Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
"God, hurry the fuck up."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"Just fuckin' do it. I don't need much." If it hurts, just a little bit, that's fine by me.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"Jesus, Mike... I love you." It still feels strange, saying it out loud, no hesitation, after months of keeping quiet about it.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
He smiles. His eye is closed; he doesn't need to see any of this.
no subject
"'Bout fuckin' time you believed me."
no subject
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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"Mike," I say with a choked sob, clinging to him wherever I can reach, my other hand grasping at the sheets tangled under us.
no subject
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..."
no subject
I push back against him, a little harder than before, a sharper moan breaking out from my throat.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
(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)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)