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Aesop’s slender fingers trail down Victor’s sides, sending a frigid chill down his spine as the embalmer surveys their foggy reflection on the mirror. It’s haunting, yet so strangely loving. Victor’s heart drums hard against his chest as he looks at their ornate framed reflection, the two like a married pair in a picture. Almost like he's a corpse groom to the embalmer.
“Death is a cure to this cursed life we’re living, an eternal release from suffering,” Aesop says, voice dragging depths of fascination and patience. “I’m sure you understand why I’ve proposed to you with this, Victor.” His dull, silver eyes lock with Victor’s bewildered ones through the mirror, his gray hair casting a shadow over his face like an impending predator. The postman swallows, face nervously averting. Victor stands stiff as a board as Aesop begins tipping his face in every angle, scrutinizing his features. There’s a faint look of fondness in his eyes.
“A-Aesop,” Victor peeps. “I have a different take…i-if you’d be so willing to listen, of course.” Victor is answered with a cold stare of a blade. It makes him freeze, but he continues with hesitance, “I think that…Jerry lied to you.”
“No. He showed me the truth,” Aesop replies, unwavering. “It’s not something I’d expect anyone else to understand. Although, it’s a relief from all burdens….” He looks away, confusion fogging his eyes. “…Then really, what’s so hard to understand?”
Victor’s voice completely dries out. He jots down onto a piece of paper. ‘There are joys and things to look forward to in life that death can’t offer.’
“Stop that,” Aesop demands. “I do not wish to be any more selfish than I’ve been. You should be at peace, dead. Not in distress, not in pain— that’s all life has to it. I’ve been too selfish. You’re still alive because of my own selfish desires, Victor. I’ve…I’ve never felt this way, but I am feeding it. I want you here with me when I know it’s putting you through more.”
Victor feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. It makes him oddly happy, and yet, very afraid. Aesop Carl is in love with Victor Grantz, and Victor Grantz is in love with Aesop Carl, the man who’s completely oblivious of his foster father’s twisted morals. And now, Aesop is drenched with guilt simply because he hasn’t sent him off as he was originally taught. Surely, the embalmer is lost, in love, and severely unhinged. Victor writes him another note.
‘Please be more selfish. Don’t send me off, I want to be with you. I love you.”
Aesop trails a finger across the paper like it's sacred. “Love”. He adds beside Victor’s writing, ‘You’re irresistible. This greed I feel must be a reason for living. As my purpose is to guide the lost for my whole life, I suppose giving in to you won’t hurt.’
Victor reads it, sending another chill to crawl up his spine. Aesop is immensely confused, but he has the spirit. Victor feels his love grow him. ‘ Perhaps you’ll change your stance on life and death.’
——
Victor wakes up to find a sunset yellow rose beside a letter outside his door. Wick had been waiting with excitement.
‘Dear Victor,
I’ve had you in mind the entirety of last night. I woke up and felt a soaring gratitude in my heart that you’re here, alive, and soon reading this. You remind me of a yellow rose; beautiful, golden, and the perfect addition to a casket. It was the most beaming one out of the bush, a fond reminder of you that caught my attention at first glance amidst the other faces.
What would’ve your skin felt under my fingertips, were it not for the gloves? I imagine it like that of rose petals. Would you tremble at the slightest breath of mine like a flower would on a still day? Would you be as silent as them?
By the way— the manor has imposed silent rules today, if you’re unaware, so leaving to the kitchen is less of a daunting thought.
I hope the flower is to your liking. Sometimes I find myself kissing their petals, feeling their soft exterior against my lips. A very comforting sensation.
Aesop Carl’
How that smooth-worded embalmer made him swoon. Victor feels shame as he reads the letter six, seven, eight times!— His fingertips against his skin, gloveless… He falls back into his bed, hugging the letter against the fluttering of his titillated heart as he closes his eyes in delight.
Victor sits up to lift the rose to his face, and a petal comes down in a pirouette. Wick sniffs it curiously. The postman gives his ears a quick ruffle before picking up the petal and, after a curious look, goes a deep shade of red at the sign.
——
Aesop sets the book he was studying intensely when he hears three soft knocks snap him back to reality. After adjusting the collar of his clothes, he opens the door to see Victor standing there, his usual smile unfaltering but his eyes avoidant with shame. Aesop widens the door and closes it after a quick scan outside.
Aesop doesn’t question the lack of Wick, but he does notice. Of course, he knows why. To shake away the tension, Aesop offers his hand for the postman to take. Victor takes it, and the other escorts him to the edge of his bed to sit somewhat hurriedly, as though he’s afraid to disappoint his beloved guest.
Victor looks over to the desk as he sits attentively. There lies a split book facing the desk, the title just out of reach to be unintelligible. Aesop scrambles to flip the book and hits his knee in the process. The lamp shakes from the impact.
Victor pretends he saw nothing. And really, he saw nothing but a book. Maybe it’s his manor diary and Aesop prefers his privacy. He begins to fiddle with the petal that he’s had hidden in his hands, and Aesop’s shadow grows over him. The postman looks up at the silver-eyed, a blush crawling over his cheeks. Victor knows why he’s here, as does Aesop. That was the purpose of the rose petal, after all, with small writing that serves not only as consent to revel in their love, but rather the act of it. Victor sets it down on the bed for the other to understand.
Aesop steps in front of the other. Victor shrinks back just slightly as Aesop leans down to his level, his eyes mesmerizing from that angle. His heartbeat picks up. There’s almost a chatoyant glow to the cold pools of grey that has Victor bound still. It’s until Aesop marvels at Victor’s honey ones, a feature he’s fond of, that he realizes he’s flat against the bed with Aesop’s knee between his legs. Instinctively, their eyes drift to darkness as their lips close in.
Mellow and smooth, like that of a rose, their lips kiss. And it’s so, so sweet, so savory that their lips tingle with thrill. Pure bliss, spiraling breaths, the scent of roses and faint vanilla weave, an intricate piece of their requited love. Aesop takes Victor’s hand and presses it against his cheek, basking in the warmth he clings onto.
They break the kiss apart. Aesop then caresses his cheek with utmost care, afraid that such delicate skin will break under his touch. Victor closes his eyes at the gentle notion, his golden lashes angelic. Aesop’s heart skips a beat at the wonderful view of his love so still , nearly dead-like .
Victor feels lips on his neck and he melts into the sensation. He squirms at the wet heat exploring, trailing, sucking his skin like he’s candy. Aesop glides his lips lower, trapping Victor’s breath in tickling anticipation while his fingers entangle through grey hair. Victor removes his shoes to hoist his legs over Aesop’s hips, enabling the embalmer to lean in. Then, his crotch brushes against Aesop’s knee.
The pleasure stricken postman hugs him tight, hoping to get some of that friction again. He’s so busy manifesting for relief that he doesn’t realize Aesop popping Victor’s buttons away. He feels cool air ghost his bare torso and Aesop’s calm gaze burn his skin, not yet accustomed to watchful eyes, let alone on his chest and stomach— so he shuts his eyes to escape the pressure of criticism that past experiences drilled into his head.
Aesop skims a finger down the strip of revealed skin, feeling a stifled shiver rattle from Victor’s body. He muses in the fact that his skin does indeed bear the silkiness of a rose petal. Victor is perfect, Aesop thinks, a beautiful rose. He presses a kiss against that skin, his breath tensing the postman underneath. His reactions are something he never thought he’d adore. Yet there he is, memorizing Victor’s silent responses to his touch, and it’s everything but unamusing.
Victor opens his eyes to see that Aesop had already been taking a glimpse of him. He had been waiting. At that, Aesop begins unbuttoning his own shirt. Victor follows Aesop’s descending hands until he’s mirroring the unbuttoned shirt. With a window of chance so open, Victor timidly feels his skin. The embalmer releases a shaky sigh, feeling the smooth hand run down his scar and sternum with such soothing motion that he softens.
Victor lowers his hesitant hand onto the hem of Aesop’s pants. He gives it a light tug. Aesop answers by unbuckling his belt, albeit clumsily. Victor immediately gets to remove his pants so as to not stall any more time, both giving each other space to do so.
Neither of them paid any mind to how stimulated they have become until their throbbing arousals are freed from their constraints. The lack of attention hungers them. Submissively lying back as Aesop crawls over, he feels his heart race. The embalmer had of course seen several nude, exposed bodies before. There’s no reason for Victor to feel racked with anxiety. At least he kept his shirt on, and that’s about it.
Aesop seems to recall something, and he opens a drawer to reveal a bottle. He squeezes a glossy substance onto his fingers, clicks it shut, and reaches down after warming it up with his body heat. Victor sucks his stomach in as fingers trace and enter him with caution. He whimpers and resists the urge to twist in discomfort, knowing that Aesop is being as gentle as possible and that the sting will soon subside. Instead, Aesop stops to ensure that he’s not hurt. Victor shakes his head ‘no’.
Aesop returns his focus to his other priority. Victor jumps at the stretch of two digits and hooks his fingers on Aesop’s shoulders on the third. With a few insertions and patience, a cloud of transparent pleasure washes the pain. Aesop applies lube onto himself before settling over the other, and with a slight push of Victor’s leg, slides in. Pleasure waves in as they adjust. Victor gives him a sign to move on, and Aesop willingly obliges.
He thrusts, slow, a sensual and desirable pace that’s just enough to blur their thoughts. It’s a low fire, barely grazing the bottom of an undisturbed pot of water. Victor entwines his fingers through Aesop’s hand and Aesop locks them together, pinning it against the bed.
It becomes faster. Aesop gives their hands a squeeze. Their hips meet and retract, push and pull, send bolts of white and fan the fire. It’s at this point when Victor can no longer repress his voice, ragged breaths dragging out the softest of whines. And with his reddened lips whispering his silent cries into Aesop’s ear, a fire is fueled. Aesop moves faster.
Victor’s feeble attempts to drown his voice render useless as the ecstasy has him controlled. Back rising in an arch, he grips onto the embalmer for support. “ Aesop— ” his plea escapes. “ Ah … Aesop .”
Aesop feels every part of his body spiral away into butterflies. “ Shhh , Victor. Silent rules..,” he whispers, nearly out of breath but speaking silently into his ear. Not only do the walls have ears, but with silent rules enforced, practically anyone would be able to hear if they tried hard enough. As much as Victor’s hitched breaths are music to his ears, they can’t risk the consequences.
Aesop deepens himself in, pulses of the heat running through his veins. He drinks in the meek sounds of the struggling postman, and he finds himself echoing Victor’s whimpers beneath his breath. So he weds their lips together, humming in relish of the sweet sounds he elicits from the other. Their obsessed lips embrace like it’s not enough, like they’ve become vampires famished for blood and they’re the sole survivors. This must be another one of the joys of life, Aesop wonders as he detaches from their messy kiss.
He sees a tear roll down Victor’s face. He has seen those in funerals, those wet beads that leave trails of anguish on cheeks. He has seen them as people grieve and feel pain. Then, why is it that Victor cries?
Victor reaches down to touch himself, unable to leave it neglected for too long, hips buckling and failing to keep a synced pace with Aesop. He muffles his mouth with a hand, but that itself is not enough to silence him. The light slapping of skin ensues as Aesop jerks in, full and so sight blindingly ecstatic that nothing else matters. Victor’s legs tighten around his hips, their chests heaving as they breathe each other in.
Aesop stretches Victor’s pinned hand above his head. He sends whole, burying thrusts deep inside, engulfing himself in lush heat that puts him in a craze. Victor tosses his head back, each jolt brimming his emotions to a knot. He’s on the edge, and he’s chasing after it desperately.
The grey-haired hides his face into the nape of Victor’s neck, teeth clenched and eyes shut as the burning itch curls its way out. It’s a sudden, flashing pleasure that explodes through them at release. Aesop huffs against Victor’s skin at the waning of their peak. Softly riding the last of the sweet release before coming to a complete stop, Aesop sighs and drops loose. Victor shudders.
During that long while of satisfying recovery, Victor holds him close. Aesop sinks into the warmth and his hair comes undone. The postman finds the way his silken hair frames his face so ethereally beautiful. Aesop’s hand traces around Victor’s body, and looking into each other’s eyes as they once couldn’t handle, they feel at peace.
Victor reads his wristwatch and immediately springs to the edge of the bed. Aesop watches as panic widens the postman’s eyes— he has Wick to feed and letters to deliver. He looks down at the mess they left with a blush. Aesop lends him a rag to clean himself with. They don’t know if anyone will pass by, after all, so it’s best to present themselves like nothing ever happened at all.
Both dressed as they were, they stand by the door. Aesop takes Victor’s hand, a hold as light as a feather, then opens the door for him. Their hands unlink once Victor steps out with Aesop’s touch lingering on his fingertips. Mid-closed door, Victor lunges back to kiss him. He wilts in embarrassment but he can’t fight against his own will. Aesop gives him a ghost of a smile, one that Victor would like to feel on his lips. It casts a spell on him. He returns a lovestruck smile before watching Aesop’s moon glowing eyes merge into the darkness of his room. The door shuts.
He’s left in the hall with himself. With weak and trembling knees, Victor stumbles his way to his door, gathers letters left at the feet of his door, and walks into his room.
Aesop stares at the petal lying at the edge of the bed, a thin reminder of what Victor had told— and written— to him. Has he really been in the wrong? Was what Victor said about the joys of life worth going through, despite how easily one can relieve themselves from their darkest interiors, secrets, and lies?
Death is cold. Aesop thought he liked the cold. But Victor is warm, he makes him feel pleasantly warm. He’s a joy surpassing that of doing everyone else a favor by forcefully sending them off to eternal peace. Were his deeds truly immoral? Had he cut people off from their joys?
Before Aesop can lose himself, he continues reading the book he had his nose in before Victor walked in. The following chapter explains: Expressing Love to your Significant Other, Part Three.