The sky is blue and crystal clear, and the sun shines down on the world in such a way that everything seems radiant, brighter, the grass greener and the flowers more fragrant, and everything is beautiful, but none of the scenery is quite so beautiful as Narcissus.
He carries a clay pitcher, the handle swinging easily and lightly from his fingertips, and takes his time as he goes, enjoying the soft grass as it bows beneath his feet. He is adorned simply in a white cloth, wrapped elegantly around his slim, muscular frame, and held in place with a golden broach shaped like the sun. Never was a piece of gold so jealous of its owner, completely outshone by the lean, beautiful features and soft pale hair of the one who bears it.
Narcissus reaches the side of the deep, still river and kneels, his slim fingers curling around the handle of the pitcher, and leans forward to fill it. But as he does so, he pauses. Below him, on the water's surface, has appeared the most radiant visage he has ever seen, and he pauses to admire it.
Narcissus falls to the side, legs still slightly curled beside him, bracing himself on one elbow, that he might lean over the water and reach out to touch the figure. The beautiful face below him is smiling as he reaches towards it, and the ethereal figure holds up a hand, as though to caution him not to touch. Their palms meet at the surface of the water, decadently warm. The figure in the reflection smiles, and the hand belonging to the braced elbow reaches up and lightly unclasps his golden broach.
The white fabric covering Narcissus slithers to the ground, offering itself beneath him as though embarrassed that it cannot be a sumptuous bed for his repose. But Narcissus barely notices, entranced by the reflection of the newly-revealed muscular chest, tapered torso, the long, lean legs, and the generous cock lying idly against his thigh.
Narcissus's reflection shows a sultry smile, and Narcissus slowly withdraws his wet hand, bringing it back to his own body to trail it gently down the front of his chest, down his stomach, leaving a thin trail of moisture, dipping a fingertip lightly into his navel. His reflection watches Narcissus raptly, idly pleasuring his own body as he soaks in the marvel.
Narcissus's fingers trail lower, running lightly down the length of his cock. The water beads on the curved surface and runs down the side to lie in small glass-like droplets on his thigh. His cock twitches lightly, waking, curious. Narcissus disturbs the small pools of water to take it in hand, tugging at it idly, his eyes still caught by those of his reflection.
He keeps his strokes slow and leisurely for as long as he can, but drowsy pleasure has now fully woken within him, and stokes a fire in his stomach and limbs, rousing the liquid of his body and boiling it to the surface, beading him with sweat until his body shines with it, until it mingles in hollow of his inner thigh with the river water, both liquids Narcissus, melting together and becoming lost in each other, inseparable.
The sweat eases Narcissus's strokes, allowing his fingers to slide slickly up and down his length. He squeezes himself lightly, staring with a groan at the taut lines of his reflection's throat, tendons and sinew pulsing with panted breath. Spikes of air drive into him, filling up all the inner crevices of his body before pulling teasingly away, leaving him breathless.
He tries to reach up for that neck with the hand belonging to the elbow on which he rests, but he cannot reach that far up, not quite, and he tosses his hair in anguish. The hand falls to fist in the soft grass, connecting him to the earth, making the very land itself a part of his experience. He clutches the ground like a lifeline, steadying himself, as the heady fires of pleasure eat their way through his body.
The eyes in the river sparkle at him, golden-brown and dancing with matching heat. Narcissus is caught, unable to escape, though whether his captor is the owner of those eyes or the burning pulses of pleasure that rush through him, he does not know. All he can do is grasp the earth in hand, grounding himself, as he is assaulted from all sides by the sharp air of his breath, the languid water of his body, and the passionate fire of his soul.
It is not his fingers that bring him to climax, not the mere flesh that dances along the length of his phallus, first light and teasing, then quick and excited. It is the sheer pressure of the universe, the pleasure that comes to him from somewhere that, in his disorientation, he no longer recognizes. It is the sheer vastness and glory of the universe, and the real, stone certain gaze of the eyes in the river that chain him still to reality, keep him from drifting away into the ether as the pleasure crests within him, rages, and threatens to swallow him whole, reducing his world to nothing but a bright, blinding light and those eyes, ever-present, ever-focused, amidst the vastness.
He sleeps. It is the light doze of those entranced with the world, one in which dreams flit and play across the surface of consciousness like sunlight on water. When he wakes, the sun has roved far across the sky, and Narcissus's return is long overdue. He quickly gathers his wrap to him, and the golden broach from where it lies gleaming in the grass. As he begins to move though, he notices the stickiness of his thighs, and pauses a moment to dip his pitcher into the river and pour the water over his legs. It is cooler now than it had been at mid-day, and he shivers as it splashes over him and washes the seed from his skin, carrying it down to the thirsty earth below him.
Refilling his pitcher once more, Narcissus stands gracefully and hurries back towards his home. Behind him he leaves a forlorn bank, the grass crushed and crying for him. The soil greedily soaks up the essence he has left behind, his last memento. From this bank shortly there will bloom a wild blanket of white flowers, star-pointed and beautiful, a piece of Narcissus that the earth has claimed for its own.