
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10745499.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom
  Relationship:
      Ryan_Ross/Brendon_Urie
  Series:
      Part 8 of The_Heart_Rate_of_a_Mouse
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-31 Completed: 2012-04-29 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 29257
****** The Heart Rate of a Mouse: Extras ******
by Anna_(arctic_grey)
Notes
     All THROAM ficlets, cameos, etc. reposted from LJ.
***** Pete’s cameo: “Let’s get the hell out of Texas.” *****
Chapter Notes
     I recommend reading chapter Vol.1: II – 4 before reading this. It
     will be confusing otherwise!
Vol.1: II - set at the end of Ch.3

I’ve been giving it some thought all day, ever since Ryan and Spencer assured
me that they were only planning their birthdays in one of the venue’s
conference rooms. Yeah, right. Not to say I won’t organise their joint birthday
party because that sounds groovy beyond belief, but point is that Ryan has not
celebrated his birthdays since he was twelve. Spencer told me that once.
What kind of a kid loses interest in life at the age of twelve? The ones
destined for something greater, it seems. Those few individuals who are larger
than life.
The gear is on the bus and we’re ready to go, but I pull Brendon aside now that
I’ve decided what needs to be done. He follows me off the bus, Ryan’s eyes
following us as we leave.
It’s almost dark outside, a bit after midnight, and I make sure we’re a safe
distance away from the bus. Don’t need anyone else to hear us.
Brendon looks wondering, clearly waiting for an order. The humid wind ruffles
his hair, and I can just see the way the lights glowing from the bus catch the
backstage pass hanging around his neck. He’s an extremely good-looking man. If
he was straight, the girls would be all over him. God, if he were straight, I
could sell him like that. I’ve heard him singing and playing, and the kid’s
fucking talented. It’s his loss he’s hit his head and decided to sleep with
other men, efficiently ruining any chances he might ever have in the industry.
It’s a tragic waste of talent, but clearly Brendon’s found other ways to move
up. He’s lured one of the most handsome and charismatic men I know into his
trap.
Ryan’s not your Robert Plant on stage, but he doesn’t have to scream, throw
down the microphone stand and sink down to his knees to get the crowd’s
absolutely undivided attention. He gets on that stage, strums a chord and
starts singing, and even though there are ten thousand people watching him, it
always feels like he’s singing to you and no one else. It’s not just some song
he’s launching into, but he’s whispering his most personal secret into your
ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. And that is charisma – his
mesmerising personality that he is clueless to having.
I’m not all that shocked that Ryan is sleeping with Brendon. From my
experience, Ryan will fuck anything he is attracted to, and Ryan will
definitely do anything that pops into his head. I’m definitely pissed off that
they’ve been going at it behind my back, but I don’t need to deal with Ryan’s
sudden explorations the way Spencer is apparently struggling to do. Spencer’s
been off his game all day and played a shit show.
But what I need to do is take repercussions, micromanage my band’s needs and
have them clueless to how everything they say, do, eat and drink has been
dictated by me.
Brendon quirks an eyebrow at me, still waiting.
“So you’re fucking Ryan.”
“What?” he asks sharply, instantly freezing up.
“You’re fucking him,” I state, and he tries to laugh and look confused. I roll
my eyes. “Don’t try that bullshit with me.” I am sick and tired of everyone on
that damn bus thinking they can fool me, for having no damn respect for me.
They need me more than they know. They owe me everything. “Nothing gets past
me, especially not something like this.”
“You’re insane! That’s –”
“Brendon.”
The faux astonishment on his face fades, eyes filling with uncertainty. He
shifts uncomfortably. “Did Spencer tell you?”
“No.” Maybe I overheard Spencer and Ryan talking, my ear pressed to the door,
but I’m not admitting to that. I clearly knew, noticed the signs in the air
because that’s how smart I am. I didn’t go to college for nothing, you know.
Brendon looks unnerved, so I give him a smile. “Relax! I’m not going to tell
anyone. My job is to make sure that the product called The Followers can be
sold, and that includes them not splitting up as well as an all heterosexual
cast.”
Brendon frowns. “You mean... Wait. You want me to end it?”
“No! No, not at all!” I laugh, digging into my pockets. “Smoke?” I offer him
one, and he takes it. I bring my own to my lips, lighting it up and inhaling
deep. “Hmm,” I nod approvingly, focusing on the matter at hand. “I want you to
not fuck it up. Right now, you’re what’s keeping Ryan happy. If my front man is
happy, then I’m happy. If my front man’s pissed, then I’m pissed. You on the
same page with me here?” I ask, and he nods. “Good. If tomorrow Ryan is not
happy, then I will hold you personally responsible.”
He looks astonished. “I can’t keep him happy all the time.”
“Try,” I smile impatiently. Am I not making myself clear here? I’ll break it
down for him. “Ryan’s thirsty, you stand there with a drink ready. Ryan’s got
an itch, you scratch it.”
The roadie glares at me. “I’m not some slave! I’m not going to bend over
backwards trying to please him!”
“Don’t you already bend over for him, anyway?” I note, causing anger to flash
on his face. Well, it’s what a fag like him does.
It’s sweet that Brendon thinks Ryan wants honesty from him. What Ryan wants is
for everyone to do what he says and for everything to go as he plans it. He’s
flaky, that man. Brendon could easily fall from grace if he rubs Ryan the wrong
way, and then Brendon will be no use to me.
Brendon sucks on his cigarette nervously. “Look, I get where you’re coming
from, but I’m not the solution. I’m sleeping with him, yeah, but –”
“Ryan’s a man who needs addictions to keep himself sane. May it be drugs,
alcohol, music, his misery…” I pause. “Right now, you’re it. And that means
you’ve got power over him. You might not realise that, but I do.”
When has Ryan ever kept a fuck buddy around? Apart from Brendon and Jac, never.
The roadie probably doesn’t understand that he’s goddamn rare. I don’t care if
Ryan fucks a man if it keeps him on track. Ryan can marry a donkey and bring it
on tour with him as long as no one knows and the band keeps getting bigger.
“This is ridiculous,” Brendon objects. I’ve offended him. Tough luck.
“It’s about to get even more ridiculous,” I tell him, because bribery and
blackmail are the basic tools of any manager. “At the end of the tour, I’ll
give you a three hundred dollar bonus.” Brendon’s eyes widen slightly. “Yeah,
no shit,” I agree. I could think of a million better ways to spend that money,
and I feel pain in my guts at the thought of parting with it, but it’ll pay
itself back. “Three hundred bucks to keep him happy and appease him because we
both know he’s a moody little fucker. I love him dearly, of course, and this is
how far I’m willing to go to make him want to be on this tour.”
“Fuck,” Brendon manages, somewhere between shock, anger and disbelief.
“So, can I count on you?” I push, and when he looks angered, I add, “You want
him to be happy, right? You’re getting paid to do what you want to do, anyway.
Who knows, you being there for him like that could make him develop some
feelings for you.”
My god. Where do I come up with this crap? Ryan lives in his head too much to
notice those who surround him. Sure, Brendon stands out right now, but the
effect will wear off and he will fade back into the blurred scenery. That’s not
what Brendon wants to hear, though. What he wants is for someone to tell him
that Ryan will return his feelings. Brendon wouldn’t be angry if he wasn’t
falling in love.
I’ve always thought that it takes a certain suicidal trait to let yourself fall
in love with Ryan Ross.
Brendon frowns, even if I see a momentary glint of hope in his eyes. A doomed
love right there. He notes, “I thought you wanted an all heterosexual cast.”
“I do. That doesn’t mean Ryan can’t keep skeletons and lovers in his closet.”
He shakes his head and mutters, “This isn’t right.”
Count me as someone who doesn’t care.
“Are you doing it?”
He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. I just wanted to say that.”
“Noted,” I grin and give his shoulder a squeeze. “Good boy.”
He glares at me, but I finish my cigarette peacefully before dropping it to the
ground. I roll my shoulders, smiling.
I’m back to holding all the strings. Fuck me if that doesn’t feel good.
“Come on,” I tell him, nodding at our beautiful, perfect bus. “Let’s get the
hell out of Texas.”
***** Brendon’s cameo: On This Train *****
Chapter Notes
     This is Brendon’s cameo, so to speak. Pete had one in Vol.1, and this
     time we get to see some of Brendon’s thoughts. This is set in the
     beginning of Vol.2’s II, somewhere around II – Chapter 1/2. This is
     unbetaed so mistakes are my own. Please make sure you've read Chapter
     7 first, however.
I can’t stop.
Not sure if I’d want to.
The subway is loud and shaking and tired as a few bored and lifeless people
fill it. Crossing the river. From Manhattan to Brooklyn. From him to him.
I feel Ryan in me. I didn’t shower. I should have. When I get home, I’ll say hi
and instantly go wash myself off. Maybe jerk off in the shower. Finger myself.
The memories are still so fresh on my mind, his touch and his hands, the dirty
fucking things he says, and I’m so lost in it. No idea where the way out is
anymore. Sometimes it’s all I can think of: when will I see him again? How
soon? It’s hard to keep my guard up.
Heard someone talking about him the other day. Two guys around my age asking
each other if they knew when the new Ryan Ross album was coming out. Whenever I
see him, it’s a different world. He doesn’t get that, I don’t think. There’s
us, the real people, and then there’s him, untouchable, free to do what he
pleases. Without conscience.
I’m not a demigod. I’m human.
Shane. He’s human. He’s… Fuck, he’s the kindest man I know. He loves me. He
loves me, he loves me, I know he does. What am I doing, oh god, what the hell
am I – He’s not perfect, no one is, but he’s a good man. And I’d die if he ever
found out. And knowing that, I still… do these stupid things. Take unnecessary
risks. For Ryan.
The excitement is addictive. The thrill of sneaking around and getting away
with it. And the lies I tell feel worth it when my lips meet his. Like it
justifies it somehow.
It’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m the fuck up.
Well, Ryan’s certainly a fuck up too. But this isn’t his doing.
He doesn’t talk to me about Keltie. Not that I ever bring her up, but sometimes
I’d want to ask: do you feel guilty? Probably not. Guilt is an emotion much too
human for Ryan. And when he fucks me, when he kisses me, he does it like
there’s no one else. No, he doesn’t bother with guilt much.
I’m not like him. I carry my guilt in my own quiet way. It’s a balancing act:
guilt versus pleasure. And pleasure wins. Every time.
The subway rattles. I want to laugh into my hands. My eyes land on the priest
sitting opposite me, his white collar. Tell him my confession: I never got over
him. That’s what it is. That’s what’s wrong with me. Even after what he did,
even after all that time… even after Shane and how badly I fell in love with
him, Ryan never slipped my mind. I was stitching up the wounds. I was too. But
then he showed up and pulled the stitches right off, crawled back inside, back
into me. The way he makes me feel… No one else can make me feel like that. No
one ever has. My pulse picks up just thinking about him.
That armchair in his living room with its back to the window, but I was facing
the view. Him sitting there, me on his lap, riding him slow but hard. His hands
on my hips. Nails digging in. Sweat rolling down my back. Saw the ceiling, the
ceiling, the building opposite, so out of it, body shaking in pleasure,
breathing in his hair, our bodies as close as we could get them. His lips on my
chest, his tongue grazing over a nipple, him pulling me down for a kiss. Love
the way he touches me. Love the way he pulls me to him.
I can’t stop, so I try not to think about it. The guilt. What it’d do to Shane
if he knew. Or if anyone knew. If Ian knew or William knew or… And William,
well, he wouldn’t spare his words. He’d tell me instantly that I should be
ashamed of myself, frolicking around with that no good rock star who treated me
like crap. And especially after everything Shane has done for me, everything
he's put up with. Am I ashamed? I don’t know. I was angry with Ryan for so
long, and I haven’t forgotten, certainly not, but…
It always feels so right when I’m with him. The way we kiss and the way we
laugh. The way he pouts when I have to go. Butterflies in my stomach. It wasn’t
like that the last time. He wasn’t like that. Oh, William would kill me if he
knew.
But then I leave, get on this subway, reeking of Ryan Ross, who lives in his
rock star bubble of fame and money, and that’s when I realise that my life
isn’t the one there, in his bedroom. That’s not my life. That’s a little escape
from my life.
And my life is here. With Shane. In Brooklyn. It’s not so glorious. Not as
intense. Not as deadly.
But then the lines have blurred, and maybe my life is in Ryan’s bedroom after
all. The way he makes me feel – happy, light, wanted. He makes me feel so much.
And sometimes I almost feel like he is where I belong.
But then I get on this train.
And I will keep riding it for as long as I can.
***** If You Want to Be Common and Other Ficlets *****
            If You Want to Be Common, I Can Claim That I Tamed You
                                 Chicago, 1979
He’s breathing unevenly, sprawled on the messy sheets of his bed. His hair is a
mess and still slightly wet from the shower that we took before getting back to
bed. We’re trying to recover from tour, switch back to real time. That’s what
we tell ourselves, anyway, but the truth would paint a different picture if we
let it. It’d say that we’ve cocooned ourselves in his house, built a fortress,
retreated into a blissful bubble that is in no way connected to the real world.
So what.
Let us escape a little.
The blue sheets of his bed are wrinkled and tangled, stains on them – my come,
his come, drops of sweat. I don’t care.
He’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen with his flushed skin and swollen lips. I
kiss him where his ribs end, my hands on his hips as I hover over him. He
whines, restless, and we’ll get there, baby, we’ll get there. This morning I
let him have control, let him do what he wanted, and while it was a powerful
drug, this is stronger – seeing him giving up power instead.
I lick over his taut stomach. He tastes salty – a lot of good that shower did
us. I kiss next to his belly button and then nuzzle his happy trail, leading
down to his pubic hair. He’s tense with anticipation, and I feel his gaze on me
as I go down. I look up to meet his brown eyes. He looks mildly disbelieving.
Still. We seem to do that, be awed that we wake up together, that we can
finally do this without any guilt attached. That it’s so fucking good that we
can’t keep our hands to ourselves at all.
I take a firm hold of the base of his cock and lick up a wet trail. And then,
unceremoniously, I take him into my mouth.
“Shit,” he breathes, and I revel in his reaction, feel myself getting so
fucking hard from seeing him come undone like this. With one hand around the
base, I begin to blow him. His hips thrust slightly, and he’s biting on his
bottom lip watching me. I suck in the head of his cock. He tastes good, and my
tongue runs over the head to taste pre-come he was leaking before I even took
him in my mouth. He’s good to go, he’s so ready to be fucked, but like I said –
why rush it too much?
I swirl my tongue around the crown, then suck again.
“Holy shit, Ryan,” he groans, and I take it as a sign to go back to blowing
him, my lips meeting my fist as I take his length into my mouth. I’m so much
better at this now, even if I do say so myself, but the way that he groans and
responds to every touch, the way he can barely handle this, supports my view of
me being better. I’ve got nothing but time to find out all the different things
that reduce him to a whimpering mess.
I stop sucking his cock unexpectedly, leave him spiralling, wanting more. I
pull back, saliva rolling down his length. The taste of his sex is in my mouth,
and I fight back the urge to touch myself. Instead I place my hands on the back
of his knees and push his legs up and towards his stomach, leaving him exposed.
He lets me. He wants me.
My insides drip with heat when I focus my gaze on his hole. The skin is a soft
pink, and he looks like he’s recently been fucked – leaving him with residue of
lube and come. But I lick that away as I lean down to kiss him there, and his
breathing hitches. He loves this. I love this.
I brush my tongue over his hole, wanting to drive him even more insane. And it
works as his moans grow louder, and he says, “Baby, fucking hell, so good –
Your mouth.”
And I give him just that, kissing his hole, licking over it, tasting him. His
back arches, but I keep my hands firmly pressed against the backs of his knees,
letting him know that he is not allowed to move as I eat him out. He breathes
out half-moans, and if he wasn’t ready before, he is now. Pre-come decorates
the head of his flushed cock, and I kiss my way back up, over his balls, his
shaft, to gather the transparent substance with my tongue.
Still holding his knees bent over his stomach, I position myself between his
legs. I grab the lube that’s on the bed – we keep it handy at all times. I have
to suck in a breath when I apply some on my cock, and I’m so ready to come,
fucking hell. I slick myself up and toss the lube bottle back to hide somewhere
in the sheets.
And this – this moment of surrender. When he lies there, breathing erratically,
flushed, waiting for me. So turned on that he can barely stand it, is barely
coherent, but he lets himself fall so deep into it because he knows that he can
with me. Knows that he can let go to the most burning pit of uncontrollable
lust because I’ve got him, and he’s got me, and we’re allowed to go this far
with each other.
I can’t resist it a second longer. I don’t need to guide my cock in – I’m hard
enough for simple pressure to do the job. But I do it slow, watch his face as
the head of my cock pushes him open, feel his heat engulf me, watch his mouth
drop as a dirty groan slips from his swollen, perfect lips.
“That good?” I ask, and he nods fervently, back arching. He’s reaching down to
touch himself, runs his fingers over his balls, up his length. Like he can’t
stand how good it feels.
And then I push in until I’m buried in him, pushing his knees out of the way as
I lean forwards, my cock sinking into him. He fists my hair as I lean down to
kiss him, our mouths sealing in a dirty and desperate kiss. He sounds so dirty
now that I’m in him, mild pain flickering beneath the pleasure as he adjusts to
my size.
“Fuck, you’re so desperate for it,” I say against his lips, awed that he’s
acting like he hasn’t been fucked three times the past twelve hours.
“Please,” he moans, his voice deep but needy.
“How hard do you want it?” I ask, now starting to work my hips, my cock trapped
in his tight warmth. “Really hard or really fucking hard?”
It’s a rhetorical question and he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I rest my palms on the mattress just above his shoulders, supporting myself as
I begin to fuck him. I keep my eyes on him, watching him being fucked, the way
his brows knit together, the way he tosses his head, the way he bites on his
lips, moans, swears, looks at me with wide eyes and breathes through the
pleasure. And I work my hips – hard, then pausing, going slow, going shallow,
going deep again. I lift one of his legs on my shoulder, and it helps me to go
in even harder. His bed shakes, he mumbles nonsense. Sweat rolls down my back,
and my cock is throbbing.
I know he’s about to come because his muscles begin to seize up around my
length. He has hair stuck to his forehead, and mine, I think, and mine because
he lets me.
He’s fisting his cock now, his free hand twisting the sheets. His body is full
of unreleased tension, and his muscles spasm, his taut stomach looking even
tauter, rippled as his muscles quiver. Microscopic drops of perspiration
decorate his skin all over, and he’s looking at me straight in the eye, getting
off on watching me like I’m getting off on watching him.
I lean down to kiss him again, kiss his lips, move to his neck and bite down.
He likes that – I know that he does, it makes him groan. I feel his hand
between our stomachs, stroking more vehemently.
“I want to come on you,” I say with the little sense I have left. Want to mark
him, smear my come on him –
“Ry, holy fuck.” And then he grabs my hair painfully, pulling me closer, and
bites onto a patch of skin just behind my ear, muffling his groan as he comes.
I feel him spilling between us, his body vibrating, shaking, and his muscles
grip my cock. His nose is squashed against my skin as he holds me tightly where
I am, breathing unevenly as he keeps coming. It takes every ounce of control
not to come but to fuck him through it.
When his death hold of my hair loosens, I rise to sit on my knees between his
legs. I hastily pull out, mesmerised by the view of my flushed cock sliding out
of him, his stretched hole that looks well fucked, Jesus Christ –
His stomach has come splatters on it, white semen rolling over his knuckles as
he holds his cock, and I fist my own dick fast and hard. He watches me with
eyes full of fire, gaze dropping to my cock, and I’m so hard for him right now
that I can’t.
And then I come, shooting my load on him, his stomach, his balls, his hole. And
it’s the hottest fucking thing ever, and I come more than I should be able to
from having come so many times already.
“God, Bren...” I breathe once I’m done, trying to catch my breath. I let go of
my member and let my fingers slide on his skin instead. Gathering my come,
pushing some of it into his hole. This makes him rigid, makes him seize up,
makes him sigh as he comes down.
He sits up on the bed, his still parted legs by my sides. His hand slides to
the back of my neck, bringing me in for a kiss. He tastes like sweat.
We breathe against each other’s mouths, lips grazing. “You’re so bad for me,”
he says, and I smile into the kiss.
“How so?”
One of my hands is gently sliding up and down his side, the other is on his
knee, dancing over the skin and hair.
“I’ll never be able to have sex with anyone else because you’ll spoil me.”
“You’ve figured out my plan, then,” I say, and he laughs, his nose brushing
mine. My eyes dart down his body, and I feel a sense of pride from the mess
that he now is. “Lie down.”
His eyes don’t leave mine as he obeys.
I get out of bed, briefly leaving the bedroom. I grab a hand towel in his
bathroom, run it under hot water to wet it.
My eyes land on the toothbrush mug.
Two toothbrushes now.
Next to the mug is a tiny bar of soap: Savoy Hotel, London.
I let my fingers brush over the text, feeling myself frown.
He’s still in bed, still waiting for me. I sit on the edge and silently begin
to clean him, running the towel across his stomach, then down over his pubic
hair. He pulls me to lie down next to him once I’m done, throwing covers on us
as I drop the towel by the bed. He snuggles right up to me, not asking, not
hesitating. We entwine together, exchanging lazy kisses.
“How much time have we got?” I ask, and he shrugs like that’s inconsequential.
“Why?”
He picks up on that instantly. And I could say ‘no reason’ but he’s caught me.
He’s unnervingly good at that.
“I was just thinking that. I don’t know, that maybe you could... tell me about
London.”
“You were there.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His nose brushes against mine, his fingers slowly moving on my bare arm. “No.”
“No?” I repeat in surprise. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Why should I? So that you can be jealous about it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I argue, placing a lingering kiss on his swollen lips. He
tastes sweet and intoxicating.
I wouldn’t be jealous. He’s here with me. And all we do is sleep and have sex
and sleep and have sex, and then we clean up, and then we realise we’re
starving, and we’ve emptied the kitchen of canned tuna already, and soon we’ll
have to leave his house. Soon.
I wish Brendon hadn’t picked up the phone this morning, I wish he had just let
it ring. Keep the outside world away for a while longer as we sleep on each
other in positions that shouldn’t be comfortable but somehow are.
“I wouldn’t be jealous about it,” I now repeat. “You said you almost slept with
Dallon that night. I just want to…”
And I drift off, wait for him to respond.
He seems to consider this, but then he clears his throat. He shifts under the
covers, lifts his head higher up on the pillow. “Well,” he says, a hand moving
to now catch a strand of my hair, and he rolls it between his fingers as he
speaks. “We went on that date, and it was – it was a really good date, and. I
was upset with you. Earlier that week, that hot guy at the pub –”
“Chris.”
He makes a face at the name. “Chris. Sure.”
“You gonna be jealous about it?”
“No,” he says but it sounds like he is. “I’m just – I don’t like that you were
sleeping with others so soon after we broke up the first time.”
“I should’ve been mourning?” I clarify, and he shrugs. “But I was mourning. The
kid was it. And you were doing the same, sleeping with guys to forget about me,
I know you were.”
He kisses me quickly, nods like that’s enough. Okay. Let’s not get into that.
I’m in his bed. We’re us now, we’re us, him and me.
“Okay,” I say as he pulls back. We tangle together possessively, my hand
squeezing his bare hip under the covers. Okay. “You were upset about Chris,” I
say, helping him along.
“Yeah. I spent most of that date thinking about you,” he says, tracing my jaw
line with his thumb. “As sad as that is. And Dallon and I got caught in the
rain, and I was pretty drunk, and...” He sighs like he’s unsure of what to say.
“And then you were flirting outside your room, holding hands, clothes soaked,”
I supply, and he stares at me in surprise. I shrug. “I have spies. I hear
things.”
“Clearly.”
“Clearly,” I agree. I pause for a moment. Conjure up the unpleasant mental
image. “You went into the room.”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t fuck.”
“No.”
“But you almost did.”
“It was heading there but then I stopped us,” he says, and hot jealousy
instantly burns in me. So much for that.
I think of Dallon wanting him, and at the time I was willing to be fine with
it. Not now. I swallow down the foul bile and just nod.
He goes on with, “And I don’t know, Dallon and I were making out on the bed,
but it just – I couldn’t get my mind off of you. I didn’t want him in that bed,
I wanted you. Fuck…” His voice drops into a whisper as his lips ghost over mine
again. “I wanted you.”
But I stall. “So you told him to go.”
“Said I was tired.”
“Because you wanted me.”
“Because I love you.”
I still haven’t gotten used to him saying that – I don’t know if he has either,
but he keeps saying it as if to remind me, to reassure me. He loves me. It’s
like a dream of some kind, and the punchline is his love for me, but it’s not a
joke.
“That enough?” he asks.
I breathe in. Force the mental images of him and Dallon on a hotel bed to
disappear. “Yeah.”
And we’ll never talk about London again, even if the thought of Dallon coveting
Brendon angers me. It’s different with Dallon – his feelings were returned to
an extent. But I got Brendon, I got him. I keep reminding myself of that.
Who knew how good it could be? I didn’t.
The urge to have Brendon again is strong and present, but instead we get out of
bed after five more minutes of stray kisses, soft and slow. Because Brendon
promised. Because the outside world will not let us be.
I get dressed, and half of the clothes I put on are his, half mine. I need to
go to Machias soon.
I sit on the edge of his bed and watch him going through his drawer to find a
shirt to wear. Admire his strong shoulders, his back, admire my nail marks here
and there.
God, I love him.
I look away.
Machias can wait.
But the bubble of the past few days seems to be slowly bursting as he and I get
ready to go. The snow outside his house is nearly untouched once more – we’ve
only taken one trip to stock up on food and then we locked ourselves in again.
Brendon makes a comment on the weather as we walk to his car, no longer hidden
by snow because we managed to get that much done, and I agree that it’s not as
cold anymore, get on the passenger seat. He backs out of the driveway, head
turned, and I put the radio on and press into my seat and look out of the
window. He hums along to songs, and the drive passes in silence, but it’s a
good silence. I listen to his voice and smile at the views passing by. It’s
late in the day, we’re late, we know. But we’re going.
The further we get from his house, the more a sudden nervousness begins to
engulf me. I pretend it’s not there.
His hand lands on my knee when we’re waiting for lights to change. I feel the
touch everywhere, like I’m wrapped up in it. Then he lifts his hand back to the
gear stick, and I wish he wouldn’t go.
Brendon parallel parks outside Jon’s house.
“You’re gonna hit that car,” I tell him when he reverses into the narrow space.
“I won’t, just –”
“You’re too close –”
“Shut up, I –”
“Would you listen?!”
“I’m good at this!” he snaps back, and then he manages to fit his car between
the other two as if only to annoy me. And then he gives me a smug look, and I
ignore it and get out of the car.
The lights are on in Jon’s house. I take in a deep breath looking at it.
Brendon’s rounded the car and his shoulder brushes against mine. “I’m hungry,”
he says simply and heads up the pathway, but it’s a ‘come on, then’, and he
looks at me to make sure I follow. And I do, hands stuck in my pockets. Just
dinner with Cassie and Jon. Nothing I haven’t done before.
Jon opens the door with a big smile on his face. “Hey, get in here! It’s cold
out!”
Brendon greets him like he normally would, with a brief hug, and I close the
door and force a smile at Jon. It’s not Jon’s fault – he’s clearly trying to
act as normal as he can.
Maybe this is normal. The new normal.
Cassie is quick to come over and say hi to us, too. We never saw her at the
airport when we returned from Europe. Brendon gives her a big hug, and then she
gives me one too – albeit not as big – probably because it’d be more awkward if
she didn’t give me a hug.
“Jon’s told me all about the tour,” she says, leading us into the kitchen. I
realise then that we’re the only guests – Mike’s in New York, Bob’s flight back
from Germany isn’t for another few days, Ian is in rehab in Las Vegas, and
Dallon is – well, he’s in town, and I thought that he’d be invited, but I guess
not. Which is just as well because Dallon is not on my list of people I’d love
to see. But then – then it occurs to me that this might be a double date, a
couples’ night in.
I lag behind to put some more distance between Brendon and me.
“Yeah, we had such a fantastic time, the crowds were amazing,” Brendon says.
“You guys want beers?” Jon asks as Cassie goes back to onion chopping.
“I’ll have one,” Brendon says, then looks at me. “You don’t. You’re driving us
back.”
“I am?” I ask, put off by this because he didn’t tell me. But he just nods,
accepting a beer from Jon. Jon looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head
in the end, feeling pussy whipped. If I’m driving, I’m not drinking.
“So,” Jon says. He’s rolling on the balls of his feet. He looks between Brendon
and me. “What you guys been up to?”
Brendon almost chokes on his beer and ends up clearing his throat. I look at
the floor tiles, feeling horribly self-conscious.
It’s been, what? Four days?
Four days of –
“Jonathan Jacob Walker,” Cassie now huffs, still chopping onions. “What do you
think they’ve been up to?”
There is a moment of embarrassment that Jon and I share, at least, because Jon
pales and looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. And it’s true,
of course it’s true, but it’s not a conversation topic for Jon and me.
Brendon is less fazed – he grins, even, looks momentarily smug. “Like you two
are any better,” he says, and I relax. Cassie blushes somewhat.
That helps, Brendon bringing it down to their level. And maybe I’m arrogant
with my love, but it feels like going down. Because I bet no one else would
understand this connection, what it feels like, how intense it is. What it’s
like to wake up next to him. I bet no one else –
Only I get it. Only he gets it. Only us and a thousand little love songs.
“So what’s for dinner?” Brendon asks, and Jon regains his composure.
We talk about the tour and the band over dinner as Cassie and Brendon drink too
much wine. And it’s not like anything is different, really. The conversation is
lively, the food is good, I’m amongst friends. And yet it’s fundamentally
different – I am fundamentally different. Brendon sits next to me, and my
thoughts circle him even as the topic of conversation is something completely
different. I admire the way he twirls pasta around his fork, the way his Adam’s
apple moves when he drinks wine, and the way his fingers briefly touch his chin
when he’s formulating a thought, and I admire the way he looks at me every now
and then – or often, maybe, someone might say constantly, but no, often –
because he manages to make my stomach drop every time, but that I hide.
“So Ryan,” Cassie says halfway through, and I focus on her. “Will you be moving
to Chicago for good?”
I blink at her. Have no idea what to say. “Uh.”
Jon looks equally inquisitive. Brendon swoops in with, “We haven’t really
talked about that yet.” And he shrugs it off like it’s no big deal, smiling
firmly.
“Oh.” Cassie sounds surprised, staring at me. “Are you planning to stay in
Maine?”
“No,” I say, frowning. “No, I don’t think so.” I feel like the centre of
attention, even with just three people. I avoid my gaze and pierce a piece of
chicken with my fork. “I might move back to New York.”
Cassie only nods, perhaps having realised that she’s made me uncomfortable.
Brendon, however, is staring at me. “New York?” he asks. I nod, and a frown
flickers on his face. He gives me a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach
his eyes. “I mean, sure. New York.”
We move onto another topic quickly, but when we’ve all finished eating, I still
feel like I’ve spoken out of turn. I offer to take the dishes away. “You
cooked, it’s the least I can do,” I tell Cassie who remains seated with a
grateful smile – maybe impressed, even. What a changed man he is, this Ryan,
now that he and Brendon –
I breathe easier once I’m in the kitchen. I leave the dishes by the sink,
placing my hands on the counter and trying to calm down. I feel the foolish
indulgence of the past few days washing away fast. Not so smart after all, are
we?
Of course there’d be questions. We should have known that. It needs to be
explained, it needs to be given a name. But we haven’t done that – I’ll fuck
him in twenty different positions without asking what he sees for us in the
future. Too greedy and caught up in the now.
“You alright?” Brendon’s voice comes from behind me just then, and I swirl
around. He’s got his plate with him.
“Yeah, sure,” I nod as he sets it aside slowly, calculatedly. He’s followed me
on purpose and he now stands too close to me. He studies me keenly. I crack.
“No,” I admit, breathing out unsteadily. I look towards the doorway, hearing
Jon and Cassie’s voices, making sure we’re alone. “I’m just, uh, just
overwhelmed. I don’t know how to do this. I’m – We’re unprepared for this,
their questions and –”
“We can figure all that stuff out,” Brendon says instantly, a hand pressing
against my side soothingly. “We just haven’t thought that far yet, okay? But we
will.”
I nod. Okay. He’s right, of course. We just haven’t naturally reached that
point yet, and now it feels like others are pushing us. And five years, after
nearly five long years, can’t we take it at our own pace? And what if we rush
things, what if we mess it up, and –
“Would you relax?” he laughs, and I manage to chuckle. I’m being an idiot, I
know. He smiles and says, “Come here.” He attempts to pull me closer, but my
eyes immediately dart to the door again. This makes the smile on his face
disappear, and his hand remains on my hip but he stops trying to pull me in.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling like a dick. “Sorry, I just - I just don’t know what
we’re calling this, alright? I don’t know. What are we? I mean, are we a
couple?”
He looks confused, but remains where he is. “I think we’re strong and we’re
good. And we’re together. Of course we are. Aren’t we?”
“Of course,” I say, quick to agree with him. I can’t imagine ever introducing
him as my boyfriend – a boyfriend, what is that? Something you have in high
school. What we have runs so much deeper than that.
And now I step closer to him, capture his lips in a kiss. It’s so distracting,
being near him, knowing that his lips are mine to kiss, yet not kissing him. He
tastes like white wine, cool moisture on his lower lip, and he smiles into it.
His hand comes up to press against my neck, and I firmly place one hand on the
small of his back, the other brushing hairs at the nape of his neck. He opens
up for me easily, deepening the kiss as he tilts his head, his tongue brushing
mine. Electric nerves spark up in me. The kiss is slow and deep, and it’s good
and strong like we are. It’s just a bit filthy, just a bit calm, just a bit
reassuring.
“Oh,” Jon’s voice cuts in. We’re both quick to break the kiss, to step back,
wipe our mouths as we turn to Jon, who’s walked in and looks like he doesn’t
know what to do with himself. But I don’t step back that much, and I don’t feel
embarrassed for too long. I include Jon’s kitchen on my list of places where I
can kiss the man I love if I’m so inclined.
I’m learning to trust that it’s not folly this time, that I’m not getting
carried away with it.
We stay for an hour longer before it seems acceptable to say goodnight. Jon
doesn’t ask about how long I’ll be in town for, just says that he’ll see me
later.
As he threatened, Brendon makes me drive. The sun has set, but the street
lights keep the world illuminated. He curls up on the passenger seat, saying
that he’s tired. I don’t know if I’ve ever paid as much attention to driving
and to traffic as I do just then, working my way from Jon’s bigger house back
to Brendon’s smaller one, my palms getting slightly sweaty on the wheel when I
realise that Brendon’s fallen asleep. At least I’m a smooth driver, then.
It takes me roughly ten minutes to wake Brendon up when we’re back at his
house. It seems cruel to stir him when he has his head pressed against the
window, eyes firmly closed, lips pressed together, breathing in deep. And I’m
fine sitting here, just watching him. Picturing us now engaging with the world
outside his house, us in New York, at Spencer’s house, having dinner with my
friends or his. Not being solitary figures anymore but halves of something.
Being halves even when we’re thousands of miles apart.
I need to go to Machias soon. I can’t keep putting it off.
New York’s a good step. Get my stuff back there. Sell that monstrosity of a
house in Machias.
Okay, it’s not a monstrosity. That house was just neglected. It just needed
some love. I wasn’t truly able to give it.
Brendon and I will make plans. Whatever we decide, I hope that we won’t be
apart for too long. I don’t think I’d handle it all that well, missing him. I’d
handle it, sure, but not well.
“Baby, we’re here,” I say at length, slowly brushing his cheek with my
forefinger. He stirs almost instantly, blinking at me owlishly and then looking
through the windscreen.
“Oh. Hey.” He sits up straight, smiling softly and sleepily, pleased that we’re
here, pleased to see me. And then he says, “Hey,” eyeing me, his smile
widening, and then he has a fistful of my coat and is pulling me closer for a
kiss. And we shouldn’t kiss in a car that’s in his driveway, not even late at
night when it’s dark, because someone might walk by, someone might see.
Reason – what a useless thing for love.
We end up making out in the car, leaning towards each other to meet in the
middle. And I just want to kiss him repeatedly because we have so much catching
up to do. He soon says, “We should get inside,” and I fully agree because the
car windows are getting fogged up and desire has started to burn in me.
I lock the car as he hurries to the front door, getting his keys out. I take
one glance at the street, one car coming towards us some houses away, and no
one else in sight. Good.
Even though there is nothing suspicious about two guys walking into a house
together. Of course not.
“Hey, so I was thinking,” Brendon says as he finds the right key and pushes it
into the lock, “that I should have a key cut for you, too. For the house. For
convenience.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, and he gets the door open, looks over his shoulder at me
with a grin.
We are whatever we are, no need to put labels on it.
But it’s irreversible. Now that we’ve become us, there is no way we can ever go
back. And I don’t think either of us minds.
 
                                 Machias, 1979
To put it mildly, he’s gorgeous. To torture myself some more, he’s tall and
muscular, has deep blue eyes and a rugged manly appearance. His short hair is
coal black and his chin and cheeks have heavy afternoon shadow. He’s standing
in the doorway of this house.
The house is likewise gorgeous, but it’s a porcelain doll. Beautiful at first
glance, in a light blue dress with white frills, but then you notice the dead
glass eyes. The emptiness of the rooms. The silence of the ocean.
Ryan didn’t want me here. He didn’t want me to come. I insisted, rightly so.
Now, maybe foolishly.
I descend the stairs slowly, unsure. Ryan looks over his shoulder at me from
where he is at the door, appearing anxious, but then he blinks the expression
away to looking blank – but he fails just a little. I meet the gaze of the
visitor, who looks affronted by the sight of me, and my jaw sets tight and my
hands curl into fists, which is stupid, I know, and what if Ryan insisted that
I didn’t come because –
That’s petty and weak, and I don’t want to be either. So I stop at the bottom
and say, “Hello.”
The man nods. Lips pursed. Taking me in, measuring me up like I did to him.
“Clifton just came by to drop something off,” Ryan says.
And I nod, excessively so. “Okay.” And Ryan waits. And Clifton waits. And I
wait. And, oh. I’m the intruder. Oh, alright. I force myself not to frown.
“I’ll just be in the living room, then?”
Ryan nods and looks grateful. Spiders that cannot be real appear in my belly
and run along the walls, making me feel sick, but I force myself to give Ryan
and Clifton privacy. I close the living room door behind myself, even, just to
prove how mature I am about this, how I understand, and then I pace in the
living room, twisting my hands, trying to eavesdrop. And in the hall Clifton
says, “You’re selling the house?” and Ryan says, “Yeah,” and Ryan sounds
awkward. And then there are words I can’t make out, and I wonder if Ryan’s lips
are mine now, if that’s something I can reserve or if it’s assumed, if that’s
within or beyond a boundary he’s comfortable with.
How elementary. How childish. Twenty-eight, and I act like I’m eighteen.
I know it’s paranoia. The word’s Greek in origin, literally means beyond mind,
which I feel describes the sensation of it so accurately. The vicious scenarios
of what might be going on in the hall are things that cannot be contained by my
mind.
I sit down in the big armchair, my feet firmly on the ground, legs apart, and I
lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees as I chew on my fingernails. Wait.
Sigh. Pull on my hair some as Ryan, my Ryan, and that man... Goddammit. Fuck.
Shit.
And then the front door slams shut. I flinch. Sit up straight. Nothing else
happens. I don’t even breathe. Then a car engine starts out front. A car turns
around. Drives away.
And only then does Ryan push the living room door open, and it’s as if we’ve
never seen each other before. Not like this. He stays there, staring at me with
an expression that I have no idea how to read. It’s terrifying, that moment.
When I just can’t read him at all.
“Well,” I say eventually, forcing a smile. “He’s a looker.”
Petty.
I don’t recognise myself. Don’t recognise the resentment in my voice.
He begins to say something, but I cut him off. “Yeah, I know. It’s fine. I’m
fine. Of course it’s fine, we weren’t – You were free to. And look at him,
fuck, I don’t blame you.”
“I didn’t want this,” he says quietly.
Ignore me, I’m just jealous, I want to say. Ignore me.
And I wish he’d walk out, roll his eyes at me, bang the door behind himself,
tell me to come find him when I’ve stopped being absurd because he can very
well have a conversation or ten with all the men he’s fucked, and it’d still be
none of my business. But he doesn’t say that. He just looks guilty, and that
makes it worse because it fills me with fear, and I try to fight off a
headache, alongside greed and jealousy, and I ask, “Were you planning to see
him?”
“No.”
“If you’d come alone.”
“No.” He pauses slightly. “I was hoping not to see him at all. Disappear,
really. A dick move, but why pretend I’m nicer than that?”
I don’t want to be placated yet. “Did you kiss him?”
“What?”
“Just now.”
Now Ryan does seem annoyed, and it’s comforting. “No.”
“No? Because I – I meant what I said at Jon’s that day, that we don’t need
labels. But then, we haven’t talked boundaries, and maybe we should. But if you
restrict something, it dies. If you decide that something has to be a certain
thing, and then you don’t let it evolve because you’re so determined that –”
“What?” Ryan asks, looking confused as he walks in further. I stand up, shrug
and sigh and hate myself. I don’t even know. But the spiders are in my stomach,
and Clifton was beautiful, and Ryan might have had no plans of calling Clifton,
but Clifton showed up the second that he heard Ryan was back in town, and why
wouldn’t he? And they have been in this house by themselves plenty, plenty of
times. And what did they talk about, what did they do? Well, they fucked. I
know that. And I don’t like it. It’s not the sexy kind of history where it
might be a turn on to know what kind of stuff Ryan’s done with some hot guy,
this kind is all bad. Because it went on for months, and Clifton looked hurt
when he realised that Ryan hadn’t returned alone, or pissed off, maybe, I’m not
sure.
“Okay, let’s try –” Ryan says, then fumbles. “Hey. Sorry about that just then.
That was awkward as hell. I didn’t want you to see him. Or this house, for that
matter. But I’m not... going to say that the time I spent here, and the people
I spent it with, don’t mean anything. They mean something. And it was what I
needed at the time, what helped me to get by. Alright? I’m not sorry for that.
But I am sorry for that look on your face.”
I hang my head just then. Maybe he’s making himself impossible to read, but I’m
being obvious.
“Listen,” he says, voice now soft. “I don’t need those things anymore because
it’s different now. You’re here. Okay? Is that- Is that alright?”
And of course that’s alright, and I nod.
“Okay,” Ryan breathes, relieved, and hugs me. The darkness in me lingers,
however, and so I pull him to me possessively. If only I could own him, but I
can’t. That’s where trust comes in. I know this, we know this.
I still blow Ryan in the living room like I’ve got something to prove. Push him
down to sit on the armchair, ask, “Did he ever do this to you here?” He shakes
his head dizzily because I’ve kissed him breathless already. And I just think
good, good, good, and then I get his cock out and I suck it like it’s all I
want to do for the rest of my life – which it is, figuratively. And I put
everything into it, suck him so hard, take him so deep, and he tastes so good,
and I’m so fucking hard, and I want him to shoot his come down my throat and
call me baby, which he soon does. His hands get tangled in my hair. Cursing.
Sucking in his stomach. Biting on his bottom lip.
He comes fucking hard.
And it feels better after that. The fear and the darkness subside. I feel like
myself again.
I stay between his parted legs, kneeling in front of him in the living room of
his sad, beautiful house. I made him sad. He made me sad. Back in the day.
I nuzzle his right hip bone, kiss it gently. He can’t speak yet, he just
breathes unevenly as he comes down, holding onto my hair.
“You know I wouldn’t kiss anyone except you,” he manages eventually. “You know
that. You know.”
But I say nothing, even if he’s right.
“Brendon, for fuck’s –”
“Take me to bed,” is all I say. And he sighs, and he relaxes, and he does.
 
                           Along Interstate 15, 1981
I am going to live today.
The curtains of the motel room are a faded yellow, and sunlight penetrates them
easily, makes them look transparent. We’ve slept in, we’re somewhere – there
was a desert, a long stretch of road. Ryan drove until he couldn’t.
He lies next to me on the narrow bed, breathing evenly. I’ve hardly slept, but
I haven’t dared to move. His breaths calm me. Remind me: I am going to live
today.
He wakes up eventually. He turns around, sleep still imprinted on his features,
and he says, “Hey,” fingers running through my hair, and I fake a smile and he
knows it. His eyes look searching, and I look away.
The car is ours – or his, or mine. Who paid for it, I’m not sure of, but this
is the first big drive we’ve taken in it. We’d test it, he said. A road trip.
It’d be fun.
The scenery begins to flash by like it did yesterday.
After a long silence, Ryan says about a car crash, and I’m more alert. Ahead of
us, two cars have hit each other – one on each side of the road and metal waste
and car bits on the road. A woman is helping a man out of a trashed car. His
arm seems to be bleeding. Two unharmed cars are there, too, having stopped
already.
They motion us to keep driving, that they’ve got it covered, help is on the
way.
So we keep driving.
What could he and I do to help, anyway? I know nothing about car crashes. He
knows some, but he doesn’t let it show.
He puts the radio on, Reverie by Debussy, and the sound of it lulls me to sleep
at last. That, and his hand on my knee. And I breathe in dry air, windows
rolled two inches down to let a breeze in, but it’s windy outside and it’s
picking up the sand.
And sand, you know, sand is just tiny, tiny rocks. And rocks outlive us, have
already. Millions of years old. So it is immortality that gets in the car, and
our car will one day stop working, and it will then rust and be demolished
someday when he and I are dead already, but that’ll be alright. As long as it’s
decades away, as long as we spend those decades together.
He wakes me up. He’s switched the engine off. I’ve slept through it, and it
almost spirals me into a panic at first, because I know those cemetery gates
suddenly ahead of us. They remind me of my grandmother. I was seven, and her
face looked plastic and wrong, and then the ground swallowed her up, and every
Christmas we came here to light candles for the dead, and then – fast-forward.
He must have driven down Main Street. I slept right through it.
Am glad I did.
Thankfully there are no red lights in any of the crossings. The town’s too
small for that. Or was over ten years ago. Hopefully no one saw me.
Ryan’s chin is covered in thick stubble, and he rubs over the hairs now, eyes
on the gates. He’s put his sunglasses on.
Late afternoon. Salt in the air.
“I won’t force you,” he says, but that’s just his polite way to say that he’s
forcing me. We drove out here, him and me. Because it was time. Because he had
to shake me out of a bad dream one too many times.
Guilt, that’s all.
Here’s looking at you, kid.
The cemetery stretches green to all directions with white, pale headstones in
neat rows, and Ryan tells me the origin of the word cemetery, that it comes
from the Greek for ‘to put to sleep’. We’re in a place where people have been
put to sleep.
His sunglasses are a yellowy brown, so I can see his eyes through the lenses.
He’s calm. That makes one of us.
I didn’t bring flowers. “Should I have brought flowers?” I ask, beginning to
worry, if there was a protocol, if I missed it.
I’m fine back home, swimming in and out of different scenes, making a crowd
laugh, having a beer for breakfast because we have nothing else. I’m smooth,
I’m charming, I’m happy.
Not here.
The place where people have been put to sleep is outside the town itself, so it
gives me breathing space. I focus on my mission, try to, don’t think of the
last time I was in this town, the last time, the last time.
“You don’t need flowers,” he says, and we’ve reached the middle of the cemetery
that’s surprisingly large for such a small town – large families, you see. He
looks around. “So where to?”
“We don’t need to do a Good, The Bad and The Ugly.”
And then I head to our left, towards the oak tree that I still remember. Like a
lighthouse, a marker. And I walk more slowly, but he says nothing of it. Just
follows me. Doesn’t say anything.
We visited his dad the other day. I’ve seen him at his worst. I saw what it did
to him.
My turn now.
What a road trip. Let’s be sure never to repeat it.
I find my grandmother: Marian. Dead 1958. And there are cousins and second
cousins and great aunts and uncles, all buried close to one another. Marian had
twelve children, that I know. No idea how many grandchildren, but I wouldn’t be
surprised if it was more than a hundred in the end.
A few tombstones down is a newer looking headstone. That has to be it.
I approach it, and it’s funny how his death now seems real. I’ve been away, I
might as well pretend that he’s still alive. Not like we’d have any contact,
anyway.
But my brother dies as I walk to his grave: Matthew Jeremiah Urie, 15th of
October 1944 – 4th of August 1974. And then it’s real because the engraving
says it is. And I realise how long it took for me to get here. How many years.
The day is too beautiful for someone to die.
I can’t comprehend it.
Matt’s been decomposing while I was busy pretending otherwise. That’s
inexcusable.
I don’t know for how long I stare at the grave, but suddenly Ryan’s next to me
again. His hand slides into mine habitually, and his touch is firm and warm. I
doubt he’ll ever know the calming effect that the reassuring hold has on me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Well, me and Matt never got along, anyway. Age gap. I was the annoying brat of
a little brother. He picked on me. What does it matter? I didn’t keep in touch
with him or anyone else at all, only found out about his death because Audrey
had some contacts in town.
It doesn’t matter whether Matt lives or dies. On paper, it doesn’t.
But Ryan’s more intelligent than that, so he gives me his condolences, and I
take them silently and gratefully and with a broken heart.
“I should’ve brought flowers,” I say, pulling my hand free and turning away.
Wipe my cheeks and look at the hundreds of graves, little lives, little souls.
“Next time you will,” he lies. Yeah, next time.
The wind ruffles the brown locks of his hair. His mouth is a thin line, his
suit is brown corduroy, the angles of his shoulders are sharp, and his profile
is tall and lean, and his Adam’s apple protrudes clearly as he looks up
momentarily, and I wonder what he sees in that sky above us.
I’m alright going with him. It feels like a farewell to loss, going with him.
Back to the car. No one has seen us. We have seen no one. Back to the passenger
seat.
He takes his sunglasses off, runs his long fingers through his hair, and I try
to smile at him but can’t.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
“What, walking?”
Some poor attempt to keep him out. Hey, a boy can try.
And he chuckles, and I know, I can’t keep him out. He’s on the inside. A part
of me. Let me write you a million love songs, because I will.
Hey, Matt. I know you can’t hear me, I know your bones are dust. But you taught
me to whistle. That’s been handy, thank you. I don’t know if you ever gave much
thought to your little brother who ran away – but he was diseased, so it was
better that way. I wonder if you agreed. I wonder if you ever missed me.
But hey Matt, I came by today, and I’m alright. You cross my mind sometimes.
Not often, but sometimes. I have a family these days, and he’s sitting next to
me.
I’m alright now.
“You wanna sit here for a while?” Ryan offers, no rush. But I shake my head.
Turn on the radio. Change stations. My song is on. I try to change channels,
but he swats my hand away, says that he likes listening to me sing. I say it’s
narcissistic, but he says it’s not if he subjects me to it.
He starts the engine. I lean over and kiss him.
I am going to live today.
 
                                Nashville, 1982
“We’ve got a visitor, you guys,” Clark announces, and the heads in the live
room turn. The guys look surprised and pleased at the sight of me, but I give
them only a quick glance before my eyes find Ryan’s. A small sun erupts in my
chest and radiates warmth, and it manages to kill the sickening burn of the
past few weeks but not all of it. It’s a sad kind of joy.
At that moment it’s hard not to cross the studio and bury myself in his arms,
but I manage.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Pittsburgh?” Ryan asks, voice faint as he stares
at me like an apparition. I was in Pittsburgh yesterday. Not anymore.
“The band’s in town for the day, so I thought I’d come say hi,” I explain like
it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it’s not a complete lie.
I know the session musicians, Patrick amongst them, all good guys, and so I
shake hands with the lot. Ryan’s put his guitar away in the meanwhile, and I
turn to him – finally, at last, and I haven’t seen him in two and a half
months, Jesus fucking Christ, and he hasn’t been shaving, and his hair’s
longer, and he’s become even more attractive somehow. But he’s not alright.
There’s something broken in his eyes when he looks at me, but it’s overtaken by
kindness and then that look that he only gives me, the warm one.
“Good to see you,” I say as one would to a bandmate. It’s an understatement,
and my voice cracks, and god, I’m so exhausted but so happy to be here.
He says nothing. He just hugs me, a full body hug, firm and tight and warm, and
I press into it, cling onto him. Press my nose against his neck and inhale, and
god, that’s good, that’s the best scent in the world. Count to five. Then let
go, reluctantly.
“Let’s take a break,” Ryan says to the others, his eyes barely leaving mine.
“Yeah?” I ask, looking around quickly. “I’d love to hear what you’re working
on.”
“No, you don’t,” Ryan says in a self-deprecating manner, and I let it slide
instead of picking up a fight on the spot. But it is tempting, because he’s got
the wrong attitude, he’s in that angry mindset, and I usually don’t let him get
away with it. But then I’m just too tired. Kept nodding off on the plane. I’m
too tired to do anything.
One of the guys passes me a beer, and I take it gratefully even as I feel my
smile turning into a forced one when Luke, the keyboardist, starts chatting
away. Luke’s not even six words in, however, when Ryan does a shoo motion with
his hand, directed vaguely at the room as he then scuffles with the sleeve of
his chestnut coloured dress shirt.
The movement shuts Luke up efficiently, and he’s left rubbing his ginger goatee
in mild embarrassment. But Patrick says, “I could really do with some fresh
air,” and the others seem to agree. They’re clearly used to Ryan sending them
away on a whim. Clark’s the last one to leave, closing the door to the live
room. He beckons the assistant sound engineer behind the glass to go with him,
and the guy removes his headphones and follows.
I turn to Ryan to say that they’re gone now, but I’m greeted by his lips
instead. I spill the beer a little, but don’t give a fuck. The constant
yearning wanes some, feels calmed down. His hand moves to the side of my neck,
calloused fingertips. “What are you doing here?”
“Missed you,” I say honestly. “I was – It wasn’t good. I wasn’t good. I missed
you.”
“When do you have to go?”
“Tonight. I caught a morning flight, need to be on a plane to New York in seven
hours. I know it – Stupid, I know, Mike couldn’t believe it –”
“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad,” he says, and I pull him to me and hug him
stubbornly. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he says accusingly as he holds me, and
I only nod. Sleep eludes me. “You haven’t been eating either,” he then says,
even more accusingly, and again I just nod. “You idiot.”
“I don’t have time.”
“It’s always the same with you,” he snaps, and I’m too tired to argue back.
Normally I would, and we’d have one of our majestic fights and we’d both say
that we’re just trying to help but the other one is too stupid to see that. But
now, I’m just too tired. He seems to sense it. “Seventy-four days,” he
whispers.
I break into a smile, a hand on his hip. “Has someone been counting?”
“I haven’t seen you in seventy-four days,” he repeats, and then he just shakes
his head. We can do a week. That’s alright. We need that, sometimes, the space.
Two weeks, okay. Three weeks is pushing it. A month we’ve done in the past, and
we both thought that that was roughly the limit beyond which it just wouldn’t
work. And now we’ve more than exceeded that. Like we didn’t know that it’d
start eating away at us, and that it’d make my bad tour habits even worse, that
it’d make Ryan give the guys he’s working with a very special kind of hell.
“How’s the tour been?” he asks, his nose now nudging mine. “How are the guys?
What books have you been reading? What have you been thinking? How was Brazil?
It’s different hearing it in person, not on the phone. God, you’re so
beautiful. When did you get this beautiful?” His words all blur together,
stream of consciousness rather than conversation. And he doesn’t even let me
answer, just kisses me, and I need to be close, closer, and then he’s got me
pressed against the wall and his lips are on my neck, and I’m drowning in it.
The kisses are soft and lingering, like he needs to be sure of something.
“Ryan,” I say, trying to reconnect with reality. And he hums and kisses me and
breathes me in. “Ryan. I’ve got a room in the hotel across the street.”
He pulls back and looks dumbfounded for a few seconds. Then he laughs. “God, I
knew there was a reason I love you.”
And I feel at a loss because of his words, and so I just brush some of his hair
behind his ear and love him in return.
After an exit that is as non-conspicuous as we can manage it, we get to the
hotel room and lock the door. We draw the curtains and kick off our shoes. I
slide his shirt off, kiss his shoulders. Reclaim territory. And then we’re
naked on the bed, and I feel like I’m emerging from underwater. Like the world
makes sense again, like I suddenly rediscover my appetite, like my body
suddenly knows that it’s allowed to rest. I yawn against his cheek, and Ryan’s
warm, strong limbs wrapping around me.
Skin to skin, even breaths. Fingers tracing warmth. Not going further than
that. Not needing to.
And so we sleep for the few hours that we have. We sleep the afternoon away,
him holding me, me holding him, and it gets me through the twenty days that we
still had left.
It makes me a better man.
 
                               Los Angeles, 1984
Jon’s told me not to mention it, but it’s hard. There’s an empty space around
the table where Ryan should be, and his absence is painfully obvious to me. His
wry humour, his sharp intellect. It leaves the conversation lacking, gives more
room for those less witty to speak up.
Brendon has been asking about my new book, although I doubt he’s truly
interested. I tell him anyway, because I’m excited and I want to talk about it.
And maybe normally Brendon would be interested, but his smile is wearing thin
tonight. Ryan isn’t here.
I know about the fight. I don’t know the specifics of it, of course, because I
wasn’t a fly on the wall. I’ve made a decision not to crash at Ryan and
Brendon’s anymore after that time they forgot I had stayed over and went
straight onto loud morning sex. They didn’t even bother being embarrassed, Ryan
just said that I could have taken the hint and fucking leave. But I had
promised them pancakes.
They liked the pancakes.
That was a few years back.
The bar is busy as always, but Ryan’s not here, he’s not in town, he’s in
Bismarck. Apparently. And I know a hell of a lot about that man going off to
the wilderness by himself, and what it means, and what he does to himself out
there. And Brendon’s here, looking like he’s in pain, and he’s drinking too
much.
Jon said not to mention it. To Brendon.
So I mention it Spencer at the bar, because if someone knows, it must be
Spencer. “Yeah, Ryan went up there last week.”
“When’s he coming back?”
Spencer chews on his bottom lip awkwardly. “Don’t think he said.”
“Have you heard from him?”
Spencer shakes his head. “Everyone needs to be alone sometimes.”
Ryan doesn’t. Not from Brendon.
“They had a fight,” I say matter-of-factly, trying to coax it out of Spencer.
Spencer just nods. Everyone fights. Ryan and Brendon fight. Jon and Cassie
fight. Vicky and Gabe, they especially fight, and their engagement has changed
that none.
“It’s their business,” Spencer says firmly, like it’s normal for Ryan to just
take off on his own. He doesn’t just do that.
“Brendon looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
“William,” Spencer says, gets his drink and wanders off.
He’s probably right. William in the hospital. Won’t see the end of summer, Ryan
said, before telling me not to tell Brendon that under any circumstances. And I
haven’t. Brendon needs to think that William can get better, but that disease
is one-way. There is no cure.
Depressed and moody, I spend some time chatting up girls and dancing and
drinking. I feel that sickening burn that I felt on the day that Dad moved out.
He didn’t come back. He said that he would, but he didn’t.
I know what the others would say. You’re just being hysterical, Sisky. Don’t
overreact, Sisky. It’s none of your business, Sisky.
But Ryan’s never pulled a stunt like this on Brendon before.
When I get back to the table, Brendon’s slowly inhaling a joint. He’s got one
of his knees raised as he leans back into the couch, seemingly enjoying the
dark corner where he’s settled. The others are chatting away, and he stares
ahead of himself like he’s not even here. I go sit next to him, asking him to
move to the middle so that I can squeeze myself between him and the armrest.
“How’s it going?” I ask, and he nods distractedly and says nothing. I try to
get a conversation going, but it’s in vain, and Jon is glaring at me, so I
leave Brendon be and immerse myself in the topic of the hour.
People come by and say hi, a lot of hands being shaken, a lot of hugs. People I
know, people I vaguely know. Friends and acquaintances. And it’s five in the
morning, but some of us seem to be in no hurry home, Brendon amongst us.
But then the perpetual night turns into morning, and it’s a pleasant morning,
the kind where I can see the sun again. Because I lift my eyes from the melting
ice cubes in my drink when Ryan’s voice says, “Morning, everyone.”
And he’s here, and not in Bismarck, and he looks like he did last week, and he
looks perfectly normal and just, well, usual. But Brendon’s gone stiff beside
me, eyes on Ryan as the guys pat his back and welcome him like he’s never been
gone. And on Brendon’s other side, Mike gets up, automatically giving up his
seat, and Ryan rounds the table and sits by Brendon as automatically. And
Brendon’s still looking stunned and wide-eyed.
Cassie is talking to Spencer now. I try to focus on their words, try to catch
the thread of their conversation. Join everyone in pretending that we know
nothing.
But instead my ears pick out Brendon’s voice: “When did you get back?”
“A few hours ago. You weren’t home.”
“No.”
Brendon sounds like he’s trying hard to sober up. He sounds apologetic. Ryan’s
leaning into him. I think Ryan says, “I love you,” but I’m not sure, and
they’re acting like there’s no one else in the room.
In any case, Brendon relaxes. They exchange hushed words. They both look like
Regret itself dressed them this morning. Brendon nods too much and presses his
fingers to Ryan’s cheek, his neck, his knee, and everyone ignores it because
they know that it’s that cocoon that the two of them can create out of nowhere,
where you’re ultimately left feeling like an outsider observing something you
can’t quite understand.
They stand up and don’t even bid goodbye. I don’t think they remember that we
exist. Ryan keeps a hand on the small of Brendon’s back as they leave, which is
fine and not suspicious because Brendon can’t walk quite straight so it only
looks like friendly guidance. Brendon leans into Ryan, however. Ryan seems
intent on taking them home.
It’s only after they’re out of sight that Jon glances at Spencer, and Spencer
glances at me, and I wonder if we all wonder if that was a close call for those
two, whatever it was.
But Ryan just takes a long time to apologise sometimes. Brendon too.
I doubt we’ll see those two for a while. They don’t really need others, I’ve
come to find. The rest of us, we’re just scenery.
 
                               Los Angeles, 2012
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” he says, fidgeting in his suit. The
cameras occasionally point towards us, and he ducks his head and pretends to be
invisible. Like that works.
“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, leaning towards him to speak. We don’t want the
entire ballroom to hear. “I’m gonna do the talking, remember?”
He knows this and takes in deep breaths. An actress or another is on stage,
presenting an award to a man who plays a gay kid in a TV show I think I
might’ve heard of. The atmosphere is cheerful and, well, gay, and my eyes dart
to the GLAAD sign on the microphone centre stage. We’re sitting front row. I
feel humbled to be front row.
Ryan mutters, “Why did they make us sit front row? What have we got to do with
any of these people?”
He sounds mildly paranoid, and I let him vent. He hates these things.
One of the techs now comes over to us, crouching to make sure he’s not caught
on camera. He’s a kid, barely thirty, with hipster glasses and a beard. “Mr.
Ross, Mr. Roscoe,” he says quietly. “You’re about to go on after this.”
“Okay,” I nod, unfazed. I’m ready. Ryan’s not. He thought walking along the red
carpet was daunting enough.
“Could you hold hands?” the kid now asks, perfectly sincere. “It’d be great if
you held hands.” He then presses his ear piece and frowns in concentration.
“Okay, I’ll tell them.” He glances at us. “One minute.” He rather eloquently
crouches away.
I look at Ryan over my glasses and try to smile calmly. He forces a fake smile
back, making the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes more pronounced – the sign
of a life spent smiling. His hair’s got a tinge of grey to it, though he
absolutely denies it. But it looks good. He will always look good.
A new presenter now comes on stage, another kid, and he starts babbling about
how ‘the next award is given to an openly gay member of the entertainment or
media community for –’, and I recognise the kid as that newcomer singer who has
been on MTV a lot. Ryan doesn’t recognise him at all, however, because he
simply doesn’t care to know.
I look down at Ryan’s hand that is squeezing the armrest, unwilling to move. He
notices my gaze and he mutters, “My hands are sweaty.”
I can’t help but be amused. “Baby, you’ve sung in front of thousands and you’ve
accepted Grammies and given speeches to millions. All you gotta do is stand
there.”
“Singing I can do, saying a quick thanks I can do. But this is not about the
music. That’s what freaks me out, that –”
“– Brendon Roscoe and Ryan Ross!”
‘And go!’ the tech from earlier mouths, now behind the camera guy who has snuck
up on us and is broadcasting our faces to thousands, no, millions, and this
will end up on YouTube and those other internet websites – Ryan kept ranting
about it earlier when we got in our suits back home. A litany of “When I was
young, we had no such ridiculous things, when I was young –”
I stand up and smile winningly, adjusting my suit some. Ryan follows and looks
pained and awkward. The room is full of applause.
I don’t reach for his hand.
I walk first, and he follows. It works well for all red carpet events, and so
it’s a successful and well-established technique by now.
And then we take the steps up and are on stage, and from the corner of my eye I
see that the entire theatre is giving us a standing ovation, Hollywood glamour
and actresses and musicians and whoever they are in glittery dresses and
tailored suits. For a second I feel speechless and overwhelmed, and then I just
focus on the mission at hand.
The award is a small glass slab on a black pedestal. The presenter hands it
over to me, smiling widely and looking awed, and I give the kid a one-armed hug
like we’re friends when we’ve never met, but hey, I’m sure we’d like each other
anyway. The man then shakes Ryan’s hand, which is a good call on his part.
Ryan’s not the hugging strangers type.
I turn to the microphone. “Thank you.” I need to wait for the audience to quiet
down, but they keep cheering. “Thank you,” I say again and smile somewhat
embarrassedly. Eventually, I realise that I just need to start speaking or
they’ll never stop. “This is without a doubt the most unique award Ryan or I
have ever accepted.” The audience silences, they sit back down. I glance at the
award. “It’s weird to see both of our names on this, and even more so because
this one isn’t for music or a song we wrote. This one is about us.” My eyes
find the carving of Brendon Roscoe and Ryan Ross on the glass, and my eyes lock
with Ryan’s. He’s looking at me like at that moment I’m the only person in the
room. I feel breathless for a second.
Then I turn back to the crowd and concentrate.
“When I was growing up, we didn’t have things like GLAAD. No one talked about
gay rights. No one talked about being gay. No one thought it worth celebrating.
I ran away from home when I was fifteen after my family disowned me for being a
homosexual.” I silence momentarily, and so does the entire room, a sudden gloom
emerging. I’m not telling them anything that some journalist didn’t already dig
up in the eighties, apart from the real reason I ran away which wasn’t
unearthed until a few years back. “But that was the sixties. In Utah. Not the
easiest place to be gay, trust me,” I say with a smirk, and I earn a chuckle
from the audience, managing to lift everyone’s spirits again. “And I cannot
begin to tell you how much the world has changed during my lifetime. Now gay
couples can get married in certain places. Gay couples can adopt – again, in
certain places. None of that used to exist. Just thirty, twenty years ago such
things were unheard of. So this world bears little recognition to the one I
knew when I was a young gay man. And that change is thanks to you. All the hard
work people like you have done. Not me, not Ryan. Not us. Because I met the
love of my life when I was twenty-three but I kept it hidden until I was nearly
fifty.” I glance at Ryan, and he tries to smile back, but he looks like he’s
finding it hard to swallow. I address the room again. “We don’t deserve this
award. We kept our relationship a secret not just years, but decades. Our
closest friends knew, but the world did not. And we couldn’t make it public. My
label once told me that straight men would not want to listen to songs written
by a gay man.” People in the audience scoff.
I pause, looking at the trophy again. “It’s because of people like you and the
work that you do that enabled Ryan and me to stop hiding. It feels stupid to,
uh, reveal your relationship to the world when it’s past its twentieth
anniversary. But we finally did. And we got hate mail. We got disowned by loyal
fans. Anti-gay groups dug out their old LPs and smashed them. Just a hint:
listening to music made by gays doesn’t make you gay. And it doesn’t make gay
music. It’s just that: music. But we also got support, so much of it that we
were stunned. We got letters from fans of all ages, people older than us, from
teenagers. I personally will always remember a letter that I received from a
fourteen-year-old boy who told me that because of where he lived, he could not
be openly gay, but knowing that his favourite musician had survived that same
situation gave him hope. He signed it with, ‘p.s. Your partner’s gorgeous. Well
done.’” I grin at this, recalling showing Ryan the letter. The audience is
laughing and smiling, and the look I give Ryan is almost too intimate to be
given in front of everyone. “And we got mail from middle aged straight men who
said that hey, that love song you wrote twenty years ago finally makes sense!
And it’s still a damn good song and it doesn’t make a damn difference whether
you wrote it about a guy or a girl.
Ryan and I have not been brave. We have not set a good example because we hid
our love away. But your courage made us brave. Your work enabled us to be
honest at last. And for my part, I hope that we now can set a good example and
that we truly will be able to deserve this award one day. Because let me tell
you, being a gay kid in Utah still cannot be easy. But we’re working on it.
Thank you.”
I lift the award and smile, and again the applause rings loudly and again
people are standing up, and I don’t quite know what to make of it.
The man who presented the award is clapping enthusiastically, beaming, and I
turn to Ryan, and in his eyes I see approval and I feel relieved. But his eyes
move to the microphone, and then he’s stepped up to it.
It’s amazing how the entire room shuts up instantly. Instantly. I just look at
him in surprise.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Ryan says, which is true. He seems to ignore
the cameras and speaks to the people instead. “This entire thing has made me
uncomfortable from the start, and we agreed to let Brendon talk because I’m the
socially awkward one and he’s the charming one.” Someone chuckles awkwardly,
unsure whether or not he’s trying to be funny. He’s just being honest and blunt
like he always is. “Before we came on, we were told to hold hands. Hold hands,
I thought. How strange to not only receive permission but a demand. I’ve been,”
Ryan starts, pausing and glancing at me, “wishing I could hold his hand since
1974.” I forget myself for a second, then, and just look at him. “When we met,
I had no idea that we as a couple would one day be rewarded for helping to
eliminate homophobia. At the time, we were struggling to just make it through
the day. And that’s why I feel uncomfortable standing here. Not because of the
flashing lights or the righteous, just cause or any of you people, but because
when I found something that important to me, when I found him – I fought for
decades trying to protect us from a world that didn’t understand. And now we’re
here.” He laughs disbelievingly, his hand briefly touching his forehead. “Times
change, like my partner said. This world has changed. And Brendon’s always been
the brave one. But because he’s been by my side, I’ve stopped being scared.” He
swallows hard and then looks up into the room. “We’ve got decades of hiding to
make up for, so we’ll be busy doing what we can to help. And Brendon is worthy
of the recognition he’s received tonight. I am not. But I’m also working on
it.”
He steps back from the microphone, and now it’s his turn to look at me for
approval. I break into a smile, still holding the award, and Ryan looks at ease
at last. He grins at me as people cheer once more, the entire room standing up.
He’s got the world eating out of the palm of his hand. He always has.
The moments still happen. The moments when it just hits me, like when he’s
buttering a slice of toast, or we’ve fought and the bed is cold and empty, or
he’s on tour and I find a shirt that still smells of him, or when he makes me
laugh without even trying.
That moment when I’m his all over again.
I reach out my hand, and he takes it.
***** He Acts Like We Never Have Met (I Don’t Believe You) *****
Chapter Summary
     This is what we faggots do: sit in the cars of strangers after
     sunset, watching them pay for a motel room at the reception.
Chapter Notes
     The following story is an AU timetravel fic based on my other story,
     The_Heart_Rate_of_a_Mouse. This timetravel!fic is in no way connected
     to the real plot of THROAM, which is to say that THROAM!Ryan never
     goes back in time and that this is fanfic of my fanfic. Also, the
     title of the fic is a Bob Dylan pun because I’m lame like that.
     Warnings: father issues, religious issues, having sex with a minor,
     unexplained time-travel, THROAM spoilers, references and allusions.
     Beware of underage dub-con. Please do not read if potentially
     triggery.
     Place_in_THROAM_timeline_(SPOILERS): This AU takes place in the early
     spring of 1967, roughly a month before Brendon’s sixteenth birthday.
     He ran away from home in late summer 1966. After having lived in
     Flagstaff, working at a barber shop, rumours started going around and
     he thought it best to run for it. He’s back on the road for now, but
     will settle down in Omaha later on in 1967. He finally moves to San
     Francisco in 1972, after years of drifting and of enduring
     homophobia, verbal abuse and occasional physical abuse, but the
     hardships will eventually turn him into a strong, independent
     individual – who is also embittered for life. For imaginary
     timetravelling!Ryan, this takes place after Vol.2 – II, so after he
     and Brendon have ended their affair, Brendon going back to Shane,
     leaving Ryan in a heartbroken mess.

     When Brendon hands the cigarette back, pressing into my side, all
     warm and post-coital, he adds, “I cried the first time. Well, not
     during but after. It hurt like a bitch.”
     “I’m not gonna fucking cry,” I note disbelievingly.
     “I’d rather you didn’t,” he jokes, causing me to roll my eyes. His
     expression turns more serious. “I was fifteen myself. Didn’t know the
     guy. He’d given me a ride, and it just happened. He was in his mid-
     thirties, I think. Married. He got us a gritty motel room. Damn
     squeaky bed,” he lists, eyes slightly glassy as he thinks back to it.
     “He didn’t last long, thankfully.” He doesn’t look at me, like maybe
     he’s embarrassed. Like I’d judge him at this point.
         * - Vol.1 – II: Chapter 8

                                   - - - - -
             He Acts Like We Never Have Met (I Don’t Believe You)
 
If I’m a faggot, I might as well act like one.
If I’m a faggot... I might as well act like one.
And I am. I am. And this is what happens. This is what we do.
We sit in the cars of strangers after sunset, watching them pay for a motel
room at the reception. I clutch my bag tighter to my chest. Stare at the rear-
view mirror to see him now walking along the long row of motel doors. “Wait
here,” he said and, “Come when I tell you.” He stops outside door twenty-four.
He’s not bad looking – average height, average weight. Glasses and a moustache.
A friendly face. He looks towards the car. Lifts his hand. Beckons with one
finger.
We’ve been driving for two hours. Talking. Norman seems nice. He likes me a
lot. He must like me. He’ll take me home after this. He’ll take care of me.
Okay.
I get out of the car with a deep breath. The chill of the night hits me
instantly. I wish I still had that thick cardigan that Mother made for
Christmas. Not this past Christmas, but the one before that. When I was still
there.
The gravel crunches under my feet and I hang my head, feeling otherworldly as I
walk over swiftly. Before someone sees.
“How about we go warm up, eh?” Norman says, an eager tone to his words. I flash
him what is hopefully a confident smile. My heart keeps pounding wildly.
“I must say,” a sudden voice comes from the shadows, causing me to jump. A
tall, thin man I’ve never seen before is leaning against one of the cars in the
motel parking lot, having been invisible to us both until now. He says, “I
don’t really see the family resemblance.”
Norman’s hand lowers from the motel room door handle. He looks confused.
“Excuse me?”
The new arrival, who is still staring at us, is wearing weird attire: a pair of
brown pants with flared cuffs, maroon shoes with inch thick soles, it looks
like, and his jacket and vest match the pants, but the dress shirt’s buttons
are undone all the way to the V of the vest, revealing a stripe of pale skin
like he’s not cold at all. The moonlight catches something at his neck, maybe a
chain of sorts. He must be from a big city like St. George or Ogden because no
way would anyone wear something like that where I’m from. Norman seems to be
taking in the man’s odd choice of clothing as well, and we stare at the
stranger for a second. I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.
The stranger stands up straight. He looks angry. Indignant. Like he knows.
Panic raises its ugly head inside me, a guilty boom and a string of words like
‘filthy’ and ‘abomination’ and ‘disgusting’ and ‘unnatural’, but I wasn’t going
to – I swear that I. And if he knows that about me, then he must think he’s got
the right to beat me to a pulp.
“Well,” he says, “it’s just that it’s getting rather late. Saw you guys pull in
from the interstate. Now, I see that ring on your finger, so you must be a
married man, and since, by the looks of it, you’re sharing a motel room, I just
assumed that you two were related. But, like I said.” The man smiles in a way
that has no amusement in it. “I can’t see the resemblance. So I’m left
wondering.”
Norman’s pale as he barks, “Piss off and mind your own business.” He pushes the
glasses up his nose nervously.
I flinch and swallow hard. He was sweet in the car. He kept smiling at me. Then
a hand on my knee. Travelling up my thigh. Now he’s angry, and I don’t know if
I like it. If it’s sensible to go into a room with a man with a temper this
short.
“No. You piss off,” the guy says.
Norman’s hand is hovering towards the door handle again, then away, like he’s
not sure, and I try to make myself invisible. I wasn’t doing anything. I swear.
I swear, I swear, I swear to God. Just let me leave. I’ll leave. Won’t make a
sound.
“I’m not telling you again,” the stranger snaps, and it’s actual anger in his
tone now, and maybe Norman and this guy know each other from somewhere, maybe
there’s this whole thing I don’t know that I have now gotten into, and god,
Brendon, stupid, stupid Brendon, you were bound to run out of luck, fall into
the wrong hands –
I hold my breath, shiver, try to remain calm.
Norman’s hand drops to his side. He looks at me with a hint of remorse, that
penetrating gaze that got me flustered when he pulled to the side of the road
with a “Hey kid, where you going?” He swears under his breath, and looks
humiliated, scared and angry as he quickly heads back to his car, ducking his
head.
The man watches Norman go – clearly pleased.
I clutch my backpack tighter, still letting it dangle from one curled fist. I
take careful steps away from the new man. “Stop,” he says, not even looking my
way. I halt. Panic. He looks at me, eyes dropping to my side. “That all you’ve
got? No other bags in his car?”
I shake my head, lips pursed together. The engine of Norman’s car coughs and
wheezes and starts. I flinch. He speeds out of the motel like he’s on fire. I
shift my weight from one leg to the other. Plan an escape route.
God, I need to get out of here. God. God. God, are you listening?
The man sighs. “That’s all you’ve got,” he says, more to himself than me. He’s
got brown hair that’s a bit longer than is proper, locks curling around his
ears, and no one would have that haircut where I come from. Not back home, and
no one had that kind of hair in Flagstaff either. I could recommend him a
decent barber shop back there. He’s twenty-something. Older.
Handsome.
The back of my neck trickles with embarrassed heat and my stomach drops in
shame. He could pull out a gun and kill me, and this is what I pay attention
to: his looks.
“I’m Ryan,” he says, in this final tone like that’s meant to mean something.
Okay. Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. That doesn’t mean anything.
“Luke.”
“Luke.” His lips twist into a wicked smile. “A good, biblical name.”
...Biblical?
“Look, I gotta go,” I mumble, scared shitless and needing to get away from him.
Before he starts asking questions about Norman and who and what, because then
he’ll find out, and I can’t risk that. I think I might have just escaped one
close call, and I want to hide somewhere and feel safe, wrapped up in solitude,
calm down, not wonder where my dismembered body might have been found. Because
that can happen, you know. The world’s full of sinners, Father always said.
Sinners like Norman – a married man. Sinners like – like me.
If I’m a faggot, then I should act like it. I was going to go through with it.
Show that I’m not all talk. Do what we do. Norman seemed to know.
God, I bring shame unto my family.
Ryan keeps staring at me intently, and I flash an awkward smile at him and
hurriedly back away – to nowhere, sleep outside if need be, it’s spring, at
least, it’s getting warmer, it’s not that bad.
“Wait,” he says. Not stop, but wait. Softly. So I do. “When was the last time
you ate?”
I fidget. “What?”
He stuffs his bony hands into his jacket pockets. Tall and lean. I like that in
men. I think I do, anyway. “I asked when the last time you ate was. And no
candy or crackers, I mean a proper, decent meal. And don’t lie to me.”
Humiliation makes my cheeks flare up – I feel the heat on them. Last week. It
was last week.
“Come on,” he says without waiting for me to reply. He nods to a seemingly
random direction, but something – something in his tone. Or the way he looks at
me. Like he would never harm me. “Let’s get something to eat.”
“But why would you want to buy me dinner?” I ask sceptically, not wanting to
believe I’ve met someone who’s just nice. Maybe he wants to lure me to a dark
alleyway where his gang is, and then they’ll show me.
“Because you look like you need it,” he says simply, but I don’t move. “Come
on. Humour me. Trust me.”
Trust him? I trusted Norman and can already see that I shouldn’t have. And this
Ryan, appearing out of nowhere with his weird clothes and knowing eyes – trust
him? When he looks at me – fondly. And speaks softly. No, it’s a trap.
I take further steps back. Need to get out of here. Run for it.
One of the motel room doors behind me opens suddenly. I swirl around, the sound
giving me a fright. A young guy walks out in a smart suit with neatly cut black
hair and handsome features, lifting a hand our way and saying a cordial “Good
evening.” From the corner of my eye, I see Ryan nod in response. The guy gets
out car keys and approaches a blue Buick Riviera, and maybe he could give me a
lift, get me out of here. I keep backing away from Ryan, my eyes flying between
him and the well-dressed guy now getting into a car.
“We’ve got one thing in common,” Ryan then says. My eyes keep darting to the
guy and his car.
“What’s that?”
“Well,” he smiles crookedly, “we both think that guy is kind of hot.” He nods
towards the car that’s now backing out from the parking slot.
I stop. “What?”
Did he just call another man...?
Ryan looks surprised. “Didn’t you check out his ass? I know I did.”
I– don’t know what to say. I didn’t know you could say something like that. In
public. Or in private. At all.
But he just did. I stare at him, and he smirks. Pleased.
                                     * * *
I feel a lot younger than a month away from sixteen, sitting in the mostly
hidden corner booth of the bar. The place stinks of beer and cigarettes and is
full of drunken truck drivers and two tired looking waitresses, and Ryan sits
across from me and smokes. We got stared at when we came in: his clothes. He
didn’t seem at all self-conscious, though. That was impressive. I am impressed.
He’s got magical powers, this Ryan: first getting me into the bar, the barkeep
grudgingly saying that he supposed it was alright as long as I didn’t drink,
and, secondly, Ryan managed to get whatever leftover food the closed kitchen
had.
My plate is a mismatched collection of mashed potatoes, a burger, French fries,
and peas; and on the second plate I’ve got a slice of apple pie and a brownie.
A brownie. I want to go for it first, but then no. No dessert before you’ve
eaten your food, and so I sneak glances at the brownie and start eating fast,
before the goddamned food somehow disappears from in front of me.
‘Goddamned’. I just swore. I’ve started swearing in general. It’s caught on in
the past... How long has it been now? I used to count the days. Then weeks. Now
months.
I feel tense in the presence of Ryan. It’s that weird feeling of him knowing
something I don’t. But he clearly knows a lot. He clearly... God.
I didn’t think I’d meet one.
He’s staring. I know this because I’m staring too, just a bit more subtly.
I say, “You’re staring,” and take a huge gulp from my Coke bottle and then
focus on the food again. Or try to focus. But can’t.
He flinches, like he was utterly unaware of what he was doing. “Sorry,” he
laughs. He’s got a nice laugh. He’s got nice eyes. “You just look so damn
young.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Well, you look like you’re thirty.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Same difference.”
“Snarky. Why am I not surprised?” He smiles good-naturedly, but the joke’s lost
on me. He keeps acting like we’re not strangers, like he feels perfectly at
ease in my company. Like we share something. He did say that. That him and I
share something. Are alike. Brothers. Comrades. He insinuated it.
“Um,” I begin, nervous and excited and petrified. “At the parking lot, you said
that- you. You know.”
He quirks an eyebrow, flicks the cigarette. Specks of ash drift down onto the
table. “That I what?”
I feel embarrassed and my cheeks radiate heat. “Um... you know.”
“Like having sex with men?” he offers. I tense up and instantly gaze around the
bar to see who heard him and if they’re getting their pitchforks out. But no
one’s reacting at all, no one’s looking our way in disgust or horror. I glance
at him anxiously. How can he just say things like that?
My hands sweat as I try to appear unaffected. “So you’re a...?” I drift off
again. Is he really?
“Sometimes,” he shrugs. Like that’s no big deal to him. Oh wow. Wow. “Often,
really.”
I rush out, “Do you know any others?”
He laughs and casts me an amused look. “We’re hardly a dying breed.” A bit of
degrading arrogance, like I should know that. I duck my head and try to hide my
excitement. He must think I’m an idiot. “Hey.” His voice is soft and beckoning,
and I glance up at him. “There are hundreds, thousands of guys like you, you
know. Like us.”
Wow. Wow, that’s incredible. If it’s true. Wow.
“I just haven’t met very many,” I explain, occupying myself with the food.
Ryan’s the first one who has said it out loud of the men I’ve met. Norman, well
– he said as he pulled over that I should know that he’s a normal guy. That
he’s normal. That he doesn’t usually, but we’ll have a good time, won’t we? And
then Sal in Flagstaff. He never said it either, we only kissed on his bed, and
then we helped each other, hands shoved down each other’s pants. He never said
it, and he told me to piss off the next time he saw me, told me I was vile.
Ryan is different. He’s saying that he’s like me. “So what do you do?” I ask
curiously. He just looks bemused, and I say, “I mean, do you have a normal
life?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because. You know...” I’m not going to say it. I shift in my seat, trying not
to show that I don’t know anything, and he knows everything, and I’m intrigued.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Maybe we don’t get to have boyfriends.
“But some do. They just stay hidden, that’s all. You don’t even know they’re
there.”
I frown. “Then how do you ever find anyone?”
He sucks in smoke, his cheeks hollowing. He looks really good as he does it. “I
found you. Didn’t I?”
He did. Somehow. By magic. I flash an uncertain smile at him.
He points at my food. “Eat up. You’re too pale.”
I’m torn between an actual, live gay man in front of me and proper, warm food,
but then the food wins. I flex my fingers around my fork, somewhat clumsily
scooping up mashed potatoes. Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Your hand okay?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
“You’re fumbling a bit there.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat. Don’t ask. He doesn’t get to ask. No one does. It’s
still a bit weak, that’s all. It’s well enough for me to have worked in a
barber shop, too, snipping at hairs with scissors, but sometimes my arm just
gets tired. That’s all. It’s just a bit tired after a long day.
My hand trembles suddenly, and I drop the fork with a clinging sound. Ryan
stares but says nothing. I start picking French fries with my good hand
instead. Cover up my tracks. Ryan’s cigarette is forgotten between two long
digits. “What?” I demand because his staring is getting unnerving again.
“Nothing.” He drops his gaze. “Never mind.” He sighs.
He told the barkeep that I was his little brother. I think our resemblance is
as identical as mine and Norman’s was, but no one at the bar seemed like they
wanted to get into it, his clothes and our relations. Hope no one’s called the
police. Hope no one’s figured me out. And if the law enforcement is on its way,
I wonder if I could get a milkshake before they get here. I wonder if this
place even does milkshakes. They probably don’t. It’d be nice, though. A
milkshake. I haven’t had one in months.
“So are you being nice to me because we’re alike?” I ask, helping myself to the
burger. He shakes his head, and I try not to be disappointed. “Is it a good
Samaritan thing, then?”
“It’s not about pity,” he says, sounding distracted and straightening his vest.
He still has the top buttons of the dress shirt undone. His skin is pale and
smooth. Soft looking. I swallow hard.
“The, uh. The good Samaritan wasn’t about pity. Pity isn’t very Christian.” I
think it through, wonder what my family would say on the subject. “It’d suggest
judging. God alone can judge us.” I feel out my hand by flexing my fingers.
Grab the fork again. God alone can judge us. Only God the Father. Only Father.
“Then it must be about love,” he says. “The good Samaritan.”
I stare at him suspiciously. “Are you one of those hippies? I’ve heard about
you. I’ve heard that... some people like us are hippies too. Are you one of
those? It’d explain your necklace.”
This time he smiles wide, sucking on the end of his cigarette. He even laughs,
the sound rumbling deep from his chest, making the hairs at the back of my neck
prick up. “It’s not a necklace. It’s a chain. Call me crazy, but I thought
you’d like it. That it looks like something you might even buy.”
I scoff. “Hardly.”
A necklace? I’m not a girl, even if I’m – Even if I’d take the place of a
woman. No son of his, no son of his would degrade himself to the female role. I
know I’m not a girl, but I know that the other person would be a man. It leaves
me short of breath. The thought of a man touching me.
I eat the very last pea before I push the emptied plate away and eagerly pull
in the dessert. I start with the apple pie – blessed are those who hunger and
thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are those who are
persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
If I could find it in myself to forgive him and Him. If I could do that.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. If I could, but I just –
don’t know if I can.
I was never much of a son to him or to Him.
I tried, though. I tried.
Apple pie gone – a brownie. Oh sweet Jesus and Mary, Mother of God – a brownie.
I fork off a corner. Lift it to my nose and inhale the rich scent of chocolate.
Unable to contain myself, I greedily stuff the nugget of sugary goodness in my
mouth. Oh God. Oh God. “This is,” I manage to say, lifting my hand to cover my
mouth – ‘Manners, Brendon,’ her stern yet motherly voice says in my head – and
then I guzzle the brownie with inhuman speed. “That was really good,” I say,
eyeing the plate and trying to catch every crumb with the fork. I’ve forgotten
Ryan’s existence until his hand has reached over the table, his thumb slowly
brushing over my lower lip to wipe away something invisible to me. The pad of
his thumb is rough, his touch hot. I tense up and look up at him in surprise.
His eyes are focused on my lips. My pulse skyrockets, my skin suddenly heating
up.
His eyes slowly flicker to meet mine, and only then does he seem to catch
himself. “Sorry.” His voice has gone husky, and he pulls his hand back.
My mind draws a blank, and then I splutter out something like “yeah, I, you
know, yeah.” I sit still, feeling horribly self-conscious.
Not a good Samaritan. Not out of the goodness of his heart. Not out of
comradeship.
I sit in the booth quietly, dumbfounded and horrified and flustered.
What do two faggots do when no one’s watching?
“Let’s get you to bed,” Ryan says, and my brain cannot register. He stubs out
his cigarette against the table. “You look like you could do with a good
night’s rest.”
                                     * * *
As we walk back to the two motels that are on the sides of the interstate, Ryan
asks me where I’m coming from. Flagstaff, Arizona, I say. In all honesty. He
asks me where I’m going. I tell him some elaborate lie that I’m making my way
to my grandfather’s house, that he’s ill, and that I lost the bus fare Father
gave me, so I decided to hitch-hike. I don’t think Ryan buys a word of it.
The motel isn’t the one Norman chose. There are only two options: a shitty
motel and a not-so-shitty one on the other side of the road. Ryan has a room in
the not-so-shitty one. He has no belongings in the room, and yet he seemed to
be affronted by my single backpack. There’s a bed. A double bed.
“Shower’s that way,” he tells me, pointing, shrugging off his jacket and
tossing it on the bed. I watch the sharp angles of his shoulders. Wonder what
his skin feels like there.
I don’t know if he’s giving me a command or a suggestion, but my guts tighten,
stomach full of nervous butterflies, and I stagger to the bathroom door. Ryan
pulls the faded brown curtains together, and the interstate disappears along
with the rest of the world. Now we can do anything at all, and no one would
ever know.
I lock the bathroom door.
I hyperventilate in the shower, the hot water running down my skin. In some
sleazy New Mexican motel, near the state line of Colorado with a man I don’t
even know. What about that intuitive survival skill now?
But it’s too hard. Trying to keep my head above the water. It’s so much easier
to just stop swimming and drown.
Maybe he likes me. Maybe he really likes me. He’s got a normal life despite
being a gay man, and he’ll take me home after this.
He won’t. I know he won’t.
But it doesn’t matter. I have to embrace what I’ve become. What I am.
“I don’t have to do this,” I tell myself, my voice weak and questioning. It’s
more like a question: I don’t have to do this? He bought me dinner. I owe him
now. Norman gave me a lift. I owed him too. I no longer believe that anyone
does anything out of the goodness of their heart. He’s not a good Samaritan.
I’m attracted to him. It has to happen sometime. I’m a fag – I need to act like
it. Show that I’m not just empty words and unfulfilled fantasies. I’m a fag,
I’m a sodomite, I’m a homosexual, I’m an abomination, and God doesn’t love me,
and Father doesn’t love me, and if I never let myself taste the sinful flesh of
another man, then what on earth did I suffer for? What was my passion meant to
prove? All of this. This stupid thing, this world, these motels and free rides
and weekly jobs and changing names and hiding from the right hand of the law
and feeling guilty on Sundays and wishing I could go back, but I can’t and I
don’t want to because I hate so much, I am so full of hate hate hate, and it’s
so unfair, God, it’s so unfair, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry –
A knock on the door. “You alright in there?”
I flinch. I grab hold of the shower knobs until the showerhead only dribbles a
narrow trail on my head. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I rub my face. I am okay.
I don’t have to do this. I can tell him no.
But I think of Ryan and the way he looks at me, his brief touch on my skin, and
that’s the thing, Father – I don’t have to do this. But I want to.
                                     * * *
I tug my t-shirt down self-consciously, trying to make it meet my last pair of
clean briefs. Ryan’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Like he was waiting.
He’s placed an ashtray on the floor next to his now bare feet. His shoes with
the thick soles are placed by the locked door. Safety chain buckled in. Only
one light is on, and that’s on the nightstand, casting a dim, yellowy light on
us. A round, thin metal box is next to the lamp, and I’m sure it wasn’t there
before.
I stay by the bathroom door uncertainly, tugging. Ryan’s taller than me, older,
smarter, more experienced, well-travelled, a lot of everything.
He says, “Come here,” his voice smooth and warm. My insides flutter
unexpectedly.
His eyes are darker, but there’s warmth in his gaze, or maybe something even
hotter than that. I remember his laugh from earlier, the way he smiled. I feel
flustered and stupid, and there is no way I can be forming a crush on someone I
don’t even know, some guy who buys me dinner and touches me with more intimacy
than should occur between two men – and I am a man, not a boy. Ryan. Ryan.
Ryan. His lips and his eyes and his laugh. The way he says ‘having sex’ and how
it sounds so good coming out of his mouth. Sinful. Alluring.
I walk over slowly, uncertainly, trying to swallow down the excitement and
horror. He drops the rest of his cigarette into the ashtray where it keeps
emitting smoke into the air like he doesn’t care about that. He sits up
straight, looks at me from head to toe, and reaches out with one hand, placing
it on my hip and pulling me closer. He parts his legs, and I stand between
them. The only sound is my erratic breathing.
He softly places a hand on my stomach. It’s warm through the fabric, the heel
of his hand resting on the slice of exposed skin. My hands drop to my sides,
and I stand still like I’m paralysed. He lets out a deep breath, a sound of
contentment. He pulls me even closer.
I stare straight ahead of myself, at the framed painting above the bed
headboard, of some mountains and desert, local scenery, nothing special, but
all I can feel and think of and breathe and sense is Ryan, his hand on my hip,
warm and steady, the other on my lower stomach, moving a little. Touching me.
“Do you want to talk about this?” he asks. He’s close, he’s so close.
“No.” My voice breaks on the single syllable. I quickly add, “I’ve done this
plenty of times.” I try to sound as confident as possible.
Ryan’s hand slides down, calloused fingertips sliding over my skin as he
catches the hem of my t-shirt. “No,” he says, “you haven’t.”
He pulls up my shirt and kisses the skin that’s revealed, his mouth making
contact, open and wet and hot, and oh, oh, oh. I whine at the back of my
throat, my eyes slipping shut. Oh, his mouth, his tongue, sliding over my
stomach. This is what that feels like. His mouth places consuming, slow kisses
on me. He pushes my shirt up further while his other hand moves to cup my
behind, fingers catching the waistband of my briefs.
I’ve never – Never. Any of this. Sal in Flagstaff, a senior in high school. We
just jerked each other off, and I kept watching his face when I used my hands
to – And we made out more afterwards, and it was nice, and then he never spoke
to me again. There was no nudity. I was fully dressed, just unzipped. Not
exposed like this. Not getting caressed like this, the centre of attention, and
it’s like Ryan wants me more than he can stand.
He groans against my stomach, a pleasured sound. He tugs down my briefs at the
back, revealing my ass, and he cups it, rubbing it. The briefs get caught at
the front by – but he’s making these sounds, and he’s touching me and kissing
me, his nose pressed against my stomach, and my skin feels too hot to bear, so
it’s not wrong that my body reacts like this. I can’t help it. Never could.
There’s no hesitance or shyness in anything that he’s doing. He’s clearly done
this before. Plenty of times.
“You always smell so good after a shower,” he says, his tongue licking a hot
stripe below my belly button.
“What?” I manage to ask, not grasping his words. I try to reconnect with the
real world. What?
He pushes my shirt further up until it catches at my armpits. His mouth travels
up, over my ribs, over my wildly beating heart. Oh God, we shouldn’t be doing
these things to each other.
I step back when he stands up, his entire body brushing against mine. I lift my
arms just in time for him to pull my shirt off, the fabric sliding over my
mouth and nose, blocking my view. His mouth finds mine before I can see again.
He tastes like cigarettes, a taste I’m not used to and don’t like, but somehow
it suits him. His lips are soft and sensual, his tongue brushing over my lower
lip, deliberate and full of intent. His scent fills my nostrils through the
fabric, and I kiss back clumsily, wanting to kiss back well but not having the
courage to do it properly.
The rest of my shirt gets pulled off the entire way, our lips parting. The room
comes back into view, the dim yellowy glow back. I lick my lips and taste him.
Oh God, I can taste him. He’s shorter now without the shoes, but he’s still
taller than me, and I’d need to tilt up my head to kiss him but I don’t want to
assume things, I don’t – although I want him to kiss me so badly, if he just –
He crooks one finger under my chin, angling me just so, and he dips down into a
kiss.
And he kisses well. Oh god, he kisses so well, in a way that has my toes
curling, that has every inch of my skin on fire. His mouth slides over mine,
pressure until my lips part. His tongue teasingly sweeps over my lips, licking
its way into my mouth, and I groan when his tongue meets mine. The second man
I’ve ever kissed, and so much better than the first. I try to imitate whatever
he’s doing, tongue, more tongue, oh Christ. He has no shame at all – the kiss
is dirty and sexual.
I follow his mouth when he pulls back, almost dipping over. He’s breathing
hard, warm puffs of cigarette scented air over my lips. Our noses keep
touching. I feel a shiver run through him. “Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he
says roughly, like that might be a problem. “Fuck, fuck.”
His hands slide into my hair and he kisses me harder. I clutch his sides
awkwardly, feeling the shape of him beneath my hands. My eyelids flutter shut,
and his mouth covers mine, his lips wet and talented, his tongue exploring my
mouth. I moan, and he pulls me closer. My brief-covered erection presses
against him, and I expect him to push me away in disgust, but instead he
groans, the sound animalistic. He drops one hand to my ass and draws me in
further. His hips do this insane, ludicrous, grinding motion, like he’s rubbing
himself against my crotch, and I choke on my breath so badly that he has to
pull back.
I manage to say, “I- I,” but then just leave it there because I don’t know,
this is all just – just too much, his touch, what he’s doing, what we’re doing.
The skin around my mouth tingles, and his stubble, that’s the rough feel
against my skin – short, coarse hairs, so masculine that my knees feel weak.
He doesn’t seem put off by my stuttering. He takes a small step back, his gaze
dropping between our bodies, and he places his hands on my hips. His thumbs rub
slow, deliberate circles over my hipbones, my briefs ridiculously tugged down
at the back, but not at the front where the start of my pubic hair is visible,
and then the fabric gets caught by the obvious bulge.
His thumbs slide under the waistband of my briefs. He keeps staring down at
what he’s doing – fascination or maybe an experiment. But if he pulls them
down, I’ll be naked. I’ll be naked in his presence, in the presence of a man –
He will see me naked, and no one ever has, and what’s worse is that he’ll see
me aroused, and that’s taking it a step too far. How do I reverse something
like that?
The briefs inch down, revealing more dark pubic hair, and he’s watching every
second of it. My chest keeps rising and falling at a quick pace. The base of my
swollen cock comes into view, and he slides the briefs even further over the
flushed length – God, it feels sensitive – until my cock springs free. I gasp,
my cheeks burning with shame and want. He pushes my briefs down to mid-thigh in
one, swift motion.
He chuckles, dark and deep from his chest. I’m small. I’m small? I’m ugly. He
thinks I’m ugly, he –
“You’re leaking.” And then, “God, you’re leaking. Fuck, that’s so hot.”
I let myself look down, and a drop of clear liquid glistens at the slit of my
cock. “Fuck.” He swallows hard, and his hands on my hips tremble for a split
second. “And you always make me goddamn work for it.”
“We’ve never done this before,” I say feebly, his ‘you always this’ and ‘you
always that’ catching at my ears.
“Haven’t we?” he asks, his mouth wantonly moving to my neck. He bites on the
skin gently, and sudden pleasure radiates through me. Oh. Oh, Christ. Trickling
heat flashes over my body, making my cock harder. He’s found a good spot, a
sensitive spot I didn’t even know existed.
“Ngh,” I manage, looking up into the ceiling, having been reduced to non-words,
oh God, oh Christ, his mouth working on my neck, his teeth scraping the skin
just right, tongue flicking perfectly, and this is too much, I’m too turned on,
clutching his hips and trying to hold on, oh God –
He fists my hair suddenly. The gasp of pain gets lost when he covers my mouth
with his own. My scalp hurts, but the way – the control he takes, like he knows
I like that. He pushes my briefs further down until they slide to my ankles,
and I step out of them clumsily, but he’s keeping our lips attached so he might
not be giving points for gracefulness. I’m naked. Naked. His hands roam over my
chest and my sides, fingers pressing into the skin of my lower back, like he’s
tracing me. The kissing is heated, and my clutched fists awkwardly press
against his sides. I focus on just responding to the kiss. Trying to make it
good.
“I was gonna say,” he starts huskily, wet lips brushing against my mouth. His
hands come up between us and he starts unbuttoning his vest quickly and
impatiently. I feel dizzy, watching his fingers work one button open at a time.
He places kisses on my lips, catching my lower lip and sucking on it. Oh wow. I
groan helplessly, and he says, “Fuck.” He unbuttons the vest even faster. “Was
gonna say that we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Vest
unbuttoned. He instantly goes for his dress shirt. “But not anymore.” His bare
chest and stomach come into view, my eyes cast downwards between us, taking in
his pale skin. It’s more distracting than his kisses. He pulls his dress shirt
from his pants, undoing the last few buttons. “And I was going to go slow, just
as slow as you want, but – but you know. You know that they won’t go slow on
you.” His lips hover over mine, his shirt now hanging open. “I just don’t want
them to hurt you. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah,” I lie. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Want you to be prepared.” He places a tender kiss on my lips, and the skin
around my mouth feels raw from his stubble. He lets out a shuddery breath.
“Fuck, I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself. Never can around you. But
you’ll like it hard, trust me. Taking my cock...”
A wave of heat washes over me, and I know I must be flushed all over by now, my
mind soaring at him saying things like – sexual things, to me, such filthy
things. He pushes his shirt and vest off his shoulders and down his arms,
pulling his wrists through the cuffs until he’s left bare. God, he looks
amazing: pale, milky skin, and I can see where his ribs end and his flat
stomach starts. He grabs my arms, spider-like fingers looping around my wrists,
and he places my hands on his waist. I’ve never touched another man like this.
I’m standing naked in front of him, my arousal plain for him to see, and he’s
inviting me to touch him in return, and God, everything’s happening at once,
but he doesn’t stop to let me process any of this – he kisses me quick and hard
before taking a hold of my hips and turning us around. I lose balance when the
backs of my knees make contact with the bed, but the sheets feel clean against
my back and ass as I move to lie on them, telling me to just lose myself
between them.
Ryan’s standing by the foot of the bed. His long fingers are now undoing his
belt very, very slowly. The outline of his erect cock is visible through the
brown fabric, and it looks big, and he looks like he knows it’s big. I rest
against my elbows, my own erection lying against my stomach, still leaking.
In this motel room. With this man I met tonight. Two hours ago. But he is
beautiful, and I love the way he touches me, I love the way he pulls me to him,
love the way he tastes. And he’s barely touched me but my body feels overly
sensitive from his gaze alone.
I try to gulp without him noticing.
He notices.
I didn’t know anyone could have this affect on me.
He pops the top button of his pants. Slides the zipper down. Oh Christ, Christ.
He’s not at all self-conscious – he knows he looks good, that I like what I’m
seeing: dark hairs against pale skin, and then – He pushes his pants and
underwear down in one go, stepping out of his clothes. My eyes are focused on
his crotch, his fully erect cock. He’s skinny otherwise, but his cock isn’t:
it’s thick and darker than the rest of his skin. It’s longer than mine, and
it’s not my own but another man’s, his, and he’s hard because of me, because I
turn him on, because he wants me.
I’ve never wanted to touch something as badly in my life.
His fingers curl around his cock, giving it a casual stroke that he doesn’t
even seem to be aware of as he takes me in lying on the bed. Staring at me with
want in his eyes while I stare at him, naked, about to...
There’s always been a small, tiny part of my brain that’s thought that when
push came to shove, I’d back out. I’d realise that no, I’m not like that, it
was all a big misunderstanding. I’m not like that.
Ryan gets on the bed. He crawls on top of me, gazing down with dark irises and
hair flipping to his forehead. His hairy legs brush against mine, and he smells
of cigarettes and a musky aftershave. I part my legs to accommodate him without
even thinking about it. The tip of his cock brushes the base of my own, hanging
hot and heavy between us.
I’m like that. Every single part of me, even that part that’s still denying it,
is so, so like that.
He slowly puts his weight on me, his knees digging into the mattress between my
parted legs. I shudder as his crotch makes contact with mine, and then we’re
stomach to stomach, chest to chest. The weight is comfortable, familiar,
almost, for some insane, insane reason. His left elbow rests against the
mattress by my head, and he looks at me carefully. My skin is crawling with
want, for him to do more, touch me because I like that. Want to throw my head
back with ‘Just touch me, please,’ but I’m scared of all the things I don’t
know, so I hold his gaze, more turned on than I ever have been.
His other hand comes up and brushes hair from my forehead. He looks pensive –
pensive, how can he even think right now, how can he – “What are you thinking
right now?” he asks quietly.
Every time I breathe, I feel him above me, on me. Every time I move. The
contact is divine, is making my cock throb and my mind spin. I’m caged under
him, and somehow his overpowering presence is comforting. I feel protected.
“I’m...” I stop to breathe, organise feelings into words. “I’m thinking that.”
He shifts, and it brushes against me. Oh God. “That you’re really big.”
He laughs huskily, but it’s the truth – his hard dick is pressed between us,
and he feels big, bigger than what I’ve had in mind in my fantasies. “Well,” he
says, a masculine drawl leaving his slightly swollen lips. “You’re still going
to grow some, you know. Get a little taller. Your face will... become manlier.
And your cock. That’ll get a bit bigger too, I noticed. I’ll still win the
competition, but...” He grins broadly before he gets lost in looking at me.
Fire flares in his eyes. “Does it turn you on?”
“What?”
“My cock.”
He wants me to say it? Like it isn’t shamefully obvious already?
“Yeah.”
“Good.” His nose slides over my cheek and to my ear. He breathes me in, like
he’s inhaling the scent. “The things I want to do to you...” he whispers, and I
shiver. Things? What things? His teeth scrape my earlobe, and I try to push
closer to him. Get more contact.
He moves down, mouth trailing over my chin and throat, until his lips enclose
around a nipple. His tongue licks over the bud, and my back arches as I try to
keep quiet. That’s nice. That’s really nice. I take deep breaths and stare at
the ceiling, see lights moving across it as cars keep driving on the interstate
by the motel. But in here, on this bed, I’m lying on my back, about to be
sodomised by this beautiful, sexual creature.
I’m so far from home. So, so far from home.
He kisses my belly button, tongue swirling around it and then dipping in. It
tickles, almost, but even that sensation translates into pleasure, and all of
his minor ministrations, the way he’s still kissing my belly button, is
clouding my mind with unparalleled knowledge of being wanted. Craved. I want
him too; I want him to not stop, to keep going.
His mouth now hovers over my cock, his hot breath washing over it. I shift
restlessly, wanting so badly for him to touch me where I need him the most. His
hot tongue swipes over the crown of my dick.
“Ryan,” I whine as a warning. That should not be allowed, that –
“Just relax,” he says, the words muffled by his lips now sliding over my
length. I stare down at him, seeing him hover there, over my erection, lips
brushing against the pink flesh. His pupils are blown and dark, and he looks
hungry. Our eyes meet. His fingers curl around the base. He licks his lips. “I
want to taste you,” he says. His warm, wet mouth encloses around the head of my
cock, tongue swiping over the slit, and then he sucks. My hips lift off the
mattress, and oh, oh, oh, God, that’s too good, that’s –
I bring my fist to my mouth and bite down hard, my eyes closing. Don’t fall
apart, focus, focus on – on something other than his mouth, his tongue, doing
such obscene things to my cock, the way he’s clearly licking away the pre-come
from my slit, milking out more by sucking me, and then licking it off again.
The tip of his tongue presses right into the slit and he moans, and my entire
body jerks violently. It’s too sensitive there, that’s too –
“Stop,” I gasp. My knuckles are decorated with imprints of my own teeth. “Stop.
Oh God, stop.” He slowly pulls back, and I gasp for breath pathetically.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, sounding wistful but predatory. His nose rubs
against my shaft as he goes further down, inhaling. His hands land on the
insides of my thighs and he spreads my legs wide. His mouth places hot kisses
on my balls, and then his tongue licks just behind them. It takes effort to
keep still, to not moan like a whore because I’m about to lose my mind. I close
my eyes and bite on my tongue, but the moans still break through.
His tongue licks lower and lower. I know I’m exposed there, and it’s beyond
humiliating and wrong, letting him see me there, wanting him there, but it
feels too good for me to pull away, even if I know that if he’s not careful,
he’ll –
His tongue moves over my hole slowly and deliberately. A part of me dies, and I
clutch the sheets beneath us with both hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask, proud that I manage to form a coherent sentence,
but it’s panicked. What is he doing? No one told me – when did – “What – Oh
God. Oh please. Please.”
“Just relax,” he says, and then he’s kissing me there, wet tongue, soft lips,
the stubble of his chin scratching my skin. His tongue flicks over my entrance
slowly, and again, and again, and he groans and burrows in further, leaving me
wet with his spit. Nothing’s ever felt as good. I didn’t – Never occurred to me
– don’t want him to stop when it’s so good, his mouth on me feels so good.
Pleasure is flashing through me from between my legs, up my backside. He’s
eating me out – eating out my ass – and my body is in complete overload. Oh
God, oh Ryan, he should never stop, please don’t ever leave, I’ll do anything,
just kiss me there, lick me there, Christ –
His mouth pulls back. I groan in protest, through a thick haze of pleasure. No.
Why. Wait. “Here,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading it between my parted
legs. I don’t even think; I just push my forefinger into my hole. I groan and
my hips shift to get more of my finger. God, I have to touch – so good, so wet
from his spit, have to touch myself there –
“Fuck, tell me you do this a lot,” he groans, voice heavy with want. “Because
you should. Every fucking day.”
“I don’t,” I groan, pushing the finger in me deeper, so badly wanting something
inside me. I always feel ashamed afterwards, and still I do it. He’s watching
me finger myself, working the single digit in and out of me. But God, I need
to, can’t not do this after what he did.
“Two fingers,” he says – orders – and I slip out my forefinger, pressing it
tight against my middle finger. My hole’s wet from his spit – that’s clearly
what he intended – and I rub my fingers there to help with the friction. The
muscles quiver from me rubbing them, but they want and need to be touched.
“Come on,” he says, “let me see you do it.”
Through half-lidded eyes, I see him on his knees between my legs, staring down
between us. His lips are swollen, his hair a mess, and his chest has reddened.
His fingers dig into the backs of my thighs hard, calloused fingertips pressing
into my flesh. He wants to see me fingering my hole. Wants to watch. I push two
fingers in.
“Oh God,” I moan, biting firmly on my lower lip as my eyes roll to the back of
my head and my hips lift off the mattress.
“That’s it. That’s good, baby. Shit, you look so hot.”
I somehow manage to feel butterflies in my guts. Does he really think that?
Does he think I’m hot like this? Somehow, his words drive me even crazier. The
intrusion of my own fingers isn’t foreign, it’s just been a while, but never,
never has it felt this good. Never have I turned myself on as much as Ryan now
has. A burning sensation circles in my veins – I need to get off, need to come.
Oh God, I really need to come.
“Push your fingers in further,” he orders. “Go on. Deeper.”
I obey blindly, my muscles gripping onto the intrusive digits. I’m hot and
tight around my fingers, and it’s difficult to penetrate deep.
“Crook your fingers.”
I do, not sure why he wants me to, but I do, and it feels good, it all feels
good.
“God, you’re so young,” he says, taking hold of my wrist and pulling at my
hand. My fingers slip out, leaving me feeling desperately empty. It’s a
different kind of need to get off – my cock is throbbing, wanting attention,
but the more desperate burn radiates from my slightly widened and slicked up
hole. I need it there, right there, and Ryan’s – Jesus, Ryan’s cock, maybe –
no, not maybe. That’s what he intends. Oh God, him inside of me, his hot, thick
member locked in me, in a way no one’s ever been. My mind is spinning, and my
body just focuses on getting more, more, no matter how scary that is. “Look at
me. Brendon, look at me.”
I do because – he’s sucking on two fingers, coating them in messy saliva – how
did he – “I didn’t tell you. How do you know my –”
He pushes two fingers into me, spreading me open. Oh Christ, that’s too good.
He doesn’t hesitate but pushes them in deep, deeper than I could, and my
insides feel hot from the pressure. He crooks his fingers.
I’ve managed to keep somewhat quiet, I think, but then I just can’t. White heat
engulfs me, my muscles squeezing his fingers. Scorching pleasure suddenly
rattles through me. Oh God, that was good, that was so – he does it again, and
again, until I don’t even care how he knows my name. He’s fucking me with his
fingers, and my hips try to match the rhythm, to get more, more. It’s the most
intense thing I’ve ever felt. I run my fingers over my throbbing cock, leaking
onto my stomach.
“Want to see you do it,” he says, grabbing my hand again. His fingers slip out,
and I desperately push my index finger inside, but it’s not enough anymore. I
groan, my head pressing into the pillow, my hips shifting restlessly. He slides
a finger next to mine, the two pressed together, his digit longer and going
deeper than my own. We push our fingers in together, and I moan out into the
room, the penetration too good to bear. Then he pushes a second finger in me,
and I tense up. The stretch is too much – two of his fingers next to my own –
my muscles burning uncomfortably, a sharp pain appearing. He keeps his fingers
moving, but I don’t dare move my own. I hiss, my eyes screwed shut tight.
“It’ll subside. Do this. Come on, it’ll help,” he says, and his fingers beneath
my own are crooking upwards, pushing my own. The pleasure from before flickers
suddenly. I crook my finger simultaneously with his.
Jesus Christ.
“O-Oh, that’s – God, I can’t,” I breathe out erratically, overwhelmed. My
muscles spasm, and when they clench down, I can feel our fingers in me that
much better. It wouldn’t feel this good if we weren’t meant to do these things.
Surely. God thinks of everything. God makes things perfect. He intended this.
He must have.
The heat washing over me is more intense than before. The spot is sensitive,
and God, it feels so good when we rub it, making my skin crawl and my cock
pulsate. It burns and leaves me feeling open and full, and I can barely
breathe.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, and yes, God.
My free hand takes a hold of my cock, the pre-come having smeared the head. My
fingers wrap around the aching flesh, and I pump it unceremoniously and quickly
because I need to, just have to. Heat balls up in the pit of my stomach, and it
feels so good inside where our fingers are. He’s determining the rhythm, his
hand between my legs pushing in faster, faster, and I feel the friction, feel
him penetrating me, the slide of his fingers inside me, and God, God, “God,
God,” God – “Ryan, I’m about to –”
He crooks his fingers brutally hard, and I come undone. My muscles grip onto
our fingers, and it makes the orgasm feel even better. Hot semen splashes onto
my stomach, and I fist my cock wantonly, my hips lifting and bucking, my body
writhing. I feel my release all the way in my toes, up my thighs, every muscle
contracting. Oh God, I didn’t know I could ever feel this amazing.
I let go of my spent, still pulsating cock. I gasp for air, like I’ve come back
from underwater. My skin tingles and the world is blurred. Oh God, what have we
done, what sweet crime have we committed?
I carefully pull my finger out of my hole, but his remain inside, doing
miniscule, miniscule hooking motions, making me shudder. My stomach’s decorated
with white drops of semen, and only then do I realise that he watched me, was
watching the entire time. As we fingered me. As I touched myself. As I came.
“I’m sorry,” I manage in a rush, my voice rough. “I didn’t mean to, I –”
“Don’t be sorry. Fuck, you were so hot like that.” His fingers slowly pull out
of me, leaving a stinging pain and a throbbing emptiness behind. “Wanted to see
you come,” he says and leans over my lower half. His lips kiss my left hipbone,
tongue swiping the heated skin. “You’re making me so fucking hard, Bren.”
Am I? God, am I?
His mouth moves onto my stomach, and he starts licking off my come. It’s the
most obscene thing I’ve ever seen or even thought of. He’s not done with me.
Oh. He’s nowhere near done with me, is he?
His cock presses against my thigh with a wet slide, and it’s the hottest thing
I’ve ever felt. His lean, narrow body pushes against me when he reaches my
mouth, my stomach now clean of my spilled semen, but I taste it on his tongue,
bitter and obscene. I don’t taste good, I don’t think, but he clearly thinks
so, groaning, greedily pushing his tongue against mine. He wants me to taste it
too.
His hips begin to move against me restlessly. I should try and get him off. Do
something. Do some of the tricks that he clearly knows, but my mind’s fogged up
and my body feels sated. I fall into the kissing, the way he holds me close,
his hands travelling over my skin possessively.
He snakes a hand between us, and it moves between my parted legs. He sucks on
my lower lip as his forefinger runs over my widened entrance, where the muscles
feel sore. I shudder, my muscles contracting at the stimulation. He dips his
forefinger inside regardless, hot and intrusive. It’s clear what he wants.
“Can we –” I start, stopping to swallow hard. His mouth slides to my ear,
sucking on my earlobe. I like that. I had no idea I liked that, and it’s
distracting beyond all measure. His wet lips pull on my flesh, and it’s like
he’s everywhere. Oh God. My heart beats wildly, irregularly, a crazy thumping
in my chest from coming down after the orgasm, but then picking up again from
everything he’s doing. “C-Can we get under the covers?” I ask, my voice hoarse
from the shameless moaning from before.
He lifts his head and looks genuinely surprised. “You want to get under the
covers?” he repeats. Slight perspiration has gathered at the hollow of his
throat. Something inside me caves in from how incredible he looks: locks of
brown hair pressed to his sweaty forehead, pupils blown and dark like he’s on
drugs, his lips red and swollen from kissing, but most of all how his entire
body says sex, when he breathes, moves, when he groans. Like he’s fallen into
what we’re doing head first, and all that exists for him is this bed and the
things we’re going to do in it.
I nod to affirm it’s what I want, and though he looks surprised, he just nods.
He impatiently tugs at the covers beneath us. I have to lift up my upper body,
then my hips, and I make contact with his groin, his hard member. He looks at
me darkly when I accidentally grind against his erection. Fire sparks up inside
me. Christ, oh Christ. He kicks the covers down before throwing them over us,
hiding our naked, aroused bodies from view. Have some sense of shame.
The second he’s settled on top of me, he reaches out to grab the tin box I
noticed earlier on the nightstand. It says ‘Vaseline’ on it, and he tells me to
twist off the top as he holds the bottom. “Dip your fingers in,” he says, and I
obey, my fingers digging into the thick, yellowy goo. I look from my fingers to
his eyes and then at my fingers again, it all hitting me a bit too fast. “Rub
it on me.” His voice has dropped an octave.
“You want me to...”
He leans down, our noses pressing together. He stares at me. “Want you to rub
it on my cock.”
That’s. That’s what I thought.
Jesus.
I haven’t touched him there yet, but I now reach down between us, my eyes
locked with his. His mouth drops open a little when my fingers first brush his
cock. He breathes shallowly as I try to spread the Vaseline on him, so that he
can – can get inside me more easily. His flesh is warm in my hand, and he feels
big, my fingers getting smeared with his pre-come as they slide over the head.
My hand’s shaking, and breathing is difficult, my throat closing in on itself.
He bites on his lower lip and groans, pushing his cock further into my hand.
The rattling sound he makes causes his body to vibrate against mine.
My hand awkwardly tries to get his dick as slickened up as it can, and I
squeeze harder experimentally, try to do some of the milking motions he did
before. I tighten my grip as my fist gets to the head of his cock, and he
growls and seems to lose his patience.
He snatches my hand, pulling it away and pinning it above my head. He kisses me
hard as his hips roll down, his tongue brutally fucking my mouth. The head of
his slicked up cock slides between my ass cheeks, and my stomach drops. The
kissing is wild, like he can’t get enough. He thrusts slightly, his cock
dragging between my cheeks. “Fuck, I gotta have you,” he whispers, biting on my
jaw, my neck, my lips. My body’s thrumming with need and nerves, my cock semi-
hard again. It’s still overly sensitive from the orgasm, but I can’t help how
turned on I am, how I’m getting hard already.
The swollen head of Ryan’s cock presses against my entrance. I lose my breath,
my heart skipping a beat. The sheets hang low on us, on his waist so that it
can’t be seen. White sheets. Wedding sheets. Virginal sheets.
I close my eyes as the world seems to slow down. It’ll hurt – it’s more than
three fingers. His member is thicker and longer, it’s several inches of hard
cock. I don’t think there is any way I can take him, but he doesn’t care, and I
know that. That he’ll take me regardless. His mouth slides across my cheek
slowly, more gentle now. He’s got a hand between us, holding his cock. He
pushes forward, just to add pressure to my entrance. He feels sticky and too
big, and I inch up on the bed before I can stop myself. Away from the
intrusion.
His hand lands on my shoulder instantly, squeezing too hard and keeping me
still. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me hotly, moving his hips
until the pressure’s back. More pressure this time, and something’s got to give
– I will, my muscles will, I know I’ll open up for him. There is no other
choice.
“You gotta want it,” he says. “Trust me, I know.”
He knows. He knows what he’s doing. Okay. Alright. He knows.
He slowly pushes forwards, and I stay still. I feel myself opening up to
accommodate the head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he hisses, face flashing in pleasure, and then he thrusts forward,
slowly and intently. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and I can’t look away,
just can’t. The head of his cock pushes inside, and I whine helplessly. His
hand moves from my shoulder to my hair, pulling, preventing me from looking
away. His hot breath washes over my lips as he leans closer to me, and he
inches inside, watching my face as he does so. The drag is hot and painful, and
I grab his forearm hard.
“Ryan, oh God. Please,” I beg, not even knowing what I’m asking.
He comes to a stop, and I hyperventilate. He’s deep inside of me, so deep, and
as my hips lift I feel him. It’s too much, far too much, I –
“Just a bit more,” he says and, without warning, he pushes in the rest of the
way until he’s buried to the hilt. We finally break eye contact as my head
tilts backwards, my hips bucking, no God and please more – “That’s it,” his
words hot against my ear, “I’m in you. It’s okay. Baby, it’s okay.”
It’s not okay, it’s not. I want to claw his back and fight him off and for him
to pin me down and remain inside me like this, no matter what I say or how much
it hurts. Because it does hurt, but I like it, I like it. He’s inside me. Oh
God, all of him is inside me.
I hold on, my fingers slipping up his arm, and soon my nails dig into his
shoulder blades, just to navigate the sudden sensations.
His face presses into the crook of my neck, and he shivers against me as I try
to recover from the shock of intrusion, get used to him. “God, yes,” he groans
against my skin, and his hips draw back and he pushes in me again, which is
followed by another guttural groan from him. My mind blacks out, and I cling
onto him as I cry out. He doesn’t let me pull myself together, not at all. He
starts a rhythm, starts fucking me, groaning as his hips move.
“You feel so fucking good right now.” His mouth presses against mine, tongue
dipping in. “God, you’ve never been this fucking tight.” He grabs the sides of
my face and deepens the kiss. His hips keep working between my legs like he
can’t help himself, and my mind spins from him thinking I’m hot, that I turn
him on.
He’s also right. It is good. Even if it hurts, the feel of him inside me has me
melting, making my body burn up in arousal. A damn attractive, older man is
barely in control as he fucks me, his groans and sounds, his sweaty skin and
his thrusting hips – And I’m in the middle of it all, getting devoured. It’s
hotter than I can stand, and I can’t think or speak, I just hold on and respond
to his touch, feeling primitive.
Our mouths crash together, but this time because I kiss him. I kiss him and
kiss him and groan into his mouth, my hands in his hair. Take me. Have me. Fuck
me. I don’t care.
This is what I’ve been after. This is it. It brings the world into focus, and
I’m not so lost and I’m not so alone. He’s getting pleasure out of me, and I’m
getting pleasure out of him. So much pleasure. So much goddamned pleasure.
His hips pull back almost all the way, keeping only the head of his cock in me,
and then he pushes back in at a different angle. I fist his hair hard without
meaning to, my body seizing up as I gasp against his mouth, my eyes flying wide
open. He does it again, watching me carefully, and pleasure radiates from where
he is inside me. I groan, my voice lower. God. God, more of that, that –
“Does it still hurt?” he asks from behind a veil of pleasure.
“Yes.” I breathe in hard, trying to control the way my body responds to him
sliding into me steadily. “But I like it,” I add, the stinging sensation of his
cock in me heightening the pleasure of it.
“Of course you fucking like it,” he drawls, and fire pools up at the pit of my
stomach. “You just, really, really –” He thrusts hard to the melody of his
voice, “– love cock. Even now, when you’ve never been fucked open like this.”
He groans loudly, adding more force to his thrusts. “Fuck, you should see
yourself. Taking me so well... Driving me insane…” His voice fades out as
another thrust pushes me closer to the edge. He supports himself above me
properly to put more force into his thrusts. My hands slide down his sweaty
back all the way to the sheet that’s dangerously slipping lower as he moves.
All I can focus on is the way he’s fucking me, the angle so perfect and hitting
the sensitive spot inside me. My cock has hardened again, despite me having
come not too long ago. He notices my arousal as well as I do, and his eyes turn
even darker. He fucks me harder like he wants to know how loud he can make me.
“I feel so full,” I gasp, not ever having known that I was ever empty. He
pushes in brutally deep, and I cry out, my eyes screwing shut. “God, Ryan.”
Something seems to change in him because he orders, “Say that again.”
I don’t follow until I do, so I repeat his name. “Ryan. Ryan, oh God, Ry.” I
don’t even know where the nickname comes from, it just appears on its own and
somehow fits.
“Christ, Bren,” he hisses, heavy breathing against the shell of my ear. “Don’t
you ever come for them the way you do for me.” There’s a desperate urgency to
his words that I can’t understand. He yanks my hair hard, and God, I feel so
wanted, so incredibly wanted. “You got that?”
“Yes,” I breathe out, his mouth ghosting over my cheek and moving to my lips.
“Yes what?”
Our eyes meet, and it takes effort to focus on him, but his words are strained,
like it’s taking equal effort for him to form the sentences. “Yes. Ryan.”
He seals my lips in a kiss, and this time when he thrusts in, I move to meet
him. I freeze up the second that I do, the feel of it consuming me. I tremble
beneath him, my cock throbbing already. I won’t last. I can’t last. “I’m
close,” I rasp out.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Come on.” He quickly pulls the covers off of us. Sudden
shame hits me from knowing it’s all in plain view, our hips thrusting, the
connection of our bodies. Just as I look down to see the way the base of his
cock is visible between my legs, he pulls out, and so I see him reappearing
inch by inch, feeling it. The head slips out, and my muscles squeeze around
nothing.
“What are you – Please, want you back inside,” I say, the burning need more
urgent than the pain I’m more aware of now that he’s no longer in me.
“I know, I know,” he whispers urgently, his hand grabbing my hip. He turns us
around on the bed until I’m on top, trying to balance myself as I hover above
him. His cock slides wetly against my pubic bone. He’s leaking as he’s fucking
me. I’ve probably got come in me already.
His hands slide up my chest and push me upwards, and my knees press into the
mattress by his sides as I sit up, my hand on his chest for balance.
“Wha –”
“You know what to do,” he says, his hands on my hips, fingers pressing in too
hard. He looks fucked beneath me, wet hairs stuck to his forehead. I know what
to do? I know what to do. What I want. Him. Inside.
I shift back, his cock sliding against my balls. I keep watching him, trying to
make sure I’m doing this right, that I’m not misreading the signs and doing it
all wrong. “Christ,” he swears, sounding more turned on than before, and his
hand slips between us to hold his cock at the base for me.
My chest rises and falls as I breathe fast, positioning myself until my hole is
pressing against his cock again. I feel hungry and desperate, a yearning I’ve
never felt, and I sink down onto him. We both gasp as I push onto his cock, as
he fills me up again. God, it’s good, unbearably good.
“I don’t know if – God, I don’t think I can –”
“Just stay still,” he orders, and I try to, my muscles squeezing tight around
him, sending flashes of pleasure up my spine. I can’t, I can’t –
His hips buck up, and my mouth drops open. Oh God. He starts fucking up into
me, his hips moving treacherously slowly. I can’t keep quiet when he fucks me
just right, and the more sensitive I feel, the more wound up my body gets.
Something inside me gets pulled tighter and tighter, so hot I can’t stand it.
I wrap my fingers around my cock, my fingers touching my aching flesh. My hips
begin to move with his thrusts, slowly at first because I don’t know how to
move, how to do it, but I just need to. I end up disrupting his rhythm trying
to meet it, but his hands on my hips begin to guide my movements, up and down,
up and down, as he fucks into me. He’s louder now than he’s been before, from
the husky groans earlier. He’s now moaning louder, face flashing in pleasure.
He must be close too, because I know I am, my body pushed to the edge.
Soon I’m riding him, actually riding another man, my head thrown back and my
hips working fervently. I don’t even realise that he’s stopped moving until I
suddenly do, that he’s letting me do the work. His hands are restlessly dancing
over my lower stomach and chest, consuming touches. His hips do miniscule
thrusts, like he can’t help it, and I work my hips the best I can to get his
cock as deep as it can go. It takes a while but I find the right angle too, but
it’s too much so I keep it slightly off the target, try to keep the pleasure
bearable.
“We really like this one,” he says. I’m not sure who this ‘we’ is – is he
referring to himself in the plural, or is he talking about- about him and I,
but – But I do like this one, whatever he might mean. This one’s good. Oh
Christ, it’s too good, and he angles his hips so that his cock pushes into me
just right.
“Please don’t,” I groan when he grabs my hips and won’t let me change the
angle. It’s too much that way, it’s too good.
“Let yourself come,” he says, now working his hips again. I can’t stop riding
him, not even when the pleasure makes me feel scared because my body stops
being my body, my body starts feeling foreign. “You gotta let go. Trust me.”
Those two words again. Trust him.
“Touch yourself.”
I obey instantly, and it’s that instant that I give up and trust him. Our hips
work together, harder and faster, and I fist my cock, my body arched and my
head thrown back. The headboard’s banging against the wall, and we’re too loud
for our own good, but the pleasure of it, the pleasure, the pleasure – I thumb
my leaking slit, and my muscles squeeze his cock harder and harder, so hard
that it hurts, and I can’t, I can’t, and I pull my own hair, and that’s –
I double over, my hand landing on Ryan’s chest for balance at the last second.
I fist my cock furiously as it jerks in my hand, stripes of come erupting. Ryan
keeps fucking into me although I tell him it’s too much, too fucking much. He
comes inside me, and I have no words, no thoughts, he just radiates life
beneath me. I feel him emptying his load in me, our hips grinding together. My
cheeks feel wet, and nothing makes sense, not a damn thing.
“Oh. Oh, God,” he breathes out, hips bucking irregularly like he can’t control
the aftershocks. His hips lift off the mattress and push me up, and I hold on,
my hand smeared with white semen. I open my eyes, and he looks dazed. Wrecked.
Fucked.
I can’t imagine what I look like.
His hips move back down onto the mattress. His fingers caress my hipbones
absently as he comes down and tries to recover. I remain where I am, with him
inside me, my come splattered all over his stomach. I let go of my cock and
breathe. Breathe. Shiver. Try to re-emerge from underwater.
“Well,” he says, panting. “Now I know you’ve always been a natural.”
The painting above the headboard has tilted to one side, and it looks like the
mountains are sliding downwards.
                                     * * *
I wake up to a sudden, drunken yell. A flashing motel sign shines through a
pair of curtains, and I don’t know where I am. Silhouettes of drunken men move
along, mumbling nonsense amongst themselves. Warm heat is pressed against my
back. Even breaths against the shell of my ear. An arm wrapped around my chest,
holding me close. Ryan.
I remember now.
Oh Father.
I slowly move onto my back, not wanting to wake him up. He presses into my
side, his head on a pillow. His hair’s in disarray, and he looks younger when
he’s asleep. Less troubled somehow. I stare at the ceiling and breathe in
steadily. He wraps an arm around me tighter, his nose pressing into my neck. He
lets out a content sound. I feel sore all over from his mouth, his stubble, his
hands, his grip... My body feels used. My hole feels wet. Filled up.
I wasn’t sure if he’d be here when I woke up, but he is. It’s dusk outside, the
light shining through the curtains a lot lighter than it was when we fell
asleep.
The covers hang low on our waists, and I see teeth and nail marks on my chest
and stomach. He said that he’d take me hard. He did warn me.
I can’t fall back asleep, not again. It’s all flooding in now, my mind no
longer clouded by lust or desire. What he did to me. What we did.
My bladder’s full, uncomfortably so, and I slowly inch Ryan’s arm from around
me. I look at his face, and he seems to frown in his sleep as I slip out of
bed, but he doesn’t wake up. His hand lands on where I was, fingers digging
into the sheets.
Standing up was not a good idea. I flinch the second I do, a sharp pain, like
needles, prickling my behind and radiating up my spine. I suck back a hiss and
walk slowly to the bathroom door, limping as I go. Something runs down the back
of my thigh. I know what it is without looking.
The bathroom light flickers on. The clothes that I wore last night are still in
a pile on the floor. I close the door quietly, blinking against the sudden
brightness. I push the toilet seat up and take a leak. My cock’s in my hand,
flaccid and sore. Flecks of dried come are splattered across my pubic hair.
There’s a bruise on my left hipbone: Ryan’s teeth. I try hard to remember when
he did that, but can’t.
I flush the toilet. Stagger to the sink, twist the taps open. The light
flickers above the mirror, and I make the mistake of looking at myself.
I look fucked. God, I look so fucked: my mouth’s red from beard rash, my hair’s
a – Is that come in my hair? I swat at it quickly. And Ryan’s marked me all
over with his mouth and his nails. There’s a lingering sensation inside me
where I can feel his cock. When I move. When I walk. Knowing that he’s been
inside of me. His come is still rolling down my inner thigh.
I stare at myself blankly. Well, you did it now. You did it, and you loved it.
You loved it, riding his cock, letting him do whatever he wanted. You know it’s
true. You would have let him do whatever he wanted to you. You didn’t care. You
got so into it, didn’t you? What would your mother say? What would your father
say?
“Shut up,” I whisper. The mirror’s fogged up from the running hot water. “Shut
up, shut up.” I close the taps and end up gripping the edges of the sink,
leaning over it. About to hurl. Breathing hard. Saliva dripping from my mouth
into the sink.
There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing – It felt so good with him, so –
How could that be wrong?
I’m not ashamed. I do not have to feel ashamed. I am not ashamed that after all
the years of advice and love and then hate, this is what I’m doing. Getting
screwed by anonymous men in roadside motels. Not mommy’s little boy anymore.
Not anybody’s anything.
I sit down on the bathroom floor tiles, hugging my knees tight. The pain is
obvious. I’m cold and sore and alone, and Ryan’s in that bed, but he’s not
going to stay. I knew that the second I saw him, and I accepted it right from
the start. I knew that he wouldn’t be taking me home either. None of them will.
I’m not anybody’s anything.
Could disappear and no one would even notice.
I draw in a shivery breath, and then another, and another, and I could
disappear right here. Don’t know where I’m heading. Norman said that Omaha’s
nice. Maybe I’ll go there. Maybe I’ll get lost on the way, and no one will ever
know, anyway.
Have to keep going forward either way, because I can’t go home anymore. They’d
know. They’d take one look at me and know the things I’ve done tonight, and now
I’ll never see any of them again, will never see my mother. It’s so much more
final now.
My forehead presses against my knees, and I try out this disappearing act as my
shoulders shake. I let it wash over me, not trying to hold it back. It’s been a
while. It’s been months since the last time I gave myself the luxury to be
weak, but every bad thing that’s happened since, every day of struggling and
lying and trying to go unnoticed like I don’t matter, because I’m just an
unnatural abomination, and we all know that, every tiny thing. They all wash
over me, alongside Ryan fucking me, taking me so completely, and I let myself
cry and cry because it’s the only thing left to do.
I slip deep into it as the world around me slips out of focus, and it remains
that way until something soft and solid engulfs me, a pair of arms and a warm
body. I can’t even make out what he’s saying at first, but I try to push him
off. He won’t let me. His lips find my face, my cheeks, but I duck my head.
“Calm down, just calm down,” he says, and even though I try to stop him, he
manages to pull me into his arms. My forehead presses against his collarbone,
and he’s as naked as I am, the warmth of the sheets still on him. I breathe in
hard, and his fingers card through my hair soothingly. “Baby, just calm down,”
he hushes me, words pressed to the shell of my ear and accompanied by a kiss.
But I can’t calm down, and another sudden sob rattles through me. He holds me
tighter. “You will get out of here,” he whispers. “You will survive this and
you’ll make a life for yourself.” A small, scared laugh breaks through from
between the tears, because that’ll be the day, sure, that’s likely, when I’m
drowning and tired and alone, and I can’t anymore. His fingers caress the nape
of my neck. “You will. I know you will. And you’ll be stunning and you’ll break
hearts.” He pauses before whispering, “You’ll break my heart.”
I lift my head enough to look into his eyes. He’s broken, so clearly broken
that I don’t know how I missed it before. There’s loss and love and hate and
warmth in his touch. His nose brushes against mine as he leans in, his lips
hovering over mine. “And I will love you.”
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