This was written for the fic exchange/kink-meme prompt: "Ivory being the crazy psychopath he's hinted to be in canon, If Iphael - CRAZY FUCKING PSYCHOPATHIC Iphael."
I'm not a native speaker, so please excuse any mistakes X'D
This song was the music while writing this, so I would recommend listening to it while reading X'D:
w w w. lastfm. de/music/Frozen+Silence/_/Journal
The sounds of the piano are cold and hollow in the empty room.
No dissonant intervals.
It means that his mind is mostly stable today. It's enough for everyone.
'As long as he keeps his crazy antics to himself', Adamo told them once 'he is not to be bothered.'
Apart from the slight amount of good natured teasing everyone of them has to endure, most of them heed their sergeant's advice. They know that amongst themselves, it is best to keep the peace. As long as you don't endanger the group, you are to be left to your own devices. They know by now that the piano calms him, so they don't complain too much when he plays while most of them are still asleep. They are sound sleepers, anyway.
And the music is not too intruding after all.
Just a faint ripple through the silence of the room.
It's like winter mornings, barren trees. Like frost settling on a burned down wasteland.
The room is cold as well. Somebody has opened the window to let the cold winter air drive out the smell of cheap perfume, smoke and spilt liquor.
The music trails off for a second, as if the one playing has lost his train of thought.
As if he got lost in the workings of his own mind.
Most likely, exactly this is the case.
The melody picks up again, hesitantly.
A requiem for a bird dying in the snow.
It sounds almost sad, but not quite. Like the pianist himself, the music is impassive, yet unpredictable, able to plunge into violent, dissonant fortissimo within the blink of an eye.
From his place in the door, Raphael can only see Ivory's right hand, the long fingers seemingly picking out keys at random.
He can still see the same, long fingers covered in blood and gore.
They are soldiers. It's a time of war. Blood and gore are not among the things that should bother them anymore. They should be used to violence.
There are few things more gruesome than watching a body burn or getting ripped to shreds by large metal claws.
He can live with the exhilaration in Ivory's eyes during a raid, even though it is unsettling to witness someone gathering nothing more than pure enjoyment from the sight of skin peeling off the burning bodies of the people below them, be they enemies or not.
But it's war, and they are soldiers - this kind of battle frenzy is not unheard of.
It's different when it's not during a raid, though.
When it's night, and in your bedroom. When the person you would normally call your lover is covered in blood not his own and does not even seem to notice it. When he has this sheen in his eyes which you know by now comes from killing, from slicing through flesh, through muscles, sinews, and guts. When you know that the one dying for the simple amusement of another was neither enemy, nor a threat, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
When he touches your face with those same hands, turning your head towards him, pinning you down with the sheer force of the insanity burning in his eyes. When those hands, rough with drying and flaking blood caress your cheek, leaving traces of brownish red behind.
The same hands that are now unnaturally white again, deceptively pure, caressing the equally white ivory of the piano keys not unlike they caressed your face last night.
The deepening chords announcing the end of the piece draw Raphael from his thoughts. He knows he should either leave or announce his presence by now, but he can only stare.
Ivory is enshrouded by the pale light of the winter sun, lending him an almost ethereal appearance.
It had been a very similar, unreal, otherworldly scene which had drawn Raphael in back then. This, and the mystery that is Ivory's mind. He never would have expected it to be so unsettling and twisted.
By now he wishes never to have fallen for him.
The music stops. A short while, there seems to be absolute silence.
Then Ivory turns around, looking right at him, as if he had known the whole time that Raphael has been watching him.
His cool glance betrays nothing.
Raphael flees the room.
Leaning against the wall of the hallway, he takes a deep breath in a futile attempt to steady his nerves.
He does not know how he will bare the relationship or whatever it might be called in future.
He wants to break it all off, cut his ties with this man to whom a human life is not worth more than that of a fly, who watches in exhilaration and rapture while the screams of the burning Ke-Han soldiers slowly fade out below him and who enjoys the act of cruelly killing innocents even more than that.
There are two reasons why Raphael cannot bring himself to say anything.
One is because he is scared. He has started to fear the very person sharing his bed at times, the very person who has captured his heart without even trying and it's making him sick. But while they are both soldiers and would be more or less evenly matched in a straightforward battle, there is no telling what Ivory might be capable of. This, while it would be a possibility is not very likely, neither is it the main reason.
The other reason is that Raphael still very much yearns for the affection, still loves Ivory as much as it is still possible given the circumstances.
And he simply cannot bear the thought of what he believes to be the most probable outcome.
He cannot bear the thought that Ivory simply would not care.
Inside the common room, the music picks up again, the same stilted melody, the same pauses.
Unconcerned, without passion or compassion.