Lion Head Mesa glory & garbling

quiet his face which listened.

quiet his heart which did not judge. machiavelli detailed the glory of power and khusobek marveled at how he had moved from gilded anger into the dark gold of reminiscence.

he too drank, and his own throat burned with the liquid, and his body with the unfairness of what he had suffered and lost.

as the crescendo of machiavelli's voice ascended to admit his own pleasures, khusobek leant back pleasantly on one elbow. that intake of breath tightened his blood most deliciously, and the crocodile's eyes darkened briefly, tracing the line of opaled neck to curved shoulder.

another drink.

"do you confess because you know i will understand?" he asked at last, voice echoing in the sparse nature of his rooms. "you have tasted it twice now, on each side of things. you see its beauty and its pain," and here his own voice hoarsened; "perhaps i saw it in you."

a pause.

"when i had the cartel man, soto, here; when i had him here, i enjoyed it. as did he." his teeth glittered. "he enjoyed me," a truth. a lie. muddled both. "you said cherish. yes. every sound. every struggle." his heart pounded, a racing gallop which carried him over the jagged mountains of wanting memory. "i do not think you are wrong for it. it does not matter what they did. it matters what you mean them to be for it."

his lips were a teasing bow, though his stare did not waver. "maybe you will let me temper the insult, machiavelli," boldness! bold though he felt the drink moved his mouth after all, though his heart knew its truth.