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Gift of Pain

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Saul Tenser looked closer to a wounded, frightened animal than a human, but again, "human" was hard to define these days more so than ever. Seeing his performance -- no, just seeing him like this alone -- was somewhat of a novel realization for Lang. Lang felt a strange urge of conflict as he watched the stars performed the surgery in front of the crowd. His art, or the concept behind the form itself, was truly compelling, though Lang did not and would not understand the pain Saul inflected on himself. Yes, he believed that the emotional agony particularity other than the physical pain, was self-inflected. Saul might be a visionary of art, yet he failed to see how the human body was supposed to evolve, quicker and further beyond his imagination. Watching him performed made Lang realized that he had been drowning in silence for too long. What he needed was to get Saul to accept his idea as a new form of art, so that the world could finally hear his voice, their voice. He had to admit, however, something about this artist puzzled him, burned him, ignited his desire underneath this hollow shell of flesh.

Just like everyone else in that theater, Lang wished to get closer to him, to know him better, to see him from within .

Lang gathered his courage and walked up to him on the street. Like how he buried himself behind a dark veil, the wounded animal was alerted by his sudden approach. The night was quiet, and Saul made not as much as a single stumble as they walked side by side, but he knew that he had planted the idea right through the artist's brain. He was not expecting things to go so smoothly, but he could feel Saul was totally on board the moment he showed them Brecken's corpse. The concept of this "art" was so devastating for both of them, one from lost and grief, the other from inquiries urging for answers.

It didn't take long before Saul was back to his doorstep again, wanting to confirm some final details about the performance just two nights before the show time. The artist started to talk about he and his partner had this idea of "the first autopsy" as the main theme, and how the Sark unit was sent to mechanics so it could be transformed back to its original module. Lang truly needed none of those details. He was not an artist, nor an obsessed fan of LifeFormWear. He would never buy any of their products, and the whole idea of having his body altered and monitored by strangers all the time sent a violent chill down his spine. He leaned back on the chair, attentively watched the tall figure standing by the corner of his bedroom wall. Saul was never seen in another outfit, as if the spotlight or the glamour of performance world barely touched him. The black hoodie shielded most of his face away, still under the vague glint of lamp light, Lang finally caught his eyes and failed to remove his gaze ever since.

Those eyes with a breath-taking grey blue shade, were so clear and transparent that it startled Lang quite a bit. Saul's eyes burned with an icy fire, even in this dark time and after everything he had been through. He looked almost innocent, genuinely afraid of what was becoming of him and the human kind. It amazed him how the everlasting sorrow hadn't reached the bottom of his eyes yet, just like himself. Maybe all he needed was a little push, Lang thought, taking a long inhale as the air thickened.

"I know that we all understand pain." He breathed, taking a few staggered steps towards the artist, grasping his shoulder with a hand and almost throwing him into the small bed in his room. It surprised him how slender and lightweight Saul actually felt under his own body. He was a fine creature that deserved only delicate touch, but it wasn't what Lang was going to give. "Not the kind of pain people talk about as plaything these days, but the pain from inside. Here, let me show you." The grey-blue eyes widened, Saul's thin lips twisted and words muffled. Lang's hands crawled underneath the black fabric swiftly, giving Saul no time to respond or reject, and halted only when his fingertips reached the scar on his belly. He knew for a fact he could held the artist down with bare strength, but Saul did not push him away or even revolt except for a few useless groans.

No, it was not a scar. It felt like a deep dash that was recently inflected, a zipper of some sort, most likely consensual as to how clean and precise it was cut. Pure fascination raced through his veins, Lang held his breath as he studied his abdomen carefully. He reached out a finger, ghosting over the zipper, barely touched the tissue but it was enough for Saul to draw in some nervous gasps. It shouldn't hurt, Lang paused as he lifted his gaze, only to meet another pair of misty eyes that was brewing a thunderstorm.

Shaky fingers scratched the zipper open in awe, and yanking down those loose pants felt like nothing intimidating comparing to it. He knew he was crossing a very delicate line, but he couldn't help it. Like all the hungry audiences and hot-headed fans of the great performer Saul Tenser who wished to be Caprice, Lang seized his only precious chance to get to know him, to get inside him once for all.

He was hard as hell. His leaking cock trapped inside his slacks was screaming for release and he had no idea how long it had been since the last time felt such adrenaline rush. He needed to get inside him right now.

Lang kept a hand on the edge of the zipper, tracing the cut with patience; the other hand grabbed Saul's knees and pushed them apart, fitting himself perfectly in between his thighs. It must also have been one hell of a long time since Saul got a raw fucking like this, because he was so tight around his intruding fingers. The small hole between his rounded cheeks was much less willing to open for any evasion than the zipper. Lang spat on his palm, gave his raging shaft a few pumps and that was all the time he could spare. He aligned himself with the artist's ass and gave it a brutal push. The bed must be really uncomfortable for Saul so he kept squirming around with his long but hesitant legs. He was in pain, no doubt about that judging by how hard he frowned, though Lang wasn't sure if it was enough for him to feel the pain.

His left hand was still on the zipper, like he was holding a controller of Saul's every heartbeat and breathing. The scar tissue was extremally tender underneath his fingertips, and a strange wave of desire surged through him. The gentle caress must have been a different sensation for Saul as well, he tiled his head up and exposed a patch of pale, vulnerable skin on his throat, as if he was surrendering willingly to avoid further damage.

"Careful--" The artist's voice was ever so hoarse, as if he was having trouble even just breathing air.

Lang knew it better. Lang knew that he didn't need to be in pain, didn't need to suffer from near suffocation all the time, all he had to do was to accept. Accept that his body was changing, accept that human was different now and will always be evolving, accept that the pain was a sign, a gift, a calling. Saul might be too conservative, ironically for a cutting-edge performance artist like him, but Lang knew that one day he would truly see, and they would be standing side by side pushing for a new revolution.

For now, though, he would love to live this moment and taste the ecstasy so many others hopelessly yearned to taste.

His fingertips dipped into the zipper. Saul let out a few shattered wails, his whole body shaking as a sign of how sensitive the scar tissue was. Saul's body was so warm, so sizzling hot from the inside just like he imagined. Two knuckles in, they twisted and turned slowly to toy with the soft flesh and those pumping organs inside his abdomen. It would be a sweet dream to many that had their knees bent just from seeing Saul's performance. And to Lang, for some reason it felt more like sex than his burning cock buried deep inside his ass.

Maybe it was what the surgery was about. Erotic medical procedure. That's why the expression on Saul's face was so ecstatic and lively during the performance. He bet Caprice loved it too.

When he finally pushed his cock all the way in he heard only a few broken moans that could make of no proper words. He must had been really rusty with the "old sex" now, feeling like a Barbie doll in his command. His hands twitched on Lang's messy bedsheet, pathetically trying to grab onto something to shield himself away like he usually do, only ended up fruitlessly. Lang on the other hand, never mind a bit of good raw fucking. He seized Saul's waist with one hand, shifting and turning his hip to drum harder into him.

Saul felt much sweeter than the cheap whores lurking around the street corners every night, Lang had to give him credit for that. Although the artist was clearly quite awkward and clumsy in this position, like he had no idea how to respond to such stimulation properly. Lang picked up the pace and fucked deep into him with a rapid rhythm. Somewhere along the way, those low, hoarse groans shifted to desperate, broken moans.

They weren't so different after all. If their bodies still responded to the same type of pleasure, there might be more of a connection to it than his sorrowful frown suggested. They all wanted answers. Giving consent for an autopsy of his son might be one of Lang's most difficult decisions to make, but he could tell from those thoughtful eyes that Saul was dying to find out what he would find as well. The ground-braking performance could very well shed a light to the everlasting problems Saul himself had.

A beam of sweat burned his eyes, but as he looked down, all he could saw was those kaleidoscope eyes, shifting on the edge of light and darkness, dancing between pain and ecstasy. Saul's hands clapped on his shouldered, but he could not tell if he had felt a weak push or pull. Maybe he liked it more than he had thought, but Lang could never comprehend what's in the artist's mind. Maybe they were different kinds, yet the pain connected them, tied them together to an obscure but inevitable fate.

He groaned heavily, pushing deeper and deeper into Saul's defenseless body. The tightness around him drove him crazier than he already was, and looking straight into those eyes filled with agony and euphoria pushed him to orgasm more fiercely than ever.

Saul didn't cry, and Lang didn't remember if he climaxed or not. The rapture took away his sense, and for whatever reason Saul did not push him away, he might have the same reason to leave without a word. He put on his winkled clothes, feeble legs stumbled towards the door without casting a glance back. Now he looked more like a used toy, but still beautiful and attractive as he always was. He was still the walking mystery, yet somehow Lang felt like he knew him a little more.

"Now you see we truly understand the same kind of pain." Lang barked at the doorway, voice trembling, "Thank of it for the show, and they should know it's a gift as well."