Title: The Scented Gardens of the Blind. (3)
Author: Bernie
Pairing: Pavel Bure / Valeri Bure
Rating: NC-17
Dedication. Alex.
Disclaimer. This is all made up. Burecest. Slash. If this
freaks you out please donÕt read anymore.part two
Salt Lake City. Adults.
TheirsÕ are hearts that beat in harmony, lungs that work in
unison, and hands that worship without words. Here are the lovers. Desire that
had been dormant bloomed, childish imaginings unfolded their wet petals to the
sun. Exposing the sunny centre of love. Exposed, survived and thrived. So much
love withers away, but these two still spin on an axis about each other. And so
what if two beautiful brothers lean together, so what if they kiss? The earth
continues to turn in the Milky Way regardless; it still orbits the yellow sun,
yellow like the centre of the flowers in the brothersÕ garden. They lean in,
they hold hands over the crocuses, and their lips touch.
Russia. Teenagers.
Pavel and Valeri were the twisted acacia trees that cling to
the sides of cliffs, scrambling for purchase on the rocky cliff face. If they
won all the time this love would not have happened. They would have held on
forever, they would have resisted, they would not tumble over the edge into the
abyss. But they did not endure, instead they lost, they fell over the edge, and
they won each other.
Because no one wins every game. The father of the young men
did not win at all, he has no golden sun, no pollen at the centre of the
flower, no yellow disks, but his boys were expected to succeed every time.
Especially the eldest. Victory, remember: victory is to be sought at all costs.
There is a bitter lash that comes with losing, not being the
best, but he is not so foolish as to actually touch them any more. Now a slap
is a quietly delivered sentence, the cutting hurt of words, the delicate
slicing into ribbons of a young manÕs aspirations. The deliberate shredding of
ego. This is all for their own good, especially the older boy, who must
understand his place. The past is being scoured away, there is no room for
emotion, for second guessing, there is only the speedy reaction, the instant
kicking in of skills that have been hammered home through thousands of practises.
But the secret past between the boys is ripening in the snow, like rosebuds
furled tightly in a greenhouse, something is emerging, something is ready for
harvest.
If their father was a type of knife, cutting the boys apart,
slicing off extraneous flesh until only the gleaming pure hockey player
emerges, it is the blade of a penknife. Small but sharpened to a razor, rubbed
with poison, which is slid between your ribs and withdrawn. The cut you donÕt
notice until you have nearly bled to death.
Pavel lies bleeding, and Valeri tries to staunch the blood.
They are sitting on the floor leaning against the wall, Pavel isnÕt crying, not
that you could tell, his eyes are closed. Valeri has placed himself between
PavelÕs legs leaning against his chest. Pavel would have pushed him back, would
have turned him away, but Valeri did not give him the choice. When Valeri
touches his hand to PavelÕs chest it comes back clean, this is impossible,
impossible that there is no crimson stain on his hand. Batting PavelÕs hands
away, Valeri undoes the buttons on his shirt, pushing the material off his
shoulders, there are no bruises, no contusions, but agony radiates out from
Pavel in waves.
The hurt is inside of Pavel, this Valeri senses clearly, but
how do you crawl into someoneÕs skin to heal from within? How, when you know
only the surface of someoneÕs skin, only the texture of flesh. Valeri pulls
further back. Pavel is jolted out of his dream, Valeri had been a pleasing
weight on his body that he had begun to accept, rather than try to analyse, his
hands a soothing warmth across his chest.
But Valeri had pulled back only far enough to free his arms. He sat on
the floor, under a different window than their long ago childhood, he ran his
finger along the seam of PavelÕs lips, sitting cross legged between PavelÕs
splayed apart legs. This was such a different type of skin.
He ran his finger along PavelÕs bottom lip, the tip of his
forefinger sliding almost into his mouth, the lips parted just slightly, close
together enough that ValeriÕs fingernail drags across the bottom of PavelÕs top
lip. There is a second where they both could have pulled away, could have
pretended that there was a bruise on PavelÕs mouth, a hurt to be kissed better,
this would never be mentioned again. But instead Pavel purses his lips
slightly, softly kissing ValeriÕs fingertip.
Valeri raises his other hand to PavelÕs face; he runs his
fingers across the skin under his eyes, looking for tears to wipe away. He
kisses Pavel softly on the lips. Awkwardly, breathing into each otherÕs mouths.
Clumsily, bumping noses, but gently, how perfectly their lips fit together.
Valeri slides his tongue into PavelÕs mouth, tastes the pain there, laps at the
ache he knew was inside all that time, he draws the poison out, and replaces it
with himself. Their touch of tongues, inner flesh on inner flesh, sweetly
Valeri soothes. Pavel pulls his brother closer, folded into his embrace safe
and protected.
The cactus that waits for moisture in the desert, ValeriÕs
wet tongue in PavelÕs dry mouth. Rosebuds unfurl in the sand and show their
colours. Make a bouquet of these blossoms; see the brothers who were born for
each other.
Valeri pulls back again, just a little bit.
ÒPavel, open your eyes.Ó part four
