Seth by Nero Seal
Gustavo blinkedat the sharp blue light streaming from his phone. He squinted; in the dead of night, it was painful to look at the screen. Diego’s message hovered above him, but his dormant mind refused to understand the meaning of it.
“What time is it?” A hoarse voice preceded an arm wrapping around his chest. He side-glanced at Hans’ scrunched-up face framed with curly, straw hair, then back at the phone.
“Three a.m.” He refocused on the message.
‘I’m at The Citadel. You should come over.’
It took Gustavo a moment to remember the name of the BDSM club and connect the dots. He blinked, then sighed. Why on Earth does he need me? At such time too.
“Who is that?”
“Just Diego. Sleep.”
“Diego…” Hans grounded out the name, and his arm withdrew as he turned his back on him. “What does he want? Do you have to go?”
Wavering for a fraction of a second, Gustavo put the phone away. “No. He can manage.”
He closed his eyes, but sleep refused to take him. His brain, wide awake, kept speculating about what urgent matter made Diego summon him, and why it couldn’t wait until morning. His eyes flew open as his thoughts inevitably trailed to Seth.
Silently, he slid off the bed, threw a suit on, and slipped out of the bedroom.
* * *
A heady scentof sweat and leather wafted through the air, making it potent and thick. The heat and humidity crawling beneath his shirt dampened his back, yet Gustavo didn’t hurry to shed his jacket. Leaning against the door jamb, he watched the scene progressing.
He had been looming in the doorway for more than ten minutes, yet Diego never noticed. Half-naked, slick with a sheen of sweat, his friend hovered over a young man sitting on the torture chair that stood in the middle of the vast black room.
Blindfolded and chained, the submissive trembled as his caged cock leaked precum. He constantly begged for something as his head tossed from side to side. Examining his taut, young body, Gustavo couldn't miss wires stretching to his ass and a silver plug pushed inside.
“What a fucking gorgeous creature you are,” Diego purred into the boy’s ear; the submissive whimpered. His head tossed to the side, splaying sweaty, blond hair over the black leather, and his toes curled. “Where have you been all my life?”
When Diego pushed his fingers into the submissive’s slack mouth, Gustavo cleared his throat.
His head whipped to the side; Diego grinned.
“Oh, Gustavo, you came. Good.” Withdrawing his fingers from the boy’s mouth, Diego grabbed a towel that lay on the small stool nearby and wiped his face. “Have you been to a BDSM club before? I never knew it could be this fun. You can’t fuck here, but you can sexually torture alright. What kind of logic is that?” He laughed, shook his head, and his face picked up a wicked, diabolic expression. “Wanna try?”
Without waiting for Gustavo to reply, Diego turned to the submissive. “Hey, beautiful, do you mind my friend joining in?” The boy shook his head, and an illegible groan left his lips. Diego pressed a kiss to his temple, faced Gustavo again. “He is so fucking sensitive.”
“Is it why you summoned me?”
A thick brow quirked up; Diego lifted his index finger.
“Oh no, I didn’t summon you. I said you should come over, not that I need you to come over.” Before Gustavo managed to voice his protest, Diego faced the sub once again. “This lovely creature is Marcel. Come, gorgeous, tell my friend what you told Daddy about that boy, Justin. You know him, don’t you?”
A weak nod preceded a moan; the boy tensed, hips bucking as he pleaded, “I want to cum. Please.”
“Is that how you should be asking?” Diego crooned. With the nail of his index finger, he teased the red, glistening flesh packed in the metal cock cage.
“Please, Daddy, let me cum…”
Gustavo rolled his eyes. “Bring him to the coffeehouse down the street after you’re done.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to join in?” Diego called after him, but Gustavo was already out of the door.
* * *
Dressed in a hoodieand simple jeans, Marcel looked modest, even shy, as he sat on the seat with his knees hugged to his chest and a mug of steaming coffee clutched in his hands. His warm, amber eyes watched Gustavo with respectful curiosity. Diego, sitting next to him, drew circles on his back with a lazy hand. He looked satisfied, calm, and as smug as always.
“You said you know him.” Leaning against the backrest of the seat, Gustavo broke the silence as he fished a few photographs out of his chest pocket, selected one, and handed it to the boy.
“Yes, sir, I do.” Slender fingers snatched the card, and the boy’s attention shifted to the image. “It’s Justin. He is a local sub.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Gustavo murmured.
Putting the card on the table, the boy sipped his hot cappuccino, not in a hurry to answer. “He is popular. A little ill-mannered, but some doms like it that way. He hasn’t shown up here for some time. People say he hit the jackpot and is dating a millionaire. But I think he is back with his old master.”
“His master?”
“Yes. Justin is involved with someone. They broke up and got together more times than I can remember. That asshole uses him, beats him bloody, yet Justin always crawls back to him.”
“This man?” Gustavo offered Seth’s picture to the boy.
“No.” Marcel’s gaze lingered on the photograph before he returned it to Gustavo in a hesitant gesture.
“Do you know this man?” Gustavo tried his luck.
“Yes, I do. It’s Seth. He is a dom at NoLimits, but he doesn’t take subs.” Marcel wavered as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right to voice his opinion, but then a thought rippled through him and changed his expression to suspicious. He looked up. “Why do you ask? What’s your business with them?”
“Personal business,” Gustavo murmured.
Diego chuckled and nudged Marcel with his elbow. “He’s in love.”
“With Justin?” Compassionate notes seeped into Marcel’s quiet voice as his brows drew up.
“No, with Seth.”
“Ohh…” A deep crease cut Marcel’s porcelain forehead. It took him a moment to gather himself before he mumbled, “My condolences.”
“Why?” Gustavo inched forward. Bringing his elbows to the tabletop, he stared into the amber eyes.
Under his gaze, Marcel squirmed. “Please, forgive my assumption, but even if he preferred your type, you don’t strike me as a submissive. As a dom maybe? And Seth… He–”
“He doesn’t switch?”
“Not that I know. Also, he’s … complicated.”
“Because of his voice?” Diego butted in, inching closer to the sub. His arm moved further around the slender back as he rested his chin on Marcel’s shoulder.
“Many subs need the guidance of a voice, so that’s a potential obstacle, yes, but I meant something else. For many, BDSM is a part of sexual discovery. But Seth–” He shook his head. “Never. Not with anyone I know. Maybe he is straight or asexual, but I never heard of him getting involved with anyone for more than a few sessions, and none of them included sex.”
Diego blinked. “I don’t follow. How can you do BDSM and not have a sexual experience?”
Marcel snorted, shoulders twitching in a suppressed laughter. He put the mug away with a shaky hand before giving Diego a cheeky smile. “I’ll show you next time if you come around.”
“No, gorgeous, I’d rather you show me something extremely sexual.” Diego crooned, bringing his lips closer to Marcel’s ear.
Gustavo cleared his throat, dragging their attention back to himself. “So what, he gets a kick from hurting men? Is that what you say?”
Confusion crossed Marcel’s features. His pupils traveled a whole circle before he droned, “I’m not sure about that.”
Gustavo glanced at Diego but only received a shrug in reply. “I don’t understand.”
In his search for words, Marcel picked up his mug and stared into the swirling liquid. “Everyone comes to BDSM in search of something. People look for suitable partners who can satisfy their needs. I have never had a dom who didn’t seek his satisfaction in me, be it sex or inflicting pain. With Seth, it was different. On some level, it felt as if he was serving me, not the other way around, even if I was on my knees and he held the paddle. Like all he wanted was to please me without gaining anything in return.” Catching Gustavo’s confused look, Marcel laughed. “If you ever have a scene with him, you’ll understand.”
Gustavo shook his head, thinking he just wasted a few hours of his sleep. Getting to his feet, he gave Diego a long look, tossed a bill on the table, and strolled out of the café.
* * *
It’d been three daysof slow-boiling fury reigning in Seth’s soul. With his pride wounded, he couldn’t concentrate on anything, and even the sand didn’t excite him anymore.
He knew his time had nearly run out as in his dreams his skin festered even more. The glowing heart in the depth of SkyBlade screamed for his touch as if Justin’s soul was dying without a vessel, without him.
He didn’t go to the office, didn’t visit the construction site, didn’t touch his drafting desk. The days had passed in a red haze of rage.
Wanting revenge for the humiliation, to seek satisfaction in spilled blood, Seth spent hours on the internet trying to locate Gustavo DeSilva. Using the hidden passages below his villa, he slipped out every night but always came back empty-handed as the addresses he managed to retrieve ended up being decoys. He considered hiring a private investigator, but he didn’t want to leave such a glaring trace.
As a last resort, he wrote a polite email to Arnold Alby. He’d expressed his appreciation for introducing him to Gustavo and explained his complicated situation where, due to the man’s humble behavior, he failed to thank him for the gift. He asked Arnold of assistance.
The prompt reply dried his mouth.
‘Dear Seth,
Though I understand your situation, unfortunately I can’t disclose such information. Gustavo is a private person and leads a closed-up lifestyle, but I’d be happy to send him a thank you card on your behalf, if it suits you.
Best,
Arnold.’
The utterly polite email pissed Seth off.
He was falling into the same circle of hell he’d freed himself from with Justin’s death, where anger and desperation ate him alive. And the more he thought about Gustavo the angrier he became.
He needed to clear his mind. He needed to feel in control, and he knew only one place that was eager to provide all the control he craved—NoLimits.
Changing his clothes, he checked his watch and strolled downstairs to the hidden passage in the basement.
* * *
His darkness rolledunder his skin, shrinking and extending. He stood in the middle of the vast room; black furniture brought a striking resemblance to a torture chamber of the Holy Inquisition. A thick layer of black, matte acoustic foam covered the walls. The minimalistic design wasn’t to please the eye but to instill fright. Not a sound would leak outside of the room. Not a peep could crawl inside. Stuffy and dark, it could have been a perfect chamber for a sadistic psychopath eager to torture his victims as no one beyond the door would hear their screams.
The type of room that required constant supervision of a dungeon master in any other BDSM club only had a set of CCTV cameras in NoLimits. Falling into the bloody fantasy was so easy here as nothing disturbed the mindset of participants. And right now, Seth balanced on the verge of drowning in his own. The shaking body of the powerful submissive hung on the St. Andrew’s cross. Shallow cuts covering his back glinted red, like crystals of corundum1 in a rock, beads of sweat shimmering in between.
So pretty…Seth’s vision pulsed, doubled, and glitched, creating a vibrant illusion. He no longer saw a human in front of him but a sculpture, the perfect form of the muscular torso made of black, iridescent glass. Opalescent striae cracked the smooth skin like veins. Blue, golden, violet, and green with speckles of red. So many colors, so many textures.
When the varicolored spots surrounded him, Seth gulped the air realizing that for a moment, he’d forgotten how to breathe.
He cracked the whip; its leather tongue licked the bleeding skin again, making the man on the cross thrash. The sub’s head fell backward, and black curls splayed over his shoulders. His eyes rolled into his head, and short, shaky moans filled the air. Sweat skidded down his body as he audibly gulped.
Seth nodded; this was what pleasure looked like. A myriad of glistening beads, hastened breath, dilated pupils, shaking limbs, parted lips. Seth feasted on the man’s pain and pleasure, absorbing it, feeding on it.
He folded the whip in the middle and ran the loop over the shivering flank; the light touch worked like an electric shock on the overwhelmed body. The man yelped, nails clawing at the cross.
Pain and pleasure had always mesmerized Seth. The twitch of muscles and beading sweat, flush and fever, everything that was normal to everyone else had always been alien to him, hence fascinating. Right now, watching the powerful man dissolve into the hormonal overdrive, Seth basked in the endorphins flooding his system.
He raised the whip in the air again when the unpleasant feeling of being observed touched his nape.
Seth’s head whipped to the side. He blinked, then again for the first time noticing other people in the room. Annoyance sparked in his chest as he squinted at the naked submissive clinging to the spanking horse fifteen feet away from him. Judging by the reddened back and his sweating dom working the rattan cane up and down the pale body, they have been here for at least ten minutes.
The tiny submissive looked familiar, especially his deep-blue, haunting eyes.
Ignaz.Seth remembered his name. The local pain slut, who never denied anyone who promised him pain, had never fallen into Seth’s focus. But right now, something in his greedy gaze captured his attention. The wistful expression on the boy’s face as his eyes bore into the red back of the chained man stirred Seth’s curiosity. Despite the cane painting his body, Ignaz seemed to be more engrossed in Seth’s scene than his own.
The inquisitive stare ruined Seth’s concentration. Watching like this was rude. Trying to ignore him, Seth forced his attention to the red skin in front of him, but the intrusive gaze, like ants, crawled under his clothes. It irritated him and was impossible to shake off.
Before he knew it, his focus once again gravitated to the boy. The blond head rested on top of his folded hands, slender fingers dimpling the leather beneath as his dilated pupils fixed on Seth. Every nerve unsettled, Seth lost control over his wrist, and the whip slashed across the bleeding back and wrapped around the torso of the chained submissive. The man on the cross hurled back, but not a sound leaked out of his throat.
Seth gnashed his teeth then glared at the boy, but Ignaz’s gaze had already abandoned him to feast on the bleeding imprint.
“Enough.” With a neurotic hand, Seth tossed the whip aside, picked up a towel then soaked it in the antiseptic solution before he swathed it around the man’s back. One by one, he carefully uncuffed the shaking limbs, steadied the man on his feet to lead him away from the room and Ignaz’s irritating scrutiny.
* * *
The next daywashed him in perfect calm, as on the Architect Digest’s website he found pictures taken during the presentation. Behind the merry crowd, somehow still in focus, Gustavo propped the wall. Beside him, a man with a vaguely familiar face carried a toothy grin and a stemmed cocktail glass. Seth remembered seeing him before during the party. Younger, shorter, and slimmer than Gustavo, the man had a neatly trimmed goatee, foxy eyes with elongated corners that tilted up, and a thin upper lip.
Realization touched his mind. He didn’t need to look for Gustavo; he only had to follow his people. Eventually, someone would bring him to Gustavo.
Canceling yet another alarm on his smartwatch, Seth turned off his PC and got up. Anger had never gotten him anywhere, so why get mad over things he couldn’t change? What he could control was the future.
* * *
Like heroin called an addict,adrenaline withdrawal wrenched Gustavo’s veins. He wasn’t sure why he’d become so obsessed with Loco, but he couldn’t throw him out of his head even if he tried. The thrill every contact provided made him feel like any moment could cost him life or freedom, and that thought alone set his blood on fire.
He glanced down. Kneeling before him, Hans looked mesmerizing with his mouth stretched around his cock, yet Gustavo failed to feel invested. His erection filled and deflated as thoughts jumped from Hans to Loco and back.
Flexing his jaw, Hans pulled off and leveled him with a confused gaze. His high cheekbones and square chin had fascinated Gustavo from their first meeting. Every line in this young body was a piece of art, combined in a flawless masterpiece—David by Michelangelo in the flesh. Even his curly, straw hair had never been out of place as if made of marble.
Ever since Gustavo laid his eyes on him, he knew he had to possess him.
“Is something wrong?” Hans asked; his honeyed baritone had a Swedish accent Gustavo had always adored.
Spoiled, rotten, utterly corrupt with his over-boosted ego, Hans had played hard to get for months, making Gustavo more and more invested. But eventually, even he submitted. They always do.
Brushing wetness off Hans’ full lips with the back of his index finger, Gustavo asked, “If you were to kill a person and take his heart as a trophy, what would you do with it?”
“Are you for real?” Hans hissed, electric-blue eyes flashing anger. “You think about this kind of sick shit while I’m sucking you off?”
Gustavo managed a wry smile. His thoughts trailed back to the gaping hole in the chest of the young man. “I just can’t throw something out of my head...”
“What the fuck?” Insult twisted Hans’ features. His upper lip twitched as he spat words out, “You are sick, and I’m leaving.”
He darted to his feet, and Gustavo cocked his head, staring at his round ass. When Hans bent to gather a pile of clothes from the blue and golden, antique Savonnerie2 carpet, Gustavo’s gaze lingered at his heavy balls hanging low between his sun-kissed thighs.
“Like hell you are.” He chuckled, slipped off the bed, and grasped Hans from behind. His wet length, brushing over the warm buttocks, filled with blood.
“Go and fuck yourself, old man!” Hans tried to wrench out of the grip, but his attempts weakened as soon as Gustavo’s tongue circled his earlobe.
“Why would I do that if I have you?” Gustavo murmured. His lips skidded down Hans’ spine as he lowered on his knees and pressed his mouth to the tanned ass.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Hans dropped the clothes to the floor. His head fell back, and a soft breath escaped his throat as Gustavo pushed his tongue into his body.
* * *
The night spreadits wings above Seth’s head. The crescent of the moon hovered on the horizon, not in a hurry to climb the sky. Still, Seth saw every shadow, every leaf disturbed by the light wind, as here, twelve miles away from Vienna, the stars shone brightly.
In the night, stalking Gustavo’s men proved to be easier than he’d imagined. Either Gustavo’s people felt comfortable and relaxed as they watched his house or his matte, black Mustang with the headlights off blended with night seamlessly. Either way, after two nights of trailing Gustavo’s men, his efforts paid off, and one of the cars brought him to this secluded location.
Surrounded by the forest and tall wall from three sides, the mansion’s vicinity ran into the Danube River from the fourth and had a small pier with a few sport boats docked to it. On the other side of the mansion, the iron gates stood closed.
Keeping in the shadows of the forest, Seth stalked around the walls. Occasionally, the dogs’ barking reached his ears, low and aggressive, informing him that his presence didn’t escape their attention. He hoped that the countless cameras directed into the forest didn’t have the infrared vision or his game would end sooner than planned.
Seth’s insides buzzed with anticipation. He knew he was getting closer. Perhaps, somewhere behind those walls, Justin’s body lay in a freezer. The thought pumped impatience in his veins.
From the outside of the tall, white-stone walls overgrown with moss and bindweed, he couldn't glimpse anything inside. Empty-handed, he stalked back to his car. He opened the trunk and retrieved a quadcopter and its controller. After placing the drone on the roof of his car, he connected the remote to his phone and activated the device.
A light wind stirred his hair and threw it over his eyes when he raised the drone in the air. In the dead of night, the tiny, almost soundless device whirled up and disappeared from view. The screen on his phone came to life and revealed a black and white panorama of the sleeping forest. It took Seth a minute to get used to the controller and drive the drone toward the mansion. The glowing glares of a dozen dogs followed the drone when Seth guided it lower to take a better look at the armed people and the automatic guns hanging on their shoulders.
To avoid being caught, Seth raised the quadcopter higher to take as much of the perimeter as he could into the focus before he guided the drone toward the windows. Kitchen, living room, storage room, an empty bedroom, a library—everything stood abandoned.
Where’s everyone?Seth tsked, watching the indicator of the battery countdown minutes. Inexorably, time ticked by, and he still had no idea if this place belonged to Gustavo at all. With the indicator showing twenty percent left, he forced the device to turn when the lit-up windows of the mural tower fell into the view.
The camera flashed white, refocused, and automatically switched from the night vision to the electric light mode. On the screen, the familiar form of the man sat on the bed, legs wide spread. Despite the tiny image on the screen and the drone hovering at least forty feet away from the round room, Seth instantly recognized Gustavo’s chiseled profile. A young man knelt between his thighs. His blond head bobbed up and down as his mouth stretched around Gustavo’s cock.
“Bingo.” Seth grinned and drove the drone away from the window. With a low buzz, the device reached the car and tumbled on the grass nearby, powerless.
Parting from the car, he bent forward and scooped the device. The one-sided surveillance ended. Now, he had a trump card up his sleeve; he just had to figure out how to use it best. Throwing the drone on the backseat through the window, he climbed into the car, and without turning on the headlights, he drove away.
* * *
Seth hadn’t sleptfor more than thirty hours, yet his mind rang with alertness. After showering and taking care of his basic needs, he found himself standing in the thirty square feet refrigerator room in the basement, holding Justin’s heart in his hands.
His thumb rubbed the organ. Heavy, smooth, and calm, it wasn’t in pain anymore, just like Seth had promised. The thought settled his emotions. The anguish of rejection he felt since he’d learned about Justin’s betrayal vanished, and his excruciating love turned into a bitter melancholy.
Holding his focus on the organ, he bypassed a folding stainless-steel table and came to the tall metal rack filled with chemicals. He grabbed a sterile jar, set it on the table, and lowered the heart in it. Sharp, chemical smell hit his nose as he poured the acetone-based solution into the jar. When the liquid exceeded the heart volume ten times, he screwed the lid on and placed the jar into a chest freezer that stood by the rack. In the next few weeks, acetone would push water out of the tissue, replacing it, therefore making the heart ready for the final stage of plastination3.
Thoughts of Gustavo retreated to the corner of his consciousness as the red and golden lights invaded his mind. He needed to get back to work as soon as possible. He needed to give Justin his final gift.
* * *
The red glow streamingout of the furnace bounced against the basement’s walls and washed over his naked chest.
At moments like this, Seth felt a kinship with fire. Just like heat melted sand, Seth bent the liquid glass, making it obey his will.
He marveled at the luminous substance. Watching the magma glow in the pot was his favorite part of creation. He could make anything out of it; give it any fanciful form limited only by his imagination. Or create something ugly, depending on his will. But not today. Today, Justin’s blood guided him.
Dipping the far end of a blowpipe into the pot, he picked a lump of molten glass. Orange and white, it trapped his eyes and threw him into the trance of creation.
During the process, Seth didn’t need light other than the one coming from the furnace and the glass itself. His hands didn’t require the guidance of his vision when they twirled the glass, twisting it, molding it into the dozens of small fragments that ought to become a perfect vessel worthy of its priceless content.
* * *
Despite the airconditioners blowing full force, his smartwatch beeped, informing Seth about his body temperature rising. Falling out of the trance, Seth pressed the screen on his smartwatch to see 37,6°C4. Giving a long stare to his glowing, dry skin, he turned the furnace off and fled the basement.
The glass had “sang” in his hands today, bending and twisting into intricate forms coming out of his mind yet, at the same time, it filled his head with fragmentary memories of Justin. Their first meeting, talk, kiss, embrace, and then Justin’s voice telling him how sorry he was when he’d told Seth he’d been sleeping with someone else.
The constant “sorry” knocked against the inner walls of his skull. The word Seth loathed with his whole soul. The word that never fixed anything. The word that had never brought relief to anyone except for the one who said it. The cheat code society created to escape oppressive guilt, to lift responsibility for anything, everything, as long as you said it.
Seth had never wanted to hear this word again. He’d never understood why people did something if they had to apologize for it. He preferred brutal honesty to gentle lies because he never believed them anyway. Yet, he loved Justin; he wanted to believe him. He’d let himself sink into the illusion of happiness hope created instead of facing the brutal truth. Justin had never loved him, but he’d used him alright.
People who said “sorry” lightly couldn’t be trusted. Seth knew it better than anyone, but he hoped Justin had been different. The voice in his head became louder, proving otherwise. So loud, Seth thought his tympanic membrane would burst with pressure.
Without thinking, he grabbed his shirt and bustled out of his villa and into the shadows of his grape garden.
* * *
Summer floodedthe Old City with tourists, turning already overwhelming, heated streets into crowded hell, yet today Seth barely noticed it. For hours, he had been aimlessly wandering, drowning in the white noise of the buzzing city. His chest felt empty yet full at the same time as if memories of Justin drained him, creating a hollow shell that, in a chase for content, stretched out and multiplied the only thing left inside—Justin’s voice.
The air stood paralyzed by the blazing sun. White stone, reflecting light, illuminated every nook and cranny, leaving no place for shadows. Streets melted, soaked in sunlight. It felt as if at any moment birds would start falling from the sky, fatigued with heat.
Staying outside any longer was pointless. Seth knew his body better than anyone not to recognize the alarming colorful dots at the corners of his vision. At any time now, he would collapse from overheating too. He turned around, ready to look for a cab as the clock on the tower behind him boomed midday. His watch echoed with a subtle vibration, informing him that he hadn’t drunk any water in hours and had skipped breakfast again.
Thinking that his routine was off lately, he dragged his gaze over the surrounding buildings, hunting for any shop, when a riot of colors drew his attention. A staircase of the Albertina Museum boasted a terrifying reproduction of a painting printed over its stairs.
Seth blinked, then again. His breathing slowed down, and he tilted his head to the side losing his thoughts. A strange calm, radiating from the vivid image of Hell created by Hieronymus Bosch5, quieted all the noises around and engulfed him in the long-awaited hush.
The image called for him. Surrealistic elements in the art of the fifteenth-century painter held captivating similarities to Salvador Dali’s6 style that Seth had always admired. Unable to resist the pull, he strolled toward the museum.
The neoclassical building welcomed him with the scent of old books, printing ink, and coffee. Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, Seth ran his annual Vienna pass through the turnstile and hasted inside.
Wood and stone, heavily gilded, submerged visitors into antique collections of past centuries that included paintings, furniture, sculptures, and household utensils. Usually, he would find himself lost in these rooms for hours. Today, he skipped them all, strolling past pompous halls and ballrooms filled with permanent exhibitions. Here, where the footfalls rang through space and walls’ decorations grew modest and didn’t draw attention away from the canvas, the foreign exhibition section began.
In the third room, he found himself standing in front of the horrific fantasy of Hieronymus Bosch. On the canvas, Jesus reigned the skies, serene and resigned. Beneath him, people of Earth died in agony, fighting caricatural demons.
Seth caught himself wondering if sinners on these images cried out apologies and pleas, begging their god to listen and help. He clicked his tongue, thinking that the word “sorry” had never saved anyone. Not Justin, anyway.
* * *
The torrid heatswallowing Vienna didn’t boost Gustavo’s motivation to work, quite the opposite, it kept oppressing him, feeding his sluggish need to stay indoors under the cooling protection of air-conditioners.
The new batch of heroin hadn’t arrived yet. Hans had been too busy in his university to entertain him or, maybe, he was still mad and once again played hard to get. Gustavo didn’t know, neither had he cared, but when Diego informed him about Loco entering the museum, Gustavo jumped at the opportunity.
On his way, he ran red lights three times. When he burst into the plain, blue room on the second floor of the Albertina Museum, his breath was short, palms hot and sweaty. As soon as he found a lonely figure standing in front of a security barrier, guarding a large triptych7 against visitors, a sigh of relief escaped his chest.
Hands in his pockets, Loco looked at the canvas with an odd estrangement. Gustavo had seen the same expression on the faces of people condemned to death for crimes of outrageous cruelty. It was a lonely look of unrepentant acquiescence.
What on Earth are you thinking about? A dark attraction brought Gustavo closer, his chest nearly brushing against Loco’s back. A faint scent of myrrh, leather, and smoky sandalwood filled his lungs. Rich, dark, intoxicating, the scent was powerful yet refined.
Just like that night, Gustavo wanted to touch Loco’s hand and learn the temperature of his body, to squeeze his wrist and check his pulse. The longer he stood behind the beast, the warmer his body grew.
Gustavo had always had a propensity for beautiful people, for masterpieces in the flesh, but his attraction to Seth was almost nonsexual. Whenever he’d met another living masterpiece, he’d always had the immediate, overpowering urge to possess them, to explore every inch of their bodies.
With Seth, this need was incipient. Maybe watching him slay had closed that door, but even now, standing near one of the most beautiful men Gustavo had ever seen, he realized the heat he felt had nothing to do with lust but emotional excitement and adrenaline.
To stop himself from staring, Gustavo dragged his attention to “The Last Judgment”. Hieronymus Bosch’s works had never fascinated him, and this triptych wasn’t any different. Three paintings in the same frame—three biblical scenes describing the doom of humanity that began with its creation.
As a collector, Gustavo couldn’t deny the value of this work, yet he didn’t like it. It mirrored his thoughts about the vanity of humanity which made him like it even less. Tearing his gaze away from the juicy green of the Garden of Eden on the left, he examined the Last Judgment in the middle.
Dramatic colors, portraying scenes of misery and pain, spoke volumes about the sick mind of its creator. The surreal monsters tortured sinners, and above the grotesque inflictions of agony, Christ sat on the clouds reigning over this vivid anguish with merciless serenity. Most of his disciples kept their gazes on him, turning a blind eye to the chaos beneath. It made sense. Why would they look down if they were already saved?
The choice of colors, the play of shadows and light created a transparent bubble around Christ and his disciples as if invisible glass separated him from the filth and noise coming from Earth.
To Gustavo, it didn’t look like judgment but condemnation. And at that moment, he couldn’t tell who the real monsters were: those who tortured or those who refused to watch.
He wondered if Seth thought the same. Stealing a glance at the murderer, he noticed him inching toward the last panel where Satan reaped souls. Seth’s head tilted as he examined every little detail. His expression changed and now mirrored the one Christ wore.
For some reason, Gustavo loathed it. Wanting to wipe the serenity off Seth’s face, he said, “Fascinating, isn’t it? Is it where you draw your inspiration from, Loco?” Seth flinched and slowly turned around. Meeting the forever haughty expression, Gustavo continued, “Or are you looking for a warm place for yourself?”
The light semblance of a smile touched Seth’s lips but didn’t reach his eyes. Drawing his hands out of his pockets, Seth ran his fingers over his belt, drawing them closer to the buckle.
Gustavo stepped back, sharp hairs on his nape bristling. He couldn’t see any weapon yet, somehow, he felt the danger the murderer emitted and read his death sentence in the stormy-blue eyes. Step after step, he installed a safe distance between them, appropriate for self-defense, then clicked his tongue.
“Nah-ah, Loco, thou shalt not kill.” Watching Seth’s fingers tensing around the buckle, he pointed to the security camera in the corner. “Oh, sorry, that’s too late for a warning. I guess you are going to hell, after all.”
