The Knife that Twists Within - 1. Chapter 1

"Damn! Think! Think!"

The pale light of day illuminated the world outside his window and Nicholas knew that the dawning of another day would pose yet further problems, further indecisions.

His penetrating blue eyes tried to pierce the haze outside his window, that characteristic haze that always seemed to lie over winterly Berlin and even here - a little further from the centre - created a suffocating blanket without noise and apparently without life.

Nicholas saw his mirrored image in the window and ran his fingers fiercely through his thick, dark blond hair. Then he held them in front of his face and stared at his paint-soiled fingers.

Marcus and Sebastian loved those hands. Both had told him so. They seemed to be so sensitive, long and slender, the hands of an artist.

Nicholas lowered his gaze and observed them closely. Traces of ultramarine paint stuck under his nails and on his right middle finger where years of use with a paintbrush had left a little dent - the last remains of his try to express the very Italian blue sky over Sebastian's house, the light ocre walls and the bright red roof.

Slowly he turned.

His gaze took in Sebastian’s spacious, dishevelled double bed, one side unused, the little table with the telephone, a pile of books and a camera. It wandered over the photocopies strewn on the light carpet and got caught by the painting standing on an easel which Nicholas had dragged here to sleep close to.

But last night he had not been able to sleep, had wandered restlessly from one room to another and had talked incessantly to himself.

He observed the drawing as if it was hanging in an exhibition room and he was one of many potential buyers. But this drawing would never hang in an exhibition.

Two naked male bodies stood in a close, intense embrace, their erect cocks pressed together, rubbing and exchanging fluids; their tongues entwined.

It was painted on slightly toned paper with Conte crayon in sepia colour with red and white highlights. White, where the light fell upon a naked shoulder or a bare buttock. The effect was as if the skin gleamed like polished bronze and it reminded Nicholas of the nights he had spent with Marcus while the light flooded through the open window and died as a moonbeam on Marcus' velvet skin.

A half smile touched Nicholas' lips.

Marcus had not only been his teacher at loving, he had taught him to use his eyes to see, to paint, to use his fingers in the right way - and finally to relax.

His eyes were still focused on the drawing. He could almost see tiny drops of sweat and the glossy surface of Marcus' black hair in the image. But who was the other man? Was it he himself? This blond man who tried to absorb the scent of the other, to drink him, to melt into him? Was it this that he wanted? Really wanted? To again go through all this pain and loneliness?

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could almost see the painted bodies moving, breathing, heaving, pushing, tasting and finally exploding.

Subconsciously his hand glided to the zip of his jeans, dived into his pants and stroked his already hard erection.

Marcus... One of the men in the portrait was Marcus, his beloved, dark-haired Marcus, his one and only lover...

Nicholas pulled out his hand as if was suddenly burned. His penis protested. What are you doing, it screamed within him. You don't have to jerk off in front of the picture of Marcus. Go and call him! In less than an hour he would be here and everything in the painting would be true again - perhaps. He gazed at the bed ... Sebastian's bed and blinked. He remembered another bed somewhere in a little Italian village ... short flashbacks of shared passion and guilt. Just for one night.

Nicholas' cock still screamed for attention. Slowly his hand returned into his trousers and rubbed the hot, moist hard flesh while he gazed at both the male bodies, who were absorbed with each other.

Not thinking! Feeling! Feeling! Whom are your thoughts with as you jerk off? Which man?

Rain drops spattered onto the window as, with a suppressed cry, he came into his hand, then opening his eyes widely again, he pulled out his hand and licked the white liquid.

Rain. . . On that special day, it had rained like this. Suddenly and unexpectedly he had come, come like the man who stood behind him out of the blue and watched how the rain had melted the colours of his chalk painting into nothing. . .