forthedog | (no subject)

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neil

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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.

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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.

"Shut up," I say with a rough cough of laughter, shaking my head and managing a wavering smile, "Just shut up. Nothing's fucked." Maybe I say it just so I'll believe it, but already I feel a rush of relief. He sounds genuinely worried -- almost scared, and maybe it's stupid but I'm surprised.

"God doesn't give a fuck, remember?"

"Right," he says, and he almost laughs again, raking a hand back through his hair. Nothing's fucked? That's a load of bullshit if he ever heard it, but if just this isn't, then he thinks maybe that could be a start.

"Look, I... I wanted that. I started it, I wanted it, I think I wanted to take it all the way, but we're both so fucked up right now. Even if Hobbes had nothing to do with it, it just..." He shakes his head, and his hand finds Neil's arm again. "It doesn't feel right."

"Oh my God, Mike, shut the fuck up," I say, giving him a look that's right on the edge of outright horror, "Don't fucking tell me that, Jesus Christ."

So finally he does laugh, in spite of himself, because there's something so absurd about the look on Neil's face compared to where they were about five minutes ago. Everything feels like it's nosediving into the surreal.

"So what's your problem?" he asks, still laughing. "You gonna tell me you had your hand up the back of my shirt for no reason? Were you looking for something?"

Edited 2008-06-02 15:30 (UTC)

"What's my problem? Screw Hobbes, Eostre'd fucking skin me alive, that's what," I say, shoving hard at his shoulder, somewhere between angry and hysterical laughter. What the fucking fuck?

"So I won't tell her," he says, the laughter finally starting to die. He hadn't actually thought about that side of it... but yeah, that might be a little fucking awkward. "You think she'd be pleased with me? 'S not just your skin I'm worried about here."

"Right, look after your own ass," I mutter, shoving at him again, almost teasing. Almost.

"You don't want things to be weird, don't fucking give me that if things were different bullshit, okay? Just... don't."

Edited 2008-06-02 16:00 (UTC)

But it's not bullshit, he thinks, but he doesn't say it. Because Neil's right. This thing has happened and it's here, in whatever capacity, but it's probably a lot better all around if it gets ignored. Things aren't different. They are what they are.

He nods. "Okay. I don't want them to be weird." He smiles crookedly. "They're fucking weird enough already."

"Yeah, no shit," snort, rolling my eyes and then scrubbing at them with the heels of my hands, "Jesus... Goddammit, you are such a fucking asshole." I'm trying to hold back a burst of laughter, shoulders shaking with it, letting out a frustrated groan and dropping my hands away.

I'm not mad at him. It's not all his fault, and I'd be an asshole to blame him. It's actually a hell of a lot more like normal to think of him as a bastard. Resets the balance of the universe and all.

"So I've been told," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose like his head is hurting. Though, really, something somewhere has changed, and he feels... not better. Still pretty awful. But at least he knows something for sure now.

Maybe it's just the circumstances, and maybe it's just that it's Neil. But maybe not. Maybe this is... well, fuck, a sign. He drops his hand and grins weakly.

"So maybe you could've picked a better day to say hey to the neighbors, yeah?"

"Think I should put up that privacy fence after all?" I say, lips crooking in a faint smile. There's something... an ache, almost like disappointment settling in my chest, but I ignore it. Might've been for the best, but that doesn't make it any less like rejection. A hell of a lot of bad timing and bad decisions.

That's my whole fucking life, lately.

"Only if I can throw my trash over it." He returns the smile, and he can sense the darker shade in it, and he feels bad about it. But what the fuck else is there to do? There's just too much wrong here, and even if they both manage to get past this okay, he's still added to it.

"Seriously, though, uh... I am glad you came by." His smile tightens just a bit. "Helps to be reminded I'm not the only fucker in the world."

"I end up with fuckin'... boar carcasses in my back yard, I'm gonna be really fuckin' pissed," I smirk. I turn back to the fire, quiet for a long time. Just thinking. Or maybe, not thinking at all.

"You should talk to him... Even if you don't know what to say."

"I know," he says, rubbing his eyes again. Maybe it's the smoke making them sting now and then like this. "Fuck, I know. And at some point people are gonna have to know about me and him, too. I just..." The corner of his mouth quirks, wry. "I'm not in a hurry."