forthedog | Let's not try to figure out everything at once...

Entry tags:

hutchinson au,
neil

Let's not try to figure out everything at once...

It's better. For the first time, it's better and he's sure it's not just wishful thinking, or adjusting to a situation that's just as shitty as it was before.

He's still not good. The morning he and Neil had spent in bed and curled around each other, he hadn't dreamed, but that night he had, and badly. And the night after. Neil touches him, and he still flinches instinctively away most of the time. The thought of going outside for anything--even the smallest task--feels like an exhausting ordeal. At times even getting up to bathe or eat is difficult.

But a few days later, and he's sure it's still better. As he makes his way up the stairs to he apartment, he's sure he feels less tired. Less battered inside.

Again, he's coming back from therapy, but he's feeling cautiously hopeful in addition to sore and tired. Donna had seemed entirely unsurprised when he had broached the subject--sidling around to it with an awkwardness that made him cringe and yet that he couldn't really stop--nodding and moving over to a desk and scribbling a name and a number down on a scrap of paper.

"There," she had said, tossing her long blond ponytail back over her shoulder and handing the paper to him. "Call that number. They'll take good care of you. Promise."

And he had thought that might actually be all she said about it, but as she pointed him back to the mat and his stretches, she had smiled, and it had been faint and warm. "I'm glad you said something," she said quietly. "'Cause I was about to."

Under the embarrassment, he was--and is--grateful. Because people care. They care without prying, without making themselves a nuisance.

Unless they have to. He thinks of Johnny and doesn't quite smile.

He turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open. Maybe it's better, but he's still tired and everything still hurts, and all he wants to do is curl up on the couch and doze.

Once it would have been with a drink. But now part of him--a louder part--is wondering if that might be the best idea.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And just like that, it's about more than just sex, if it was ever really about sex to begin with. Five fucking minutes doesn't seem like long enough, not for what I want to do, all because of three fucking words.

My breath stutters, a physical ache tightening behind my breastbone, and I rest both hands on his hips, pulling him in close.

"I love you, too," I breathe, and it's fuckin' embarrassing, how I come undone like this, just over a few fuckin' words.

Hearing it back isn't like saying it. It takes him a second or two to find his voice, a second or two to do anything but stand there and let it wash over him. The fact that he can have this. That it's not a lie. That it's not out of reach at all. It's right here.

It's been right here.

"Good," he murmurs finally, managing a weak smile. "So I don't look like a total asshole."

"Yeah, I just had to look like an asshole all those weeks before you said it back," I tease, hooking a hand behind his neck and pulling him down closer.

"I thought we were in a hurry," I point out, not feeling a whole lot like I wanna rush this.

"We are." He lets himself be pulled, places a hand on Neil's chest and pushes him swiftly back and down, lips grazing his jaw.

Later, maybe, they can take their time about this. Assuming he still feels this bold.

"Need you to... slide back," he mutters, feeling a brief surge of embarrassment. "I can't get on my knees that easy like this."

I do what he asks without complaint, sliding back toward the pillows, still propped up on my elbows so I can watch him.

"How's this?" I ask, smirking, one knee bent, foot on the mattress and my dick hard and curving up impatiently.

"Fine." The embarrassment dies mostly away again and he smiles faintly, crawls a little gingerly onto the bed, half sliding. His hand finds Neil's thigh and then he's crawling on his belly, up between Neil's legs, and all at once he's comfortable enough that he hates the idea that he'll have to rush.

He lowers his head, presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Neil's thigh. "'S perfect," he breathes, fingertips grazing the underside of Neil's dick.

Grinning crookedly, I reach out to push a hand through his hair, breathing out a shuddering sigh and rolling my hips up into those painfully light touches.

"Don't be a fuckin' tease," I gasp, blood thrumming under my skin, and it's not until he's got his lips pressed to my thigh that I realize he hasn't let me watch him do this since before the accident. That sex has been a quick, fumbling thing, or he's made me have my eyes covered, and now I want more than anything to be able to take our time, knowing that he won't let me watch like this forever. That it's special, and I'll be lucky if it happens again.

Fuck.

"Yeah, don't have time to tease," he agrees, wrapping his fingers around the base of Neil's cock and closing his lips around the head in a single, relatively smooth motion, sliding down quick and hard. Like always it's a blast to his senses, taste and texture and heat and scent, blood thrumming under his fingers and on his tongue and a sense of control that's even more welcome now than it used to be.

But he can also close his eye now, not look at Neil looking at him. Letting Neil watch like this feels like a hill he's crested and is speeding down the other side of. Meeting that gaze is just too much.

But now, as he bobs his head and moans in the base of his throat, letting the salty-sweet taste of precome slide over his tongue, he thinks maybe it won't always be like that.

"God, yeah... Okay," I murmur, my hips rolling gently up into all that heat, and I keep my eyes open. I can't fucking look away.

"Mike... Jesus." It's good. Fucking amazing, even though I know I've probably gotten better blowjobs. That doesn't seem to matter. I let out a sob of a moan, fingers tight in his hair, and let my head drop back against the mattress. Just letting myself feel, for now.

And it's building, rushing in so fucking quick, and I want it, I want to come, but I also want this to last for fucking ever. But that's too fuckin' much to ask, 'cause there's a loud, impatient buzz from the front room.

"Fuck," I groan, letting out a frustrated whine.

He almost laughs, the head of Neil's cock nudging the back of his throat. It's so perfect--it would happen like this, this frantic edge at the very last end of it, and maybe part of him even enjoys it.

He's always worked well under pressure.

He pulls back, shoots Neil a grin that's totally unabashed, completely unashamed. "You're getting it," he says, and then ducks his head at a slightly elevated angle and swallows Neil down, working him deep, finding that point of relaxation that seems to extend up into all the muscles of his face as Neil's cock pushes down into his throat.

He figures, if Neil's getting the food and paying the guy, that this is a fair enough trade.

"Fuck," I laugh, falling back helplessly, my hips rolling up into the heat of his mouth like they've got a mind of their own, and even if I wanted to stop, I dunno if I could.

The guy at the door is just gonna have to fuckin' wait. "Fuck... Oh God, Mike, you... fucking... asshole," I gasp, laughing breathlessly when the intercom buzzes again, but it doesn't matter, 'cause I'm coming with a strangled shout, the feel of it edges toward pain as much as pleasure.

"God, fuck you," I pant, still laughing, and push him away, stumbling onto wobbly legs and scrambling to grab a pair of sweats.

He's wiping come away from the corner of his mouth and gasping out laughter as he rolls away, watching Neil scramble, and it's all... it's fine. It's just fine. It shouldn't even feel this good, for what they've done.

And yet, maybe this is exactly as good as it should feel.

He sucks come off his fingertip as his gaze follows Neil toward the door. It went too fast.

All the better to prep him for a repeat.

"Fuck you, too," he murmurs. His prosthesis is bent under him and he's not even aware of it right now.

I'm shirtless and rumpled and still damp by the time I buzz the guy up, grabbing money from my wallet by the door and waiting with the door open for him to come up the stairs.

I shove a wad of bills in his hand, probably over tip, grab the back and kick the door shut in his face. Moments later, I'm back in the bedroom, pulling out a wad of plastic silverware and cheap wooden chopsticks and dumping them on the mattress.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I reach in and pull out the little bag of egg rolls and then pass the rest of the food over to him.

"Fuck," he mutters when the smell hits his nose, because he hadn't realized how hungry he is and now it's all he can do to not tear into the bag like a starving dog. He rolls up to sit with his good leg folded under him, prosthesis stretched out, pulling out a container of fried rice and a plastic fork.

Days from now they're going to be picking rice out of the sheets, and he doesn't give a fuck.

"He probably fucking knew," he says around a mouthful of rice, cocking his eye up at Neil, amused. "Just looking at you." Flushed like that, hair still damp, a total imbecile could put two and two together.

"Like I give a shit," I laugh, leaning over to reach into the bag and rummage out a little packet of duck sauce.

"Probably thought I had a girl back here," I say, grinning and then tearing off half an egg roll in one bite.

"I know you don't," he says, the amusement fading slightly--not because anything's upsetting about the idea. Really, the opposite. Neil doesn't give a shit, well and truly doesn't care about all the things that Mike feels, on some level, that he also shouldn't care about.

Neil is free in a way that he isn't. Or at least, if that's not true, it sure as hell looks that way.

He looks back down at his rice, shaking something off. "We order from there enough, though, I think they're gonna figure it out."

"It's the fuckin' Chinese delivery guy. So what?" I shrug, grabbing my own fork and leaning in to steal some of the rice from his container.

I honestly don't know what he's talking about, but I can see when the smile drops off his face. People are finding out about us, or they will, and... I guess maybe I've always known he wasn't as okay with that as I am.

I've never really given a fuck what other people think.

"I guess it's just weird," he murmurs. All at once his appetite is fading, but--no. No. He's not going to be like this now, and when he takes another forkful of rice the stabbing motion of it is almost angry.

"Hiding shit is like a habit," he says shortly. He's not sure how else to say it. It's a habit, a bad one, and it takes a lot of breaking.

"You think I don't know about hiding shit?" I ask with a smirk, leaning forward and practically knocking the food to the floor so that I can press a kiss to the corner of his lips, and it's greasy and a little messy and too brief, but that's okay.

Finishing off the egg roll, I grab a container of general chicken from the bag.

"I know it's weird," I admit, pausing to swallow, "I mean, I still haven't really told my mom."

His breath catches at the kiss, just a moment but it's there, a confusing and weirdly exhilarating mix of clench and release. It shouldn't do that to him, something so casual as that kiss, and yet its casualness might be exactly why it does what it does.

"Yeah," he mutters, reaching out and stealing one of the egg rolls. "I mean..." He falls silent again, part of him not wanting to even broach this subject--part of him wanting to run screaming away from it. But that's not going to work anymore, and though he practically has to clench his teeth to get the words out, he presses on.

"How do you think she's gonna react?"

"Hell if I know," I shrug, taking another bite, maybe just so I have an excuse to go quiet for a minute.

"It's not... It's not about you. Or us. I mean, that's not why I haven't told her," I admit, staring down into my food like it's the most interesting fuckin' thing ever, "I... I don't want her to start askin' questions. About me. How we met, or whatever. I mean, I know it'd be easy to make shit up, I just... I dunno."

I'm not used to telling her things. I dunno if I'd know where to start.

For a long moment he doesn't say anything. He just chews, though he stopped tasting the egg roll a few minutes ago. It's something for his body to do while his mind works through that, through what it means.

He'd never had to tell his own mother that he was queer--and by the time he'd been sure, his father had fucked off and died wrapped around a tree. He can't even imagine saying what Neil has to say.

"You don't really have to make shit up," he says finally, once he's swallowed and worked some moisture back into his mouth. "You could... I mean, you could just say we met at a bar. That's not lying. It's just not telling her all of it."

"Yeah, I know," I shrug, going quiet again, because I know all that, but actually getting on the phone and talking to her... It feels like this huge deal. Bigger than maybe it really needs to be.

"Does Donna know? About me?" I ask curiously, 'cause it's not like she's really a friend or anything, but I know part of her job is to ask him questions about how things are going at home, so I just kind of... wonder.

He goes quiet again for a moment or two, thinking. Does she? He'd thought the answer would come immediately, the way everything that he knows without having to consider it does, but now that he does consider it...

"I'm not sure," he says slowly. "It's not like... I mean, it's not like I've been hiding it or anything." Not on purpose. "But I don't know if I actually ever said anything about you. I think she knows I live with someone."

Questions about his body, his diet, his activity level and his sleeping patterns--and how much he fucking hates every second with her--these are all regular topics of conversation where Donna is concerned. But other things... Yes, but not in detail.

He's not sure how to even talk about those things with someone he hasn't already let in beyond that point. He's not sure what the words are, what vocabulary is involved.

I shrug, 'cause it's not really that big a deal. It's not like we've sent out fuckin' announcements or whatever. He hardly goes out of the house, and when he does, I'm not usually with him. We don't go and do things, we don't go out to bars or to restaurants or the movies or out with friends or on vacations, or any of the other things that I think maybe most couples do.

"Whatever," I say, sucking grease from the pad of my thumb and getting to my feet, "You want a drink?"

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