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Entry tags:
- au,
- hutchinson,
- neil
And carve your name and hearts into the warhead
Somewhere between finding out the news and hitting the tarmac in Newark, he decides not to go to Neil immediately.
Some of it is fear, plain and simple, though he'd only come out and call it that under extreme duress. But it's not fear of Neil, not really. It's both more complex and more horrible than that. It's fear of disappointing him. Fear of what it might mean that he's afraid of that. Fear of commitment. Fear of not committing. Fear of being hurt. Fear of becoming someone who can't be hurt at all, because they don't feel anything.
At Newark he rents a car for a day and drives into Trenton; it's a sad little town in a lot of ways, that sign on the bridge somehow reproachful rather than proud--the world takes everything from us and leaves us with nothing--but something about it speaks to him all the same. It's not New York. It's not really like anywhere he's lived.
After about half an hour, it occurs to him that probably the closest it comes to is Hutchinson.
Shortly after that, leaning on the hood of the car and watching rain drip sullenly into the gray river, a cigarette burning down to a stub between his fingers, he comes to another decision. It doesn't take him very long. Really, he thinks maybe he's already made it, and the hard part was just realizing that it was made.
He picks up a local paper, finds three places that he can look at that afternoon, and jumps on the third one. It's small, old, clean. Is it all right if he pays for a few months in advance? He has to go overseas for a while and won't actually be living in it until he returns. Yes, it's fine. A modest and unspent inheritance and years and years of intensely minimal expenses mean that he has money. Really, he has more than he knows what to do with.
And now he knows.
He signs the application, agrees to come back in a day or two to sign the lease itself, hits the road. It's getting dark and raining harder. He takes a detour and stops in front of the gates of Fort Dix, looks at the lights in the early gathering twilight and thinks about what might have been. What won't be. What will.
It's late when he gets into the city itself, and though Neil's told him where the bar is he gets lost twice, the streets becoming oddly maze-like. Parking should be a nightmare but once he finds the place itself, there's a spot across the street, and he slides into it, dumping change into the meter without counting the time.
It's a hole in the wall, but it's got good atmosphere, dim and smoky, music too loud. The kind of place he likes, as a rule.
It's not too crowded but it's small, and people line the bar, and he only catches sight of Neil when he pushes his way to the front. For a moment he doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, and there's the fear again. Is he making a huge fucking mistake? Is he giving up too much for someone he still hardly fucking knows?
Is there a name for this? One he can use?
He catches Neil's eye, taps the bar and manages a thin smile. "Whiskey. Straight."
Some of it is fear, plain and simple, though he'd only come out and call it that under extreme duress. But it's not fear of Neil, not really. It's both more complex and more horrible than that. It's fear of disappointing him. Fear of what it might mean that he's afraid of that. Fear of commitment. Fear of not committing. Fear of being hurt. Fear of becoming someone who can't be hurt at all, because they don't feel anything.
At Newark he rents a car for a day and drives into Trenton; it's a sad little town in a lot of ways, that sign on the bridge somehow reproachful rather than proud--the world takes everything from us and leaves us with nothing--but something about it speaks to him all the same. It's not New York. It's not really like anywhere he's lived.
After about half an hour, it occurs to him that probably the closest it comes to is Hutchinson.
Shortly after that, leaning on the hood of the car and watching rain drip sullenly into the gray river, a cigarette burning down to a stub between his fingers, he comes to another decision. It doesn't take him very long. Really, he thinks maybe he's already made it, and the hard part was just realizing that it was made.
He picks up a local paper, finds three places that he can look at that afternoon, and jumps on the third one. It's small, old, clean. Is it all right if he pays for a few months in advance? He has to go overseas for a while and won't actually be living in it until he returns. Yes, it's fine. A modest and unspent inheritance and years and years of intensely minimal expenses mean that he has money. Really, he has more than he knows what to do with.
And now he knows.
He signs the application, agrees to come back in a day or two to sign the lease itself, hits the road. It's getting dark and raining harder. He takes a detour and stops in front of the gates of Fort Dix, looks at the lights in the early gathering twilight and thinks about what might have been. What won't be. What will.
It's late when he gets into the city itself, and though Neil's told him where the bar is he gets lost twice, the streets becoming oddly maze-like. Parking should be a nightmare but once he finds the place itself, there's a spot across the street, and he slides into it, dumping change into the meter without counting the time.
It's a hole in the wall, but it's got good atmosphere, dim and smoky, music too loud. The kind of place he likes, as a rule.
It's not too crowded but it's small, and people line the bar, and he only catches sight of Neil when he pushes his way to the front. For a moment he doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, and there's the fear again. Is he making a huge fucking mistake? Is he giving up too much for someone he still hardly fucking knows?
Is there a name for this? One he can use?
He catches Neil's eye, taps the bar and manages a thin smile. "Whiskey. Straight."
no subject
I can't remember the last time it felt like this, just looking at someone. I can't remember feeling this fuckin'... hypnotized by anyone, which is fuckin' stupid, but it's really the only way I can describe it.
"Jesus," I gasp when I pull away from his dick, sitting back on my haunches and reaching for the condom.
no subject
Though there's a little spark of something else under it. One corner of his mouth crooks upward as he closes a hand around his dick, slick with spit.
"C'mon," he murmurs, one leg still up, spreading himself. "Or I might get bored or something."
no subject
"Don't," I say, batting his hand away from his cock. "Put your hands above your head," I tell him, only half expecting to do as he's told, especially since there's not a whole lot of incentive. I'm already shifting between his legs, pressing the head of my dick against him, spreading the smear of lotion on his skin and then pressing forward just enough to feel his body start to give.
no subject
"Make me."
no subject
"You be nice to me, you know I'll make it good."
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His whole body feels like a hungry mouth. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Guess I do."
no subject
"Christ," I breathe, my hand sliding up his chest, splayed out right over his breastbone, higher to trail across his collar bones, my fingers closing gently around his throat.
no subject
He lets out a shuddering breath, trying once again to relax into it, and Neil's hand on his throat--where something like that would normally be cause for annoyance or alarm--is weirdly comforting, rising and falling with the rise and fall of his breathing.
no subject
I'm so fucked.
Moving slow at first 'cause it feels like I should, I loom over him, one arm hooked under his knee to keep it pressed up toward his chest, and I surge forward to catch him in a kiss, maybe just to keep from having to look at him.
no subject
He wants this. He lets Neil fold him in half and disobeys then, because he can't not, reaching up and hooking an arm around the back of Neil's neck and pulling them even closer together, teeth against Neil's swollen lips and the taste of his own sweat on his tongue.
no subject
That sound... It does things to me I can't explain. I can't put into words. I kinda wish I could. Wish I was smarter, wish I was better at this shit, just so I'd know what to call this.
I don't have enough fucking hands. All the places I want to touch him... I can't manage it, but holding him open seems more important, keeping his head tilted just so, sucking on his tongue, the kiss sliding off center, smearing wet and messy along the line of his jaw, murmuring his name against his skin.
no subject
"Please," he breathes, little snatches of friction against his cock, brief sweet instants of it, but not enough. And he won't touch himself. He knows better than to even try.
But even that might not be what he's asking for.
no subject
I thrust in harder, closing my mouth over his, the cheap fucking bedframe in this ratty little motel room creaking under the strain, which would be funny at any other time, but right now, I'm a little too fuckin' distracted to care.
no subject
But there's no going back now. And after another moment of it, he doesn't even remember wanting to stop. Neil's hand is sweet torture, his mouth the same, and he rocks up to meet each thrust, gasping things that might or might not be words.
And he's so far past feeling guilty now.
no subject
"Mike," I gasp into the kiss, my hand working over his cock, nearly frantic to drag it out of him, just so I don't have to be the one to come first.
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He might be trying to say something. He's really not sure, after.
no subject
"Ah, fuck," I gasp, my arm giving out, collapsing on top of him with a weak groan.
no subject
"So if I'm living here," he pants after a moment or two, "I'm gonna... expect a lot more of that. Just saying."
no subject
"'Cause I gotta fuckin' work, sometimes. I mean, I'm sure you can find Trenton boys to fuck your brains out if I'm busy."
no subject
No reason he shouldn't really... want to.
"Sometimes I gotta fucking sleep, too."
no subject