Metrics of Mysteries

BY : Liliriu
Category: Misc Books > Slash
Dragon prints: 399
Disclaimer: I don't own American Gods and make no profit from this story.

An evening in New York. An Arab businessman. Well groomed, expensive suit, a body which turns heads, sunglasses on his eyes even though the sun has already gone down. Today was a fruitful day, but he is tired. He already wants to go back home, but not before he finishes the affair which brought him here. It is not the business, which is flourishing, and does not requires him to travel himself. No, it is curiosity which dragged him: he came to visit a friend which has been on his mind lately, and he wanders what has become of. Now he is walking back and forth on the sidewalk, humming to himself, waiting. His friend is supposed to arrive any time now… He smiles, and old taxi (it is a wander that it still stands), can now be seen in the horizon. The ifrit stops the taxi. He gets in.

He examines the boy, Salim (funny that this is his actual name, because now he is Salim), in the taxi's mirror. America has been good for Salim. Not for his mental state, the ifrit knows from experience, and surely not for his back. But at least for his looks, America has been good. He did not find the boy specifically attractive in their former encounter, how could he have? He was just a chubby, weak thing, looked and sounded like a hurt puppy. It is not that he found him repulsive; at least he had pleasant smell and fresh, tight skin. All in all, he enjoyed the empathy, the warm body's touch, and especially the memories from home that he brought up. But if he had not have needed it desperately for his own reasons, he would not have taken the trouble.

Now Salim is still chubby, the thing is noticeable in his rounded cheeks and chin. But he looks less weak and more cute. The most noticeable change is in his hair: back then it was shaved, but now Salim has let it grow, and it rests on his back, in a ponytail. Nice hair. His locks (some of them haven wondered out of the ponytail) are soft looking and glossy, black with a blue sheen to them. He has also trimmed his eyebrows, giving them a pretty shape. Pending from his earlobes are two little, copper colored rings. The eyes are big and shiny, but in the new face they do not look that hurt, but simply like beautiful eyes.

Very tired, although, you can see that in the heavy, purple bags under those eyes. And also, a couple of thin smile lines have started to show on his face, which used to be completely smooth. The ifrit thinks that he has never wandered about Salim's age, maybe about thirty? Of course, it does not matter. In the ifrit's concepts, he is and cannot be but a boy. Anyway, the most obvious evidence for his tiredness is that he has not yet recognized the ifrit.

"Salim," he whispers.

Salim turns his head. He recognizes the object of his obsession, of more or less all of his thoughts, awake or asleep, for… how much time? Two years? Thousands of times he has planned what to say, reproducing the conversation in his head with growing desperation. How beautiful the ifrit is, it is unbelievable. If he was beautiful when he was a shabby taxi driver, now just looking at him makes Salim burn.

"And what do you want from me this time?" is all what he says back.

The ifrit smiles (the universe stops for a moment.) "I am happy you recognize me, but eyes to the road, beauty. We don't want you to make an accident."

Salim is ready to die now, maybe it would be better to die now, but he returns his eyes to the road.

They arrive to the hotel. The ifrit smiles again (and you could die from this smile.) "Actually, I have already prepared a note with the number of the room and all… but wouldn't it be a shame for you to wait?"

They find parking. They enter to the hotel and go up in the elevator, holding hands.




The boy, Salim, gets out the shower.

The towel is pressing his chubby belly, emphasizing the little fat roll. The chest and the upper arms are a bit padded as well. The skin is smooth and tight, fully shaven and mocha colored. Being wet, the locks go down to more or less the middle of his back, the sparkle of his copper earrings peeping through them. The face is innocent, angelical, but the exhaustion in it adds something tragic to the sight.

"You look good," says the ifrit.

"I've got fat," in a defeated voice.

"I like you fat." Then the ifrit gets up from the bed and grabs him, while kissing him in the mouth, in the neck, in the plump chest, from time to time smuggling a little bite, leaving purple marks on Salim's skin. In the meanwhile he holds the boy's head from the wet locks, pulling carefully in order to avoid them from slipping. The big black eyes are closed now, the head is tilted back and he is making cute little noises.

The ifrit gives one last bite on a nipple, harder and quicker than before, and Salim lets out a tiny scream. The ifrit turns him over and throws him aggressively on the bed. With a crude movement he split the boy's legs. He grabs the round, juicy ass. Licks two of his own rough fingers and puts them inside. He keeps fingering Salim with quick, sharp movements. Salim is moaning the whole time. The ifrit stops, thinking that something is missing. He gets up from the bed, takes a shirt from the dresser, goes back and stretches Salim's arms, then ties them to the bed. He stops and stares at the beauty which is spread for him. The locks are scattered messily on his head, still wet. The ifrit caresses and kisses them. They are warm now, and have a faint taste of salt. He moves them a bit, exposing the tip of a burning ear. He kisses it chastely. Then he gently squeezes the lobe, where the earring is. Salim was quiet and calm, but now he begs with a whisper: "fuck me already…"

The ifrit examines Salim again. He softly caresses his spine. Next, he grabs the roll from the side of the body. Gently, at the beginning, but then harder, pressing his nails inside. The boy emits another little scream. The ifrit releases him and places himself behind his ass. He licks a finger again and spreads the spit inside Salim's hole, them finally, puts the hard cock in. He goes in and out aggressively, while pulling the boy's hair. Salim feels himself full of the ifrit's cock, of the calmness and security granted by such a heavy, muscled body which is holding him tight.

Afterwards, they lay side by side, sweaty and gasping; the ifrit happy and satisfied, Salim feeling like crap. He turns over, presses himself against the ifrit and holds a cry.

The ifrit caresses him softly on the head. "What's the matter, cute?"

Salim whispers: "Tomorrow morning you won't be here, and what the fuck I'm supposed to do?" He stops for a moment and goes on, venomously: "you son of a bitch, I fucking hope you die, I hope that you feel half as shit as I'm feeling right now," and holds on tighter to the ifrit.

The ifrit hugs him, protectively. "Shh… my sweet, I understand."

Wrapped inside the hug, Salim experiences a novel combination of sensations: endless bliss, like floating in a cloud of honey, like floating in a cloud of heroin; together with a terrible pain, like all of his bones simultaneously crushing, like all what he has ever had being taken from him, so to never have anything again.

The ifrit says: "you are not really mad at me."

"I was very mad at you, you have no idea, but it eventually wore off."

"And now you just love me."


"And I love you, sweet one."

Salim chuckles. He says with scorn: "you do not grant wishes."

Now the ifrit speaks with a practical tone: "and you wish me to stay here with you, right?"

A cry.

Because that I can't do, I cant's stay with you in this plane of existence. But I did grow a bit stronger since the last time we met. Maybe I can do something for you."

A whisper: "I am listening."

"But wouldn't that be a shame, so young and pretty, to rid you of this world?"

Another chuckle. With the slightest scorn: "no."

"I see. So listen to me, at the beginning it will be painful and strange, but you shall not be afraid," he caresses him and goes on, didactically: "for the mystery of love is greater that the mystery of death."*

Salim is quiet for a moment, assimilating. "Now tell me your fucking name."

The ifrit tells him, and loves him for the last time in this world.

At the morning, he is not there. A few months pass.




The war had begun and nobody saw it. The storm was lowering and nobody knew it.

A falling girder in Manhattan closed a street for two days. It killed two pedestrians, an Arab taxi driver and the taxi driver's passenger.**

The passenger pokes the driver's shoulder. She is beautiful, but her beauty is morbid, unsettling: too thin, her skin white like paper, and all the rest is black: her clothes, her messy hair and the makeup around her eyes.

She smiles kindly, and whatever was scary about her fades. "Salim, right?"

Slowly, tasting how speech feels in this new state: "yes, that is me."

"They have asked me to deliver you some message, from one Mr. …, I assume that this is your beloved?"

Salim nods.

"The lucky bastard…" She smiles a bigger, sweeter smile. "The message goes like this," she clears her throat, "I am waiting for you."








* Salome, Oscar Wilde.

** American Gods, Neil Gaiman.

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