Score means Death

When he thought about it a bit more, it was only natural for Alfred to have a shooting gallery in his basement. The young nation was downright obsessed with guns, to the point of frequently cleaning his extensive collection and practising with the rows of vaguely human-shaped targets.
Until now, Toris had always found some excuse that kept him from coming along – there'd always been some dishes to wash, or laundry to do, or even a fence to be painted. Alfred was rather notorious for littering everywhere, and didn't really mind the mounds of rubbish that tended to collect. But today, everything had been cleaned to perfection, the windows polished, the bookcases dusted, even the lawn was mowed. And he'd made more coffee already than an entire nation could drink. Quite literally.
So he went down with Alfred to the shooting range and slipped on a pair of earmuffs. The guns were noisy enough with this protection, and he'd probably have a massive headache by tomorrow. But wasn't it his job to humor his host? Or babysit him, really. It figured that someone who was unable to sleep alone after watching a horror movie would have the most fun shooting at humanoid figurines, bull's eyes painted on where a hit would be lethal.
Alfred planted his feet apart, took careful aim, and fired six shots right into a cardboard-made chest. Had it been an actual person, both lungs and the heart would have been ruined.
He turned and grinned at Toris, more than a little madly, blue eyes hidden behind his orange-tinted shooting glasses.
„Score!" he said triumphantly.
Score? Score? In this case, the correct exclamation would have been „Death!".
Toris wondered if it was something about him that attracted insane people like light attracted moths. Or maybe he was the moth, flying towards everyone whose madness shone out of their eyes.
„Why don't you try it?" Alfred asked, holding the gun out to him, the barrel thankfully pointed two inches above his shoulder. It was disconcerting, anyway. He accepted the weapon, somewhat hesitantly. It smelled of smoke and gun oil, the metal felt cold in his hands.
His fingers didn't quite shake when he loaded it, but when he took aim, it just felt wrong.
Suddenly Alfred was right behind him, startlingly close. He could feel the rise and fall of the other's chest – tide, wind, the breath of millions of people – against his back.
„You hold it with one hand, like so," he said, a thumb stroking along the back of Toris' hand,"and use the other to steady it."
He'd never noticed how long Alfred's arms were until now. The other's chin rested on his shoulder, warm breath tickling the skin of his neck. „And don't close one of your eyes, it doesn't actually help you aim."
Toris nodded, biting his lip and trying to hold the gun steady. It wasn't nearly as heavy as a sword, but he wasn't used to it. The target looked impersonal, black circles marking the head and the area over the heart. He blinked once. Taking a deep breath, he imagined fair skin, fair hair, a broad chest and burning violet eyes. Two legs to stand on, two hands to make him scream. A mouth to mock and laugh and make false promises.
He fired, three shots in the head, three others in the chest. He imagined tan fabric, white skin, red blood. It was amazing that the recoil that almost broke his hand felt so good.
He lowered th gun, breathing heavily. The imagined body became cardboard once again.
Alfred was still pressed to his back, arms wound around his waist now, mouth against his neck where his pulse throbbed.
„You're a natural." he said, voice suffused with an almost unhealthy amount of excitement. „There really is more to you than meets the eye."
Toris let his head fall back, shaking. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh, or cry, or throw up violently.
„What am I?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
„You're earth." Alfred said, pressing himself to his back closer and harder still. „You're trees and water and people, culture and thoughts and feelings. Hundreds of years. And," he added, taking the gun from Toris' hands,"you're gorgeous."
Eyes closed, goosebumps prickling on his skin, the air thick with smoke, he let himself fall into the embrace.