't want the perfectly straight line of the folded linen. He didn't want the starched sheets ridding up to his chin and making his skin itch.
    He wanted to feel good, to heal whatever wounds he had made. To watch the older man shiver under his touch, to whimper. He wanted sweet, hot, moaning. Fingers between thighs and a tongue sliding up his cock. Everything all at once.
    He wanted the world to fold in on itself then be cut in half in one solid strike of a silver sword. He wanted it to bleed and laugh all because of the joys of death and the sorrows of life.
    "Yes m'lord?" Silence hung in the thick air.
    The candle flickered then went out, a deafening darkness. He couldn't breath, could feel anything, didn't know anything but those warm lips suddenly on his, and those warm hands suddenly 'round him. And he trembled in the darkness, felt the wet nightshirt paste itself to his skin as he shook, as he surrendered himself to it all.
    A feathery kiss, light and soft, and the sun set on that sorrowful world, letting the moon rise on the joyous void.