Tristan stared at the mirror before him, his hands still at his sides.  His naked upper torso showing bulky muscle at the shoulders and chest, his slightly leaner arms were taut and sinewy, like that of a martial artist.  His abdominals and waistline were trim and hard, a large-squared four pack showing on his flat stomach.

Physically, he was a display of perfect.  Everything about his body implied strength, energy, power, dependability, and masculinity.  He was flawless, but for the C-shaped lacerations on his sturdy chest, and the slow trickles of blood that ran from the cuts.

Tristan shifted the just-used knife in his right hand, then pressed it into the vertical cut until it encountered resistance.  Having created the wedge that he needed, Tristan pulled the handle to the right and toward the opposite pectoral of the incisions.

Tristan winced ever so slightly as the handle of the knife neared the right side of his brawny chest.  The C-shaped panel of flesh rose past the curved plane of Tristan’s pectoralis, exposing dense, crimson, muscle fibers.  Ruby droplets fell from the liberated piece of muscle and splashed upon the bathroom floor.  Tristan bent his left arm upwards, stretched his long fingers, and grasped the raised piece of pec muscle.

Tristan closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, pulled the rectangle of tissue away from his body, and…..

The door swung open inwardly, and to the left. His hand remained in contact with the door at chest height, guiding the weathered wood, as his feet moved him into the room.  Beyond an old-looking couch in front him, the warm glow of a fireplace lit the center of medium-sized room.  At the fringes of the bubble of pale yellow light, shadows wavered and rippled.  Furniture phantasms appeared, and were quickly lost, as the fire briefly surged with the newly introduced oxygen.

Tristan slowly closed the door behind him, the old latch catching with an almost imperceptible clink.  He moved towards the fireplace, already knowing what he would see beyond the aged couch.

Coming around the right side of the settee, he saw the two forms lying spooned on the blanket in front of the fireplace.  Their clothes were haphazardly strewn about the space near the hearth.  The glow of the flames gave their naked skin a rosy-yellow hue, and Tristan heard low voices coming from the entwined pair.

Her head rested against the bicep of his stretched out, left arm. Her dark hair covered his forearm and trickled into his palm.  With the back of his right hand, he brushed her cheek gently, and though Tristan couldn’t hear it, he knew the delicate whispers being spoken into her ear.

The man’s hand found her raven hair, and he ran his fingers slowly, close to her scalp, and behind her ear.  He gently ran his fingers down her neck, over the slight rise of her collarbone, across the swell of her breasts and to end of the thin, leather band, hanging from her neck, nearly on the floor.  He took the ancient-looking key in his palm.  He closed his fingers around the key, squeezed, and brought his hand back to rest over her heart.

Tristan knew the whispers that then came from his mouth, and he heard her murmur “I love you.”  He dropped the key, and his open hand caressed between her breasts, down her stomach, tickling her soft skin with his nails, and stopped on her hip.

He brushed the back of his fingers lightly down the side of her leg, cupped her knee, then slowly drew his hand along the inside of her leg to her inner thigh.  He leaned forward and placed his lips upon her cheek, let them linger, then drew his mouth to the  back of her shoulder.  His right hand squeezed her thigh, and he drew her leg towards him.  She turned with the motion, opening herself to him, and then….

Tristan found himself once again, staring into the mirror.  In his left hand, he held the freed muscle from his incisions.  The tissue bled little, and with it pulled aside, his insides were exposed. Tristan had a clear view of the slick, gold-toned metal beneath the flesh, as well as a tiny, key-shaped hole.