Wine and Gun

"You're going to make this crime scene extra hard to clean," Herstal whispered, most of the words eventually being muffled and swallowed down the other's throat.

Albarino kissed his lips all the way to his cheekbones, and finally pressed his teeth against his soft earlobes, his voice still seeming to have a smile: "Do you really care? Just burn it down."

The word "burned" shouldn't be followed by "just fine", and a serial killer who hasn't really gotten carried away by his own hubris shouldn't be involved in a crime scene with someone else.

But at this moment, Billy was still stuck in the corner, his open eyes forever staring straight at the other side they couldn't reach, and when Herstal lay on the ground, he felt the whole shirt being covered with blood little by little. Drenched, visible to the eye, pointing out the sea of ​​blood, deep into the crevices of the floor, burning beneath their bones along the grain of their skin. Sharp's entire body almost turned into a blood-soaked sculpture, a small sample made out of clay by the artist. The details were not refined, and it was blurred into an indescribable form.

In the corner under his dark eyes, still hung the dark ceiling of the church when the crystal chandeliers were not lit, filled with the notes of the piano, their strings were like sharp blades, the silk threads in the spindle of the goddess of fate, leading people to the impossible know.

With a sweet, vicious smile on Albarino's mouth, he asked again: "Do you really care? From the beginning to the end, have you ever cared?"

The ruthless murderer's fingers grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand to the floor, soaked in blood until his skin was slippery enough to hold. Albarino's calloused fingers rubbed his wrist, rubbing the dying blood on it, where there were many scars, some very shallow and tentative, called "Hesitant", and the words Deep ivory scar, its name is death.

"I don't care," Herstal heard himself say.

Whether or not the answer is a lie depends largely on what question it answers. And Albarino mercifully didn't debunk that, and they didn't have to say that it wasn't Billy that Herstal cared about, and certainly not Anthony Sharp; the story of a serial killer was a bunch of self-centred people. The story of the mentally ill, they don't need to reconcile this.

So Albarino just kept kissing him and stroking his blood-soaked hands on the floor into the hem of his shirt. Thankfully, Herstal didn't just get off work at the law firm, so he didn't have anything like a vest, tie, cufflinks, collar pins, or shirt clips to get in the way of Albarino's movements, and his fingers were wet and slippery. But not very hot.

- The blood is cold.

"I've danced to that song of yours," Herstal said in an airy voice, as he began to unbutton his shirt. "Are you satisfied now?"

"I thought I didn't need to tune again, I never put you in that position." Albarino replied, his voice was lazy, almost like he wanted to sigh. He used his teeth to grind a reddish mark on Herstal's throat, presumably singed on the old white scar near his Adam's apple.

The scars on his skin probably won't go away, nor will Sharp's bite marks on Billy's face, just rot and dust with him.

Albarino had unbuttoned his shirt, and the skin that had not been exposed to the sun was pale—of course, Herstal Armalette didn't look like the type to sunbathe. Following the traces of Albarino's unbuttoning, the layer of blood that he had rubbed on indiscriminately was gradually drying up and turning brown, and it felt rough to the touch.

This scene will remind people of the night related to the discussion of white grapes. The blood oozing from the blood on Albarino's skin is linked to a similar picture. Now most of the wounds on his body have been removed. The stubborn scab at the place solidified into black, still fixed in place, and the rest was all the fresh, tender and fragile skin exposed by the luǒ, showing an abnormal red color, outlining the letters.

"I guess we all agree," said Albarino, his voice deliberately low and hoarse, sounding almost as if he was fascinated by something. "The human body is a good canvas."

——These words should make Herstal feel a sense of crisis, since it was he who used a knife to leave a string of insulting words on Albarino's body. Now that I think about it, it wasn't that Herstal was too angry that night, and he probably wouldn't have made that choice; maybe Albarino was right, and the word Psychopath, besides having too many letters, wasn't necessarily a bad choice. .

But Albarino just put his lips on his collarbone, and he gnawed along the blood marks and the arc of the skin densely, leaving nothing other than the red marks. The feeling was intimate and itchy, and Herstal arched slightly, pressing his fingers menacingly on the other's shoulders, brushing the throbbing pulses between them.

Then Herstal replied: "Yes, but I can't say how tasteful you are - that's the blood of a pedophile bastard."

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