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

He doesn't really feel it, at least not at first. Sensation in that part of his leg has been strange and patchy, seeming to come and go according to some logic of its own that he hasn't yet worked out. He feels that the touch is there but the finer elements of its texture escape him. But that might be for the best, because what doesn't hurt his actual nerves is like a spike through his gut all the same, and he almost twists away, fear tearing at the edges of his brain.

And now he understands: some of it is about shame. But not all of it is, or ever was.

He's so afraid of being hurt again.

He pushes through it, closing his eye, his head tilted slightly back as he leans up on his arms, and he keeps the stump of his thigh still.

He's afraid of being hurt again, yes. But this is Neil. And he has to learn to trust.

Rolling the liner off, I let my fingertips brush over his scars, the place where the doctors sewed up all that ruined flesh over the broken stub of bone, and it's horrifying, if you think about the details, the pain of it and the sense of loss he must've felt... must still be feeling, but there's nothing disgusting about it. I don't feel revolted, or even slightly turned off by it.

But I can tell he's barely keeping it together, so I pull my hand away, stretching out beside him again and reaching for his face. "It's okay," I murmur, sliding in close to him, my lips just barely brushing against his.

"I know," he whispers, voice shaking slightly as he reaches out and curls an arm around Neil's waist, holding on and, for the moment, letting thoughts of sex escape his attention. He's scarred on the inside, he thinks, hurt there in a way that hasn't yet healed, and that's why he feels like this. And he's going to get better.

Neil's been hurt too. Maybe hurt worse. And he's all right.

Isn't he?

"It's not you." He shakes his head, mouth against the edge of Neil's jaw. "You know? It's not."

"I know," I whisper, pushing a hand through his hair, the other arm hooking around his shoulders, holding onto him tight.

"I know, Mike. It's okay," I murmur, my voice as thin and wavering as his. I can't fuckin' stand seein' him like this. I can't fuckin' stand not being able to do somethin' about it. I've never felt responsible for someone else, like this. I dunno what the fuck I'm supposed to do.

"Just--fucking stop," he hisses, suddenly angry--Neil is being so patient, too patient with him, too open and too giving and just now it's almost making him sick.

He just wants to fuck. Like a normal person. Like it's not even a big deal.

He finds a wellspring of energy, summons it up and twists, flipping Neil over onto his back despite the uneven balance of his lower body, hand hard against the back of Neil's neck and teeth against his ear. "I love you," he growls. "And I don't wanna fucking think about this anymore."

Just you.

"Then fucking don't," I hiss, angry right back at him, feeling a surge of anger and shame and confusion twisting sickly in my gut. As soon as I get a handle on one thing, everything about him changes. I can't fuckin' keep up.

"I don't know what the fuck you want, asshole," I say, shoving against him, and he's weak and off balance but hovering over me like this, with the added weight and height, he's always got the upper hand.

"I want you," he breathes, and this time he doesn't have to think about it or second-guess it or over-analyze anything. It's just true and it comes out of him like blood--or like a sigh or laughter. He arches his mouth up and then down again, twisted lips against Neil's perfect ones, still that little edge of teeth melting back into tongue again once he feels like being gentle.

His hand finds Neil's wrist, but he isn't really all that interested in holding onto that kind of control. Not now.

"I just want you," he murmurs, softer. "I'm sick of all that other bullshit getting in the fucking way."

"It's gonna keep getting in the fucking way if I can only touch you in certain places," I say, and I'm not berating him for it. It's just the truth. I want things to be better just as much as he does, but just willing it away hasn't seemed to work, yet.

"I'm walkin' on fuckin' egg shells with you, Mike," I admit, my lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. Whether he's done it on purpose or not, he's taken control of every single situation we've been in in these last few months. I push forward and I pull back all based on how he reacts, what he wants, and I'm fine with that, because that's what he needed, but it's apparently not what he wants. Or maybe it is. Who the fuck even knows.

"I know." He ducks his head briefly, gritting his teeth, fighting back that spike of rage when it threatens again. He could still break things if he slipped up. He could maybe break people, in a bad enough moment. He's still weaker than he was before all this shit happened, but he's stronger now. Getting more so.

Strange. He never thought he'd ever be dangerous again.

"I'm trying. I'm..." He lets out a sound, grating and desperate, tightening his hand on Neil's wrist. "Fucking touch me, then."

I let out a sound, and it's almost a laugh, but at the same time, it couldn't be further from one. I reach for him. A hand on his cheek. The scarred side, because that's what I can reach with my free hand. Because I'm not thinking. Because I'm trying to make a fucking point.

I pull him into a kiss, and it's all teeth and tongue, harsh and demanding in a way that I usually hold back from, because I'm always so fucking afraid of scaring him off.

This time he doesn't stiffen or pull away. This time Neil kisses him and he plunges into it, pressing down into his hand, lashing his tongue against Neil's, teeth clicking together so hard it almost hurts.

There's no middle ground--or if there is, he has no idea how to find it and hold position there. He's either running away or he's surging ahead, and right now the latter option feels like the better one, even if it's harder. He slides up against Neil's body, the stump of his leg moving instinctively as he looks for purchase against the sheets. It doesn't matter that it's useless.

Enough of him still works to get the job done.

A whine of a moan catches in the back of my throat and I roll my hips up against his, my legs falling open, knees drawing up to frame his hips.

And just for a moment, it's easy. It feels a little more like it used to, before we started overthinking every single step.

"Mike," I groan against his lips, a hand sliding down to splay out on the small of his back and drag him closer.

He growls again, something that's not words, that doesn't need to be, because it's only a vocalization of the instinct he's following in lieu of anything else. He manages to get enough one-legged purchase on the sheets to grind down hard with his hips, cock stiffening against the inside of Neil's thigh.

And he's not going to think about how, every time they do this now, it feels a little bit like Russian Roulette.

And how he doesn't even hate it.

"God." The word is muffled against Neil's throat, still half incoherent as he gropes between them with one hand. "Where's the fucking lube?"

"In the drawer," I groan, groping blindly toward it, but he'd got me pinned down, and I can't quite reach. "Fuck," I hiss, rocking up against him,

"God, hurry the fuck up."

He rolls away in a welcome flash of dexterity, reaching for the drawer and fumbling it open and finding the little tube more by touch than anything else. He turns back to Neil, half crawling on one arm, rolling closer as he uncaps the tube one-handed. It's cool as it spills onto his fingers, but he doesn't care. Doesn't really care if Neil cares.

"C'mere." He closes his other hand on Neil's hip, tugs roughly at him and tries not to think about other times when he'd been more at home in this body, when he could have easily arranged Neil into whatever position he fucking wanted. "On your side."

I go over willingly, eagerly, drawing one knee up, opening myself up as much as I can, knowing that this isn't a guaranteed thing. We need to take what we can, when we can, 'cause tomorrow, he might not be able to stand the thought of me looking at him, let alone touching him.

"Just fuckin' do it. I don't need much." If it hurts, just a little bit, that's fine by me.

"But I like it." He means it to be something sly, the sharper edge of playful, but instead in his own ears it sounds naked and honest. His slick fingers find the crack of Neil's ass, cock smearing precome against the back of his own hand as he circles and presses in. He does like this, something almost more intimate about fingers than cock, because this way he can feel everything... and it seems like every time they've done this, they've gone so fast.

And he doesn't think he wants it to always be that way. "Like touching you like this," he mutters, mouth against the back of Neil's neck as he pushes two fingers in up to the second knuckle, squeezed so hard that he feels his pulse in his fingertips. It's not just about what you need.

Letting out a stuttering breath, I murmur, "Yeah, me too." I like this, and I always forget to slow down for it, so fuckin' eager to get to the next part that I don't even remember how good it can be.

My eyes fall shut and I arch against him, his lips warm against the nape of my neck and his fingers surprisingly gentle. "I like you touchin' me," I admit, and even though it's nothing we both don't already know, it feels like a confession.

He lets out another sound, not quite a growl and jagged at the edges as he fucks Neil slowly with his fingers. It's a simple thing to say and Neil's said things like it before a hundred times. It shouldn't feel this much like a blow on the shoulders.

He presses his mouth again to the nape of Neil's neck, and this time it's more of a kiss, and slower, looser. "I believe you," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers bit by bit--and it doesn't feel like a lie.

He's not sure he even could lie, not about this.

"Oh God... Good," I murmur, 'cause I know it's not an easy thing for him. Thank kind of trust. It's taken weeks of me trying to convince him, and even that little admission feels like a huge fuckin' victory.

"Jesus, Mike... I love you." It still feels strange, saying it out loud, no hesitation, after months of keeping quiet about it.

"Believe that, too," he says, almost laughs, fumbling in the sheets for the tube again and spilling some more lube onto his fingers. What's changed? How does he believe it? He doesn't know. It's not something that he can explain, something that he's arrived at through rational thought and careful evaluation. It's just here, arrived all at once in his mind--because it's really been here the whole time.

Maybe later he won't be able to really believe it, that Neil wants to touch him, wants to be touched, wants to be with him. But now he does and it's something to hold onto.

He slicks himself, lines himself up one-handed, leaning up on his elbow, and rolls his hips forward in a motion as easy and smooth as anything. And just like that he's in, clutching at Neil's thigh with sticky fingers as he breaths out a rough moan.

"Love you... too." Just like that. Easy.

"'Bout fuckin' time," I grin, letting out a strangled moan when he presses in, and it's always fuckin' easy, even when we're moving too fucking fast. If I wanted to be a sappy fuck about it, I'd say we're a perfect fit, and most of the time, it feels like that's true.

Right now, I'm not in any hurry. We always manage to barrel through this, finish before we're even started, but maybe this time we can slow down long enough to fuckin' enjoy it.

"That's not fair," he breathes. "Told you before now." He's balls-deep and there he stills, one hand lifting Neil's thigh, spreading his legs, and he knows he's been deeper but he can't think of exactly when. He pulls in another breath and feels himself almost relaxing. On his side like this, it takes no balance and almost no work, and he can just let himself fall into it. The heat. The breathing, trembling form pressed against his chest. The taste of sweat on his tongue.

He smiles. His eye is closed; he doesn't need to see any of this.

"Not what I meant," I gasp, panting helplessly and relaxing around him, opening up until the fit is just fuckin' perfect. With him pressed up along my back, warm and solid, I almost don't want him to move. We could just stay like this, just me and him, and none of the shit from the outside could ever touch us.

"'Bout fuckin' time you believed me."

"I'm... working on it." He lifts his head and cranes his neck, kissing Neil's ear, the corner of his jaw, wherever he can reach, as he pulls back--slow, achingly slow--and rolls his hips forward again inch by inch. The sound that shoves its way out of him starts as a moan and bleeds into shaky laughter. Because it's so good.

Every time they do this now is sort of a miracle.

"Fuck." He grazes his teeth against Neil's jaw, eye still squeezed shut. "Love you. So much."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject