forthedog | (no subject)

Entry tags:

neil

(no subject)

It's easier to stay out of everyone's way than you'd think. You just call in sick as far as the building crew goes, you hunt a lot, you keep to your hut and yell at anyone who comes too close. He's barely even seen Eostre, though at some point he guesses he'll at least have to explain himself to her, if to no one else.

If Hobbes hasn't already told her.

It's early evening, and he has a fire going in the little circle of stones close to the hut, and he's sharpening his knife because it's helping him to not think. Not thinking is pretty much the other thing he does these days. He'd told himself that it wasn't a breakup, that it was a step back to get some distance, to allow himself to think more clearly about the problem, but thinking about the problem is exactly what he's not doing, because part of him is sure--so sure--that if he does think about it he'll have to face the fact that it's a problem without a solution.

He and Eostre work because there's no real demands, and not even that many expectations. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he really can't handle anything more than that. Maybe he was an idiot to ever think that he could, and Hobbes is the collateral damage.

He'd always liked to think he had better aim than that.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His smile twists even more, into something close to a grimace, and he's reaching out and touching Neil's arm before he really knows it. "Don't look like that," he says. "God, don't make me feel like shit for the second time in a week."

"'s not you," I murmur, scrubbing a hand over my face and breathing out a sigh. My fingertips brush the back of his hand, just a brief, fluttering touch before they fall away and drop to my lap.

"'m sorry. I know it means fuck all, but I'm sorry."

"It does mean something." He breathes out a tight little laugh, eyes on Neil's hands. "Just to be able to tel someone. I mean, Jesus, I been carrying this around for fucking days now."

He closes his eyes in something like shame. "Not even Eostre knows. Unless Tom's told her." And she's not stupid. She must know by now that something's up.

"Lucky I stopped by, then," I murmur, lips pressed in a faint curve of a smile, something self-deprecating in my voice. I'm not good at this shit, I never was. But maybe that's the point. It's a surprise though, that Cutter doesn't know. I don't know how their friendship works, but I sorta assumed he'd be the one to tell over me.

Guess I'm supposed to be the neutral option. Whatever.

"Start tellin' people, guess it makes it more real." I lift my hand, hesitate, finally rest it cautiously on his shoulder. He's not the warm, fuzzy type. There's no fixing shit with a hug. It feels awkward, and apart from maybe a punch to the shoulder or two, I'm hard pressed to remember another time I touched him. But, I do it anyway.

Edited 2008-06-02 01:53 (UTC)

"I don't need it to be any more fucking real," he whispers, his face stretched into a wince. The touch almost makes him jump, and he realizes that it's been days... since that day at the waterfall, in fact, since anyone's really touched him at all.

It's strange how you can get to miss something like that. Just... contact. He's come a long way with being comfortable touching and being touched, here, but he's still a little surprised to realize that he doesn't actually want Neil to remove his hand.

He winces, and there's so much pain in it, I swear I can feel it. Hollow ache settling in my chest. Feels almost normal now, that feeling's made its home there.

"If I say it'll get better, you gonna hit me?" I ask, going for a tease but falling flat. I'm off my game, the smirks don't come as easy as they usually do. I don't move my hand. No soothing circles rubbed into tense muscles. No comforting pat. It just rests there, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath.

"Not sure I have it in me," he says, and he's only sort of kidding. A battalion of Guard could come charging out of the trees at him and he's not sure he'd do much more than sit here and wait.

He looks up again, meeting Neil's gaze, and he's not sure if it's comforting or just so much worse, the level of understanding he sees there. God, this is the worst kind of thing to have in common with someone.

"How the fuck do you do it? How do you... fucking get up in the morning?"

"'m a heartless fuck, didn't you know?" I answer with a twist of my lips, looking away from him when actually seeing his face becomes too hard. Blinking, eyes burning suddenly.

"First... three weeks, I wasn't alone, more than five minutes. Fuckin'... shadowed anybody'd let me. Just a distraction, you know? I hate wakin' up alone."

"I'm used to it," he says, fighting the odd urge to reach out, put a finger to his chin and turn his face back. Why he should be bothered by Neil looking away... "Been doing it a lot lately. Even before shit went down."

He smiles, again so close to a wince. "Never thought I'd get to a point where I actually didn't want it that way, though."

My hand drops away again, the contact suddenly too much. "It's been two years, you know? Longest we were ever apart was... hell, a week? Week and a half? Just feels wrong."

I look down at my hands, palms up and open on my lap. "Guess I gotta get used to it now."

"Maybe that's the best any of us can do," he says softly. "We get used to shit." He does reach out then, catches the point of Neil's chin on the tips of his fingers and gently nudges his head up. Suddenly the unfairness of it is hitting him like a fucking train, not his own situation, but Neil's, and that he has to be here now and that it feels like Mike is only compounding the hurt and that there's absolutely nothing he can do to make it go away.

"Neil..." He's not even sure what he wants to say. Maybe an apology deeper and more complete than he's been able to articulate so far. Maybe something that might help. Whatever the fuck that would be.

"'m tired of just... getting used to shit," I hiss. It's not fair. It was supposed to be more than that. This place. This fucking blank slate that means fuck all. It was supposed to be different. For me, and for Mike, and I don't even care if it makes me naive for believing that's true.

My eyes flicker open, but I don't say anything. He's got this look that I can't really figure out. My stomach clinches and my fingers curl around his wrist. Like I'm gonna push him away, but in the end, I don't.

He shakes his head, because he has no fucking idea what to say to that. He's not even sure what he's doing. All he knows is that he's lonely, as pathetic as that sounds--and it is--and he's missed being touched, missed talking to someone and not feeling like he has to hide something, if he ever really did.

Things with Chris are probably fucked now, things with Lennox might very well be fucked too, and just at the moment... it feels like this is all he has.

Which might explain the kiss. It just sort of happens; he leans forward smoothly--there isn't even that much space between them anymore--and brushes their lips together, and it's closed-mouth, chaste.

But with something in it like maybe he doesn't want it to stay that way.

I can't figure out why this keeps happening. For someone seemingly experienced, I'm pretty fucking blind, I guess. All the little signs were there, and I looked over 'em, like an asshole. Encouraged it, even, without even giving it a thought.

Old habits and all that.

There's this little, nagging thought in the back of my head... that it was maybe a little more than mindless goofing off with him, and I feel a sharp twist of guilt in my gut, breath catching, even as I press forward. Just a little. Logan always said I wanted to hurt. Maybe, in some ways, he was right.

He has a split-second moment of lucidity where he gets that this probably isn't the best idea, that it might be piling bad move on top of bad move, but he doesn't care. It feels so damn good to kiss someone, hell, anyone, but he can't deny that part of him has wanted this for a while now.

His hand slides from Neil's chin up the line of his jaw to cup his cheek as he nods their mouths together harder, gently trying to get Neil's lips to part. Just a little. He's not sure what the fuck his intention is here, if he even has one at all.

Fuck. Fuck it. Just... fuck it. My hand slips from his wrist only to slide along the back of his neck. And he's warm, really warm, and it's so fucking easy to let my lips part. It's so fucking easy, just like old times...

But no, that's a lie. I'm not that kid anymore. I got no fucking excuse.

It's the parted lips that does it. Suddenly he's shifting position, breaking the kiss for only a fraction of a second, on his knees in front of Neil with a hand on his hip and the other working up through his hair. Distractions are what he's been needing.

He guesses this might be one.

"Shit," he breathes before his tongue slips past Neil's teeth, almost hesitant, like he's still trying this out.

I have to lean back into it, gasping, one hand fisting in his shirt, the other slipping up into his hair. And -- fuck, fuck, fuck, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Answering him with a soft, hesitant groan, it's like running on autopilot. I know how to kiss, so I do it.

My eyes are still damp and my heart's hammering, but I don't have to think. I don't have to think, and for a few moments, it feels really fucking great.

This isn't the first time he's done this. It's practically a pattern with him, going for exactly what he shouldn't want, exactly what's going to get him into trouble. It's not Neil's age--Danny had been young, too, and he'd be even more of a liar than he already is if he didn't accept that he really likes that part of it. It's the layers of fucked-up here, all the ways in which this could spiral down even further.

Or maybe someone as fucked up as he is is exactly what he needs. His hand is moving from Neil's hip down and around, cupping the very slight curve of his ass and squeezing, making a breathless little sound against Neil's mouth.

And look at that. He's half hard. Maybe he does have an intention here after all.

"Oh, fuck," I gasp into the kiss, the squeeze to my ass going straight to my dick and it suddenly got really fucking real. There's something familiar about it all, enough that it almost scares me. I always like older guys, and it'd be easy to simplify it down to that, but the fact that it's Mike doesn't go unnoticed.

I am so fucked.

My hand's up the back of his shirt. Fuck, when did that happen?

Maybe it's Neil's voice that does it. Maybe it's just things coming to a head. But what he abruptly notices more than anything is the weight of the tags around his neck, cool metal against his chest, and the name he knows is on them, like he's marked as belonging to him.

And just like that... he can't. His body wants it, God, does it ever, every cell aching for more, but the rest of him... No. For the first time in his whole fucked up life, the answer is a clear, unequivocal no.

Jesus Christ.

"Neil," he gasps, and he's trying to push him away while still holding onto him, as gentle as he can be with how strongly he feels it. "I can't... stop, I can't."

I draw back with a gasp, reality literally crashing back down on my head, and I'm left blinking up at him like an idiot, mussed and swollen-lipped and my hand still shoved up the back of his shirt. Great.

After the moment of confusion, there's a quick flash of anger -- You started it, you fucking asshole. You started it! -- but it's there and gone before I can even get any words out.

"Fuck," I hiss, pulling away from him and scrubbing my hands over my face. Hiding behind them. Fuck. That doesn't even begin to cover it.

"No, wait--" Christ, can't do anything without putting his foot in it. He reaches out again, somewhere between trying to pull him back in and just touch him, make it clear that the problem hadn't been with him.

"It's... fuck, look, it's my fault. It's not you." He's about a foot away from laughing, because sometimes that's all there is to do. If this is another thing ruined he might just go into the fucking jungle and come back in a year or so.

"I promised him." He pulls the tags out of his shirt and holds them up on his thumb, like they explain something. "I promised him and I have to keep it."

Hands dropping away, I look at him, being careful to wipe everything from my face before he can see it. I reach out, lifting the tags, thumb brushing over the engraving. It's sweet... it's more than that, and I'm an asshole. I like Hobbes, and... oh, fuck, Eostre. Oh, fuck, suddenly I feel sorta sick.

The tags slip from my fingers, and I shift away, breathing out a sigh and looking just 'bout anywhere but him. "I should go."

Fuck. "Don't," he says, sounding pleading and actually not hating himself for it. "Look, you just... just leave like this and that's one more thing that's fucked, and I really, really don't think I can take that right now, okay?" His teeth are set, every muscle is set, and he's wishing to God that his life had a rewind button.

"This isn't your fault. I swear to God, it isn't." The God he's not even sure he believes in, as of the last time they'd talked.