And So We Begin 402 gapfiller NC 17 Brian/Justin It�s not that I don�t want to talk about it, except that I don�t. We�ve never really talked�about it, about anything. It�s not our style, not our way, not our preference. Used to think it was just me, but it�s him too. We�re better with raised eyebrows and curled lips and wandering fingers. Warm embraces, rough fucks, long kisses. We communicate, we just don�t talk much. So to say we�ve never worked through the bashing is unfair. We�ve never talked about it, but we worked through it all right. He had nightmares, more than I cared to count. I had nightmares, more than I�ll ever admit to. He woke up screaming in cold sweats, clawed at my skin, screamed into my chest. I woke up terrified, clutching damp sheets, careful not to wake him. His sore throat the next day was the only way he knew to apologize to me for what must have been the night before. He never remembered the nightmares or the scenes that followed. His mind was still busy repressing every ounce of bad. It didn�t let him remember the way I whispered to him, rubbed his back, ran hands through his sweat-soaked hair, promised with my lips that he�d be new again one day. Eventually the nightmares stopped, his and mine. But every once in a while there would be a baseball bat, a tuxedo, a parking garage, a white scarf, spilled red paint, music that triggered memories that opened flood gates, or worse a kid who looked like this football player who royally fucked up our lives once upon a time. No matter what though, I�d run interference. We�d turn a corner, change directions, duck into a shop. I�d make a joke, grab his arm, kiss him deeply. Fuck him until he forgot�I was good at these things, these diversions. And then he left and I wasn�t his diversion. And then he came back and didn�t need diversions. Or so I thought� I could tell by his posture when I was crossing the room that he was upset, angry even. The second I saw the drawings I knew. A pain sliced sideways across my abdomen, I half expected my insides to slide onto the wood floor. Since that drag queen took a beating I�ve been waiting, nearly holding my breath sometimes without realizing it. I just knew this would bring it all back to the surface. I just knew this would unearth what we�d buried and mourned. Carry it back into our lives, dropping it wet and dirty and smelling at our feet, forcing us to clean up the mess all over again. And so we begin. I try to touch him and he flinches. I try to talk to him but he doesn�t hear me. I try to smooth it over but his feathers are too ruffled. They�re torn and tarred, leaving him flightless. The boy that was once alabaster porcelain and shiny new and untouchable is somehow rough around the edges and faded and scratched now. Though, all the more beautiful for the wear if you ask me�but no one ever asks me. There are things I wish I could fix. The short list is his life. The long list is my life. So I�ll stick to the short list, I can handle the short list. I follow him into the bathroom. I push the door open that he tries to close in my face. It�s my fucking door after all. I meet his angry eyes and dare him to tell me to get out. I press against the back of his body as he leans against the sink, hard enough to force the air from his lungs. His knuckles turn white as he grips the counter, pushing back against me and whimpering in pain. I let my body weight lay into him, drop my head into the center of his back. I rock toward him, crushing him into a granite countertop that cost more than I care to remember now that I can�t keep my liquor cabinet stocked. �Stop,� he whispers on desperate breath. �No,� my voice is rough and weaker than I expect it to be. I look up, see a pair of familiar glossy eyes in the mirror. Our eyes stay connected for minutes that turn into hours that turn into days. Maybe Wednesday has become Sunday but we�ve got nowhere better to be anyway. He finally sighs and tries to pry my arms from where they�re locked around his torso. I simply shake my head and stay put. �Fuck you,� he mutters and shoves elbows in to my ribs. I�d let him beat me until there was blood and bruises and broken things if I thought it would help. I hold him tighter, press his arms to his sides, clutch his middle, bruise his hips with strong fingers. He starts to move, shaking me off, getting angrier as the seconds pass. I push him further, press him harder, want to break him and make him explode. If I could just make him angry enough to let it all out. If I could just let him use me for this� �Fucking let me go,� his head moves back and forth now as his body tries to shake free. �No." Our eyes meet in the mirror again, our reflections facing off. We�re still for a long moment and then I release him. The heat from our bodies and the anger makes the air in the room thick. I can hardly breath waiting for him to walk away. Part of me just wants him to go, out of the bathroom, out of the loft, out of my life. But a much larger part wants him to say, wants him to let me fix this. This thing I broke a long time ago. He spins around and pushes me up against the shower. My back hits the glass with a thud that makes my ears ring. I�m sure I look shocked. �Don�t fucking play games with me,� he hisses before he sticks his tongue in my mouth. There are hands flying and the leather edge of my belt nearly takes the skin off my chin when he whips it out of belt loops fast enough to cause a fire from the friction. He has my pants around my ankles and my face pressed to the glass before I can protest. �I�m going to fuck you and you�re going to be quiet about it,� I think I nod a little as he rips a condom open with his teeth and spits the bit of foil left on his tongue onto my back. I close my eyes and brace myself. My thighs spread and my knees bend. He�s inside in one hard push that takes my breath away. He pulls on the longer hair at the base of my neck and bites my shoulder as he starts to rut against me. There is no rhythm, no rhyme, just ache and need. I can absorb this. He jerks in and out, erratic and unsteady. His breath hot against my ear, he mumbles things that I don�t even pretend to hear. The ringing in my head and the sting in my ass and the pain in every muscle has me consumed. And then the numbness comes and I could take any amount of harder, faster, more that he can offer up. I start to push back, to give him more. There comes a point when it gets to be nothing but a warm burn that�s more good than anything else. And then I come, white hot splash against glass that slides down and hits my thigh and makes me feel useful in some way. Sweaty forehead sliding left and right as I shake off the fog and steady myself. I feel him push in once, twice more and then he�s done. Comes with a grunt that sounds more painful than anything else. And then he�s gone, out of me and away from me. I step out of my pants, kick the pile of clothes aside. I walk out to the bed, lie down and just breathe. I prop up on elbows that are shaking, I pretend not to notice, and I watch him. He stares at himself in the mirror for what feels like days. Then he runs water over his face and dries it with a fresh towel. He slips his dick back into his pants and buttons them. Then he walks right toward me without ever looking at me. He crawls onto the bed fully clothed, lays himself on me like a thick cotton blanket of boy that smells like pencil lead, mint shampoo and hate. He buries his face in my neck and maybe he cries, but I don�t see the tears, so I can�t be sure. I stroke his back, slip a hand under his shirt and feel his warm skin, warmer than it even should be after rough sex. Must be the anger boiling his blood that runs too close to the surface. He sighs and redistributes his weight. �Are we cuddling after sex now,� I chide him softly. I have to let him know it was okay. I�m okay. We�re okay. Back to Season 4 Home 1
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