La Bastille (ManxBoy)

Verse Cinq - The spark of love's hope

Verse Cinq – The spark of love's hope

Love is two souls separated at birth. And even with the passing of time, these two halves will always yearn to find each other. Fate might keep them apart. Separate them. Tear them asunder. But they will always find their way back together. And all it takes is a spark. A tiny little spark. To set things in motion.

—Grandma Cerulea, La Bastillian, La Bastille 2089 AP

"Voltaire, get out of the way please. I said get out of the way! Give us some goddamned space goddammit!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...hey, Reinhardt, just...just slow down will ya? Who's that you're carrying? Oh wow! She's really pretty. That your new girlfriend?"

Dominic turns to give Voltaire—a fellow Academy Patrolling Officer—a serious and cutting look. "What's it to you if she is?" he menaces with a pointed stare, and then sidesteps around Voltaire to enter the long hallway leading to the infirmary of their station, a passed-out Cid wrapped in his arms as he walks with urgency.

The automatic fluorescents that line the corners of the ceiling flicker on to illuminate the path leading to the infirmary, or the recovery room where wounded personnel and civilians alike are taken, in the event of a catastrophe or any medical emergency.

Voltaire can't stop hovering, ogling, wanting to catch a lingering glimpse of the unconscious little angel. He's unable to take his eyes away from gazing at the lovely little thing. "I don't remember getting a memo saying that our station has become a sex den," he scratches his head as he tries to keep up with Dominic's purposeful stride, "Had I known, then uh, then me and Tabitha, we uh, you know...we would've...we would've used this facility to our convenience, man. We would've gotten our sexy on."

Dom blithely shakes his head in utter disappointment at the blatant crudity of his fellow officer, "I'm not perusing our facility to have sex with an unconscious civilian. That's just...that's just plain despicable."

"No it ain't," Voltaire counters while doing a backwards jog alongside Dominic, "That's why there's something called necrophilia, bro!" he gestures with hands in the air. Dom simply shakes his head.

Voltaire is getting too close for comfort. And so Dominic momentarily stops to cradle the boy in his hip as he shoves a playful arm to push the man back, "Oh bugger off, will you?" he turns away as his face breaks into a cheeky smile, "Keep away, we don't wanna crowd him."

"W-wait w-w-what!!?" Voltaire's eyes grow big and wide as he gets left behind. He soon follows as he recovers from what he just heard, "She's...she a boy!?"

"Don't mix your pronouns, mate. Yeah, yeah he is."

"Hot damn. Can I ah..." Voltaire hikes up the boy's yellow shirt with a sleight of hand, revealing a breathtaking view of the boy's creamy thighs. Dom hisses through clenched teeth and quickly bats the molester with the flick of a strong backhand. "Ow!" Voltaire rubs his hand, feigning hurt, "I was just playing...jeez. No need for domestic violence, bro," he makes a stern face, "I'm not entirely convinced. I just need proof of what you say is true. Just a teeny little flash of his knickers would do, bro. Come on!"

"Keep your grubby hands away from him." Dominic regrets having to speak in such a caring way, which Voltaire is quick to notice and make fun of.

"Ohhh...he must be special to you, then," Voltaire quips, wiggling his eyebrows, walking alongside Dom who can't be more irritated than he already is, "I knew you had a taste for the exotic, man. But this...this is a stretch even for you, my old friend. I mean, whoa, I never expected you to be hitting on boys too but hey," he raises his palms quickly in a gesture to placate his own judgment, "I'm not here to judge, bro. I just find him oddly beautiful. That's all."