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.

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"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."

I laugh, and it's an easy, fuckin' happy exhalation of breath, grinning stupidly and arching back against him.

It's a happiness that probably won't last, but even if it's only for these few moments, I feel like that'll tide me over for a while. But now that he's said it, it's like he can't stop. Like he's testing the word out, over and over, to see how it feels on his tongue, and I don't think I was really prepared for how good it was going to feel, just to hear it.

In balls-deep and back again, easy movements that take almost no effort, and what he hadn't been ready for at all is how... relaxing this is. How it's soothing out the rougher edges from before and wrapping him in warmth. He slides his hand up to the inside of Neil's knee, spreading him wider.

He doesn't even feel like he's in control anymore. Not really. If he ever did. What's happening... it feels more like a return to balance.

"God," I breathe, rumbling out a low laugh and leaning back against his chest. Twisting around so that I can see him over my shoulder, I lift a hand to hook around the back of his neck, my lips smudging against the corner of his mouth.

It's not rough or hurried. There's nothing frantic about it. I'm not even thinking about coming, just yet, and it's fuckin' perfect.

"Yeah," he murmurs, and almost chuckles again--more of a full-body shudder as he moves just a little faster. Just a little... easy. Too much and it'll be over much too soon. Pleasure rolls over him again, sparking and tingling under twisted skin, and something warm follows in its wake that feels a lot like wonder.

When everything else is said and done, he's alive. Not just surviving.

His hand releases Neil's leg and slides down over his hip, over the hard, silky jut of Neil's cock to cradle his balls. "And you're not gonna fucking... stop wanting this?"

"Why the fuck would I stop wanting this?" I ask, genuinely confused, because I can't imagine ever wanting to stop. I can't imagine wanting this from anyone but him.

We never really talked about it, not in so many words, but we managed to stumble into a relationship, and a monogamous one, and the funny thing is, I think I've been okay with that from the start.

I don't want to ever stop this, but more importantly, I don't wanna ever be without him.

"I dunno." He presses his forehead against the back of Neil's neck, keeps on moving, tries not to think. He doesn't even really know what he means, only that it's one of the fears that's been at the back of everything: that even if Neil is sincere, even if things are good for a while... it'll all fall apart again. Neil will find someone else. Something better. Move on.

The idea doesn't make him angry. When he manages to think about it, he wonders if it should.

He closes his hand around Neil's dick, another hot surge at the way it fits into his palm. "So fucking good," he breathes. "Good shit hardly ever lasts."

Promises never get kept, but I want to make them. I wanna tell him that this'll last. That neither of us are going anywhere, ever. I want to promise forever, and it's scary and it's amazing and it's too fucking much.

I let out a sobbing moan, and maybe he'll think it's 'cause he just put his hand around my dick, but he'd be wrong.

"Shut up," I whisper instead, and there's an edge of desperation in my voice. Of pleading. Don't talk about that. Don't.

It seems like good advice. So he follows it. He shuts up and lets the sheer wave of sensation buoy him away from all the complications of talking and thinking about shit over which he has no control at all. He opens his mouth against Neil's skin and moans, giving Neil's dick one long stroke and then another. Every time he moves now, it feels like a step onward and upward, though he still isn't even moving that quickly. It's building. Burning. One or the other.

I love you. He doesn't say it. He lets it press against the back of his throat. Those words have density, weight.

If only they don't have too much of it.

I let it swallow me up, let myself sink down into it, and it comes on slow and steady and I'm almost positive that it's different than anything else I've ever felt. Which is crazy, maybe, but I'm not used to taking my time with this. Even with him, it always ends up feeling like we're in a rush. Like we don't quite trust we'll have time for anything more.

"Mike," I say with a choked sob, clinging to him wherever I can reach, my other hand grasping at the sheets tangled under us.

It feels like time's contracting.

The last time he remembers feeling like this, feeling even close to it, was the last time they were together before he went off to get on the plane that would take him to the field where everything changed. He doesn't remember what hotel, what night, what the weather was like or what they ate and drank, what they said to each other. He remembers how it felt, how just for a moment he felt like he could put his hands against the oncoming future and hold it in place.

He can't, of course. He knows that. But he almost believes it again anyway.

"Shh," he breathes, lips against the corner of Neil's mouth and his hand moving faster, though he doesn't really want him to be quiet. Why the fuck would he? Why wouldn't he want to hear more of this? Except it hurts a little. "Oh, God..."

Huffing out a breathless laugh, I move my hand to cover his where it's wrapped around my dick, grinning against his lips and murmuring, "You really want me to shut up?"

I push back against him, a little harder than before, a sharper moan breaking out from my throat.

"No," he gasps, his voice almost breaking on the word. Moving like this, he can leverage his weight easily enough that he can forget he's only using one leg. And moving like this, he could probably forget everything else. Everything else is certainly fading into the background, replaced with something bright and hot gathering in his spine.

It's going to be big. He can already tell.

"Don't shut up." It comes out in a rough, breathless mutter. "Don't, don't you--oh, fuck."

"Not gonna get tired of this," I whisper, gasping and swallowing down another desperate wail of a moan. "There's nobody... Oh fuck, never wanted anybody like this."

I don't know how I managed it, all those months without him. How much time I spent thinking about him, even at the beginning when we were hardly more than strangers. And I guess it's stupid to think that was every anything more than lust, but now, looking back, it felt different. I'd wanted plenty of guys, but he was always different.

My lips smudging against his, the kiss clumsy and off-center, I know that I'm still talking. Whispered endearments and broken thoughts, and I guess I'd be embarrassed by it all if I weren't so far gone. Against his lips, I murmur, "You're mine," like I'm telling him, like I've just figured it out myself, like I'm making some kind of fucking claim on him now, as if he weren't already completely fuckin' aware.

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