* Digital Devil Saga 2, Heat solo, He doesn't know... -- "The Wrong Side of the Cross" The Wrong Side of the Cross digital devil saga 2 Mithrigil Galtirglin
How can he wake up in a cold sweat when the world is dying? Or is that just the chill of lapsed repression, of Sunday School teachers in the back of his head, reminding him no, no, a thousand times no?
This is ridiculous. The bed’s sopping and chilled with the rushed acidity of come and central air conditioning, and the image burned into his mind barely has a shape, let alone a name. I am made all things to all men. Heat stretches out, winces at the abrading wetness along his side, bites his lip and realizes it’s already bruised. For fuck’s sake. Did he do that to himself? This would make so much more sense if he was thinking about himself. (Sheffield probably does.)
—A mistake, thinking about Sheffield when he’s lying in the smear of his own come.
So he pries himself out of bed, groans, feels another solid sharp ache around his neck—slept on the wrong side of the cross, looks like, it’s left a welt with the pock-mark of an effigy burnt angry and red and inhuman. The bathroom rug slides along the tile in there when he leans on the sink, cracks his back upward with his elbows locked. It better not have been Sheffield in his head through all this, not unless that asshat crook yankee was on his knees taking it across the face—but the shape coalescing is almost the same, lithe and shorthaired and nearly an androgyne. Heat’s never known if he’s wanted men or women, or at least known that assuming just women feels wrong, but whatever he’s seen for the last god-knows-how-long doesn’t seem to be either.
And if he doesn’t open his eyes right now and turn his body the fuck off, he’ll be seeing whoever it is again in the shower.