New chapter fic a'coming! This one will be fairly short, just a handful of disconnected moments between these two, but I really love this pairing and it's about time I gave it some love.

Also, I'm pretty sure Break didn't reveal his name to be Xerxes for quite some time, so for the time being, he's just nameless. I hope there aren't any inaccuracies in this. ^^;

Lyrics are "These Few Presidents" by Why?

prompt: 122. mysterious stranger

.one

/

you're a beautiful and violent work

with the skinny neck of a chinese bird

in a fading ancient painting

/

The nameless swan of a man is as beautiful as he is paralyzing, and Liam is, to put it simply, rightfully paralyzed. Shielded behind the white lattice of the patio garden, he is a portrait of wide eyes and drained cheeks as he peers through the slats of the woodwork, mouth parted and breath caught in his throat as if being gripped by some invisible hand forbidding him to breathe; and that's quite what it feels like, in fact, what with how the Rainsworths' newfound guest is as mysterious as they come, frightening and cryptic like something out of a Gothic poem with his sharp angles and wild, feverish glances when anyone happens to get too close.

But right now, at this very moment, Liam is all the more breathless and thrown by the man's presence, however faraway he is from the lake in which the other stands at the edge of; but never mind the standing, for Liam can't help but stare in wondrous awe as the man unties, unfastens, and unbuttons himself to perfect bareness, the rising sun coloring his body silver and amber and white-gold. He is every lean, sinewy thing imaginable, not a blink of round softness to him, and yet Liam thinks he looks rather seraphic in spite of that, all lit up by the sun and exposed to the cool spring air. A shaky hand rises to cover his mouth as he watches guiltily – and yet, in a sense, shamelessly – while the man drapes the pale rope of his hair over one shoulder to ease loose until it is free to tumble long and fluid down his back. It falls to just above the modest, white curve of his bottom, and Liam's face flushes a horrid rose-pink when his stare lingers a moment too long and drifts that tiniest bit too low. The backs of the man's thighs are supple and toned, skin as white as cream; quite pretty, Liam thinks, and he is stricken with such intense embarrassment at the thought that he all but squawks.

Becoming dizzy, Liam half-turns so that his shoulder is aligned with the latticework, staring intently ahead at the colorful maze of flora stretched out before his eye; it's not nearly as good of a distraction as he needs, though, and he chances a glance back out onto the lake with a small, expectant gasp, preparing to hold his breath again as his gaze cuts out across the grasses and lands on the man again. He is stepping into the water now, at first slowly, and then suddenly submerging himself completely. Liam momentarily worries that the sharp-toothed misery so heavily invoked on this stranger's heart has become too much and he wishes to drown, before sooner sighs with relief when he sees that pale head reemerge, hair slicked away from his face and clinging to his back in a glimmering crystal sheet. He stretches his arms high above his head, clasps his hands together, and leans to the side in a deep bend, then straightens and leans to the other. Liam takes note of each cord and plane of muscle that shifts beneath taut skin, every ounce of panther-like strength strung tight in that lean body as if to strike out at any moment. He half-wishes the man would turn around so that he could see his face – but of course not be seen himself, how horrific would that be? Heavens, the stone walls would be splattered with him in seconds should he be spotted by that wired, red eye. It makes him shiver just considering being caught peeping like some depraved loon from ten feet away, some pervert, having completely forgotten his reason for coming out to the garden in the first place. He thinks it might have had something to do with roses? Yes, that was it, gathering roses for Miss Shelly, and a handful of lilies for Sharon, and perhaps a peony for himself.

And yet here he is, gazing upon their guest with heated cheeks and clenched teeth as he tries to remember how to function like a normal human being. Such a shock to the eyes should have had him scrambling for cover and promptly forgetting every having witnessed it, so why is he still here? Moreover, why is he tremulously waiting for more?

But in a flash, the man suddenly whips around in the water, his gaze darting dangerously over his shoulder as he wraps a single arm around his chest and surveys his surroundings in a panic. Liam stifles his frightened gasp into his fist and flattens against the wall, hidden behind the thick overgrowth of greenery stretched over the trellis. Has he been found? Hell. He should move. He should scurry right on back into the parlor and fetch those flowers at a later time, once the man has returned to sulking indoors, perched as he usually does on the windowsill like something hateful and statuesque and completely untouchable. Liam recognizes with stark clarity that this is what he should do, and yet he is sooner frozen to the spot as his heart thrashes at the base of his throat, skipping beats and thumping on double-time. He hears a splash, and then a rustle of grass, and then hushed, bitter curses over the sound of clothing slipping messily over wet skin. Within seconds, he hears fast, angry footsteps swishing through the brush and coming closer to where he stands, and his wits come back to him in a staggering rush as he hurries through the open door, closes it as quietly as his clumsy, nervous hands can manage, and patters off down the hall, eager to avoid the curious eye of the nursemaid who asks him why his face is the color of a fresh beet.