forthedog | But I could see for miles, miles, miles

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

But I could see for miles, miles, miles

In the end the anger is directed--finally and completely and as it always should have been—inward.

He knows what he’s hearing before he’s even really conscious of it. He lies in his bed in the dark, that fucking wall so near his head, and it’s very faint but he can hear it and he knows its source. He knows those sounds.

It’s a distant memory now, but he knows what Neil sounds like when he comes.

He lies there in the dark and he feels fury roiling through him and transmuting into misery so deep it literally shakes him, wrenches at his muscles, and through it all he’s achingly, shamefully hard. He fists his hands in the sheets. Doesn’t drop them below his waist, where he wants them, because it would mean a few seconds of relief and he can’t allow himself that. This is torture, and it’s his torture, and he thinks that it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

But all at once he thinks of Sam, all that weight on his shoulders, the way he doesn’t seem to want to let it go, and Neil’s hollow eyes. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start.

And somewhere in that darkness something breaks open.

The next couple of days are a blur.

He isn’t drinking—at least, not much. But he also isn’t really home. Somewhere in there, he remembers staggering back and sleeping for a few fractured hours before he leaves again. He doesn’t want to see Neil. He’s not ready. Later he remembers the park at sunset, approaching the burn scar of the World Tree at last, making a long, slow circuit around still-charred ground. The ashes have been blown and washed away. He can still see that spike of green in the midst of all the death, small and defiant. He goes no closer. It’s enough to know that it’s still there, but it’s not his. It doesn’t need him.

This is about need. This is about needing.

It feels like time is twisting in on itself. It feels like some giant hand has hit rewind and he’s being swept along with the blur as everything loops backward. And at the same time he knows he has a choice. That he chose this. That there was never an excuse, that all of this has been his choice: Death and pain and evil, and once he chose something else, and now he can make that choice again.

So he stands at Neil’s door and knocks, and it’s firm but it’s not pounding. The terror feels burned out of him. So does the rage. What’s left is desire so intense it makes his hands shake. The desire is what’s done the burning.

When fighting and running are off the table, you give up. You surrender. You lay down your arms.

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Snorting out another laugh, my legs hook around his waist, arms around his shoulders, letting him carry me unsteadily toward the bedroom, my face hidden in the curve of his throat.

"The fuck are you showin' off for, old man?" I tease, my teeth closing over his earlobe. We both know I don't think he's anywhere close to being old, but it's still fun to tease him for it.

"It's not bullshit," I murmur, and I might still be joking, but maybe I'm not. Being able to play and smile and have fucking fun with him... I'd forgotten how much I missed it.

"I got a lotta fucking time to make up for." He lets Neil slide out of his arms and onto the bed and immediately he's dragging Neil's shirt off over his head, hands coasting back down his sides. But he pulls back to look, then--really look, because again this is an echo of darkness, and he wants to take time to soak in the light.

He scratches his fingers lightly up Neil's chest and throat, stops at his chin, tilting his face up. "And apparently I got some competition to show up."

And he's relieved to discover that he's mostly kidding. Mostly.

"Fuck off," I laugh, sitting up to try and get the rest of his clothes off of him, wanting to get him naked more than pretty much anything I've wanted in a really long time.

"It's not a fuckin' competition."

"No, it's not." Getting his shoes and pants off is a fumbling mess, hands everywhere and actually losing track of whose is whose at the same time as he's arching forward against Neil's hands and losing his mind a little bit more and at the end of it he's kicking the last of it away, crawling forward and shoving Neil back onto the mattress, biting gently at a nipple as he strips Neil out of what's left of his own clothes.

How exactly can he still use his hands at all? He's not even sure.

"'Cause I'm gonna fucking win."

"You think so?" I laugh, falling back onto the mattress with a gasp, my spine arching to bring us closer.

My hands are on him, wherever I can reach. Every inch of him is familiar, but the memories are distant and hazy and cliched as it is, this is a lot like coming home after years away. I've changed, and he as too, but so many of the little details are still the same.

Everything in him slows to a crawl, knees pushing Neil's legs apart and his hips already canting instinctively forward. It slows because when he lines them up just right and rolls his body in a kind of wave he can't breathe for a few seconds, and when he does again he's gasping.

"I think it doesn't fucking matter." And then it's just kissing for a length of time he doesn't bother keeping track of, rocking them both in a slow, grinding rhythm that runs his breath ragged, and for that time he somehow isn't even thinking about coming.

We kiss, rocking against each other, until I start to feel kind of lightheaded... Or maybe I've felt that way since he walked through the door. I've got my legs wrapped around him, my heel digging into his hip, dragging him in closer, and I'm already getting hard again with his cock sliding alongside mine.

I pull away from him with a gasp, a hoarse moan punching its way out of my chest, pupils blown wide when I blink open my eyes to look at him.

"So, what happened to taking it slow?" I ask, grinning crookedly, words broken up by stuttering pants of breath.

"Shit," he breathes, and it's meeting Neil's eyes that does it, rockets him up far too close to the edge, and he pulls back with his teeth clenched and all his extremities tingling like he's just touched a live wire.

Not yet. It's been so fucking long but not fucking yet.

"You really wanna... take it slow right now?" He rolls up to his knees, one hand closing around his own dick, jaw working as he tries to keep himself under a weak approximation of control. "I love you. Turn the fuck over."

"No," I breathe, my eyes on his, stubborn and forcing myself through the pain of it, of sticking my goddamn hand into that fire, even though I know better.

I roll over, but looking at him over my shoulder, I admit, "But I did kind of want to see your face."

He's laughing quietly as he holds Neil's hips and pulls him up and back, teeth against the base of his spine and then lower, raking over the curve of Neil's ass.

"I know. Trust me."

His hands close over skin and muscle, spreading, leaning in and coasting a long, wet lick up the crack of Neil's ass, practically from balls to tailbone. He always used to love doing this, he remembers that. To Neil and to Tom, and oh, the way it made Tom fucking blush. So it hurts a little, thinking of that. But just enough.

"Okay, this is good, too," I say along with a stream of breathless laughter, propped up on my elbows with my forehead hanging low against the mattress.

I'm honestly not sure how long it's been since I came down his throat, but it still feel a little raw, too warm and already aching, my hands scrambling uselessly in the sheets.

He's lost track of how he got from A to B, from point to point. This seems like it doesn't even fucking fit. He doesn't get to be this lucky more than once. But he doesn't feel like arguing with it. What he does feel like is spreading Neil wider, pressing in with one finger and circling it with his mouth, tonguing Neil gently open.

This could be rough, could even be a little angry--maybe someday there'll be room for that, maybe even soon, but for now he's into coaxing, slow, careful.

But deep. Very, very deep.

"Fuck," I gasp, arching back against him, my eyes open but unfocused, catching the movement of him just in my periphery, shadows and fragments that aren't quite enough.

Whatever got him here -- jealousy or frustration or impatience or a combination of the three, I don't care. He's here now, and all I want is to move forward.

He adds a second finger, still moving slow, but Neil always did open easy to him and this is all of the past rising up, grabbing him, dragging him back down again.

And he's done fighting it.

"Said you wanted to see my face," he breathes, pulling his fingers free, digging them into Neil's back and turning him again, a little rougher now. A little desperate again. "So fucking look at me."

"Okay," I murmur stupidly, my mouth hanging open a little, feeling a faint touch of vertigo, and I can't tell if it's 'cause of how he turned me over, or if it's something else.

My legs are up around his hips again, impatient and insistent, but I doubt he minds it if I leave him no room to back out.

He's worried, suddenly, that he's still moving too fast, that it's not slick enough as he spits into his hand, that he should have thought to grab something, bring something, that if the door is opened to this hurting again--to this being about hurting--he won't be able to close it. And he won't like what comes through.

But then he's rolling his hips forward, past and through hot tightness that flashes stars across his vision, and he isn't worrying about anything.

"God," he rasps through clenched teeth, sounding almost as broken as he feels--sliding one hand under Neil's back and pulling him up and closer. Not close enough. He's fucking inside Neil and he doesn't think it's ever really going to be close enough.

It hurts like a bitch, just like I knew it would, but that's so secondary to the rest of what I'm feeling, it hardly seems to matter. I let out a sharp, broken cry and the breath leaves my lungs in a shuddering sob, my arms wrapping tighter around him, eyes screwing shut before I can stop them.

"Fuck," I sob, fisting a hand in his hair and dragging him down for a desperately clumsy kiss.

I was expecting time to no longer matter. Like suddenly a whole year would be erased and we'd be back where we left off. That's not how it is. I feel further away from that life, the life the three of us had, then I ever have. But maybe that's not as scary as it should be. It's too fucking late to pick up the pieces of that life, anyway. All we can do now is make ourselves a new one.

He thinks about breathing, about what it might mean that this kiss is all that's filling his lungs in the end, and suddenly he's sure: I was sent here for this.

I came back for this.

He lets out another ragged sound, moving slow to the extent that he's moving at all, mouth dragging loose over Neil's lips and cheeks and jaw. That dark thing in him is still hungry, but this can feed it too.

"Fucking... look at me," he gasps again, one hand hooked against Neil's shoulder and digging in. I'm not him. I can't be him. This is all I've got. You can have it all, go on, take everything.

My eyes blink open, the world swimming into focus, and even in the dim lamplight from the bedside table, everything seems bright until my eyes adjust. I've got my hand on his face, and there's only ever been one other that I've loved as much as this one.

In the back of my mind, there's still a little hope that he'll find his way to us, too. That we're all meant to be together, but maybe this place isn't for all three of us. Maybe here, it'll just be me and Mike for a while, and all I can do is hope it'll be enough.

"'m lookin'," I murmur, my eyebrows drawing down, curious and studying him like I haven't been able to in ages.

It almost hurts again, that scrutiny. He's naked but under it he feels skinned, nothing hidden. Neil has seen a glimpse of him at his worst and he's still been allowed back here. There's a kind of ruthlessness in being loved like this.

Something ruthless was maybe all he was ever going to respond to.

"Love you," he breathes, rolling his hips into a slow rhythm--slow but not lazy. He's still trembling a little. "Can't fucking help it."

"Don't worry 'bout it. I'm okay with it," I say, managing to tease him a little, a faint smile twitching at my lips and my fingers slipping through his hair.

"We can't fucking stop this, even if we tried." We're doomed, and maybe that makes this a tragedy. Luckily, I don't give a damn.

"Don't wanna try." He's moving a little faster, trembling twisting itself into actual shaking, braced with one arm as the other sides up between Neil's shoulders. He was on the edge of coming before and this isn't going to last long, not with how long he's been fucking wanting this--feels like years.

A year.

"Tell me you want this," he pants, tipping their foreheads together, teeth gritted. "Need to fucking... hear it."

"I fuckin' want this," I gasp, struggling to keep my eyes open, because everything feels like a bit too much for me to handle. "I dunno how you fuckin' missed it."

I never stopped. I never made much of an effort to hide it. Whatever the fuck this world or the next manages to throw at us, I'll keep wanting him. Because I'm an idiot, most likely.

"Didn't miss anything." The sounds pushing out of him are more than pants now, closer to moans; he's trying to hold back and make it last but it's looking like a miserable failure, Neil's ass hot and tight around his dick and fucking dragging him toward the edge, and all he can hope for is that this isn't anything like the last time.

"You need to keep telling me." He thrusts in hard, deep, and muffles a sob against Neil's cheek. "Oh, Jesus."

"I want this," I whisper again, pulling him as close as I can, my teeth scraping the curve of his throat.

"I love you. Mike, God. I fucking need you, you dumb fuck."

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