Wine and Gun

He paused, then said, "I don't think you have any concerns about that."

"I don't," Albarino replied bluntly. "Nothing can be called eternity, but everything has the same destination. Herstal, you still have that gun."

Herstal nodded thoughtfully, then sat down in the chair again. Albarino moved over and kissed his leg, which was only wearing trousers, and Herstal could feel the rhythm of the other's heart beating under his skin even through the thin fabric of the trousers.

Then Albarino asked, "So, where do you want to keep that mark?"

Herstal didn't answer, just reached out and tapped his chest: there was a heart beating under the ribs, and in most cases, it was the most human part of the other person.

Albarino didn't seem surprised by the decision, he just straightened his back slightly, grabbed the arm of the chair with one hand, and replied, still smiling, "Come on."

As soon as his voice fell, Herstal pressed the soldering iron to his chest without hesitation.

There wasn't even pain at first, just the hissing sound of something burning and shrinking, and a scorching smell of burning skin rose. At the same time, Albarino's fingers on the arm of the chair suddenly tightened, and the knuckles showed a pale color.

Herstal noticed that his shoulders were shaking at that moment, but resisted the urge to tremble or flinch with an conceivable self-control. But his head bowed, and a strand of hair slipped from behind his ear. There was a low hiss between his lips.

Then Herstal removed the soldering iron, and Albarino shivered again with the action. And now Herstal's eyes fell on the newly-inflicted burns: Herstal's name was branded in a special font that looked like a Westerland pianist giving the police with his left hand. The kind he used to write the letter, the handwriting he used to declare his guilt to WLPD detectives, but never left it on the crime scene — or on the victim himself.

At this moment, the area scalded by the soldering iron was charred black, and the edge had quickly swelled up, gradually revealing a terrifying blood-red color, and a pale-colored liquid was slowly infiltrating from the edge of the scalded skin.

Reason tells Herstal that what Albarino needs at this time is to disinfect, apply medicine and bandage the wound. In fact, he has already brought the medicine chest to the living room before putting the soldering iron in the fireplace. . But their actions are often not driven entirely by reason, because the next second Albarino suddenly stretched out his hand and grabbed his collar, kissing his lips unreasonably; It fell to the ground with a thud.

The last thing Herstal could do was turn his head to see if the lingering iron had ignited the carpet - it didn't, but it burned an unsightly scorch on the wool, which presumably meant they ended up Still have to replace the entire carpet. The next moment, Albarino touched between his legs, and honestly pushed up the piece of fabric with a bulge.

"Aha," said Albarino, smiling between his necks, the closest he could get to since he was still kneeling, "I'll just say you do like this. Destruction, nüè , torture, whatever..."

He whispered softly in Herstal's ear: "...It's really easy to please you."

But there was still a hint of reluctance in his laughter, because his lips were still pale, and his fingers trembled slightly as they pressed against Herstal's shoulders. Herstal couldn't imagine what it felt like to be burned, probably no less than the one he was stabbed in prison.

But at this moment he still knew what Albarino wanted, his desire and expectation of some ritualized process had never been so clear. So Herstal could only sigh softly, leaving the soldering iron on the ground and the wound to be treated for a moment, and then returned the kiss.

They were so close together that he could hear Albarino gasping as the front of Herstal's clothes rubbed against the wound, but it was curled between Herstal's slightly longer hair. fingers gripped even tighter.

When they finally parted, Hestal had some reddish fluid on Herstal's shirt, the color of exudate mixed with blood; Albarino's lips were white with pain, but his cheekbones were white. But there was a layer of blood. His eyes were still glowing in the firelight, and his pupils were dilated, like a dark well.

Perhaps ordinary people will choose to say certain confessions at this time, just like the promises people make when they put the ring on their lover's hand, and the oath they make when they stand before the priest. But Albarino is different, because they are equally contemptuous of love and pessimistic about commitments and vows—that's what that revolver is about, and probably what this brand is about.

Herstal reached out and brushed his fingers lightly across Albarino's sweaty temples.

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