The more the knife cut in the decorative notions of the Fae, the more Byron craved from the other man. To Byron, this was foreplay. The wounds slowly sealed themselves; the wound at his heart creeping to a close and the following injuries surfacing to nothingness in a time trail that seemed to haunt a few minutes behind the knife.
With a scoff, Byron sat up on his arm. The abstract expressionist movement paled in comparison to the true art lost to the new age. Byron would have stated such, but he found the situation to be too light for such a conversation. "I think you need to drive the knife deeper or you'll lose your art." He stated, instead.
Leaning up to Conor, Byron wrapped his hand around the back of the man's neck once more- this time not with anger, but still with an aggression. Brushing his lips against Conor's, he smirked. "I didn't think you'd have so much fun."