Coquelicot

: (adj) brilliant, poppy red.

 

They stood on a rooftop, illuminated from the glow of streetlights below, bemused captor and terrified captive.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

His lips drew back like curtains revealing pearly whites and a pair of filed canines which by themselves were not all that noticeable from the rest of the grin to someone who did not know… had not seen…

“Nothing personal.”

Tom’s eyes drifted lower, to the revolver still held level with him. Despite the situation, his captor acted eerily casual; having stopped to get coffee after the evening antics, then making conversation at gunpoint. Nicodemus rested his chin between thumb and forefinger,

“It’s fine, I understand getting framed has its way of putting a damper on trust.”

If his face wasn’t spattered with blood, he would’ve reminded Tom of a cheeky schoolboy.

 “If I really wanted to kill you--”

“Why haven’t you?!” Tom was shaking now, unable to contain his panic any longer.

Nicodemus approached him slowly. The Cheshire grin was almost too much.

“People fear what they don’t understand. Go ahead. Ask me. I know you’re dying to.”

“W-Why do you…”

“Eat them?” At the alarm in Tom’s eyes he laughed.

“Besides the fear it invokes, it’s an expression for the inexpressible. Have you ever hated,” He took a step closer, “ever loved so intensely there were no words to describe it?” He waited for a response but continued, taking the agent’s silence as an answer.

“It is verbal aggression. It is overwhelming emotion…” Another step. “It is acquiring part of someone forever. It’s power. It’s tragic beauty.”

Their eyes met. In a moment, Nicodemus found himself sprawling on the flat roof of the office building he had led the agent to. Wiping a trail of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood and faced his own revolver in the hands of his captive. The agent had a good swing.

“It’s immoral!” Tom’s heart beat against his ribs like a frightened bird in a cage and his knuckles turned white clutching the revolver as he fought to keep his arms from shaking. Nicodemus lowered his tone to that just above a lullaby,

“Morality is subjective to our conditioning. What’s sinful to one may simply be a means of defense to another … or an indulgence.”

“It’s wrong however you look at it!” The agent gritted his teeth.

“You haven’t experienced it yet so how can you judge properly?”

“I did tonight! Back there!” Tom cocked his head to the side gesturing to back the way they came from the church on the other side of town where men in pinstripe suits gathered to discuss their kingdoms and cabbages.

Slowly, he approached Tom like one would an animal liable to spook.

 “No, I mean experience.” Gently, he caught Tom’s wrist and brought it to his mouth, eyes deliberately catching and holding Tom’s as his tongue darted out to taste the texture of his skin; the gesture something like a lion holding prey in closing jaws but hesitating—making a point without drawing blood.

“Nicodemus isn’t my real name, you know. It means ’victory of the people’ in Latin, that’s why I chose it; I’m the reason kingpins meet in secret, I’m the fire they’ve tried so desperately to put out, the reason the youth refuse to be anything like their parents, the reason cabbages and kings fall bringing their machines down with them. I’m the reason your superiors sent you, you a seasoned veteran in the field just naïve enough to drink in their words, on a suicide mission to apprehend me.” He chuckled when Tom averted his eyes, lowering them. The mercenary’s voice was decidedly softer as he leaned towards the trembling agent,

“They must’ve figured how it would look when you failed. Then at least they’d have a mute scapegoat.”

The barrel of the revolver pressed against his chest. Sighing, he pushed the nuisance out of the way, eyes set on the young man in front of him as he took it from him and replaced it in the holster at his side. Tom looked like he would go everywhere at once—the very picture of a carbonated bottle thrown down a flight of stairs.

“Cold?” Shrugging the coat from his shoulders, Nicodemus draped it around the defeated shoulders of the agent but held onto the front, using it to draw him closer. He was surprised when Tom did not struggle or even turn his head when a single finger pressed against his jawbone tilting his chin up.

Tom’s lips parted as if to say something but he found it difficult to protest with the mercenary’s lips pressed firmly over his. Nicodemus drank down the agent’s cries, seemingly intent on devouring his tongue until he was sure the agent in his arms was out of breath and withdrew, lingering inches away from his eyes.

“I-I thought--” came the breathless question.

“No reason to. Now it seems I have even more of reason to keep you alive, Tom.” Gently, he brushed the fringe of blond away from green eyes, relishing how the eyelids fluttered at his touch. Strange. This was a new kind of hunger.

Reviews

[Taylor Jay]

I love how you write!

[The Wave]

this was intense, kept me at the edge of my seat.
really didn't expect the ending.

overall, this is good and i hope you continue to keep on writing.
your talent is undeniable.

[Mey]

Wow. Intense. You set a mood and you keep it not bad imagery yourself. I like it. I like it a lot.