In Vino Veritas
Tony looked up at Barrett from his position on the floor with glassy eyes, the sight wavering like a reflection in a pond. He couldn’t remember how long he had been laying on his stomach, vaguely aware of the carpet beneath him, with his left arm curled under his chin and a glass of wine held loosely in his right hand. It was unusually empty, with only a few drops of wine laying at the very bottom of the glass. Some of it had spilled onto the carpet just a moment ago (he was sure), and yet the stain on the carpet was almost completely dry. There was something strange about the edge of the glass as well. It wasn't smooth as usual. This one was ragged and sharp, and on the steeper edge there seemed to be a thick, dark red substance. Blood. Tony stared at it, but it didn’t hold his interest for long. He was drunk on alcohol, but also on the powerful smell of sex and perfume that had become a fixed feature of his home, as much as the dark wallpaper on his walls, or Barrett himself.
The house was quiet around them, being one of those rare occasions when it was just the two of them. Barrett was sitting on the floor next to him, with his back against the wall, his collar popped open and his hair falling loosely on his forehead. He seemed to be deep in thought, unaware of Tony's gaze upon him. His skin was shiny with sweat and his cheeks slightly rosy, but he didn't look drunk. A love bite shone brightly on the base of his jaw, highlighted even more by the dried blood of a shallow cut, which stretched over his skin in the same place. Tony’s eyes fixed on it, and suddenly Barrett smiled, stretching his neck to allow him a better view of both his wound and his love bite. “Admiring your work?” he asked, his voice, although normal in volume, painfully loud to Tony’s ears.
It took Tony a very slow moment to process Barrett’s words, although Barrett didn’t seem bothered by it, content to wait for him to gather his thoughts. He stared back at him with a look in his eyes that reminded Tony of simpler times, back when Barrett was nothing more than a servant. Such times were a thing of the past now.
At last, realisation dawned on Tony like a bucket of freezing water upon his head. His eyes opened wide, the drunken stupor vanishing like spit on a stove, and he barely held back the bile that rose through his throat as he sprung to his feet. His legs wobbled under him, too numb to hold his weight, but Barrett quickly caught him, placing a steady hand on each side of his waist.
Tony looked at them for a second before recoiling in disgust. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled, struggling to free himself from Barrett’s grip.
“Hey, hey, hey”, began Barrett, his eyes sparkling with amusement at Tony’s reaction. “Listen to me—”
“No! Let go of me, you—You sick bastard!”
Barrett silenced him with a slap in the face. “I told you to listen to me,” he said again calmly, once Tony went still. His playful smile had disappeared, and he looked at Tony with a gaze of steel and his chin raised. “Take a look at yourself," he ordered.
Tony blinked at him, his mouth opening with a rebuttal that died in his throat as his mouth closed with a clack, his body reacting to Barrett's voice instinctively. He studied his suit as carefully as he could, desperate to put his racing mind at ease. It was wrinkled, and dirty, and damp, and it stunk like hell; but it was still upon his body, as it had been since the day before. "You’re fully dressed," said Barrett matter-of-factly. "You even got your socks on. I haven’t done a damn thing to you."
"You haven't?"
Barrett shook his head, and the playful smile returned. "It's not really my style.” He looked at him from beneath his eyelashes. “I prefer to keep murder attempts out of the bedroom. Don’t you?"
Tony frowned. “What?”
“You tried to kill me not more than thirty minutes ago,” replied Barrett nonchalantly, looking at him like one does a kitten that had been a bit too hasty pulling out its claws after being startled. “It was shortly after one of our lovely ladies left. I don’t know what came over you, but you rose from the couch yelling like a maniac, with a look in your eyes of a man thirsty for blood. You yelled that you were sick of having to look at me face every day and cornered me against this very wall, smashing that glass you hold in your hand to press it against my neck.”
As he spoke, Barrett used his other hand that remained on Tony's waist to move him against the wall, inverting their previous positions, effectively trapping him. He did it in such a swift motion that Tony didn't even struggle. His eyes were locked on Barrett's, captivated by the sound of his voice, the closeness to his body. A small part of him wanted to escape from him, but the rest seemed drunk on Barrett, drunk and desperate for more.
Barrett continued speaking, lowering his voice and moving closer to Tony for him to hear him. The look in his eyes had softened, the steel melting away, giving room for something akin to want. "You didn't do much, see? A small shallow cut was all. Then I had to remind you: 'What would you do without me, hm? Who would clean for you, cook for you? Who would take care of you, hm?'"
Tony nodded, vaguely remembering his own desperation at those words, feeling the fear of losing Barrett taking hold of him like a poisonous vine all over again. Barrett noticed, and in response, he raised a hand—the same that he had used to slap him—to cup his cheek tenderly. He traced his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and Tony shivered. Barrett smiled, baring his teeth hungrily.
"Your anger vanished pretty quickly after that," continued Barrett, his voice rough with desire. "Your thirst for blood became thirst for flesh, and suddenly your lips were upon mine and your hands were buried in my hair. Can't say it was the best kiss I’ve ever received, but I'm afraid we did little else, honest. You became overcome with guilt and regret when you saw the blood dripping from my neck, and started weeping."
Barrett lowered his head, placing his lips on the base of Tony's neck, mirroring the exact place of his own wound. Tony didn’t move away, transfixed. "You thought you could kiss it better," said Barrett against his skin. "And you did. Before passing out on the carpet, that is."
Tony felt Barrett's teeth grazing his neck and groaned, closing his eyes. The memories from half an hour ago came back to him all at once, and he saw all over again the amused look on Barrett's face as he threatened to kill him, and the way that amusement had morphed into genuine surprise when he finally kissed him. More importantly, he remembered Barrett had kissed him back.
"You seem under the impression that I'm helpless without you, Barrett. And that might be true, for the most part. But you're just as helpless without me."
Barrett sucked at the skin of his neck slightly. "Is that so?"
Tony nodded and stretched his neck to allow Barrett better access to it. "Please,” he smiled in what felt like the first time in a long time. “I smell like death. I'm damp and dirty and disgusting; and still there you are, Barrett, sucking on my skin like your very life depends on it. Serving me still."
Barrett stopped and levelled his head to look him in the eye. His eyes were still clouded with desire, but now they shone dangerously. Tony swallowed, his smile vanishing on the spot. Fear mixed with arousal taking hold of him at the sight. "You are right," replied Barrett, pulling away from him entirely. "You're in no condition to receive any sort of attention from me."
He grabbed Tony’s wrist and pulled him towards the master bathroom. “Get out of it,” he ordered, pointing towards the suit. “Now.”
“You’re my servant. If you want me out of it so badly, then do it yourself,” replied Tony, in a rare fit of self worth. He snapped his wrist out of Barrett’s grip and stood in front of him, staring at his face with clear eyes. The booze had evaporated from his person, even if the stink of alcohol remained, and something like life had returned to his gaze. There was a spark of defiance in it that Barrett hadn’t seen in a long, long time. He had done his best to extinguish it, after all.
“Oh? Brave, aren’t we, now,” scoffed Barrett, turning around to open the tap and fill the tub with hot water. Once he was done, he turned towards Tony and began pulling his suit off him in sharp movements. "We'll see how long that lasts after I'm done with you."
Tony smirked. "Is that a threat? Or a promise?"
Barrett stopped abruptly, a handful of Tony’s shirt still held in his hand. He yanked it towards himself, pulling Tony closer. “You think this is funny?”
Tony’s smirk widened. “It is actually. Because I’ve finally understood it. You’re just as weak as I am, even if our poisons are different.”
Barrett blinked, briefly taken aback by the absolute certainty in Tony’s voice, but quickly recovered, letting out an incredulous bark of a laugh. “Really? My, my. Booze’s really doing a number on your little head, my dear Tonne. And what, pray tell, would be my poison?”
Tony looked him dead in the eye, a feeling of victory expanding through his body and shining crystal clear in his gaze. “Me,” he said simply.
Something shifted in the air the moment that word left Tony's lips. Barrett took a step back, his grip on Tony's shirt wavering, as if he had been slapped. For a second he seemed to have trouble finding his voice, his mouth hanging slightly slack, until he finally croaked out: "You don't know a damn thing about me." His hands shook with anger, and he undressed Tony completely in two rough movements, almost ripping the fabric off of him. “Get into the tub,” he said, looking at his face and nowhere else.
Tony complied, a hiss leaving his lips as he came into contact with the hot water. He was half hard and his dick was aching to be touched, but for the moment, he ignored it, more interested in Barrett’s next move. He had expected him to leave, as bathing him had never been part of his duties back when he was a servant, and Tony doubted he would do anything now; but Barrett pulled up his shirt sleeves and dropped to his knees beside him with a grunt. “You’re not well in the head, Tonne. Probably can’t even be trusted to wipe your own arse tonight, I’m afraid. Let me help,” was what he said in response to the surprised look that dawned on Tony’s eyes. His voice had lost the sharp, dangerous edge of a man near his limit, and his expression was once again relaxed, almost gentle.
“You’re still too skinny to be a nanny, Barrett,” sighed Tony as he felt Barrett’s soapy fingers burying in his hair. He felt a sharp tug in response, and a pleased laugh escaped his lips, although it quickly became a moan as Barrett continued to wash his hair. "God, you have delightful hands."
Barrett hummed noncommittally, working his way down Tony’s body, slowly washing away the sweat, the alcohol stink and the dirt from his skin using a rag. He worked diligently, focusing on Tony’s hair, then his neck, then his shoulders, saying nothing. Tony melted under his touch, the attention received both arousing and relaxing. The fear and uncertainty had faded completely, leaving Tony with the opportunity to explore this newfound desire without disruption.
Except it wasn’t new at all, Tony realised, with an inner startle. It had always been there, barely hidden beneath the surface of his own being, tapping slowly but surely at the core of his sexual desire for women like a faulty tap; revealing, bit by bit, drop by drop, an equally strong desire for men sitting right beside it. Pulsating, maddening, and controlling all the same.
Suddenly, Barrett's hands froze. Tony heard his breath catch in his throat and realised he had reached his lower abdomen. His cock perked up at the attention, and Tony again waited for Barrett's next move; an expectant, excited silence falling upon them like a heavy blanket.
Long seconds passed in which neither of them uttered a word, remaining still. "It's nice to know one's appreciated," said Barrett at last, as casually as he had that night at the dinner table, and resumed moving as if nothing had happened. But something evidently had happened, because the rag had suddenly been discarded, and now he was working on Tony's hot, flushed skin with his bare hands; touching and teasing everywhere except for his cock, driving him mad. "It makes all the difference."
Tony groaned, desperation taking over him. "Please," he begged.
Barrett let out a delighted chuckle, using one warm, wet finger to raise Tony's chin and stare him in the eye. "What do you want?"
"You know what I want," replied Tony, dryly.
"I want to hear you say it."
Tony stared back at him, allowing the desire pooling in his gut to be reflected in his gaze. "You. I want you."
At that moment, the finger under his chin became a hand cupping his face. Without breaking eye contact, Barrett reached into the tub with his other hand, curling his fingers around Tony's dick. He held it in his hand for a moment, enjoying the weight of it in his hand, and the way Tony's mouth slacked open with anticipation. In an agonizingly slow motion, he traced the shaft with the pad of his thumb, dragging another groan out of Tony.
The thumb moved over the tip; the pace sped up, and with it so did the pleasure; Tony's teeth trapped his bottom lip, his hips jerked forwards out of their own accord, seeking more contact and forcing the water from the tub to spill onto the floor with a splash. He recognised the motions (and the sensations that came with them), but this didn't feel like anything he'd ever experienced before. Barrett's hand was bigger and rougher than he was used to — a stark contrast with the touch of Susan or Vera (or even his own) but just as intoxicating. Perhaps more.
And Barrett's face! His dark brown eyes shone with such desire, with such arousal, that Tony would have thought his hand was wrapped around his own dick, weren't for the fact he had said hand between his own legs. "You've done this before," gasped Tony in amazement, looking at him as if he was seeing him for the first time. "To other men, I mean. Haven't you?"
"Enough times to know that if you're this coherent, I'm not doing a good enough job."
Tony chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You're—" Barrett flicked his wrist, suddenly focusing his attention on the base of Tony's dick and on his testicles, in an attempt to cut off any conversation — and almost succeeded, but Tony soldiered on, albeit shakily. "You're doing an excellent job, darling."
Barrett shot him a look. "I'm not one of your whores, darling."
Tony let out a cackle. "Never said you were." Barrett's movements grew more intense, water spilling everywhere on the floor and on his polished shoes. And now Tony couldn't think. His balls were tight, pre-cum mixing with the soapy water. He was so close he could almost taste it. Everything was too much, and yet it wasn't enough. He grabbed Barrett's hand on his dick, craving more contact between them, and together, their fingers intertwined, they finished him off.
Tony opened his eyes, unaware that he had even closed them, and attempted to gather his scattered thoughts, which had spilled all around him as he came, much like the water in the tub. His hand was alone curled around himself, and Barrett stood nearby, his back turned. He was washing his hands.
"Don't you dare leave," warned Tony, stepping out of the tub and wrapping himself up with a robe. He might have just come, but he was still consumed with want. The sleeping tiger within him had finally awakened, and it would not stop until it had devoured Barrett entirely.
"We're done here," replied Barrett, without turning around. His voice was cold and indifferent, the want and pleasure from before nowhere to be found.
Tony could only blink at him, utterly confused. "What? You're just gonna pretend none of this happened?" A second passed, then another, during which Barrett didn't reply. Tony's hands began trembling, confusion morphing into anger, furious flames licking at his face, turning his cheeks red. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head and sending drops of lukewarm water flying from his hair. "Unbelievable." He grabbed a single crumpled bill from his trousers' back pocket and shoved it at the sink, next to Barrett. "Here. Since you insist on behaving like a cheap whore, after all." He was expecting Barrett to hit him, to yell at him, to do something, but he didn't react.
"Look at me," said Tony, finding the silence unbearable.
Barrett ignored him, moving towards the door as if he hadn't heard him. Tony grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, shoving his back against the closed door. "I told you to look at me!"
Barrett finally stared up at him, eyes cold and chin raised. Tony searched his gaze desperately for the lust and arousal that had shone in his eyes merely moments before, but it was gone. "You wanted this," whispered Tony helplessly, his grip on Barrett's shoulders wavering.
"Let go of me," said Barrett through his teeth, his voice low.
"No," said Tony, dropping his arms and moving closer. "I know what I saw." He neared his face to Barrett's, buried his nose in the crook of his neck. "Please," he whispered. He wasn't sure what he was asking for anymore.
Barrett breathed in, the fresh smell of soap coming from Tony filling his nose, exhaled. Slowly, he raised a hand, placed it on Tony's lower back, drawing him closer, and went still. They stood holding each other for a poignant moment, their breathing shallow, not daring to move, as if they were standing on the edge of a cliff, a flimsy slip away from falling.
But falling where? He could hide it well from Tony, but the truth was that want and desire were breathing down Barrett's neck like a hungry, wretched, dying creature, waiting anxiously to cling with its claws on him and devour him whole. He knew how easily a man could unravel under their spell, had mastered their nuances, knew the power that words alone could have on a man, let alone sex, and refused to yield to it.
Gently but firmly, Barrett untangled himself from Tony, ignoring the pleas and the begging, and the cold, pale fingers that clung to his clothes like a drowning man to a lifesaver. He left Tony standing alone in the bathroom, knowing fully well that the next day all would return to normal. Tony's glass would become full again, and the pain and want would fade, dulling with time like an old blade. The balance would be restored, and this clumsy, careless misstep forgotten, never to be repeated again.