Bloody Kisses
White little flakes. Wet, cold, frozen but in a fluffy way. Beautiful on their own and together. Red splotches cover the snow ridden field. Brilliant red. The landscape in the early dusk shines more so than usual the young beheaded man muses. Moments like these are where he felt close to his god. Jashin created this landscape for man. And he was blessed to be in this life even if the circumstances at the moment were less than ideal.
The head lay in the snow. The cold numbing the cheek resting against it. Eyes wandered about from its unmoving position. Waiting. Searching. He will be here soon. He always came. Will always come.
A few coughs escape his pale blue lips. Blood pools out of the bottom of his disembodied head each and every time. An odd feeling. But one he had gotten used to over time. He can't die. Fully incapable of doing so by decapitation. But moments like these he wondered if he could in time. Thoughts he pushed back. He would come. Always did.
Crunching. The dulled sound of heavy footsteps through the snow. The brushing of a cloak on top of the freshly fallen snow. Sounds that are so familiar. A rough hand grabs his head by the scalp pulling hair as it goes.
“Fucking shit you bastard. You took long enough!” The young man grumbles.
“I needed to find where the bounty crawled off to. He’s worth too much to loose”
Jashin. His voice. Deep and rough. Gravely yet music to his ears. It doesn't matter if it has been a minute or a year. He would love the sound of hearing his lover speak again. Blood drips down as the head is carried over to the body of its person. More coughing. More sputtering. Blood drips down and covers the snow beneath.
“Your bleeding worse than normal”
“Thanks captain obvious. Like I didnt fucking notice what my own head is doing.”
“Must be the cold.”
“Whatever.”
They were always at odds. But this banter. This back and forth of commentary. These are moments that filled him with heat. Moments when his head is attached he pushes back a blush. Pushes down the lump in his throat. Hides how he feels. It wasn’t manly. But he knew his lover, despite the stoicness, the unemotional maskless being, reveled in.
The body is seen from the bodiless eyes. Pale and still dressed. A scythe lies next to it. Finally the head can be reattached to its rightful owner. The taller masked man sits down in the snow next to it.
The head is placed on its perch and threads, black and inky creep out of the sleeve that holds the head. Slowly and painfully stitching the head and body together. Despite wincing the younger man was used to the pain. The scar and stitches that always lined his neck. These were marks of love to him. Marks that his lover cared about him enough to always and forever sew him back together.
Final stitch in place, feeling coming back fully. A sore neck is cracked and rubbed with a cold hand.
“Your bleeding from your mouth Hidan.”
“Hm?”
Fingers trail against lips. A smirk can be seen under the mask.
“Right about here. You did yourself good this time.”
A hand grips securely against the stitched neck and brings the face close. Another hand reaches up and pulls the black mask down. Such a handsome face. Stitched scars line up each side of the mouth. A smirk turns into a smile.
“You're stunning, you know that old man?”
“That's a first from your foul mouth.”
“First of all, miser…”
“I won't fix everything for you Hidan. But I’ll clean you up just this one time.”
Eye contact. The grip against the neck. The feeling of heat pooling between legs and a flush on the skin. The hand grips the neck harder. Possessively pulling the younger close into a heated kiss. Pulling back the older licks the blood from the lips of his young lover. Tasting him and reveling in the metallic taste.