Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/765594.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty, Jim_Moriarty/Other(s)
  Character:
      Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran, Jack_Quartz_(in_name_only), non-canon
      characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Set_in_a_universe_that_doesn't
      involve_the_Holmes_Brothers, Sexual_Content, Graphic_Violence, Rape/Non-
      con_References, Implied_or_Off-stage_Rape/Non-con, Some_kidnapping
      elements, Suicidal_Thoughts, Near_suicide_attempts, Fear, Bullying, Abuse
      of_a_Minor, Murder, Mental_Instability
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-18 Completed: 2013-05-15 Chapters: 29/29 Words: 110350
****** Panzer-man, Panzer-man, O You ******
by HurricanesatDawn
Summary
     It’s like holding your breath. Sucking it all into your lungs without
     even thinking about it, and just standing there like that, as the
     world passes on in front of and around you, and you don’t even
     realise you did it. It’s rushing. Forward. Forward. Forward.
     One.
     Two.
     Three.
     Ten.
     Eleven.
     Twelve.
     And then out. You release it out into the ether with a gut-wrenching
     sigh, your chest heaving downwards, a release of everything within
     you. It’s out, it’s gone. You’re breathing again.
     That’s what it’s like. That sigh.
Notes
     Things to note:
     Every even numbered chapter is a flashback. Yes, they are necessary,
     and if you skip them, you won't get the full depth of the plot
     Fanart will be supplied as it happens.
     Kudos if you know the poem from which all titles are stolen without
     looking it up. Double kudos if you get the pattern.
***** i thought even the bones would do *****
Chapter Notes
     Fanart for this chapter here.
      
The bedsheets pooled around them are warm, and the nose pressed into the curve
of his neck feels faintly cool, as it always seems to when it’s shoved there.
On him, Jim shuffles about, almost restless, his hand curling into a fist along
the line of Sebastian’s chest.
He’s content to lay there like that, the body on him not terribly heavy or
uncomfortable, though he’s not afraid to dump him off if bonier parts end up
shoved into unpleasant, unseemly places. Thus far, they’ve been almost cozy
like this, more than willing to soak up the quiet of the late morning without
interrupting it with mindless, unimportant chatter.
They had only slept for a few hours the night before, getting in quite late,
but it’s become so usual with them over the years that there are times that Jim
really can function on almost no sleep whatsoever. And while it’s not Sebastian
favourite thing to do, he’s more than capable of keeping up with Jim’s sleep
patterns when he finds it necessary.
As Jim’s head moves, dark hair gets caught along his nose and he pulls away
from it, eyes opening again as he stares in the direction of the window.
There’s a certain brightness seeping in through the panes, little traces of
sunshine that will disappear behind a cloud soon. His hand catches up ahead of
him, moving first to rest atop Jim’s hair, and then to tangle its way through
the strands, lightly massaging his scalp.
It makes Jim moan softly, legs shifting further apart to wrap more fully around
Sebastian’s naked body. He chuckles, his other hand drifting down to catch
along Jim’s hip, fingers pressing against the fresh bruises there, left over
from just that morning.
Even knowing that it will break what’s left of the afterglow, he turns his head
back to peer down his nose at Jim’s half buried face. “You’re gonna have to get
up eventually, darl,” he manages, voice husky from the way he’d been using it
before.
“Comfor’ble here,” Jim growls back after a long, indulgent moment, any
annoyance lost in the way Sebastian’s neck muffles it. “Shhh.”
He laughs. It’s not that he minds being made into a human pillow for Jim,
because he doesn’t, and never has. But they do have things they need to take
care of later in the day, and when Jim gets a slow start like this, even simple
things like getting dressed take forever. Especially if the man tries to maul
him before he can get his trousers on, and he’s stuck spending another while on
his knees before Jim will accept it as good enough.
“You’ve got a meeting this afternoon,” he continues softly, tugging on a clump
of Jim’s hair. “Remember?”
“Shhh,” Jim hisses at him again, “not now. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?” he almost laughs again. Jim barely twitches, not even with
the amount of force it would take to dislodge his lips enough to really be
distinguishable from more base sounds. It’s only years of experience that
leaves Sebastian really capable of comprehending what the words are supposed to
mean. He scratches at one of the marks on Jim’s hip, following the reddened
curve down towards his groin, teasing him.
Jim moans softly, not quite humping down, and then finally — finally! — he
starts to shift properly, lifting his head so he can drift it down along
Sebastian’s collarbone. His lips are dry, scraping softly against Sebastian’s
skin, but they feel nice as they plant tiny little kitten kisses, and he
doesn’t drop his hand from Jim’s head.
“James,” he groans after a long minute of it, regret in his voice. “You have to
get up. Take a shower. Remember?”
He hadn’t even realised that Jim had moved his hand up, but there’s a sharp
bite of sensation suddenly on his nipple, as it’s viciously pinched. “No,” Jim
tells him defiantly, as Sebastian’s mouth falls open in a empty, tiny gasp.
“Stop talking.”
Jim’s tongue comes out finally to wet his lips, and then the kisses are softer,
warmer as they travel up along his neck, and then back down to his chest. The
finger releases, and then there’s wet suction followed by the scraping of
teeth.
“James!” he tries to smack Jim’s head away, only succeeding in making the man
curl his leg higher, so that he’s almost straddling Sebastian. It feels
annoyingly comfortable, and he groans under his breath. It’s only how recently
they were at it that’s keeping the variety of sensations from making him more
than just twitch between his legs.
“Hmm?” the man starts to suck harder, and Sebastian just barely manages to
smack away the hand that had been trying to sneak its way down to curl around
his cock. He grabs onto it, tugging it away, and with that momentum, he dumps
Jim on the bed, turning him onto his side so he can wrap around his back.
A distinctly feline growl shudders from the back of Jim’s throat as he realises
too late, and struggles against Sebastian’s grip.
It gives Sebastian enough time to let out a sigh of relief, and it’s his turn
to curl around Jim, locking his legs in place, and holding his arms down at his
sides. It doesn’t stop the man from struggling, but it makes it impossible for
him to actually get anywhere with it, and he closes his eyes again as Jim tires
himself out in this way.
“Fuck you, Sebastian,” he hisses, clearly seething, and Sebastian only spares
him a smile, tucking Jim’s head into his neck again as he shifts to a
comfortable spot on the pillow.
“Not now,” he murmurs back, in a low tone, mocking Jim with his quietness.
“Maybe later.”
Later doesn’t come particularly soon, and eventually Jim stops writhing against
him. No matter how hard he struggles against Sebastian’s body, it accomplishes
nothing, and he doesn’t even manage to push himself properly against the parts
that would change that. He gives up with a loud groaning sound, as if he’s a
balloon that’s suddenly given up and deflated, all its air being sucked out by
a vacuum.
“Mmm, good kitten,” Sebastian presses a warm, rewarding kiss to the back of the
man’s neck, finally molding their bodies together properly. His flaccid cock
rests just below the curve of Jim’s arse, just so that he can feel how
uninterested it is, and pout over it.
He nuzzles against Jim’s torso, an arm loosening to pull around the man’s
chest, tugging him tightly back to fit against him.
The man’s response is to growl again, with less heat this time. He doesn’t even
bother to counter being called a kitten, as much as he dislikes that nickname.
“Fuck you,” he tries again, lacking heat.
“Later,” he’s reminded, and it settles him down a little bit again.
“But I’m bored now!” he insists, and it makes him sound like an unruly child.
It’s a complete change from how he’d been a little bit earlier. He pushes at
the arms after a moment, forcing him away, so that Sebastian’s laying on his
back again, with him moving onto his stomach.
With a sigh, Sebastian moves up to tug at one of the sheets they’d nearly lost
off the edge of the bed, pulling it up to wrap around Jim’s naked rear end. He
looks good like that, there’s no denying it, but he’ll start complaining of
being cold soon if Sebastian doesn’t fix it ahead of time.
Not to mention that he always looks quite alluring bathed only in a white
sheet, that molds around his body. Sebastian’s fingers linger as they slide it
into place, and he pulls back, moving to stretch out with his arms tucked
behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
Jim doesn’t complain, but he grunts out something that could either be a thank
you or a reprieve, and Sebastian ignores it. “You have a meeting later,” he
reminds Jim, yet again.
The bed shifts a tiny bit as Jim lifts his head, just enough to free his lips
to say, “but that’s boring,” and then they’re back down, and he says something
more but it’s far too muffled to hear.
With a laugh, Sebastian lets a hand flop out to splay across Jim’s back.
“You’re being a brat, you know,” he tells him, his nails scratching the skin
lightly. “It won’t get you anywhere.”
Fingers slip out from underneath Jim, lifting up in the air to gesture at
Sebastian that he should fuck off. He catches the hand, using it to pull Jim
back over, onto his back once more. He frames the man’s face with his hands,
biting sharply at his chin in an affectionate manner.
“I’m gonna take a shower, kit,” he tells Jim’s nose, before he pulls away. “Tug
one out while I’m gone if you like, or you can join me and actually wash off.”
As he slides off the bed, he doesn’t take the time to check Jim’s face for a
reaction, because either way, he’ll be more or less getting what he wants.
One of the good things about their flat is that the water heater actually
works, unlike the one at their last place, and when he turns on the shower,
it’s nearly the perfect temperature for him to immediately to step into it.
He hadn’t bothered shutting the door behind him, and there were no clothes to
put into the hamper, so he’s home free without worry, pushing his wet hair out
of his face as he soaks in the heat from the stream. It’s relaxing in the way
where it nearly feels like it might burn his skin, soaking through it, but he
likes it that way, lulling himself into the sensation of washing his body one
bit at a time.
The soap feels good in his hair, that’s accumulated more than a couple day’s
worth of grease, and he’s happy to finally get it out, scrubbing roughly at his
scalp.
The smell of the gel is strong, stinging at his eyes without even going near
them, and he has to close them as he focuses, working in and out of awareness,
cleaning himself first perfunctorily and then a second time with more care and
ease, reminding himself that he’s not in any rush. He has plenty of time.
Under the pads of his fingers, his skin feels almost rough, even once it’s been
cleaned off, it doesn’t feel quite like skin. It’s not that he has any doubt
about his body, or any insecurity. But there’s something that feels like it’s
still there, above the surface, below the surface, somewhere. Some level of
grime that he can’t wash away, some level of dirt buried so deep in himself
that he can never clear his body of it.
Even if he can’t succeed, he can try. Until his skin burns with the pleasant
ache of being scrubbed too harshly, until he’s no longer pale, but almost
glowing red under the hot water.
It’s only when he’s gotten to that point, when every shred of the visible dirt
and grit from the surface of his body has been washed away, that he finally
stops moving. That he braces himself against the marble wall of the shower, his
head directly against the stream. There’s something about the heat from the
water that never fails to make him feel more alive than anything else ever can.
He has to breathe through it carefully, steam clogging up his nose, water
pulsing down, fingers clenched against the wall. “I am alive,” he mutters, like
it’s some chant he doesn’t even have to think about to recite. “I exist.”
“Of course you exist,” is spat at him from behind. “Idiot.”
As the shower door slides open, letting some of his precious steam escape,
Sebastian turns to look, to watch as Jim slips in through the opened crack. His
dark eyes meet Sebastian’s lighter ones, and there’s a heavy weight setting
through them, one that he can’t quite translate into a language he understands.
He’s pushed out of the way, made to turn and stand in the corner as Jim takes
the coveted spot directly under the center of the stream of water. He’s
punished for that, of course, for his greed, and Sebastian can tell by the
annoyed growl at the heat of it. With a quick hand, Jim adjusts the temperature
to one more his liking, and Sebastian settles back to watch, his head tilted
curiously.
“How am I an idiot?” he asks, as Jim’s delicate little fingers flick over the
cap of his treasured bottle of herbal shampoo.
“Hmm?” the man doesn’t seem to be paying attention, more concerned with the
proper amount of force to use on his hair. His fingers get caught in the
knotted mess of it, most likely leftover from last night — dried blood — and
Sebastian rolls his eyes.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” he mutters, stepping closer to snag Jim’s arms and pull
his hands away from the mess. “Let me do it. You’ll make a fuck up of
yourself.”
Though more than ready to protest, Jim gives in without a fight, and Sebastian
chews on his lip as he picks through the man’s hair, letting the little matted
spot that he’d somehow not noticed before out one strand at a time.
“What makes me an idiot?” he asks again as he works, as Jim relaxes into his
touch and grunts softly with every gentle yank of his scalp.
“‘Cause you are,” Jim insists, twisting his head just a bit, and Sebastian
clamps down on him to hold him in place.
“Stop it,” he mutters. “Don’t rush it, or you’ll lose some of your hair.”
The man scowls but doesn’t do so much as twitch his head again until it’s done.
He pats Jim’s arse tenderly before he goes, signalling that he’s finished, and
Jim hisses at him like a tired snake that isn’t quite willing to risk a fight
against a larger predator.
Crossing his arms, Sebastian settles back, feeling amused. It’s lucky that the
shower is big enough for both of them to not be in each other’s way, or he’d be
forced to use the one down the hall. “You know,” he says loudly, when it starts
to seem like Jim is interested in nothing more than conditioning his hair. “If
you grew your hair out just a wee bit longer, I could probably start braiding
it for you. What wouldja think of that?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Jim turns specifically to sneer at him, and it makes
Sebastian’s grin broaden.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” he asks, when Jim steps out from the
stream to make certain that the product doesn’t wash free immediately, reaching
for another bottle. He grabs hold of the man’s hips from behind, fingers
deliberately sharp as they dig into the tired flesh.
It doesn’t make the man cry out, but he gasps, almost dropping the bottle to
the floor. Of course, it turns immediately into an almost moan as Sebastian’s
touch turns massaging, digging pleasure back from out of the spots. They’re
already mottled and worn in their purple bruising, but he likes the idea of
making them worse somehow. Of reminding Jim that they’re there.
Jim practically goes limp in his touch, even if Sebastian is fully aware that
he hasn’t forgotten about his hair. The little masochistic minx.
“Why’re you in a weird mood today?” he inquires into Jim’s neck, teeth biting
into that spot just above his pulse point. “Didn’t you enjoy last night, kit?”
Against him, Jim tenses slightly. “You are just absolutely determined to make
me stab you today, aren’t you?” He sighs, though, betraying the fact that his
anger isn’t actually directed at Sebastian, but at something else.
“Maybe,” Sebastian smirks, mouthing at the spot he’d bitten, soothing it
somewhat. With Jim not looking, he steals the bottle from him, squirting a
healthy dose out into his palm. “Maybe I like it when you try to kill me,” he
continues, slathering his hands together to make the gel turn into a good
enough lather.
It’s clear that Jim knows what he’s doing, and he submits to it, as Sebastian
hands come back to pressing down on his sides, soaping him up. He laughs, after
a second, a clear and bitter sound.
“Imagination has never been one of my strong suits,” he murmurs, closing his
eyes as his head lolls back against the upper part of Sebastian’s chest. Their
height difference makes things like this perfect.
“What?” it makes Sebastian’s hands still in their circular motion, eyebrows
furrowed. It certainly sounded like English, even if it didn’t sound
like Jim. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. He barks a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,
that’s what you are.” His hands go back to lathering the man with soap.
But the, “I’m not kidding,” gives away the fact that Jim actually wants this to
be a conversation, even if he can’t for the life of him figure out why.
Of course you’re not kidding, he thinks, and he strikes back with, “You?
Lacking in imagination?” And he laughs again. “James, last week, you poisoned a
man to death with three pens, an old battery, and a lighter. He took nearly
twelve hours to die, and —” he pauses, to brush the goo coated hair away from
Jim’s ear, so he can speak more clearly into it. “By then, I might add, you’d
already tortured every scrap of information you could from out of him. Most of
which, by the way, you already had. You did it because it was fun. It’s not
even as if —”
The vividness of the memory from that day as it flashes through his mind makes
him lick his lips.
“If that isn’t imagination, then I’m really not sure what is. Perhaps you’ve
made up a new sport?” He chuckles again, indulging the idea. “Perhaps you could
call it —”
Jim elbows him in the kidney, and his laugh turns into a gasp, and after a
second it’s a laugh again. “Even then, you’d still be more than doing well on
the imagination front,” he finishes, grasping Jim’s elbows in warning.
“I —” with a sigh, Jim cuts himself off this time, the tension in his arms
obvious as he flexes his hands. He doesn’t try to tug away, instead letting
Sebastian hold him upright like that, as he goes slightly lax. He’s still
pouting, though; and it’s that special pout of his, but not one strong enough
to make Sebastian flinch or fear for the coming state of his testicals.
“Last night,” he whispers against Jim’s neck, “you talked a man into attempting
to slice off every one of his fingers, and finally his arm up to the elbow. And
then? Mmm,” unable to help himself, Sebastian moans softly, eyes fluttering
shut as he releases Jim, hands gliding almost seductively down the man’s sides.
He nuzzles against Jim’s ear, thumbing along the inside curve of his thighs.
“And then you tied up his legs to turn him into a chair, so you could sit on
him and hold his dog as it chewed on the stump of arm he had left. He died
crying, James,” he purrs, “he died absolutely sobbing.”
He doesn’t even have to look down to confirm that Jim’s cock has hardened
against his thigh. A soft moan drifts up to his ears, and he smirks, tasting
the water dripping down the side of Jim’s face with his tongue.
Without him noticing it, one of Jim’s hands creeps up to slide along his cheek,
before it moves higher to grip at his hair. He scratches his fingers through
Jim’s pubic hair in retaliation, nudging his way into perfect alignment with
his arse.
“That was because you were there,” Jim breathes out against him, moaning softly
in the back of his throat. “You were there, and I try to be more interesting
when I have spectators.”
It’s often almost shocking just how much of his coherency Jim manages to retain
even when like this, rocking himself back against Sebastian lightly. “That’s
because you’re more creative,” he adds, before Sebastian has time to even think
of a counter. “I feed off that. Off you.”
Sebastian chuckles throatily. “That implies that you think I’m more creative
than you, kitten.” One of his hands travels just a little bit higher, to nudge
around the swell of Jim’s belly. It’s not really a beer gut. More the effects
of an unhealthy diet of binge drinking and eating after long spells of nothing,
and Sebastian just wants to put the nearest food into his stomach, regardless
of how high the vegetable content isn’t. The result is that he gets chubby and
he can’t be bothered to actually exercise, beyond the labours of his actual
work, and that leaves him soft around the edges at times.
But when it comes down to that or being nothing but skin and bones, Sebastian
would pick being unhealthy and a little bit fat over the mental image of Jim
looking like a skeleton again any day.
He presses his hand down along the curve, fingers splayed out protectively,
almost as if he’s touching a pregnant woman’s belly, and he hums against Jim’s
neck. “I’m not more creative than you, James,” he whispers. “And you’re not
going to convince me otherwise. You are, my darling kitten, by far the most
imaginative and creative person I’ve ever known in the whole of my existence.”
Jim scoffs, a growl in his tone as he utters Sebastian’s name. “I’m trying to
make a point here, ‘Bastian. And you’re being rude.”
“Rude has nothing to do with it.” Jim’s forgotten about his hair by now. Or
he’s deemed it less of a priority than this, which is highly improbable. It’s
kind of cute, though, regardless.
“You say that I’m the creative one,” he licks his lips, and they taste slightly
of whatever fruity stuff Jim seems to think is so good for his hair. “But that
really doesn’t make any particular amount of sense. The only interesting things
I do are on orders from you.”
“Not true.”
“No?” at Jim’s sniff, he snorts loudly. “I swear to fucking god, James. Nine
out of ten of my hits, you planned them down to the letter for me, and I have a
fucking itinerary for the entire thing, starting at wake up and breakfast.”
It’s amusing because it’s true; and because finally — a little part of Jim is
probably crowing over it — his own cock is starting to swell against the crease
of Jim’s arse.
“Fine, then,” Jim grumbles, starting to pull away, which is interesting. “We’re
only creative when we are around each other.” There’s no real victory in the
declaration, and he settles back as Jim washes out his hair carefully, mouth
open and eyes shut under the water.
It’s still on the absurd side, and he doubts that even Jim really believes it.
He palms himself idly, because if Jim’s not going to do it now that he’s got
what he wanted earlier, then there’s no reason to stick around hoping it’ll
happen. “Like I said, kit,” he says to the back of Jim’s head, as his fingers
curl over the crown and he squeezes, “or as you said, you like to show off.” He
actually can’t remember who said it anymore, and it doesn’t matter as his eyes
drift part way shut.
Of course, he wants to keep looking, because Jim is a beautiful sight on any
day of the week. But in the shower, glistening wet with water, breathing
heavily through his mouth, and so unashamed about waddling around naked, Jim is
utterly exquisite.
The light in here isn’t the best, but it’s still enough to perfectly see Jim’s
profile, as he stretches up and out to get closer to the source of the water.
It’s as if he’s genuinely entirely unaware of the fact that he’s naked, or has
learnt such a lack of qualms about it. When he moves, the water seems to move
with him, shuddering down him continuously like the sheet that was on the bed.
More than half of Jim’s body is nothing but pure, perfectly formed white skin,
soft to the touch and absolutely splendid. Even though the rest of him is laden
with scars dating as far back as to his childhood, and scratches and bruises
and other marks from more recent times, he looks like a work of art. Every
colour plays off his natural skin, and it looks like he was made to be painted
in just this way.
As if aware of Sebastian’s intent stare, Jim’s cock bounces lightly as he
shifts on his feet, and Sebastian gets drawn into the way it sits against the
soft bush of hair just above it, nestled so into his thighs. He’s not leaking
with desire, but he’s obviously still interested in doing something, and for
that, Sebastian finds himself tempted to just step in to kiss every visible
mark before he licks his way down that trail of hair.
“You like to impress people, kitten,” he repeats, more gruffly now, sliding his
hand down to grip the base. “Hell, you know we both like to do that. Impress
people.”
Jim makes a sound in the back of his throat, and he continues. “I take care of
you, remember? S’why I’m there, when other people aren’t. It’s why I’m pretty
much always there.” Bodyguard isn’t a word either are willing to use. Or even
protector. His smile begins to fade as he ducks his face down, still playing
with himself absently. “What’s the point of doing interesting things if there’s
no one around to see and be frightened?”
Finally, Jim turns, and there’s a coldness set in his eyes that Sebastian
doesn’t terribly like. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he finishes his speech
shamelessly as Jim slicks back his hair again, mouth open wide as he breathes
through it. “If all of it’s just one of your ways of keeping me in line.” He
winks cheekily. “Gotta remind me constantly about all the things you’ll do to
me if I ever try and rebel, or, yanno. Start a mutiny.”
As a mood lightener, it fails, but Jim takes a step forward to him anyway, and
then places a hand on his shoulder. The other goes down to smack away the one
on his cock, replacing it, and he can’t stop the smile from flickering across
his face as Jim leans even closer.
“Shut up, you idiot,” and he knocks their lips together, into a kiss that has
too much teeth and not enough slick, but is so very worth it.
***** any less the black man who *****
His dreams are peaceful for once, the only parts he can recall, like the calm
of an ocean, wrapping around his body. They are sinking further and further
into the water, being pulled out to sea, until he’s completely surrounded. He
can feel nothing but the water, but the back and forth motion of the waves,
trickling over his head.
He didn’t need to breathe, didn’t need to gasp for air that’s not there, and
it’s like a dance, his limbs weak and comfortable as they’re used to tug him
further out, into the horizon.
The water is like a blanket, covering his naked body, and it’s the softest
touch he can ever remember feeling, for the whole of his life, and it’s the
most loved he’s ever felt, even though it’s not real. And how easy it is to
fall into the illusion isn’t the point, even though he’s aware of it, always
aware that this isn’t real, because it’s a lovely dream.
It’s the comfort of love and devotion, of falling further and deeper into
something, until there’s nothing left outside, and no conceivable way of
getting back to where he’d started. The shore disappears from sight; no more
beach, no more people dancing in the sand, and it’s just his body, sinking
deeper into the ocean, the sun bright above his head like a watchful, nearly
absent protector.
It seems to dance above him, agreeing with how all right everything is,
encouraging him to close his eyes, to fall asleep again, deep within his dream.
His mouth opens.
The water fills the space between his lips, coaxing its way down his
unprotesting throat, and it sinks into his lungs. It pulls him deeper, down
into his stomach, filling every crevice of his body that it can.
These dreams are the best. They’re the redemption from his past.
Hands wake him up, the way that hands sometimes put him to sleep. They’re a
tender caress, gentle as they trail down the length of his face, drawing the
lines with the tips of fingers. They feel nice, the way that they always do,
the way that they are meant to feel. They coax him from his sleep, warming his
skin with their touch.
They pull his lips open, as if sinking in to draw the water back out, to let
him breathe air once again. They steal him from the easy warmth of drowning,
and he lets himself be taken away.
A thumb brushes the curve of his lips, memorising the way it feels, and he
moans softly, body moving towards it. His face nuzzles against a wrist. A wrist
that turns to caress him, and his lips kiss it with nothing but adoration and
love.
Lips close down around his after that, like a reward, and they’re warmer than
the water was, nearly burning through his skin. He whines, letting them kiss
his mouth open. A tongue wiggles its way inside, just for a few seconds, a few
gentle strokes, and then it’s gone again, his head lolling to the side.
He doesn’t want to wake up all the way yet, isn’t ready for it.
Don’t open your eyes, the touches seem to say, and maybe that’s a voice, but
maybe it’s just inside his head. A forefinger slides across his lips, pressing
them lightly closed again, and the mouth trails down his jaw, then back up his
chin, to his nose, to his eyelids.
He gravitates naturally towards the warmth, feeling like he’s swaying back and
forth, like he’s on a hammock, or still in the ocean, tugged out on a wave; and
the lips kiss him the way the water had. They’re all consuming, drugging him
with their tenderness. They press his neck to the side, gentle pecks down it,
down the skin along his neck, and he shivers as the blankets are tugged back.
“I want —” he doesn’t know what he wants, and the words feel sloppy on his
lips, but he lets them drop out anyway. As if of their own accord, he can feel
his hands moving their way upwards, until his fingers close around soft locks
of hair. He’s able to tug the head closer, the lips harder against his body,
and his eyes close tighter.
“Shush, little one, little kitten,” and he knows the voice is really speaking
this time, destroying him with every kiss along his collarbone. “Don’t try to
think.”
“Don’t wanna.”
Laughter puffs out, tickling his wet skin, and he tries to pull away from it,
turn over onto his side, so he can go back to his dreams. They were nice.
“Hey, hey,” fingers clench tightly for a moment around his thighs, then up to
his hips, repositioning him. He feels so naked, so swallowed up, with the
blankets all gone, only covering the very tips of his feet.
“You’re all right,” he’s told, and he believes it, he knows he is. He’s always
all right. It’s safe, it’s all right when he’s here. It always will be.
Sebastian makes things safe.
A body molds against the line of his, as naked as he is, and he’s being kissed
on his mouth again. It’s just chaste, just loving, a peck.
A cock is nestled against the inside of his thigh, just as hard as his own is,
and he giggles instinctively at the novelty of it. His hands are still in
Sebastian’s hair, even if he’d forgotten, and he plays with it, running his
fingers through to part it.
It’s like he’s being told how loved he is, without the need for words; and as
much as that should hurt — as much as it does, panging through his heart,
stinging his eyes threateningly — it’s enough to make his mouth fall open,
begging for more. For more touch, for more love, for more of the everything
that Sebastian has always given him.
“Hush now, little darling, my dove,” his mouth is free, and the tears in his
eyes are kissed away lovingly, laving over his eyelids, and he can breathe
shudderingly, accepting this fate.
It tugs at the corners of his chest, warning him that this can’t possibly last,
this is just another dream, but he refuses to listen to it. Here, he can feel
the beat of Sebastian’s heart against his chest, can wiggle and press a hand
between them, over Sebastian’s side to hold onto that heartbeat.
He can feel it, feel how alive they both are, feel how Sebastian kisses him,
feel how their hearts beat in perfect sync.
Ba - dum ba - dum ba - dum. I am alive. Ba - dum ba - dum ba - dum.  I am
yours. Ba - dum ba - dum ba - dum.  Always.
The mouth leaves his face, but he can still feel Sebastian’s breath on him,
soft little pants, huffs of air that tingle. He opens his eyes, still sticky
with traces of saliva, and he smiles.
“I like waking up to this,” he decides in a murmur. “It feels nice.”
Sebastian’s smile is breathtaking, and it must match his, must surpass it. It’s
enough to make him not miss the dream. “I like waking you up like this,” the
boy returns, and he doesn’t need to say anything more, just another kiss. But
he does. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers to the line of Jim’s lips, like it’s a
secret that he just has to share.
His tongue isn’t sloppy with sleep the way Jim’s is, as it parts his lips,
nestling its way inside, along his teeth, flicking past his tongue.
He moans.
Yes, this is all he’s ever known of love; yes, Sebastian is everything he’s
ever felt. Yes, this is all he’s ever wanted, and all he ever hopes to have in
what’s left of his life.
His other hand tugs at Sebastian’s hair, practically weeping as he tries to
return the kiss, tries to pour what he feels into it. He tries to beg with it,
for Sebastian to understand, for Sebastian to know how much he means, and how
much he is. He tries to pray, thank you, over and over, until Sebastian can
hear it inside his head, too, and so he won’t ever forget everything that he
is.
Don’t ever forget me, Sebastian seems to be telling him, trying to
convey. Don’t ever stop. Don’t ever fight this, or fight me. I can be
everything, just trust in me.
***** but they pulled me out of the sack *****
The cafe that they picked was less than a half hour’s walk from their flat if
at a slow taken pace, and under ten minutes by cab or in one of their cars.
They’d felt lazy, understandably so, and after a morning spent primarily
between sheets and in the shower, it had been Jim’s choice to opt out of
walking in favour of an easier route.
It’s not a favourite place of theirs — the food isn’t quite good enough for
that — but the view is actually quite nice, there’s the advantage of home
territory, and the tea is good enough that Jim could never really find
reasonable cause for complaint. When they get there, they sit outside, because
it’s a pleasant enough day, even if it’s chilly and they’re wearing jackets.
Sebastian moves immediately to slouch comfortably into his chair, which Jim
counters by straightening his back out almost painfully properly, and they seem
almost to make a game out of it, staring wordlessly at one another as Jim sips
at his tea and Sebastian from his coffee. Neither of them really has any wish
to break the silence between them, not now, because it’s far from an unpleasant
one, and they end up just sitting their like that until the girl returns with
refills.
Neither spares her much more of a glance than they had when she’d first made
herself known — she’s plain, mousy, an uninteresting girl leading an
uninteresting life — but they do send her away with hastily chosen orders for
their meal. He’d let Sebastian order for the both of them.
It’s only when another customer bumps into the back of Sebastian’s chair —
making no time for even an apology after — that their eye contact really
breaks. The scowl that flits across Jim’s face is undeniable in its fierceness,
even if neither of them are in any hurry to start something that would get them
into any sort of mess. They’re here to eat lunch, not to cause a ruckus, and he
projects that across his own face at Jim, reminding him that it wouldn’t
accomplish anything.
“He’s here with his mistress,” he murmurs, in an attempt to distract Jim, and
the table is just small enough that he can reach across it and snag Jim’s hand
from where it’s placed on the stem of his cup, stroking his fingers soothingly
across the man’s knuckles. Their intruder has moved out of direct earshot, and
he knows that from Jim’s eyes more than anything, but in part due to the sound
of a chair scraping across the room, too perfectly timed to be anyone else
sitting down.
He had seen the girl when she came in, sitting down at that table, and he
twists his head around to confirm it. His eyes track them as they come together
for a passionate kiss, followed by far too many softer kisses pressed to the
side of her face. It’s only when the shrillness of her laugh grows too loud
that he releases her, pulling back her chair to help settle her into it.
“Well, is that not the most precious thing you have ever seen,” is the sneered
response from across the table, and Sebastian chuckles softly as he turns back,
more at Jim than in concern for anything else. There’s a mirror just across the
street that leaves him with a decent view of what’s going on behind him, but
beyond keeping an eye out for someone approaching, he doesn’t much care. Jim is
the one with the perfect view, which is unfortunate in that it leaves the man
plenty of opportunity to seethe quietly in his seat.
“Were you thinking of spoiling their fun?” he asks quietly, eyes drifting down
to the cup in his other hand. The tendons in Jim’s fingers flex as if he’s
raring for a fight, and Sebastian counters, tugging the hand free to lay it
palm up on the table. He drags his ring and middle finger deliberately along
the delicate line of the man’s palm, feeling the shudder as Jim’s pulse
quickens slightly in reaction.
It distracts Jim, not by much, but enough to relax his body slightly, slumping
his shoulders down just a bit. Not enough to actually be slouched, but enough
that he looks more human in his posture again, and Sebastian hides a smile as
he tangles their fingers together and clinks the spoon against the side of his
cup to knock away the liquid pooling around it. He sets it down, eyes back on
Jim’s face, not even trying to match the intensity of his stare.
“There are many ways of doing that, as you well...” he leaves his words hanging
suggestively, and Sebastian can see something beginning to soften in Jim’s eyes
at the implication. The words don’t need to be spoken between them for Jim to
understand, to smirk in that pleased cat way, the possibilities already rolling
through his mind like the reel of a film.
“And which way were you thinking of, my dear?” he coos, after a second, licking
his lips incredibly slowly and deliberately.
“Oh, I don’t know,” dropping Jim’s hand, Sebastian coughs, his gaze moving to
focus on the line of Jim’s suit, the way it perfectly accentuates his body,
anywhere but at his mouth. He eases back against the wooden bars of his chair,
regretting slightly the empty way Jim’s hand looks as it’s left on its own,
unmoving. His own mind fills with visions of Jim’s face twisted up in vicious
ecstasy; naked as the day he was born, his skin glistening with sweat as he
writhes on top of Sebastian.
A mild glare is thrown in his direction, which he catches, changing the course
of his thoughts with it. “There’re lots of different ways to do things, aren’t
there?” he picks up, a part of him mocking the belief that Jim can read his
mind by considering the purchase of tulips later.
“Because —"  Jim ignores it and him mildly, finally moving his hand so it drops
off the table and presumably into his lap, lifting the cup with the other to
drag the last of his tea from the bottom. His eyebrow arches, refusing to
comment on what passed through Sebastian’s mind; at least for now.
“I was thinking of something more along the lines of a quiet game.” He smiles
indulgently at the way Sebastian’s eyebrows furrow. “You know,” he waggles his
own in return, “arranging for his wife and children to show up. That would be a
better sight than even just turning the lady on his arm against him, don’t you
think?"
While Jim’s words suggest nothing but passivity, the devilish sparkle in his
eyes gives away that there will be more to it than just subtle manipulations.
The thought of how it might work flutters through Sebastian’s mind, and he
hums, eyes drifting shut for a few short seconds.
It would be easy to find out the man’s identity — the work of nothing more than
a snapped photograph and a slipped in access to a few databases, all
potentially done with one of their disposable phones in just a minute or two —
and within a quarter of an hour, they could possibly have talked to the other
woman, the wife, and convinced her of some story or another. Anything, really,
that would encourage her to make whatever trek it is down here, to this
particular cafe. Jim could do it. He’s good at stories like that.
Not to mention that it’s the weekend. It would be simple to persuade her to
have her children accompany her.
There’s a sharp pain in his shin as he’s kicked, and he opens his eyes to the
annoyed curve of Jim’s mouth. “How old would you say that they are?” he
questions instead of addressing the building frustration that he can almost
feel in the air around them. “The kids, I mean.”
“Under ten,” Jim admits, almost a touch regretfully. “And there would be about
two or three, I’d say. Though my bet, if you are into that today, would be on
just the two.”
“And the bet is?”
There’s a pause after, where neither of them speak, because the girl has
returned with two plated sandwiches, a small cup of soup on the one set in
front of Jim. She twitters off, sparing them no thought in her work, and Jim
stares blankly at him.
“The gun you’ve had your eye on for the past week,” he suggests blandly,
daintily lifting the bread up to his lips. “Against —"  he pauses, chewing on a
tiny bite until it’s mashed and compressed enough to swallow. Sebastian’s knee
twitches, and he bounces it slightly for a second as he leans forward to
listen. “Against you killing the Russian.”
“Ah! ah!” Sebastian lifts a warning finger in the air, eyes narrowing as he
falls back, almost relieved. Jim could have asked for just about anything, and
he knows it.
“No, no, not him,” a scoff reaches his ears. “The other one. The one you’re
only vaguely fond of and have been refusing to kill.” Which is exactly the one
Sebastian thought he had meant originally. He scowls, thinking of the gun. It’s
a beautiful thing, and without Jim’s approval, he’ll never get within five
meters of it.
It’s not like he even cares all that much about the Russian. “Fine,” he all but
growls, and not a muscle in Jim’s face twitches out of place, but he does look
back up as he chews. “I’ll kill the Russian for you.”
Why he’s even taking the bet is beyond him, and it must be absurd.
“How wonderful of you.” Again, Jim waits until he’s swallowed fully before he
speaks, not a speck of a crumb visible on him. He sets the sandwich down,
leaning forward. Sebastian hasn’t even touched his own. “So, darling,” he
stretches out an arm, reaching for Sebastian’s hand.
Hesitating, Sebastian finally gives it to him, and it’s Jim’s turn to flip it
over and stroke along the coarser, work roughened lines of his hand.
“My bet,” he purrs, as his thumb digs gently between fingers, “is two children,
ages seven and two and a half. And yours?”
Sebastian scowls. “Mine is anything that it differs from yours. In the
slightest. One miscalculation and the gun is mine.” Jim could complain, but his
ego is too big. He won’t.
After waiting to be certain, he extracts his hand from Jim’s reluctant grip,
and settles them across his chest to wait. Sure enough, Jim reaches for
Sebastian’s sandwich next, and takes a moderate sized bite out of it. He drops
it back onto his own plate when he’s done, next to the first sandwich, and
shifts the both of them away from him for Sebastian to rescue. It’s as much of
an acknowledgement of agreement as he’s likely to get.
His silence is only because of the mouthful, larger than any of the ones
previous and Sebastian takes advantage of that, snagging both sandwiches to put
onto the plate in front of him again. They both have little ring marks from
Jim’s teeth in them, indented on the bread, and he frowns as he lifts one up.
“How would you like it, my dear?” Jim asks him once he’s swallowed, as
Sebastian brings the pieces of bread and meat he’d stolen higher up to his
face, so he can look at them more closely. He doesn’t spare the man a glance as
he pulls the sandwich apart, flipping it nearly fully inside out, and closing
it again.
“How would I like it?” he returns, the very last word slightly muffled as he
takes a greasy bite from the edge, chewing on it slowly. He arches an eyebrow,
the one that always annoys Jim, knowing exactly what the man is trying to ask
him. But he wants to force him to elaborate anyway.
He does, of course, because this is Jim, and he’s Sebastian, and he can’t seem
to resist the urge to complete things. “Would you like us to play more than
just a supporting role,” he asks Sebastian, with a distinctive roll of his
eyes, before they refocus on Sebastian’s jaw as he chews his mouthful. His gaze
tracks the progress of the food, all the way down to his bobbing throat as he
swallows it down, and only then does he finish his question. “Or would you find
it more pleasant to sit back and enjoy?”
He, of course, has the delightful habit of being able to make anything, even
the most interesting thing in the world, sound as dull as a question about the
weather should he so choose. Sebastian swallows again, the last of his mouthful
washing down with saliva.
“It would be more interesting to play a role, wouldn’t it.” It’s not a
question, but he hums anyway, eyes turning up into a light and slightly
interested frown. He snags his glass of water before saying anything more,
swigging down a gulp to clear his throat of the taste of the tomatoes.
“Improvisation?”
“Wonderful idea, as always,” as if it was Sebastian’s originally, and not just
him saying aloud what Jim has been thinking inside his head for upwards of ten
minutes.
They share a gesture — Jim with his smirk, and Sebastian with his shrug — as
the same exact idea begins to play out in both their minds. It would be less of
an improvisation, and more what they both find themselves drifting towards
doing on occasion.
He doesn’t congratulate Jim for his thoughts, picking the inverted sandwich
again to take another bite, slowly working through finishing both of their
meals, and Jim pushes back his chair a little bit from the table, making the
call. Within five minutes, he’s quietly confirmed that the woman is on her way,
and from the looks of things, it took only the barest amount of effort to talk
her into it.
Five minute drive away, Jim mouths to him before he hangs up, chuckling
silently, because only a fool meets his mistress within a few blocks radius of
the house in which he keeps his wife.
When she steps over the curb, exactly ten minutes later, she doesn’t notice
anyone at first, her attention entirely focused on the child she’s carrying on
her hip. It’s a toddler, sucking almost aggressively on his thumb, oblivious to
the world around him. The other child with her, a prepubescent little girl,
trails after, just a couple of footsteps behind, her arm outstretched so that
she won’t lose her grip on her mother’s hand.
The woman still doesn’t see anything around her, not as she picks one of the
tables just a couple away from Jim and Sebastian’s, and walks briskly towards
it, paying no mind to the little girl who’s forced to keep step with her. It’s
the girl that sees him first, a delighted grin rising up onto her little lips,
filling out her rosy cheeks as she shrieks, “Daddy!” and lets go of her
mother’s hand to speed over to him.
The younger child almost falls from his mother’s grasp as her attention is
diverted, eyes following the girl, and taking a quick step forward to try and
stop her. That’s all before what the girl said registers, and her mouth opens
up in silent question. She stares uselessly, as the girl makes it across the
room in a matter of seconds, launching herself at her father’s body.
Her hands appear to have grown useless as she stares at her husband, over at
the girl with him, then back at him again, and the only thing that keeps the
child from falling to the floor is the vice grip he seems to have on his
mother’s shoulders. It almost succeeds in making Jim wince, at the way the man
pales, the way the woman frowns in lack of understanding, and the horror and
heartbreak on the mother’s face. The way that the girl whisper-screams as she’s
rejected, pushed to the ground when her father quickly stands, his priority
being his wife’s reaction and not his daughter’s.
He stutters, not noticing how the girl lands on her arse, and tears well up in
her eyes, trying to form some sort of apology or explanation that falls on deaf
ears. It’s obvious, of course, as the second woman starts to sneer at the girl
that she’s figured it out, and is less pleased with the family than she is with
her lover.
That makes Sebastian smirk, glancing over at Jim so he can catch his cue when
it comes, only a matter of seconds later.
“Sheila, I - I —” Jim drops his napkin on the tabletop, and Sebastian slides
out of his chair at the same time as the other man stands, walking shoulder to
shoulder as they make their way across the room to join the commotion. From the
corner of his eye, he can see the oblivious grin on Jim’s face, and he matches
it as best he can, hanging back when Jim takes the final steps to stand in
front of the still stammering man.
“Darling!” he cries, greeting him without name, but with arms wide open,
wrapping them around his neck. He has to dodge the child on the floor so as not
to accidentally break a few fingers underneath his shoes, smacking a wet kiss
onto the man’s lip before he can pull away from the embrace.
They seem to be the only two that can remember the children, and with a nudge
to the wife’s shoulder, Sebastian gets her to set the boy down atop the table.
Someone gasps, and the air is filled with a quiet little shriek, passing from
the mother’s lips.
“It’s so lovely to see you again,” Jim continues, “but whatever are you doing
here? You said that you wouldn’t be calling until tomorrow.
The veins in the man’s face grow bigger, a deep crimson filling out the
previously pale colouration, his eyes widening with frightened, horrified
shock. He hasn’t seen either Sebastian or Jim before in his life, nor has he
expected to ever be kissed by a man, and it’s almost impossible to actually
process it, the confusion building.
“Get the fuck off me!” he exclaims loudly, once he’s recovered himself enough
to react, shoving Jim off him, making him stumble several steps backwards, a
look of hurt on his face. “Love, I can explain,” he starts to try again, having
regained his voice now, sounding slightly broken. 
But it’s obvious that the amount of time it took for him to react to Jim did
its intended toll, and the mistress slowly gains understand, that slithers
across her face like a disgusting, venomous snake. Her look of horrified
disgust makes her skin grow pale, and it only serves as a slightly differed,
mirrored version of the one on the wife. She raises a napkin to her lips,
implying that she feels as if she could vomit, and stands quickly. She’s no
doubt imagining — and cringing at — the idea of the man she’d been sleeping
with having homosexual liaisons.
It brings a pleased grin to Sebastian’s face as he stays back and waits, not
moving over to the little girl until Jim has rejoined him on the sidelines.
They’ve been all but forgotten now that they’re out of direct sight — though
the mistress hasn’t torn her eyes away from Jim yet — and he cradles the girl
in his arms, hefting her up onto his hip. 
“You all right there, little dove?” he asks her quietly, as if he’s met her
before and knows her, and she wails, arms flying around his neck to clasp him
tightly as she cries into his shirt. He holds her as if he’s done it a thousand
times, soothing her with a hand on her back.
The wife’s screeching noises die down, just as the mistress turns away, and
spits out some sort of vitriol that Sebastian blocks out, along with the
rushed, panicked words of the man as he responds, sounding like he’s denying
cheating on his wife, being gay, and introducing his little girl to a
pedophile.
He can see the attack of giggling that threatens to bubble up from Jim’s
throat, and he shoots the man a glare before he can spoil the whole thing,
because they’re too far in now to ruin it so crassly. Forcing calm unto his
face, Jim brushes over, unnoticed as he slips his arm around the little boy
still standing on the table.
“Hello there, little darling,” he coos under his breath, “would you like to
come with me for a little while?” I have candy, he almost finishes, but doesn’t
quite.
The wife doesn’t even notice as they walk away with her two children, her hands
flying up to her face to brace herself and attempt to force back her tears, and
the last thing they see before they turn is the man arguing loudly with his
mistress.
It’s insane, almost feeling to Sebastian like he’s been transported into
someone’s soaps and it makes no sense at all how any of this could be real.
As Jim discreetly signals for him to follow, he drops a couple of bills on the
table they’d been at as he passes it, leaving enough for a decent tip, and then
they’re out on the street and heading around the corner before anyone notices
that they’ve gone anywhere.
It will probably be the mistress first, he bets silently with himself, before
turning to stare at Jim. A part of him feels appalled by what’s happened, and
then other can’t figure out if this is amusing or just plain daft. Jim’s eyes
are wide and sparkling as he silently works out the next details of the plan in
his head, polishing them out before he opens his mouth.
Mostly what Sebastian doesn’t understand is why Jim wanted to take the kids. He
knows that they’re not going to keep them, or kill them, for that matter. They
seem to hold no real relevance, and it’s not like having a kid around ever
actually comes in handy. Especially not as the one still being held in his arms
slowly drips snot down the length of his neck.
It’s utterly disgusting.
“Come along,” Jim jerks his head, walking in the direction of a taxi that’s
gliding to a stop along the curb. “We have a police station to raid, pet.”
“And by raid you mean —” he doesn’t bother to finish the thought, sighing in
resignation as he breaks into a light jog to catch up, following quickly behind
into the car. He slides into the seat next to Jim’s, leaving space between
them, and one of his hands automatically flits up to pet the child’s head in
the vaguest sort of comfort of which he can think.
She hasn’t said a word since her father rejected her, and he assumes that it’s
just because she’s gone into shock. It’s unlikely that the fall on her arse
would have damaged her brain, so she’s more likely than not unable to fully
process the world around her at the moment. Not that she could all that well
anyway, going by her age.
Speaking of ages —
“I really hope you mean, drop off the little ingrates and get back to our
lives, yeah?” he shoots at Jim, not taking his eyes off the girl. Slowly, he
tugs her face from out of his neck, and makes her look him in the eye. She
stares at him, her eyes pulled wide open, and a questioning, but slightly
trusting look on her face.
The exact sort of thing that will probably get her killed a handful of years
from now. “Hey, kit,” he whispers, too quiet for Jim to really notice. “Are you
all right? I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay? Now tell me, how old are you?”
Her eyes manage to open impossibly wider, and her shoulders twitch, shaking
slightly, but she speaks after a moment. “Se - seven,” she mumbles, looking
down again, and he nods unhappily at her. “Yeah, excellent. Quiet again, now.”
He tucks her back into his neck, knowing he’ll have to burn the shirt once he
gets home, and shoots a glare at Jim for guessing the first age correctly.
Jim doesn’t even try to hide the smirk on his lips. “Do you doubt me,
‘Bastian?” he asks first, in obvious reference to what Sebastian had asked him
previously, before moving back to a new conversation. I told you, his eyes say
as he bounces the boy on his knee, cooing softly at him.
The truth is that he’s slightly sickened by the sight of Jim holding a child.
He’d hate for the man to have one in his possession long term, because it
wouldn’t be good for anyone. Jim’s not the type of man who’s cut out for any
sort of parenting or child care. The man can hardly remember to feed himself
often enough to not drop dead, and shouldn’t ever be trusted with any sort of
life, let alone that of a small child’s, unless he were explicitly planning to
murder it.
Not to mention the fact that it just looks wrong for Jim to pretend to be a
loving parent.
The car lurches over a speed bump, and the girl quivers again, noiseless, but
the boy slowly calms down, as Jim makes faces at him. The tears begin to dry up
after a minute or two, replaced by disgusting sounding choked giggles, as if
he’s torn between happiness and misery.
A part of Sebastian is tempted to tell that kid, welcome to life.
“You know I don’t, James,” he says instead, and the little boy starts to turn
his head, at first looking right at Sebastian. But his eyes don’t seem to
focus, and they slight right past him, as if he’s not there, and he has to turn
his head away so that Jim won’t see the expression that slides across his face.
Of course, Jim probably noticed it before he did, and from the corner of his
eye, Sebastian can see him patting the boy on the head, as if rewarding him for
work well done. He laughs, shaking his head.
It’s really not all that far a ride from where they were to Scotland Yard, not
that he’d taken that particular trek before; but when he and Jim had first
moved to London, one of the things they’d done was to memorise street maps. Jim
had quizzed him on it for months, until he didn’t need to so much as look at a
map to have a decent idea about where he was going.
Then there’s the fact that they picked their flat for its perfect position.
Unfortunately, with two children in the car, he knows that what would have
passed as almost no time at all will feel like a great deal longer this time.
The little girl pressed into his neck has taken to making little whimpering
noises, probably wanting to know where her mother is, and he can only imagine
how much worse the littler one must be in Jim’s regard.
That Jim can actually manage to not be on the verge of murdering the boy on his
knee is almost entirely beyond Sebastian. Still, he’s bouncing him up and down
idly, not really paying attention as he plays with his hair.
It’s sort of sweet. The kid seems to be entertained by it, and he’s not
screaming for his mother, which is probably the best thing any of them could
hope for in the situation. Kids are so trusting.
Why Jim wanted them in the first place, though — especially if they’re going to
be dumped immediately — doesn’t really make sense, no matter how well behaved.
He has this urge, though, not caring about the kids, and he gives into it after
a second, motioning for Jim to scoot closer to him. “C’mere, kitten,” he calls
when Jim looks up, snagging the man’s chin between his fingers, and tugging him
in for a kiss. The kids get nearly smushed up between them, making it awkward,
and the position is far from what would be desired, but Jim’s mouth is hot and
wet and pliant underneath his, and all he can do is growl.
The one in his arms begins to wriggle, upset, but he ignores it, driving a hand
up into Jim’s hair, so he can pull their mouths closer together. It’s mostly
just a mash of slick tongues and sharp teeth, but it’s good like this, always
has been, and it’s good enough to make Jim groan against him, nearly dropping
the boy in his effort to find some sort of grip on Sebastian’s body.
“I’ll put down mine if you put down yours,” Jim offers, purring as he flicks
his tongue out to kitten lick at Sebastian’s lips, fingers digging into the
back of his neck. The only response given is a quiet murmur, shaking his head
no. He doesn’t want to dislodge their mouths for as long as that would take,
and they’ll be there soon.
The kid is holding on just fine on her own, so he ignores her, both hands in
Jim’s hair now, forcing his tongue between the man’s lips. Jim can only growl
at him, but he’s still almost utterly compliant, letting Sebastian set the
pace, and that is a victory in itself.
They continue to kiss like that, alternating between Jim sucking fervently on
his tongue, and then softer, sets of slower kisses, that are nearly chaste, and
it’s easy to get lost in them; it’s not until the sound of one of the kids
crying — most likely the boy — and the cabbie hitting the horn that they stop.
Sebastian pulls away regretfully, planting one last kiss to the plump red of
Jim’s lips.
By the time he’s pulled away, the car has more than stopped, and the meter is
racking up money, so he distracts himself with tossing a few bills into the
front seat as payment. It’s by far more than enough to pay, but he doesn’t care
about change. And they’ll either walk home, he figures, or find another taxi.
There’s no reason to make this one wait.
They don't stop their crying, even after they get out, and Jim smacks his arm,
non-verbally demanding that they switch kids, so he can shunt the loud one off
on Sebastian. It’s all right, though, they’re almost done, so he gives in, and
the little one struggles in his arms, fighting the hold, demonstrating exactly
why Jim was so eager to get rid of it.
He scowls down at the boy, still considerably less likely to lash out and hurt
the child in his frustration at it than Jim was. “Shh, shhh, it’s all right,
kid,” he runs a slightly rough hand across the boy’s head, trying to calm him.
“It’s okay, little dove. You’re all right, yeah?” Copying what Jim had done
earlier, he bounces the kid a little as he follows Jim along towards the
entrance to the building. It works, and he tops it off with a silly face that
will probably get him grief with Jim later, but the way the tears dry up and
the boy starts to giggle makes it worth it.
In all truth, the boy reminds him of how Jim must have been when he was small,
and maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind so much. He would have done the same
things for him, if he’d met Jim just a handful of years earlier than he had.
For a flash of a moment, after he’s jogged to catch up to Jim, it feels like
they’re a silly little family. The way Jim holds the girl, cradled up close to
his chest, the way that they walk once he falls into perfect step at Jim’s
side. It’s all painfully domestic, and for a short, startling moment, he finds
that he actually wants this.
The spell breaks before he can do much more than register that it was there at
all, and then they’re grinding to a halt at desk. The lady behind the counter
has dull blue eyes and bleach blond hair, smiling at them like she doesn’t
understand simple maths, and Sebastian distracts himself by thinking about her.
About what it would be like to fuck her. It probably wouldn’t take much to make
her beg, make her cry out, trying uselessly to dig her stupidly long nails into
his skin.
He can’t imagine she’d make much of a shag.
Through the speech that Jim improvises — to which Sebastian doesn’t listen —
her smile doesn't waver. Even as the kid starts to look like he might start
crying again, and he ignores both of them in favour of keeping the little one
preoccupied.
By the time he looks up, the girl has come out from behind the counter, and is
handing out candy. Each of the children gets a lolly, and it’s incredibly
quaint, the way that she coos at them. The tale Jim fed her must have been
excessive, because she doesn’t cast so much as a single suspicious look in
their direction.
Jim has always had that way about him, being able to catch people in with his
extraordinary levels of detail, swirling words around their heads until they’re
utterly convinced about what he’s telling them. She takes the little boy from
him first, saying something to him, and he wraps his arms around her neck. The
little girl gets set down on the ground, making an immediate break for Jim’s
legs, clinging to him, her fingers sticky with traces of the candy held in her
mouth.
He can see the sneer that Jim forces back, but as soon as the girl turns around
to pick up the phone behind the desk, they make their escape for the door,
pushing the girl off much in the same way her father had rejected her before
they took her. The irony of that isn’t missed, and neither of them looks back
as she starts crying again.
Sebastian himself is far more interested in getting outside, just so he can
throw Jim up against the nearest wall.
Naturally, the man’s first thought when he does get pushed is to reach for
Sebastian’s crotch, fingers wrapping around his cloth-covered semi.
“That excited by our little kiss?” the man arches up against him, purring into
his ear as he tucks his head up there. “Dirty boy.”
It’s certainly distracting, and part of him would find it incredibly easy to
just go along with it. Rough Jim up a little, get as far as he can before
someone intervenes and tries to stop them. But he has much more important
things with which he needs to deal.
“What the fuck was that, James?” he demands, shoving the man’s hand off him,
and forcing him harder up against the wall. “What the fuck did you think you
were doing, taking those kids?”
“Oh, come now, pet,” Jim replies in a murmur, and Sebastian pulls back just
enough to see the man’s teeth flint as he bares them for a mock smile. “Didn’t
you have as much fun as I did?” He relaxes into Sebastian’s touch, head still
tilted. A hand slides up between their bodies to catch the unbuttoned collar of
his shirt, before it moves further up, resting on the back of Sebastian’s neck,
playing lightly with the hairs there.
“Fuck you, James,” he growls, matching vicious smile for vicious smile. “We
could’ve gotten into trouble, you twat! You can’t just fucking steal kids out
from the arms of their parents and not expect to catch attention from someone!”
“But we didn’t.” Jim’s smile twists into a sneer, closing his eyes as he begins
to melt back against the wall. “We did not get into trouble,” he repeats, his
tone softening by the faintest degree. “We didn’t, and we’re fine. Don’t you
trust me?”
“Not with my life, I don’t.” Which is bullshit, and Jim knows it. The anger
starts to drain from Sebastian’s body, and he sighs, letting his head be pulled
down to nuzzle against the top of Jim’s. “You’re supposed to trust me to take
care of you, kitten,” he laments.
“I do trust you, darling,” Jim breathes up at him, tickling his throat. “I have
always trusted you with everything.
“Then why don’t you let me take care of you, huh?” he’s mostly grumbling now,
and as stupid as it is to start something like this in public, he can’t help
but rub at Jim’s hips, soothing with him the touch. “Why’re you always rushing
off to do things without telling me, when you could get into shit for it?
Answer me that, Jimmyboy.”
The nickname makes the man under him tense visibly. “Don’t call me that!” he
snaps, tugging roughly, pulling at Sebastian’s hair. It’s not really enough to
hurt, but it sends a jolt through him, and he sighs again.
“All right, all right,” he meets the man’s eyes, a hint of regret in his own.
“I just - I just don’t wanna see you come to any harm. You get that, yeah? If
you get put away, I can’t protect you. Not in the way I can out here.”
“I know.” Jim is pouting now, seemingly having forgotten the misuse of his
name, and he paws at Sebastian’s head. There’s something incredibly sad in his
eyes, which he tries to hide, so that Sebastian won’t be able to see it.
“Hey, hey,” he catches the man’s chin again, pulling him up to force eye
contact between them. “Trust me,” he orders, capturing Jim’s lips in an
incredibly chaste kiss.
It comes as no shock that Jim lets it happen, melting up against his mouth. It
doesn’t go past anything soft, Sebastian just holding Jim in place and nuzzling
against his mouth, reminding him that he’s here. And it’s even less of a
surprise when Jim is the one that ends it. He pulls away suddenly, ducking out
of Sebastian’s grasp, and wrapping his arms around his chest to protect
himself.
With Jim gone, Sebastian sighs again, head falling slowly forward to bump
against the brick wall. He doesn’t want to follow Jim, but at the same time he
does, and he knows he should. Jim shouldn’t be left on his own right now. So by
the time he makes up his mind, Jim is already halfway down the street, calling
back to him.
“Come along now, ‘Bastian. I have a meeting to make.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he breaks into a light jog to catch up with him, sliding an arm
around the man’s waist. “Can’t be late for that.”
***** brute heart of a brute like you *****
There are sometimes questions that Jim will ask, and Sebastian won’t have an
answer for him. Sometimes, it’s because they’re not meant to be answered or
because Sebastian doesn’t know what the answer is; and sometimes, he just
doesn’t want to tell Jim the truth about things.
As much as Jim could hate him in those moments, for bearing the same trait that
everyone else in his life always had, for as long as he can remember, there’s a
part of him that doesn’t. A part that prefers to hate himself for it, for the
fact that even when he’s trying as hard as he possibly can, he’s not enough for
Sebastian to trust, or to truly be willing to give everything.
He’ll lash out, waiting until he’s utterly alone, and then he’ll find things he
can break. Shattering whatever things won’t likely be missed, kicking whatever
is in reach; and sometimes, he’ll go outside, and he’ll walk alone for hours —
until dark has begun to set in — and he’ll trample anything in his path.
As childish as he knows it is, he can’t help it. He’ll yell at the sky, kicking
and screaming at a universe that can’t hear him, that doesn’t care to help him,
and he’ll keep going past the point of complete exhaustion.
When he returns, it’ll be gone. The hatred, that powerful emotion, replaced
only by a complete barrenness; an absence of anything definable, almost to the
point of nothing more than just existing.
On those days, Sebastian doesn’t come back for a while, and he’s left alone to
breathe.
But then there are the days when Sebastian tries to answer anyway, even when it
doesn’t seem like he actually knows the answer, or wants to give it. He’ll try
to distract Jim in small ways. A hand in the boy’s hair, a nose pressed into
his neck, trailing hands down his sides to induce the sensation of being
lightly tickled.
“Why do you want to know?” he asks, inhaling loudly, as if he’s breathing
nothing but Jim into his lungs. “What’s it to you?”
“I —” Jim breaks off with a moan, arching both towards and away from Sebastian
at the same time. He doesn’t shriek, but the sound from his throat grows higher
in pitch for a few soft seconds. “Just tell me, Seb.”
“C’mon, kitten,” the nose nuzzles deeper into Jim’s neck, pushing at him,
making him roll over onto his side. He does, closing his eyes, and Sebastian
follows, with a hand around his waist, tucking a leg in between Jim’s.
“Don’tcha think we could be doing more interesting things than...” his words
end in a mumble, and the hand slides down lower, teasing at his trousers in
offering.
“No.” Jim stops the hand before it can go too far, and he tugs it back up, so
it’s just holding him again. “Answer the question.”
Sebastian sighs into his hair, and some of it must be getting it’s the older
boy’s mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his mouth moves closer to Jim’s
ear, breathing over it, the air hot and wet. “What was the question again,
pretty kitty?”
If he could have, Jim would have reached around to smack Sebastian across the
back of his head. But he can’t, and he deflates instead. “You know the
question,” he mumbles back. “Jus - just answer it, yeah?”
“Say it again.” Sebastian’s lips close over the soft part of his ear, tugging
it lightly between his teeth, and Jim shivers.
“Why me?” he repeats softly, sounding stupid even as he does so.
“No, no,” the groan sounds like it’s coming from him, but he knows it’s not.
“Rephrase it for me.” His hand travels up the length of Jim’s shirt, moving
swiftly towards the boy’s face. It hesitates for a moment at his chin, before
it frames his face, seeming to touch each feature individually.
It’s distracting, and Jim almost forgets what words are forming inside his mind
as he tries to make them come out from his lips. He tries anyway, eyes still
shut, as Sebastian thumbs over the curve of his cheeks.
“Why did you pick me?” he finally asks lamely. “I mean - I know it’s not - that
we’re not natural, and that you —” he bites his lip, and Sebastian stills
behind him. “And why - why did you decide to stay? Even before we —”
Still pressed against his body, Sebastian shifts, and for a moment, Jim thinks
he’s moving to get up. He whines in the back of his throat, reaching back to
awkwardly curve his arm around Sebastian’s back, attempting to hold him in
place. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “you can - you can forget I asked, if you
want.” Just don’t leave me.
Again, he stills, and all Jim can hear is the beating of his own heart,
thumping away at his chest. He can feel Sebastian’s, faintly along his back,
but he can’t hear it as it matches his own.
“Why do you say we’re not natural?” Sebastian questions softly. “Do you mean
‘cause we’re both boys?” He hadn’t noticed the hand leaving his face, not until
the arm around him tightens.
“No...” not entirely. “I mean because I’m —” he swallows, and it catches in his
throat, feeling for a moment like it might gag him. “Because when we started I
was just - just fourteen, and you were nearly nineteen.”
He doesn’t have to feel the flinch to know that it’s there.
“I know that it’s not right,” he rushes on to say, before Sebastian can
interrupt him. “I know that we’re not - and you - and —” he swallows again,
around a lump this time.
“Jimmy —” his ear feels cold as Sebastian exhales on it, and his eyelids part,
peering out through the fuzzy line of his sight, not wanting to fully see. The
wall in front of him is pale and lifeless, somehow imitating how he feels.
“We’re not wrong,” Sebastian tells him. “We’re different, is all. Just
different from most people.”
The words twist in his stomach.
Don’t lie to me, he means to spit it out, but his lips betray him in the soft
way they form the words. “I don’t want you to lie to me, Sebastian.”
“All right, fine,” Sebastian sighs, and his arm pulls back, and so does he,
until they’re no longer touching. He can feel the mattress shift as Sebastian
falls back on it, but he doesn’t follow. Without the pressure, he feels cold
and alone. “You’re right,” there’s something suspiciously light in Sebastian’s
voice.
“We’re not natural,” he continues quietly, “we’re not normal. People aren’t
like us because we’re not like people. And I’m older than you, and if anyone
found out, they’d say I raped you.”
Before his eyes can swim with tears, he squeezes them shut again, but they feel
wet.
“They’d say that I raped you, and they’d call you a victim. They’d say that I
spent years grooming you, since that first time we met, and that I had abused
your trust in nearly every way possible.” There are fingers on Jim’s hip,
playing idly with his shirt, but they don’t actually touch him, as if Sebastian
doesn’t know that he’s doing it.
“They’d call me disgusting. Say that I’m a pervert. A paedophile. Child rapist.
They’d call me a faggot and say that I’m going to hell for what I’ve done to
you. And you know what, Jimmy?” he scoffs loudly. “I am going to hell. But if
it’s for you, then it’s because I’ll be going with you when you go.”
“Fuck you,” is the only reply he can give, and it’s a weak one, desperate
sounding. “Fuck you, Sebastian.”
Laughter greets him.
“You don’t have that much power over me,” but his voice cracks slightly.
“Don’t I?” The mattress moves again, and he can physically feel as Sebastian’s
body moves to cover him, without even touching him. He can feel the warmth of
someone above him, of legs bracketing his, hands coming down by each of his
shoulders. “Don’t I scare you? I did rape you after all.”
More than anything, he sounds hurt, and Jim can’t breathe.
“I molested you,” Sebastian growls at him, and he thinks he can hear a sneer.
“I assaulted you. I used you. Don’t you feel dirty? Don’t you hate me for it?”
The don’t say that catches before it can slip from his lips, and Jim has to
bite his tongue. He lets himself turn in Sebastian’s cage, until he’s on his
back, eyes opening slowly so he can stare up into the older boy’s eyes.
They’re a dark, distinct black, but he doesn’t flinch, licking his lips as he
breathes in and out carefully. “I don’t hate you,” he whispers, as Sebastian
analyses his face. “I’m not sure if I ever could.”
“Oh, Jimmy,” there’s scorn in his eyes for Jim. “Of course you hate me. You
always will. It’s what love is. You can’t love something fully without hating
it just as much.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim can see Sebastian’s hand moving, coming up to
touch his face again. His finger slips along the crease of Jim’s lips, stroking
them in an almost erotic fashion. “You love me,” he reminds Jim. “You’ve said
it, and —"
“And you love me,” Jim interrupts, from Sebastian’s finger. “You love me,” he
says again, voice stronger now.
“Aye, kitten,” and there’s something fierce in Sebastian’s eyes. “I love you
more than anyone else ever will.”
“Do you hate me then?” Jim’s eyes drop to the plump red of Sebastian’s lips,
his own eyelids feeling heavy. He blinks, trying to focus, and failing
somewhat.
Sebastian chuckles, a hollowed out noise. “Nowhere near as much as you could
ever hate me.”
“Are you going to kiss me?” he can’t help but ask.
“Aye.”
Ducking his head down, Sebastian angles Jim with his hand, holding his chin in
place to claim his lips in a kiss. It’s soft, one of the chastest ones they’ve
ever shared, and he doesn’t pull away immediately, just breathing out against
Jim’s mouth.
He moans very quietly, his eyes fluttering shut again, and he misses the
movement that settles Sebastian on his knees, so he can place his other hand by
Jim’s head, framing his hair.
“Are you mine, Jimmy?” he kisses him again, at the corner of his lips. “Do you
belong to me?”
His heart thuds. “Always.” It feels like a commitment, and he should be scared
to say it, but it feels natural to let the word escape. “My heart will always
be yours.”
“And your body?” The other corner of his lips is touched, and he tries not to
smile.
“Only yours.”
Sebastian nuzzles his cheek, down his jaw, and along his neck. “Good boy,” he
rubs into Jim’s skin.
Finally, Jim opens his eyes again, and he arches his back, so he can press his
hands to Sebastian’s head, and pull him back to look into his face. “Why me?”
he softly repeats the question from before.
It’s Sebastian’s turn to close his eyes, and he turns his head, to press a kiss
to the nearest palm. “‘Cause everyone should have a chance to be loved without
reservation,” he whispers, and Jim almost doesn’t hear it. “‘Cause everyone
needs someone.”
All Jim can do is nod. “If I ever asked you to leave —” he swallows mid-
sentence, pausing not to reform the words, but to tug Sebastian’s head down for
another dry kiss. “If I ever asked you to leave me, would you?”
He can feel it in Sebastian’s skin as he gulps, throat moving. “Would you ever
ask that of me?”
If it didn’t break his heart to hear the answer, he’d laugh at the evasion.
Instead, he nods once, and then again, accepting it for what it is.
“I hate you,” he says, for perhaps the first time, testing the words on his
tongue, just to see how they feel.
“I know,” is breathed back at him.
***** and they stuck me together with glue *****
Even with his eyes gently shut, and the rain pattering down around him, he can
hear the soft sound of arriving footsteps. They hesitate in their approach,
coming to an almost complete, and rather abrupt, stop several times before they
finally reach him, and come to that one last, final stop.
“M —?” is asked of him quietly, even when he doesn’t open his eyes to
acknowledge the man’s presence.
He answers with a gesture, the hand not currently occupied by the umbrella held
up just high enough to make an impact, signaling the empty space on the bench
beside him. It’s wet, from the two hours of near constant rain while out in the
open, and having been unprotected by the brolly Jim is holding — by design —
which is why he knows that the man will hesitate again. Quite possibly question
him.
But he doesn’t, it takes him a good twenty seconds, but Jim can then hear the
shuffling sound of fabric brushing up against fabric, and then feel the
creaking of the wooden bench as more weight is added to it. The man even has
his own umbrella with him, which is just a bit taller than Jim’s, and he can
feel its weight resting atop the edge of his.
“So you’re —” the man starts to say after approximately ten seconds of
squelching noises as he tries to get comfortable with a now quite wet arse.
“I am —?” he asks in return, the first word he’s uttered since he entered the
park, eyes still shut. Technically speaking, the man could pull a gun on him at
any moment, or try and kill him. But the lack of feedback from his eyes hardly
incapacitates him; if anything, it heightens the rest of his senses.
“You are, then,” the man declares in a relieved tone, audibly sighing happily.
“Good, I’m so glad. I thought at first that maybe I had —” he stops himself
before he finishes, laughing awkwardly. When he speaks again, only seconds
later, his voice drops down to a more solemn tone. “Thank you for meeting me
here, M. It is a great honour, truly.”
The smile Jim bestows blindly upon him is one of his most practiced, most
venomous, designed specifically for a very distinct sort of person.It’s set up
to showcase just how reptilian his features can look, and how much of a snake
he appears to be with his neck bent just right.
And he does look like a coiled up snake, a viper, hissing quietly with its
tongue flicking out occasionally, noticing everything, waiting for the best
moment to strike out and destroy something.
“I’m —” the man starts to add, his voice shaking ever so minutely, and Jim
almost wants to pity him.
“I know who you are,” he interrupts, and he does. This man’s brother was in his
employ not terribly long ago, though it was an incredibly brief stint. Even
going on the track record he has for keeping employees. He’d shot the man
between the eyes three weeks post-hiring him.
“Oh! Good. Then you know why I’m here.”
Rolling his eyes behind their lids, he lets his head loll to the side, giving
the man an incredulous, disdainful look like that, the scorn absolutely oozing
from his every pore. “Of course I know why you are here Mr … Burbanks, was it?”
The man must flush, because his next words seem to come out tinted in a pale
red. “Yes, that’s me. Aye. You can call me Robert, though.” Even without being
tainted by a non-physical question mark, the request reeks of one.
It’s disgustingly informal, and just the sort of thing that Jim absolutely
loathes about working class people. “Do get on with it, Mr Burbanks,” he orders
the man dryly, without a hint of regret in his throat.
He can tell that the man is questioning the fact that he hasn’t opened his eyes
once, and is internally struggling over whether or not he can get away with
asking about it. It’s almost precious.
“I want to work for you,” Burbanks bursts out, all six words sounding far more
like three as they overlap coming from his mouth. “I would be a fantastic
employee!” he continues, having only paused for a second. “I’m a good worker, I
don’t ever complain about hours, and you’ll never have to worry about me
sleeping on the job.”
It’s almost enough to make Jim want to open his eyes for the sole purpose of
seeing which part of the man he smacks across the face. He refrains,
unfortunately.
But he does open his eyes. The grass looks just like it had before he’d blocked
it away. It’s wet and bright green in some patches, and stained by the ever
growing supply of mud in others. And even though shutting his eyes didn’t shut
off his olfactory glands, he’s once again aware of the smellall around him.
That thick odor of wet grass and mud mixed with dog feces and urine, and some
child’s discarded ice cream, greasy chips being eaten somewhere, and wet
animals.
It’s almost beautiful anyway, though, as the rain continues to come pouring
down above their heads, the sky a hideous grey that’s far from unusual, only
the occasional white cloud dancing in amongst the rest of them, like an
unfortunate, adopted child.
The man next to him is still talking, but he’s stopped listeningto it. It’s all
useless drivel anyway, not oneslip of it meaning anything of value at all.
Beyond his own belief that he can be useful to Jim — and he can, but only in
one small, indirect way — which is exactly what will get him killed. No doubt
sooner, rather than later.
“I thought —” the man says, as Jim stares at that lone cloud.
“You thought what?” he interrupts smoothly, blinking very slowly. “That your
brother’s name would be enough to keep me from killing you on sight?” It really
must have thrown him off to have survived it this far. “You foolish little
man,” he adds, on a side note. “Jack wants you dead, and you come running to
me. Only to do your very best to make me, also, wish for your rotting corpse on
a platter.”
He turns his head, actually looking this time, perfectly set up to see the man
pale drastically. It may just be the cold getting to him, but he looks
absolutely sick to his stomach, like he could start hurling up his lunch at any
moment.
It’s a delightful look on him. He smiles at the man, of course, driving the
point home with a slightly more tender version of his previous one.
“I - I haven’t done anything to you, M,” the man injects, and despite his
choice of words, it sounds like a crude mixture of a demand and shameless
begging.
“You worked for Jack.” It’s all he has to say, because it’s the only part of
the whole thing that actually matters at the moment.
“Y - ye —” the man can’t quite seem to make his denial sound real, and Jim
sighs, feeling rather put-upon. “I came to you immediately!” he says instead,
in a pleading tone, desperate for Jim to believe him. “The moment I was in the
country. The moment it was safe to look for you. Look it up, if you don’t
believe me! It’s all there.”
Which is true. Most of it, that is. The provable documents part. The rest has
far too bright a ring of insanity in it.
A few paces away, on the gravelly road, is a young lady swiftly approaching
them. Her heels are too high, too red, her skirt is too short, and her blouse
too low cut. Her lips are a strawberry red, blotted on colour, and the flush in
her cheeks is dramatic like that of a porcelain doll’s. The only thing
protecting her from the onslaught of water being a dainty, polka-dot patterned
umbrella that hardly looks capable of lasting more than a day.
She almost sinks into the wet ground with every step as she crosses the grass,
and he can tell that despite the man to his side having noticed her, he doesn’t
realise that she’s more than a simple bystander.
“M —” she says once close enough, addressing only him with more than just her
words. Her eyes don’t even twitch away from him, even as the flush from her
cheeks spreads to her ears, and she fights visibly to remain standing and not
embarrass herself. She has to catch herself before she ruins his lipstick by
worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and it’s amusing, truly, as both
their gazes fix unshakingly on the figure she makes.
Only Jim looks upon her with curiosity, vaguely recognising who she is, and the
man stares in both lust and fear. Fearing that she’s dangerous and might try
and kill him. The foolish little man that he is.
An apology works its way from her body, knowing that it’s not proper to upset
her boss, but it hardly matters at this point, and Jim silences her with a
raised hand. “What do you have for me that is so important you felt it
necessary to seek me out and interrupt a meeting?”
Her lips open into an O shape, and she almost stutters for a moment, before
collecting herself. Reaching with her free hand behind her back, to the space
between her skin and her shirt, she pulls out a reasonably thick file, which
she hands him. “You’ve been emailed the soft copy, sir,” she tells him quickly,
her eyes flickering for a moment towards his companion. “It seemed pressing
that you get it without delay.”
“I see.” He frowns lightly, not caring as water gets on the front of the file
while it changes hands. “There is a coffee vendor just down the road, to my
left,” he tells her, practically barking out the words. “Bring me a latte from
there. Do not dally.”
She scurries off without a word, leaving him clutching the file in one hand. He
tucks it temporarily underneath an arm, so that he can reposition the umbrella,
pulling it out to reach a much higher height, and then carefully lodging it
into the paneling of the bench. It sits there perfectly once he’s pulled his
hands away, just in the right spot above his head to protect him without need
of his hands.
The man beside him makes a soft noise, which he ignores, pulling the file back
out to open it, and examining the contents. There are several sets of papers,
separated by little metal clips, with the one closest to the front tagged by a
post-it note. He frowns, tilting his head to read the little slip of green.
Autopsy reports.
How fascinating. He only skims, taking in the information at an incredibly
quick pace, going through the papers one and a time, until he’s finished the
entire set. At one point, less than a half page in, the man starts to lean
over, trying to read over Jim’s shoulder without being noticed, but Jim snaps
his fingers at him, that sends him reeling backwards.
The bench shakes slightly at the force, but he’s still after that, only
uttering a single, “—mm - M?” before he can finish.
“Hush now,” he coos at the man, not looking up. “Daddy’s busy right now. He’ll
get to you in a moment.”
He doesn’t have to see in order to know the severity of the shudder that wracks
through the man’s body at that.
And maybe he finishes slower than he normally would, just for the added benefit
of being able to make the man wait. But when he does finish, he removes the
lighter papers from their hardened binding, folding them up carefully, before
he stuffs them into the inside pocket of his jacket.
It’s just in time, too, because when he looks up, the girl is approaching
again, the same path across the grass as before, with a single travel cup of
coffee.
She stops in front of him without a word, arm extended with the coffee an
offering that he brings immediately up to his lips. Without a word — far too
busy swallowing the sip of steaming hot liquid — he hands her the discarded
folder in exchange, and it doubles as a signal that her presence is no longer
needed.
“Have a good afternoon, sir,” she says quickly, scurrying away from them at as
fast a pace as the first time she had, and in only a matter of moments, she’s
back onto the gravel path, disappearing down towards the tree line.
Elizabeth. That was what her name was. Elizabeth. The name almost sounds
familiar. Perhaps it was his mother’s.
He brushes her out from his mind, finally turning back towards his companion,
with his coffee poised at his lips once more. “Do you have any idea what was in
those papers, Mr Burbanks?” he asks the man, his eyebrow raised, just before he
takes a second sip.
“N - n —” Burbanks stutters, struggling to get the word to actually come out
from his tongue. “No, s - sir,” he’s finally able to say, and it appears that
even despite the cool rain falling down around them, and the chill in the air,
he’s begun to sweat quite profusely, and his ears are tinted with an obvious
pink.
Jim smiles at him, a blank quirk of lips. “I suspected as much,” he comments,
sounding blasé about the idea. “It does, however,” he continues, after only the
shortest of pauses. “Appear that you have been at least somewhat truthful with
me.”
It’s enough to confirm to the man that the papers now stuffed inside Jim’s
jacket are related to him somehow, causing him to open and close his mouth
several times. Whatever bravado he came here with has more than failed him at
this point, and his eyes flicker desperately towards the gravel path. He’s no
doubt attempting to judge just how far he might be able to get before Jim would
somehow manage to gun him down.
“You are a dead man walking, you know,” he adds, before the man can muster up
some combination of useless words. And he almost offers a consolatory — if not
mocking — smile in the man’s direction. “If you leave here today without my
protection, there is nothing you can do to save yourself. But you already knew
that, did you not?”
He answers his own question with a hum, his thumb moving in a motion to almost
pet the cardboard lining of his cup, looking contemplative for a moment as his
gaze flickers away to something behind the man’s head. “I give you …” he trails
off, eyes narrowing, weighing the options.
“Less than a week?” it’s a question, but at the same time, it only sounds like
one.
“Please,” Burbanks pleads, his voice so quiet that it can barely be heard over
the ever growing din of the rain. “Please, M. Help me.”
“Did you know that I killed him?” It’s makes Burbanks pause, thrown off by it,
and consequently forcing him to focus on something other than himself for the
first time in what must be years.
“Wh - what?”
“Your brother,” Jim corrects himself easily, still staring at that tree. “I was
the one that killed him.”
“You —”
“Yes,” he agrees, when it’s made clear that the man cannot muster much more
than repetition of words at this point. “Me.”
“Y - you k - killed him? My brother? Sc - Scottie?” Burbanks swallows, his
throat bobbing heavily, and Jim looks back at him just enough to see what
should be tears beginning to well up in his eyes. The man appears as if he’s
resisting the urge to throw himself at Jim, attack him; and it’s easy to assume
that the only reason he hasn’t yet is that he still values his own life over
that of revenge for his brother.
It’s a shame, really.
“Yes! That’s the one,” Jim agrees with him amiably, almost appearing to smile
now. “Scottie. I knew his name had started with a ‘Skuh’ sound.”
“—why?”
“Why?” it’s his turn to repeat, mulling the word over between his teeth. After
only a second, he brings his gaze up deliberately from the man’s throat,
staring straight into his eyes. “Because he was useless. Just as you are.”
A delayed shudder wracks through the man’s body, his hands clenching at his
sides. Jim can still see that desperation, that horrific fight inside him, the
war between what he wants to do, and that never ending need to protect his own
skin.
I wish I had an apple, he thinks belatedly.
“What?” the man asks, suddenly appearing confused. Oh. He must have said that
aloud.
“Never you mind, dearie,” he reassures, lips curling up into a pout. “About
that help you seek.”
Burbanks’ eyes widen, filling with a silly little light that is pure hope.
“You’ll protect me, then?”
“Oh, that. I still haven’t made my mind up about that.” He smiles milky white.
“Do you know what the value of your life is, Mr Burbanks?” He should. It is his
life after all. But then, men do so often miscategorise themselves when it
comes to such important things.
“I’m valuable,” the man insists, jaw clenching tight, and if he had a desk
nearby, there is no doubt in Jim’s mind that his fist would be slamming down on
it hard, trying to make a bigger impact than his words. “I know I am. Sir.”
“There are only two things of any real value to me on your person, Mr
Burbanks,” Jim continues, scolding him with a look for interrupting to answer a
rhetorical question. “Those are that I knew your brother, and that you still
have one or two connections within Jack’s empire that could be of some benefit
to me.”
The man doesn’t perk up at that, instead looking suddenly wary. He’s guarded
now, in a way that he’s hasn’t been this entire time; and it’s unfortunate —
for him — because the first tactic didn’t work, and that guarantees that this
second one will be even less successful.
He thinks about it for a long moment, and Jim lets him stew on that, on
whatever is passing through his pedantic little mind, as he deliberates on what
he believes Jim must want from him. “You —” he starts, before shaking his head,
the thought almost visibly knocking its way from his mind. “I’ll give you
whatever you want.” Finally. “Just help me. Please.”
There’s that horribly silly please again. It’s as if he genuinely believes that
the word please will encourage Jim to take to his ridiculously useless cause.
“I worked for him for five years,” the man continues, the words now more or
less spilling from his lips, as he forgets that he should have a filter when it
comes to things like conversations with and about dangerous men. “I know almost
everything that went on! I’ll give you it all, I swear.”
It’s true, he means it, or believes that he does. Most likely the latter.
“You’re a great man, M!” he declares, and he must also believe that flattery
actually gets a person somewhere in life. “I know you are. You know you are.
With what I can give you, you can beat him!”
“You say that as if you believe that I could not do it without you.” He turns a
sharp, admonishing look onto Burbanks, who flinches again.
“No, no!That wasn’t what I meant, sir.” Of course it wasn’t.
“I have one more question for you, Mr Burbanks,” Jim tells him, putting him out
of his misery, at least for this short respite. “And then I will tell you my
answer.”
“Anything!” the man declares vehemently. “Anything at all!”
He ignores that. “I am quite curious to know whether or not you realise that
just by stepping into the confines of this park today, you have sealed your
fate.” He pauses, and the man opens his mouth, preparing to give Jim a retort.
He silences it with an eyebrow.
“No, I do not mean your future at large. I mean, put rather simply, that if you
had not come here, there was an incredibly small chance that you could have
regained Jack’s favour, and gone home to the Americas with almost all of your
body intact.”
Something lights up again in the man’s eyes, as his chest heaves. “But —” he
continues, voice growing ever the more stern. “You came here, instead. To
me. And now you have no options left. It is down to —” he pauses again, because
with every breath that he sucks in, the man grows more and more stiff.
“— four things. You will either die at Jack’s hands, sometime before you leave
here for home. You will die at the hands of one of my employees within a week.
Or you will die today,” he smiles, wane and pleasant. “Here. In this park. Next
to me, on my little bench.”
The man’s skin has grown paler than the shell of an egg, and he lets himself
conclude, his final words utterly unspectacular sounding. “Or I will help you,
and you will live at least five years more.”
“I have —” the man starts, shifting in his seat — unfortunately forgetting
about his umbrella, which means that some water slides down the side and lands
on the back of his neck, which he only peripherally seems to notice.
“You have nothing,” Jim reiterates, spitting out the word like a curse. “You
are nothing, Mr Burbanks. You could not be anything even if you dedicated your
entire life to the pursuit of something.”
“Fuck you, Moriarty,” Burbanks suddenly spits back, a tiny little clump of
saliva speeding between them, landing rather promptly on Jim’s cheek.
He doesn’t give the man the concern to look down at it, simply wiping it away
with a carefully gloved hand. Before he’s finished, he moves to stand,
reclaiming the umbrella from its place on the bench. It moves back into his
hand easily, fitting back to its normal size, leaving him standing up above
Burbanks.
“No, Mr Burbanks,” he tells the man in his most dry tone. “You are the one that
has gotten fucked in this matter.” He smirks down, a hand sneaking up from his
side to reach for the man’s umbrella, seeming to be admiring it for a second.
But before the man can react, Jim is slicing through it with an incredibly
small, incredibly sharp little knife, leaving the pieces in useless tatters.
The rain pours down on his head, with only Jim protected from it now, and the
man seethes, beginning to stand. Jim takes a step back, bowing his head low,
mocking him with the respectfulness of the motion. “You will be hearing from me
within a week, Mr Burbanks,” he purrs, another step back. “Or you will not. But
if you do not, you will surely fail to realise it. Ta - ta.”
And before the man can muster enough of himself up off the bench, Jim is away,
practically skipping off in the direction the girl had gone.
Once Burbanks is on his feet, hands coming up above his head in an utterly
useless attempt to shield his face from the rain, Jim has disappeared from
sight.
He curses.
***** you stand at the blackboard, daddy *****
“L'autre soir un air froid d'opera m'alita: Son fele-bien fol est qui s'y fie.
Il neige, le decor s'ecroule, Lolita. Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?”
Even not understanding the words, Sebastian looks up. “Practicing your French?”
he asks curiously, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.
“My French is perfect,” Jim demures back, “if anything, I would need to
practice my Russian.” Even from across the room, with his face buried
underneath an arm and the length of shirt that covers it, the words seem to
dance from his lips like a song, a deliberately light and airy feel about them.
“Say somethin’ else, then, yeah?” letting his thumb fill the gap in his book so
he won’t lose his place, Sebastian shifts to get himself comfortable, eyes
still on Jim’s form. “If you’re not gonna translate for me, that is. So at
least I can enjoy it a bit.”
“It was from a book,” Jim scoffs back, as if offended by Sebastian’s
interference. “And French is a beautiful language, that of lovers, or so they
say. Lovers and the cultured.” But the touch of scorn on his lips betrays the
fact that he considers such things to be akin to fairy stories. “You are not
cultured, nor are you my lover. French is not for you.”
Despite himself, and instead of being bothered by Jim’s snootiness, Sebastian
smiles. “What book?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jim sighs deeply, and the mattress under him squeaks as he
shifts onto his side on the bed, an arm curled up underneath his head. “I had a
dream last night,” he says instead, filling the silence and his boredom.
“Yeah?” Sebastian snorts quietly, the sound not quite loud enough to make it to
Jim’s ears. “Tell me about it. I’m sure it’s a fascinating insight into your
psyche.”
He ignores that, humming softly, eyes slowly closing. “I didn’t feel like I was
human,” he murmurs, after just enough seconds had passed that Sebastian had
begun to think that Jim might have fallen asleep. “There was nothing happening
around me, because the dream was me. Just me.
“The skin that stretched across my bones, tying shut the knots that were
keeping my body from spilling out onto the concrete didn’t feel as if they were
made for me.”  Jim hesitates for a moment and Sebastian can almost hear him
frowning. “My skin ached perpetually, every second of that dream I was trying
to scratch my body, relieve me, rubbing at my skin, and feeling as if I were a
badly fitted leather glove.
“I would bend, I would stretch out my neck, and it felt as if every joint was
being popped out of place over and over and over, instead of back into their
spaces. And I would blink, feeling as if that alone was unnatural, as if I
wasn’t supposed to. Yet I couldn’t seem to stop.
“My toes didn’t feel like toes, but rather they were badly sewn on buttons,
attached to the ends of my feet. And when I would stretch out my fingers,
staring through the cracked spaces left in between, I couldn’t see skin and
bones anymore. I saw a hand that didn’t look like mine. That looked like a
cheaply made copy of a copy, when the original had been lost so long that it
was most likely thrown out by now and ripped up in the rubbish.”
He pauses there, pushing the air loudly from his nose so he can suck it in
afresh. “My mouth felt dry, my lips cracked, but they didn’t hurt. Not as hairs
collected as if in a pile atop my head, making me grimace and groan, agitating
my state of mind.” A hoarse chuckle rasps from his throat, from remembering
that feeling.
“I felt as if the stuffing that made up my insides had been torn out, ripped
from the torn stitches of my body, thrown out, and then replaced by something
new. By a newer model, new parts, newly greased organs that should have worked
better, but wouldn’t ever.
“I felt as if the stuffing that used to be me was no longer good enough, so
someone had decided to get rid of it, to make room for something that was so
entirely not me.”
As he speaks, Sebastian finds himself frozen in place, unable to speak, and
barely able to breathe as Jim talks, utterly enraptured by the words falling
from his lips.
“Even my mind didn’t feel as if it were mine,” Jim continues, and Sebastian has
to strain his ears to pick up every single sound. “But more like a backup of a
hard-drive kept hidden away in a drawer, for when the system crashes, and it
has to be replaced inside a brand new computer. I felt as if I could stop
breathing and —” he pauses again, and Sebastian can only imagined that he’s
holding his breath, trying it out, and he has to close his eyes, listening for
the stillness.
“— and be all right. Because I was only breathing as a reminder that I was
supposed to be human.”
He hears Jim’s exhale, loud, the only audible sound for a moment. “I felt as if
someone had made a perfect replica of my body, reforging every detail down to
the very last, and then finally, finally brought it to life, just as I fell
asleep. When there was nothing left of the first me to be worth keeping.”
His words sound final, achingly so. “I didn’t feel as if was human.”
“— And?” Sebastian finds himself asking, his voice barely managing to not
crack. “Was that all that happened?”
“And I think I died,” Jim finishes, sounding casual, uncaring about the idea.
Still, it makes Sebastian flinch back minutely, shaking him out of his daze. It
always shakes him how blasé Jim is about the idea of his own death, how easily
he takes the concept, and how little it bothers him when he’s forced to
acknowledge it.
It’s something about Jim that Sebastian has never really understood, and
probably never will. But it does manage to bring forth feelings of
protectiveness over the boy.
I’ll never let anyone harm you, he wants to say. You won’t die on my watch.
They’ll have to kill me first.
But Jim wouldn’t appreciate him saying such things. He’d get a faraway look in
his eyes, swallow, and glance at Sebastian like just being around each other
pains him. You’re ridiculous, is what he’d say, you’re a fool.
Something that would go uncontested, because they both know as well as the
other that they are both fools. Which is half the reason their mismatched
friendship thrives the way it does instead of crumbling to pieces on a near
constant basis.
“What do you dream of, Sebastian?” Jim asks him suddenly, sending him reeling
back from his thoughts. He looks up again, staring straight into Jim’s eyes.
The boy’s moved, now sitting still on the bed, along the edge of it now, his
legs swinging back and forth, focus fixed almost entirely on Sebastian.
“I —” he hesitates, mulling it over inside his head. Nothing comes out for a
second, and he starts to frown. “I don’t dream,” he finally settles on, “or I
don’t remember them, at least. They’re just this - this big, black, empty space
when I sleep.
“You’ve never recalled your dreams?”
“No, not once,” he answers truthfully.
“Oh.” With a thump, Jim falls back onto the bed, sighing as he tucks his arms
back behind his head. “Sometimes - sometimes I think I’d like it better if I
didn’t dream.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to confessing that his dreams
cause him distress, and Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “But then I remember all the
things I learn from my head. It would be silly to say that having such an
access to my subconscious mind is something I’d rather not.”
There’s a silence between them, which stretches on uncomfortably long.
“I think I’d like,” he finally says, “to be able to decide upon the nights I
want to dream and the ones I don’t want to. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yeah. I think it would.”
When no further words come from either of their lips, Sebastian shrugs lightly
to himself, unsettled still as he huffs in half-laughter and returns to his
book.
***** and then i knew what to do *****
When he’d left the flat, Jim had been singing. His eyes had been shut, his body
spread across the sofa with his arms crossed over his chest. The words had been
practically inaudible, only decipherable enough for Sebastian to understand
that they were French.
He sang softly, with a tender, building crescendo that sent shivers that
Sebastian didn’t understand down his spine. Even the loudest note hardly came
out above the level of his breath, but Sebastian had been afraid to interrupt
it, until he finally had.
His feet made too much noise padding softly across the carpet, and Jim stopped
mid-note, the sound still frozen in the air like a piece of paper being held up
by a string.
It wasn’t that the man could have ever been a singer, famous or not, but there
was something incredibly chilling about it. Like he was singing some omen, or a
benediction, and it left Sebastian feeling so incredibly thirsty.
“What was that?” he asks Jim at a whisper, hesitating over it.
It’s not that he doesn’t think Jim will answer him, more than he’s afraid to
disturb him, even more so than he already has.
His answer comes between one heartbeat and the next.
“It’s about a sailor,” Jim murmurs. Something about his tone is stunningly off,
as if he’s not speaking to anyone in particular. Like he doesn’t consider
Sebastian’s presence to have any importance, or is worthy of any real
acknowledgement. It’s as if he’s talking to someone who isn’t Sebastian.
It sends a pang through him to hear.
“Sailors, really,” the man amends, quieter still, until Sebastian has to strain
to hear it. “A poem, more than a song, set to an old tune, about their exploits
on the shores of Amsterdam.”
A soft laugh crosses his lips, mumbling something too soft for Sebastian to
catch.
Only silence rings between them, until it gets to be too much, and he shifts on
his feet, still staring at the visible portion of Jim’s body. “Are you going to
come with me?” There really isn’t anything to say about the song. It had struck
him as odd, a beautiful sound, even if he’s never learnt the language in any
way.
Once, a very long time ago, he had felt like he should like to learn French.
But he’d never taken the time.
It’s a joy to hear Jim singing, as chilling as such a sight tends to be.
He doesn’t bother asking Jim if the man who’s know he’s going, or offer the
information himself. Jim always knows.
There’s another beat of silence, and then the faint sound the fabric always
makes when one slides against it. Jim shifts, curling up into himself; and it’s
only then that he notices how dark it is.
He understands immediately, what it means, almost cursing his silliness.
“No, I don’t think I will,” Jim whispers unnecessarily, and he takes that as
his cue to slip out the back door.
As the door closes behind him, he doesn’t hear a sound. He’s greeted instead by
the chill around him, shivering slightly.
It was foolish to not bring a coat, but it’s too late to go back now, to
further disturb Jim’s peace; and instead he resolves to brace himself from the
cold. He’ll possibly pick up something cheap and warm along the way.
The walk to the car isn’t far, nor does it take all that long to get the heat
to work, to pull out and drive in the right direction. He’s got it written
down, somewhere in his bag, but it doesn’t matter because he knows exactly
where he’s going.
There’s a building along Canary Wharf that more or less has his metaphorical
name on it, and it’s where Jim said he’d need to be.
The rest, he knows it all better than the back of his own hand. He’s been doing
jobs like this for Jim for so long that they’ve more than begun to bleed
together, no longer even playing on an endless loop inside his head
The song itself, the one that Jim had been singing, somehow managed to get
caught in his mind, though. He can’t sing it, nor does he know the words, but
he can hear it playing softly, keeping him warm as he moves.
It would be easy to let his limbs fall asleep, but he has to keep them moving,
to keep the cold from stinging its way into his body, and he repeats that to
himself as Jim sings in his head. Like the song of a siren, lighting the way
for him.
It’s a pleasant thought, even now, as he brings together the separated pieces
of his rifle, tucking them one bit at a time out of his bag. He places them
together with care and ease, setting up his scope when he’s done. It’s a
beautiful thing, the stretch of the barrel, and he presses a kiss to it, like
one might when mouthing along the arching spine of a lover.
He kisses Jim like that, some nights, when the man allows it. When he’s not
shoved away in the heat of the moment, or aside to the cooling sheets as they
catch their breath. When Jim is vulnerable, shivering under his touch as he
whispers forgotten words into Sebastian’s skin.
Jim would never admit it, but he likes those moments. He likes that sort of
touch.
Beautiful, he whispers to her, swallowing as he lines up the shot. His eyes
drift shut. Three soft breaths in and out, the evening out of his heartbeat. It
thumps carefully in his chest, as if on command, as if he has ultimate control
over it.
He waits.
The shot rings out through his ears.
It plays out in slow motion for him, almost able to track the path the bullet
travels, through the glass shattered to make way.
He checks his sight, for assurance’s sake, and the target — if he could call it
that, a woman, her blond hair pooling like a halo around his head on the floor
— is clearly dead. It went right where it was intended, between her eyes, and
the pattern of the broken glass completes the illusion.
He doesn’t stay long enough to watch as her companions rush into the room, to
her side, swarming around her like flies.
He’s done, and he can breathe out again, the part of their job that requires
him most heavily is complete. He can go home now.
There’s no need to linger.
 
===============================================================================
 
It’s not really a scream, the voice he hears in his head. It’s not really a
sound, in the way that a normal person might categorise sound.
He’s aware that it’s not real, that it’s only playing out inside, past the
barrier of his ears.
But it’s still painful, the way one might imagine that it hurts to hear those
telltale notes that leave shattered glass in their wake. It echoes seemingly
without pause back and forth between the ridges of his mind, increasing in
speed and height as it goes.
It leaves him biting through his lip, drawing and sucking the blood down his
throat as if dying of thirst, the urge to cry out never leaving his lips.
It hurts to think, it hurts to breathe, and it hurts to be alive.
Not in the way that existence itself is troubling, or that bellows of suicide.
But in the way of something breaking. It seems to tweak its way forward, every
time it hesitates for the shortest of tones; it damages something along a ridge
of his skull.
If he could look at himself from a distance — and it almost feels like he
is — he would swear that he’s left bleeding out like a victim of a faraway
gunshot wound. Where the blood is for some reason leaking out through his ears,
and from his nose, his lip bloodied and worn, his eyes left blackened and open.
He stares at himself, at this visage he’s created.
There is no peace in it, no peace in pretending that he’s watching himself feel
the pain. It brings him no shred of relief.
But it doesn’t cause it to grow, no matter how it stings, how it threatens to
increase until the volume is so shrill that it makes his head explode into a
thousand tiny little blood riddled pieces.
It stays the same, and that’s almost worse, in a way. The knowledge that it is
completely unchanging, neither growing worse or more tolerable.
It makes him want to tear his hair out, one clump at a time, scratch at his
scalp to relieve the pressure, to draw out something from the wounds. Whatever
this is, whatever it always is.
But he can’t, and he sits on his heads instead, his fingers digging tightly
through the material of his trousers into his skin, reminding him that he
can’t. He can’t hurt himself like that; this will pass, because
it always passes. No matter how it tells him that it will never end.
Even just the darkness is too bright, too threatening, too present
and there. It makes him think of those nights, all those memories threatening
to rush back upon him when he’s at his most vulnerable.
He could swear, as he breathes raggedly into the cushion under his head, that
there’s someone lying at his back, breathing unevenly in his ear. It doesn’t
say anything, but it draws a shiver, no matter how illogical a sense it is.
He has to bite his lip, remind himself that he’s on the sofa. There isn’t room
for a person behind him.
But it’s still there, almost lulling him in equal parts comfort and
disturbance.
Ils vous montrent des dents. A croquer la fortune. A decroisser la lune. A
bouffer des haubans.
The words trip from his lips, quiet and trembling, tears threatening to sting
his eyes.
Et ca sent la morue. Jusque dans le coeur des frites. Que leurs grosses mains
invitent. A revenir en plus.
It fades, slowly, the hands; they slip away from his body, until he can’t even
feel the air puffing against the hairs of his neck.
He can breathe easier, go back to the sweltering heat inside his mind, wallow
there without end until something comes to drag him back out from there.
Until Sebastian comes home, and he can be cradled in the man’s arms, head
pressed into his stomach; and maybe then he’ll be able to sleep.
 
===============================================================================
 
I’ve a meeting in the morning, he whispers before he falls asleep in
Sebastian’s arms.
I know, a kiss is dropped onto the top of Jim’s head. Want me to go in your
stead?
No, not - not worth it, he sighs, arms tightening as he burrows into the warmth
of Sebastian’s chest. Better if I take care of things.
If it’s not better by morning … he trails off, knowing that Jim is already
asleep.
***** bit my pretty red heart in two *****
The hands seem to wrap around his body, pushing and shoving, in every direction
imaginable. Until he can’t keep track of where he’s going, of who’s touching
him, or of what they want. They’re just hands, just people — children — but
they’re so close. The too hot air being continuously expelled from their mouths
and noses makes him sweat, his skin heating up higher and higher despite the
chill in the air around them. It’s as if they’re in a bubble, the rest of the
world protected from them.
He doesn’t close his eyes, nor does he whimper or whine, but he can’t make
himself focus. It’s happened too many times, too often, it’s not a surprise
when it does happen now, no matter how impromptu it is every time. It makes him
feel like he’s falling, forced inside a black hole, not quite pulled and not
quite pushed, spinning in a thousand directions at once.
It’s so much easier to just close it all out, until all that’s left are the
pure sensations in it all. They call out to him, voices of varying depth and
pitch, shouting him names, jeering at him. It’s impossible to distinguish the
words at this point, no matter the repetition of it, only hearing the tone
behind every syllable.
He doesn’t want to whimper that he’s sorry. He doesn’t want to make them happy
just so that they will stop.
It’s not peaceful, and it’s not something that can shrink to a shaky lull, no
matter how desperately he might hope that it would.
But it’s going to last for as long as it always lasts, and struggling against
so many will only weaken him further, only tire him out quicker; which
undoubtedly leads to longer and more strenuous punishments for his imagined
slights against them. He can feel his body growing limper and limper, making
them have to expend more effort just to keep him up.
It makes them angry, angrier than they already were, and suddenly it’s not just
hands, but knuckles and fist, too. They beat against him, closed and hard,
almost like rocks — so much so that he more than suspects that there are at
least a couple enclosed within those curled up hands — making him struggle to
hiss in each breath.
Someone screams, and he can hear it, just barely, in the back of his mind, a
funny sensation tickling through his ears. They hear it, too, but it doesn’t
make them hesitate, instead shouting profanity, growing louder themselves to
counter the screaming noise.
It takes him a moment to make him realise that it’s him, he’s the one that’s
been screaming, and it does nothing to dull the sound. Instead, it grows more
natural to his ears, more like singing.
He wants to smile now, and laugh, imagining that he’s not here, that he’s in
some opera house somewhere, belting out a tune at the top of his lungs. The
crowd is jeering, screaming at him to get off the stage, only making him sing
louder, until glass begins to shatter.
But the fantasy can’t last, and it fades, even sharper and quicker than it
first began, consumed by the burning sensation of the muscles in his throat.
A hand works its way along his jaw, fingers tightening around the skin and
bone, until it aches. He could scream longer if he tried, and the hand
reassures them for a few seconds that he absolutely cannot. Fingers pinch at
his nose, and the fists stop, occupied for less than a minute with just choking
him.
He can’t breathe, his legs jerking involuntarily as his chest pumps up and
down, childishly desperate for air that he can’t get, and he knows it. He knows
he might die like this, having squandered his last breath.
The hand on his throat now is just too tight, combined with the ones over his
own hands and nose, and they bring stinging tears to his eyes, until the edges
of his vision begin to blur. He can feel his body grow lighter and lighter.
He wants to cry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sebastian! Where are you, Sebastian? But
he can’t, he doesn’t have the space or the room to sob those words into the
air, so he shouts them in his mind. Sebastian, please! please, come save me.
Sebastian!
But Sebastian can’t come for him, and as irrational as he knows it is to think
that the boy could, he feels betrayed, as his head sinks deeper and deeper into
the black. He just wants Sebastian there, to have his head cradled in the boy’s
arms, and be in the safety of a warm embrace.
It’s to that thought that he’s finally able to breathe in again, a desperate
gasp for air that hurts more than heals, once the air is no longer blocked from
entering his body.
He knows he’s been crying, he can feel the tears that stain his cheeks, and the
taunts only drive the point further.
They call him a poof, a little flower who can’t take it like a man; they say
he’s not a real man and that he never could be. They say that his parents left
him because they realised how much of a girl he’d grow up to be, and how much
it disgusted them; that no one could ever love him because he’s a disgusting
little rodent.
It’s to those words that he curls up on his side, into a foetal position,
hacking painfully as he sucks in precious gasps of air. They don’t hurt — the
words — not in the way the air does now, and he can’t bring himself to care.
He’s been hearing the same things for so many years, from such a wide
assortment of people that he finds nothing but truth in them at this point.
With that truth, he sees no reason why it should bother him.
The truth will set you free, and all.
With that reminder sitting in the back of his mind, he tries to calm his chest,
catching enough of his breath to be able to survive the next slew of attacks
that he’s sure will come soon.
But to his surprise, the light starts to fade again, passing him quickly into
black, and as desperately as he claws within his mind to stay awake, he can’t
seem to bear it.
His body drops, going slack in the mud.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
When he wakes, it’s to a calming noise in his ear, hands returning to pet along
his hairline. “Shh, precious,” the voice murmurs, head ducking to kiss the
curve of his brow. “You’re okay now, you can breathe.”
Testing this, he opens his eyes wide, darting from side to side as he sucks in
an uneasy breath.
The boys are gone. All of them, the only remnants of their stay are a couple of
abandoned items of clothing, and a few patches of what is probably his blood
mixed in with the mud around him. He mewls under his breath, his skin feeling
too taut as he tries to stretch, turning around to face Sebastian.
“Hi,” he mutters shyly, looking embarrassed. The only thing he can guess is
that the boy showed up after all, and saved him from the others. “Thank you,”
he says, hesitating as he stares shakily into Sebastian’s eyes, wanting to
flinch back from the look he sees in them. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, and
it frightens him, because it shouldn’t be there. Sebastian shouldn’t be looking
so protective of him, in a way so much like he really loves Jim.
It brings a tear to the corner of his eye that he hastens to wipe away with a
weak wrist.
“It’s okay,” Sebastian laughs softly, hands moving to the inside of his jacket
— which is stained with mud — to pull out a handkerchief. He uses it to clean
the dirt and tear stains from Jim’s cheeks, closing it softly around the boy’s
nose in a silent instruction for him to blow. He does, almost choking as he
forces the built up snot from his screaming into the material.
He wants to say thank you again, but doesn’t this time, instead shifting to
rest his head against Sebastian’s chest, not wanting to move further than that.
Sebastian’s hand comes back down, the handkerchief gone, tugging just a little
bit at Jim’s arm to pull him closer, cradle him harder. “How bad did they get
you?” he asks after a long moment.
“I —” he shuts his eyes again, breathing in deeply, ignoring the way it burns.
He wants to bite back that he’s been dealing with this for years, even since
before he had Sebastian to protect him from anything, but the idea of that
hurts him, in a funny way. Instead of continuing, for a moment the only thing
he does is reach out one of his hands, awkwardly forcing Sebastian’s fingers to
entwine with his. “It’s fine,” he pronounces matter-of-factly, pressing
Sebastian’s hand to his lips for a muddied kiss.
At this point, he should be more grown up about this, he knows. But every time
it happens, every time he’s confronted in this way, he finds himself reverting
to a childish state that frightens him in a lot of ways. He doesn’t know
exactly how he should be handling it, not even from a psychological aspect, but
he suspects that there’s something off about the way he responds each time.
It always clears away in the end, sometimes when Sebastian is there to hold him
after, and sometimes when he’s not. But he’s there more often than not; at
least once everything is over.
It’s not that he appreciates it for the sake of looking forward to the moments
when the bullying ends, and Sebastian is there, but he accepts that it’s going
to happen whether he can try and fight or not; and the end makes it not quite
as bad.
Even if he’ll be feeling it for days, possibly even weeks afterwards.
“Thank you, Sebastian,” he says once more, groaning out the words as he tries
to move from the boy’s lap. It’s starting to rain, low and light, but he can
feel the drops land with heavy thumps on his bare skin, making him shiver ever
so lightly. He wants to stand, get away from here, indoors, or just somewhere
sheltered enough to protect them from the winds.
That, and he really wants to properly kiss Sebastian.
“Help me up?”
Sebastian doesn’t verbally acknowledge his words, but he does push him off
enough to stand himself, cupping his hands underneath Jim’s shoulders as he
goes, so he can easily tug the boy to his feet immediately after.
They both grunt, and Jim stumbles, nearly tripping his way back into
Sebastian’s arms.
It makes them laugh, low and at themselves, as Jim shuffles backwards, pulling
Sebastian with him. “C’mon,” he chuckles, “s’gonna rain real bad soon. Can’tcha
smell it?”
“I know, kitten. I know. Why do you think I came lookin’ for ya?” comes the
reply, and a hand cuffing him lightly on the back of his head, a reminder that
he amuses the other boy.
“Then what’re you waiting for?” Jim taunts, holding back a groan as he steps
funny on his left foot.
“Well, think you can make it to the trees?” he’s shoved teasingly, Sebastian’s
eyes darting up to the sky, a grey cloud seemingly fixed over their heads.
“Try me.”
They both smirk, hands moving instinctually to lace together, and then they’re
off, and running as fast as Jim’s weakened legs will carry him, towards the
tree line. It’s obvious that Sebastian isn’t going as fast as he could, but
neither of them are going to say anything about it later.
By the time they reach it, the rain is pouring down on their heads, making
their hair stick down ridiculously, and their hands are clasped together even
tighter than before.
Without hesitation, once they’re under mild cover, Jim starts backing Sebastian
towards one of the larger trees, until he’s pressed up against it, their lips
slotting together in perfect fit. They groan in unison, Jim more from the
aching reminder of his limbs, but from the same pleasure as Sebastian at
tasting his lips after a couple of days apart.
Hands come up to curl around Jim’s face, the way Sebastian seems so often to
do, until he feels surrounded by the emanating warmth of the other boy, his own
tongue pushing at the boundaries of Sebastian’s lips to press its way inside.
He finally wins, when Sebastian gives in, and their tongues immediately clash,
sloppily licking against each other as Jim’s hands claw at the boy’s shirt.
It’s too hasty, too needy, all of his youth showing suddenly in the way he
kisses, demanding selfishly for something he doesn’t quite understand wanting,
not all the way; but they both enjoy it.
In Sebastian’s mouth, he can taste how much he’s wanted, that feeling
heightened when suddenly their bodies are twisting, a leg wrapping around his
ankles to force him around until it’s his back pressed to the tree. He giggles
into Sebastian’s mouth, giving up without any fight to their change, his hands
having their own victory pressed cold against the wet skin of Sebastian’s
sides.
He’s not new to having sex, not by a long shot, but every time they’re like
this, bodies beginning to entwine in a more than suggestive way, he feels a
rush, like it’s the first time, like it’s a new thing. It’s thrilling, to have
Sebastian’s hardening cock pressed against his own, between his legs, lightly
thrusting against him in promise of something more to come.
The whimper he lets out is involuntary, as he sucks on Sebastian’s tongue
almost viciously, demanding without words for more.
It’s far too cold and wet outside to have sex where they are, but that doesn’t
stop him from wanting it, and being willing to do it anyway if Sebastian will
have him like this.
As if sensing his thoughts, Sebastian’s lips start to pull away regretfully,
moving to slide his mouth down Jim’s neck in a hot trail, sucking hard in
between sharp bites. It makes Jim whimper just a bit louder, writhing
shamelessly against Sebastian’s hips as his fingers tighten. He’s sure to leave
marks on Sebastian’s skin, in a way similar to how his neck will be sure to
look once they’re done.
He sighs against Sebastian’s head, eyes fluttering open as he stares at the
field in front of him, steadily growing muddier and muddier from the downpour
of rain. It’s easy to dip into the lulling sensations, with Sebastian’s teeth
scratching their way down his neck, a trickle of rain dripping onto his head
from the tree. Their bodies arch in unison, without a hint of finesse to it.
The rain plays like a soundtrack — their soundtrack — working its way into his
mind until that and the squelching of the ground underneath their feet as they
shuffle are the only things he can hear over the faint din of pleasured sounds
forced from his lips.
It doesn’t stop, and the haze surrounds his head in a way that it hadn’t
earlier, a pleasant feeling as his shirt is slowly stripped from his upper
body, and his only warmth is the steaming air puffed from Sebastian’s mouth. He
wants to rock forward, to say something, suggest that they go somewhere else,
but the words are lost when his lips are claimed in yet another kiss.
Jim grunts against Sebastian’s mouth, his own hands shifting up demandingly,
until he can wrap his arms around the other boy’s neck. He tugs at the back of
Sebastian’s hair, pulling his head back so they can pant into each others’
mouths, eyes lidded heavily.
“Do you want to —?” he asks, trailing off as he finally catches his breath. A
shiver, unrequested, runs down his spine, and he draws his bottom lip between
his teeth to gnaw on it. Without answering, Sebastian lurches further forward,
teeth out as he tugs Jim’s lips into his own mouth.
He growls playfully, smirking at the way Jim pouts. But he releases Jim’s lip
after a moment, pressing an apologetic kiss to the boy’s nose. “Think we
could?” is all he asks in return, hands moving around Jim’s hips to hook
underneath his jeans, cupping his arse through the wet fabric of his boxers.
Things fade further and further from there, deliciously mixing every one of his
senses together until the only thing keeping him together is the sound of
Sebastian’s voice, a low murmur in his ear.
“So pretty for me,” he kisses into Jim’s skin, “so perfect, so lovely, the way
you arch under me. The way your body splays out. You’re like a work of art, you
are.” He groans something indecipherable, and Jim can’t keep the gasp from
escaping his lips, feeling cold suddenly, so very cold, but it heightens the
sensations so much that he can’t make a complaint pass through his lips.
“You’re my lovely little boy, my Jimmy,” Sebastian purrs, and suddenly he’s
aware of a hand on his cock, stroking him — and it’s only now that he notices
he’s fully hard — a thumb runs roughly over the crown, and he bites back a
whimper. “You’re heavenly,” are the whispered words, that make him cry out
harder, “you’re like a little nymph, so small, so delicate, and so perfectly
for me. Isn’t that what you are, Jimmy?”
Jim giggles, unrestrained and a bit desperate, feeling fingers scuff along the
curve of his arse again, rubbing their way wetly around his hole. He’s had
things up there enough that the feeling isn’t alien, but he doesn’t enjoy it
either, it’s just there, just the feeling of Sebastian working his way inside
Jim’s body. That’s where he feels the pleasure, knowing that this is
Sebastian’s moment, as the hand around his cock tightens, pulling harder at his
foreskin.
“You would do anything I asked, wouldn’t ya?” is breathed into his ear, three
fingers suddenly hooking into the little furl of unresisting muscle. He gasps
back, trying to focus his vision, too blurred by the raindrops on his
eyelashes.
The sound pitter patters out his hearing, bringing it back in wave after wave,
the perfect symphony with Sebastian’s whispered words. When it finally happens,
when he orgasms, it’s like being pushed off the edge of a cliff; first with
someone’s arms wrapped around your waist, holding you up, and suddenly you’re
gone, you’re falling and all you can feel and hear is the wind rushing around
you.
It’s blissful, in a perfect way, and that’s all he’s aware of happening;
Sebastian’s hand as it continues to move, wringing the semen from his cock, as
he humps against Jim’s leg. His fingers never stop twitching inside Jim’s body
all the while, reminding him of how totally he’s being consumed by this boy.
His body goes limp, collapsing into Sebastian; and he’s welcomed openly,
fingers tugging at something, and suddenly he feels the startling warmth of a
twitching cock against his stomach, rocking into him.
Sebastian gasps words into his neck, calming him, shushing him, telling him how
perfect he is, and the words themselves don’t matter, falling away into the
sound. He feels as if he’s floating, seamlessly, perfectly, and it’s all okay.
It’s all right, all of it is, everything is okay, even as fingers dig into the
bruises along his arms, making him cry out softly. He likes those touches the
most, almost.
But then it passes, Sebastian stilling against his body, and the only thing
holding them up is his back still mostly braced against the tree.
Lips come up to smile against his, praising him with a warm, wet tongue that
traces the insides of his mouth, a more lazy action now. He groans, his entire
body feeling wet, and somehow dirty, even as the water drizzles down on his
head through the semi-shelter of the trees. But Sebastian is here, and their
bodies are entwined so perfectly that his chest aches, and he doesn’t care
about anything else, as the sensations slowly drift back into his head.
He can smell again, breathing in the scent of Sebastian’s shampoo, the hint of
sweat not washed away yet, that distinctly Sebastian smell that makes him moan
and suck needily on the boy’s tongue, just for a moment.
“I love you,” Sebastian finally pulls back to say, a hushed whisper into his
mouth. “You’re mine. My Jimmy. And I love you.”
There are a thousand tired questions on his lips, waiting to be asked, but he
doesn’t ask them. He doesn’t ask what happened to the boys that were attacking
him, or how Sebastian knew where to find him; he doesn’t ask why Sebastian
loves him, why Jim is enough when they both know that he’s so broken he can’t
possibly be enough for anyone.
He doesn’t say it, only shivering against Sebastian’s body, desperately wanting
to know if Sebastian will ever leave him, wanting to beg him a thousand times
over to stay forever.
“I love you, too,” he croaks finally — and is this the first time he’s said it?
— as a teardrop trickling down from the corner of his eye to join the rain
spattered on his face. “My ‘Bastian,” he parrots.
***** i made a model of you *****
The apple bounces slightly. He dribbles it on the desk, making the wooden top
echo, sound bouncing through the hollow area. He’s not dropping it hard enough
to really bruise it, though he’s fully aware that with every bounce, the outer
layer at the point of impact continues to grow softer.
“It’s just not that simple.”
He throws it up, up, up, until it hits the ceiling with a splat.
“What’s not that simple, James?” he isn’t really listening, waiting until the
larger part of the apple falls back down into his hand — he hardly has to
extend his hand at all at catch it as it drops its way down to him — and then
stares at it, a slight, almost unnoticed sigh on his lips. By all rights, he
should be able to read the man’s mind by now, considering how often he’s more
or less called upon to do so; but he still can’t.
It’s something for which Jim seems to harbour at least a small manner of
resentment.
“What?”is snapped back at him, and he lets his eyes close slowly. He can feel
Jim’s gaze swivel over to him, and the way it seems to trace the whole of his
body, before landing on his face. It’s like a narrow beam of heat being
directed at him. “No, no, no,” is the continuation. Jim laughs, sounding
startled, as if he’s only just realised that he was speaking aloud.
“Oh, nothing to do with you.” There’s a faint smile on Jim’s lips. He likes
that smile, even just from the sound of it. It means the man is thinking about
something interesting. Some problem that’s plaguing him, and he’s quite
possibly moments from solving it.
Jim’s mind is always working, like a machine that doesn’t need to be monitored,
its cogs always turning, every part working, slaving away, so that he can
concentrate, even if just for a few, short seconds.
“Talking about him,” Jim adds, and Sebastian knows he’s supposed to look. His
eyes open, and he blinks several times, catching up with his surroundings. Only
a second or two passed before he turns his head sharply, following Jim’s
gesture to the man cowering in the corner of the room.
The object of their interests lets out a whimper, loud through the gag, clearly
upset at having attention on him again. He looks halfway through trying to
think up some way of escaping. Not that there is one; but he doesn’t know that.
At least not yet.
Sebastian’s chuckle fills the empty space that the end of Jim’s left. He sends
a deliberately heavy glare in the direction of the corner, lingering only to
see the flinch, and he’s turning away again.“Ah,”he clicks his teeth together,
a habit of Jim’s he picked up long ago. “I’d all but forgotten him. He’s been
so quiet since you got the rag that it was easy to push it out of mind.”
His chuckle turns self-deprecating, the sound raspy, and he shakes his head at
himself. From off the desk, he snags another apple, trading in the destroyed
one for it. It’s juicy, a vibrant red in his hands, and he turns it around and
around, fingering it for blemishes.
It has none. Without regard for Jim’s eyes — still on him, always on him, it
seems, some days — he fishes a knife from the lining of his pocket. Caressing
the side of the blade, he runs his thumb lightly across it several times,
before flipping it through the air.
Instead of just stabbing the piece of fruit violently, which would be what Jim
would do; he slides the blade along the peel, stripping it with ease and
carefully refined skill. The piece doesn’t break off, and he smiles, control
careful, dragging it continuously along the apple, hardly allowing the size of
the peel to change.
He’d been distracted. Of course he had been.
“Wanna tell me about it?” he doesn’t actually expect to get much of an answer
from Jim, but he doesn’t mind asking anyway. It’s the kind of thing Jim likes
from him. He likes to be asked things, given opportunities to speak without
having to demand attention.
It’s not that he’s afraid, or has any qualms about forcing Sebastian to focus
on him when he wants it. He just likes to be noticed without any effort on his
part; even when he’s not going to talk. One thing among a thousand others that
Sebastian has long known about Jim is that he only speaks what’s on his mind
when it benefits him somehow, even if his purpose isn’t immediately clear. He’s
not really the type for idle gossip.
He doesn’t even consider it to be beneath him. It’s one of those things that
are so unworthy of Jim that he doesn’t actually notice them, sometimes even
after his attention has been called to them repeatedly.
That doesn’t stop him, however, from smacking Sebastian on the back of the head
when in situations where it seems like he might be getting ideas about rambling
about things that are silly. Like people that are in no way involved with
anything important. Or food. He hates it when Sebastian tries to talk about
food, unless they’re standing in front of it at that exact moment. Even then,
there’s a decent chance of being slapped anyway.
Boring,he likes to say, why bother talking about boring things? Only mention it
if it’s relevant, Sebastiaaaaan.
He’ll apologise to Jim, shrugging it off — it’s not like Jim hits all that hard
— and not worry about it. It’s something over which he’ll slip all the time,
and it’ll happen again within a few days, probably. Maybe a week, if he doesn’t
talk much at all. There’s no point in fretting over something that is fairly
likely to remain a constant.
To his small level of surprise, Jim doesn’t shoot him a glare and stalk
metaphorically away at the question. He does pause, though, chewing over the
thoughts in his mind for a short mind. It’s long enough that Sebastian is able
to work his way halfway across the apple before he speaks. But he might as well
be hearing white noise in the interim, for how well he’s often tuned into Jim’s
thoughts.
“Him.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian can see Jim jerking his hand in
the direction of the man again. He hums, encouraging the words, not coming
close to interrupting. “Mr Mendez,” Jim clarifies, not a moment later. “It’s
not that simple, because I could easily let him go without the ability to talk
ever again. It would solve the problem of what he knows. But he’d still try.”
The sound of Jim growling, low, and almost closer to a hiss, makes his fingers
hesitate for a fraction of a second. “And I don’t exactly wantto kill him.” The
corner of Sebastian’s lips turn up, and he understands it now.
Jim isn’t upset because he doesn’t know how to solve the problem of the man’s
silence. He’s bored, and can’t think of how to deal with that as well. For some
reason, he seems to think that killing this man won’t make his unease better.
“Death would be too simple for a man like him,” is how his boss concludes his
short, almost emotionless tirade, and Sebastian nods solemnly, wary of Jim
watching him. It’s patently ridiculous to think of Jim actually caring if
someone deserves to die quickly or not.
“Ah,” and Sebastian seems to be making that noise a lot lately. Drawing his lip
between his teeth, his eyes narrow, focusing on the final few seconds it takes
to get the end of his stretch of peel just right.
It comes out perfect.
Nearly perfect.
Almost.
He turns his head again, the chair jerking with him just a little bit, and
stares at Mendez, his eyes calculating. “Well,” and he licks at his lips.
They’re dry, slightly chapped, and he brings the knife up to lick it as well,
to lick the juice off it.
The peel goes onto the desk like a spring, so he won’t forget about it later,
and he slips the knife back into his pocket. “You could always —” he cuts
himself off to swallow, turning the apple over as he stands. “You could always
turn it into one of our games. Haven’t done that in a while, now have we? Could
be fun.”
Jim’s looking at him, so he reroutes his path slightly, stopping in front of
the smaller man. He considers pressing the wet apple into Jim’s hands, but
thinks better of it. Tilting his head, he takes a bite from it, and it’s just
as juicy as he’d thought that it would be.
He knows what response he’s hoping to get, and he knows he’ll probably get it.
They have this game. Something they do sometimes, when they get bored during or
just before killing someone together. Jim has always been prone to tagging
along with him on jobs occasionally, when he has the time; but in recent years,
he’s taken to doing that more and more.
He says it’s getting boring. Having to sit all alone in his office, and he gets
too tempted to just kill everyone in sight once a week. He’d have to start over
with a new group of underlings; and knowing Jim, he’d do that with increasing
frequency.
Eventually they’d run so entirely out of people to work for them that they
might as well just get it over with and join Scotland Yard. At least that way,
they would be putting the criminals behind bars instead of just leaving them in
gutters with needles sticking from their arms, or organs missing.
For obvious reasons—at least in Sebastian’s mind — he can’t let that happen.
Jim would end up jail before a week was out, and he would be shit out of luck
for anything better. A criminal of Jim’s caliber would never last for long
working under the government.
He can’t allow the other to happen either. They’d be completely out of business
inside of a year, and the streets would clear of crime. Incredibly counter-
productive to their long-term goals.
Which makes it not all that bad, on the scale of things, to give Jim little
distractions when it comes to saving him — or rather, them— from having to be
unemployed and living on the streets again.
That decision resulted in a game. They don’t have a lot of rules, because only
boring games have that many rules, ‘Bastian; and that’s best case, to have him
whinging about them. Worst is when he just pretends he’s forgotten all of them,
and he rewrites them as he goes. It’s why Sebastian can never play contemporary
games with him. He’ll spin the entire thing to his advantage the instant he
believes Sebastian isn’t looking at him.
There are three major suggestionsto this game, because, as Jim likes to say,
three is a nice number. Three spells out order, and reason, within a great big
world of chaos and abstract destruction.
Anything else would just be guidelines, little suggestions, loopholes, or
easter eggs, which either change from day to day, or randomly don’t exist at
all.
Jim gets to go through the pockets and purses of their victim of the week. Any
item on the person’s entire being is up for grabs, and he’s supposed to take
them all.
They spread them out, on the nearest table, or patch of relatively clean floor.
Sometimes he’ll steal Sebastian’s coat, and set them out on that, if he doesn’t
find the ground to be suitable enough for his needs.
He gets to pick anything he wants from the pile, but he can only have three
things. With these items, and only these, he has to kill their victim in the
most creative way he can possibly imagine.
It brings them an awful lot of amusement, on some days. Jim has a knack for
finding the most appallingly interesting things to do with mundane items. Once
or twice, he’s been able to shock Sebastian; and once, on a particularly bad
day, he succeeded in making the man sick to his stomach.
The goal, really, is to impress Sebastian. Which should be easy to do, but as
time continued to pass and they played the game more and more, it only grew to
be increasingly difficult to drag a reaction from the man.
Rather like leveling up in a video game, with your opponent doubling up on
skills at just as fast a rate as the character being played.
The final rule is that Sebastian isn’t allowed to interfere. He gets to watch,
sometimes throw pointers in here and there, and he even gets to hold things
when ordered to do so. But it’s a Jim game, not a Sebastian game; and he’s
perfectly all right with that. It’s more fun to watch than it is to play,
anyway. And Jim would find a way to cheat if they played it against each other.
Memorably, there was an occasion near the beginning of their creating the game,
in which they had set their two victims side by side, and timed themselves. It
had ended horribly — or rather well, depending on who’s recounting the tale
—with two boring, dead bodies, and Jim fucking Sebastian into the blood soaked
floor.
There’s just something about the way that Jim kills people. He’ll take ordinary
items, when pushed to it, and do extraordinary things with them. Which makes
Sebastian laugh, because it’s so ridiculously cliché that his head sometimes
spins from it.
But the ultimate fact is that every time he uses any one thing, it always comes
out a little bit different. It’s one of Jim’s many quirky little talents.
And the man calls himself boring sometimes.
He has to blink himself back into the half-conversation that they’ve been
having, snorting internally to himself. It’s just in time to catch the latter
of one of Jim’s sentences, and to have an admonishing glare directed at him.
Ouch. Dick.
“…that he’d even actually have anything useful in his pockets?” Jim’s rolling
his eyes, and Sebastian knows that he doesn’t really care all that much. The
man stops for a much needed breath, and it gives him enough time to mentally
play catch up, and figure out what the topic was, and where on it they are. “I
doubt he’ll have anything good,” Jim continues, just as he blinks awareness
fully back. “Credit cards. A photograph of his wife and rotten little demon-
children, and perhaps a pack of condoms for his lady friend.”
Sebastian grins viciously. “Wanna turn that into a bet?” his eyes dance with
mirth, and he takes another bite of the apple, having almost forgotten about
it. The taste in his mouth quickly turns sour, but he chews through it anyway,
without the slightest wince, talking carefully to keep bits from flying into
Jim’s face.
“Against your bet that those are the most interesting things on him and - Hm,”
he chews contemplatively, turning his mouth away so that Jim won’t have to see
the apple mashing around in his mouth. “I say that he’s got some sort of
electronic.” He swallows the mouthful, ignoring the way Jim flinches when he
wipes his lips off with the back of his sleeve. “Not his mobile, mind you. And
something relatively kinky. My vote’s on some hairpins, as well.”
“— hairpins?” an eyebrow gets quirked in his direction, but it’s amused, and
Jim scoffs over his choices. He did go fairly generic, after all. The man
shrugs. “Eh, you’re on. Select the bet.”
A smirk fills Sebastian’s face, and glances down at the apple in his hand.
“Neither of us held up our ends of the last bet, but —" He takes one step
closer, moving until he’s practically leaning into Jim’s face. His voice drops
down at least a half octave, as he declares, “blowjobs for a week.”
He can feel the way Jim’s eyes trace over every crevice of his face, searching
him for something indefinable, that only he could understand. He nods, finally,
and he doesn’t reach out a hand to shake on it, deliberately ignoring the quip
about the bet they made last. Instead, he moves away, walking over to the man.
It’s actually sort of surprising, given that generally he makes more
extravagant bets. Like the gun, or promises entailing trips to exotic
countries. Blowjobs are far from something that would have Sebastian
complaining, however.
“Mr Mendez,” Jim declares jovially, spinning on his heel just a little bit
before he fully faces the man on the floor. “I have absolutely wonderfulnews
for you, my dearest.”
The man’s entire body appears to quiver. He really doesn’t seem to enjoy being
noticed like this. It’s a crying shame.
He especially doesn’t like it when Jim drops to his knees in front of him, his
eyes widening, trying to scramble back uselessly against the wall. Jim makes a
thump, and then a mocking show of walking forward on his knees, until he’s
actually pressed up against Mendez’s body.
The man can’t speak, but he tries anyway, some desperate sound against the
cloth that must be making breathing a struggle.
He looks desperate to ignore everything, to pretend Jim’s not real — that he’s
all alone — and that this is all really just a bad dream. A horrible, awful
nightmare, that’s come from a bad mix of drugs, taken just before collapsing
into exhaustion.
People really should be more careful about the ones from whom they buy the
things that they choose to put into their bodies.
“Yes,” and Jim’s talking like it’s an actual conversation, the precious kitten
that he is. “You get to be special. Or,at least,more special than most of the
people of your ilkthat I kill.” His head tilts, and Sebastian doesn’t have to
actually be looking into his eyes to see the way they blacken by shades. “Isn’t
that nice?”
Their guest’s eyes widen comically, and one can just about see the gears
turning inside his head. He fights to understand what it means; and it’s not
that he’s too daft to get it. It’s that he’s too scared to be able to connect
things properly.
There’s always a certain delay when it comes to people in this sort of
situation, when they’re unused to it. Sebastian is half surprised that the man
hasn’t started urinating through his trousers yet.
Casting an indulgent smile, Jim slides just a tiny bit closer, and his limbs
all seem to shift at the same time, until he’s actually just sitting there,
cross legged, knees bumping into the man’s. He doesn’t say more for a moment,
his eyes remaining connected with Mendez’s, mocking him as he slides his hand
into the pocket nearest him.
Sebastian can see the way his fingers linger, teasing him, and it makes them
both smirk just a little bit. “You don’t mind, do you?” Jim offers belatedly.
It’s a rhetorical question in every way, and everyone in the room knows it.
With a certain and distinct harshness, Jim’s hand jerks back out, upending the
pocket. It shouldn’t work, from the way he’s positioned. But Jim being Jim,
everything works, if he puts enough effort into it. If he approaches it in just
the right way.
He doesn’t as much as glance at the items that fall, already moving onto the
next pocket. Once he’s done, he snaps his fingers, his order silent but
obvious.
Sebastian fetches the jacket they’d snagged from the man earlier, when they had
first brought him in here. The items in that also go onto the jacket as he lays
it out on the ground.
The best part is when Jim leans even farther forward, lodging his hands
underneath the man’s arse, feeling around in his back pockets. From the terror
in his eyes, Jim is also managing to cop an impressive feel.
When he pulls back, his entire face has been transformed into an utterly
maniacal and absurdly creepy grin. In his fingers is a wallet, which he wiggles
in the air.
“Well, aren’t you a big boy,” the words are pronounced with popping lips,
accentuating each one individually. He licks his lips, tossing the leather
blindly onto the pile Sebastian has only just started, as he waggles just a
single eyebrow. “Count them out for me, won’t you, darling?” he doesn’t even
look up, but nor does he need to; Sebastian obeys him automatically.
“Whatever you say, sir.” The honourific is, as always, said in clear jest.
Sebastian isn’t the type to call people sir and actually mean it, and they both
know that. He doesn’t do it to put on a show for other people, because that
would just anger Jim. Angry Jim is rarely a good thing, unless it involves sex;
and even then, you might not end up with what you were hoping to get out of it.
Sebastian just likes to tease him. To pretend that they’re perfectly ordinary,
that he’s a good little employee, eager to please his boss. Sometimes that goes
over well; and, like all of his jokes, sometimes it doesn’t turn out pleasant
at all.
He casts doubt as to the existence of a sense of humour inside Jim’s head, but
the opposite could be said as well. Jim eagerly questions Sebastian’s ability
to actually know the meaning of the word‘joke’.
He— Jim —rolls his eyes, clenching his hand up into a fist. Instinctively, as
Sebastian sorts one-handed, the fingers of his non-dominant tighten painfully
around the apple. The fists are released, and Jim’s left turns into a backhand,
sharp across Mendez’s face.
The man gasps around the gag, more shock than pain, and he looks thoroughly
appalled by the idea of being slapped in such away. Let alone by it being done
by a man who hardly looks like he weighs nine stone when soaking wet. If his
hands were free, they’d have no doubt flown up to his face, cradling it, but he
can only attempt so scramble farther back into his corner.
“Hey, now,” the smile on Jim’s face has turned sweet, and he reaches out again,
hardly seconds later, and Sebastian knows from experience that his touch is as
soft as a feather now. He pats the man on the head tenderly, as if comforting a
small child. “There is no need to look so horribly concerned. I didn’t mean
that to hurt you, precious.”
From his spot behind the pile, Sebastian scoffs loudly. He doesn’t say
anything, but nor does he need to, because him making fun of Jim is just as
obvious as the lie itself.
Just as Jim is about to turn his head — he can tell from the twisting of
muscles in the man’s neck — he interrupts him.
“Got a packet of lifesaver condoms,” he’s actually quite amused by that fact.
Having tried them himself once, he found them entirely underwhelming. “Which,
by the way, counts as just condoms for you, and kinky item for me. Point to
each.”He chuckles at his half-joke, tossing the pack through the air at Jim,
who catches them easily. They’re turned over several times, and prove enough to
make Jim hum in vague interest, skimming over the words written on the
packaging.
He flicks them back over his shoulder, landing perfectly in the middle of the
jacket.
“Cute.”
The man makes a noise, drawing Jim’s attention back to him, making it almost
narrow and zero in on him. “Did you have something you wanted to say, my
darling?” Whether it be from a sudden fit of benevolence, or just that the man
feels the need to hear words spill from Mendez’s lips, Jim gives in, fishing
the saliva-soaked gag from his mouth.
It’s large, enough so that Sebastian suspects it clung to his throat a little,
and it must have been incredibly uncomfortable to have in for so long. They’ve
had him here like this since the morning, after all, and it’s already mid-
afternoon.
“You know, I would not have written you for the type,” Jim comments, and he
doesn’t seem to care about how disgusting it is as he folds up the material,
using it then to dab at the sweat pooling along the man’s forehead. That can’t
possibly be a pleasant sensation, having your own spit pressed against your
already sweat dampened forehead. “You’re tackier than I’d have imagined.” As
the man opens his mouth to speak, he tosses away the rag.
“I —"
He only gets a single syllable out before Sebastian cuts him off, holding up
the next item. “Handful of bank cards,” he mutters, thumbing through them.
“Four different names. Nine cards in total. S’not bad, really. Ridiculously
hard to keep track of, though, if I’m honest.” He’s entirely unimpressed, and
Jim knows it.
The cards are moved, and Jim a hand out behind him. Taking his cue, Sebastian
scoots closer, letting Jim slide them from his grasp. His fingers linger,
brushing over Sebastian’s, and they share a look over Jim’s shoulder. “Andrew
Walberg? Or is that Vahl-behrg?” He pronounces it the second time with a
thickening German accent, digging in for the ‘V’sound, and practically making a
gagging sound for the ‘berg’.
Jim giggles at himself.
Neither of them turn back to the man, and he doesn’t seem to have anything to
say — at least not anything that either of them care to hear — as Jim flicks to
the next. “Harrison Fields? Zuno Trez?”
“Dunno, boss,” he turns away, moving back to the pile. “S’bit complicated,
yeah?”
“Especially for someone so devastatingly thick.”
Sebastian laughs sharply, making Jim look over him with a careful eye. The
apple is oddly absent, but he must have let it roll away. “Maybe that’s why you
caught him? Didn’t he come into the country with the Walberg one?”
“I do believe you underestimate me, darling.” Jim’s teeth click together, and
he looks like he might be verging on upset. “And yes,” he adds, obviously
faintly distracted. “He came in under Andrew.It’s how I found him. I had an
alert out on that name, along with over a dozen others.”
Preferring not to have the ever building anger directed at him, Sebastian
switches tactics. “S’nearly horrific, don’t you think? Can you imagine someone
calling you‘Zuno’of all things?”
It works, and suddenly Jim isn’t even looking at him anymore.
“I hope you don’t mind, my dear,” and for just a split second, it sounds like
he might be addressing Sebastian, “if Andrew is the name under which you die.
It has a lovely ring to it, on second thought. And it’s only fitting, that you
come here with that name, and you are buried with on your tombstone.”
All Sebastian can think is about how much like a kitten Jim sounds right about
now. He’s prowling about, tail dancing through the air, head held high as he
circles. He doesn’t share the thought.
“…naive you must be.” Exactly what point Jim is trying to get across is beyond
him by now, but it’s not like this is the first time his boss has ever defied
logic.
“Here,” he interrupts what could be another tirade. “He’s got some taffy, some
—"
He’s cut off by the sound of blustering. “Please, I won’t —"the sound gets
muffled, and he doesn’t bother to look up, knowing that Jim will have covered
the man’s mouth with a hand.
When Jim speaks again, his voice is painfully sharp, making Sebastian’s heart
quicken a beat, and a shiver drives down his spine. “Do nottalk over
Sebastian.”
He swallows, taking it as invitation to continue. “Three chocolate flavoured
taffy,” and he’s just clarifying because he knows Jim has days on which he
abhors everything even resembling chocolate. “Got a picture of a girl that’s
too young t’be his wife, and too old t’be a daughter.” He licks his lips, head
tilting as he glances over it. “Pack of smokes, no lighter.”
“That’s it?” Jim sounds surprised, and maybe a touch disappointed.
“Nah, shit tonne of scraps of paper, some bits of metal, his keys and —" he
frowns. “iPod nano. Which, by the way —” it’s definitely important to add this,
"— is bright pink.”
Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the effect of a laugh from Jim’s throat, but
instead a concerned frown. “Score for you and that means —" he mutters the
words, sounding like he’s imparting some great secret.
Sebastian smiles brightly in his direction. “It’s got an inscription on it,
boss. ‘To Vanessa, from Daddy’, is what it says.”
“Oh!”and that’s enough to get Jim laugh, a breathless sigh falling from out of
his lips. “How sweet! But why is he carrying it around, if it’s for his baby
girl?”
They both look at the man as Jim starts to move his hand, going slowly,
lingering long enough to caress Mendez’s lower lip with his thumb. “I just —"
he doesn’t need to be asked the question, and it takes a moment, before words
bubble uninhibited out of his mouth. “It needed repairs she asked me —"
“She asked you —?”
“I said I’d take it into the shop for —"
It’s Sebastian’s turn to pipe in, “why the shop?”
The man flinches, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows heavily. “Please! I’m
sorry, I won’t —" the hand slaps back over his mouth, and they roll their eyes
in perfect synchronisation.
“That’s enough from you for now, dear.”
Sebastian’s hands shake, fingers hesitating before he hands Jim the iPod. He’s
tempted to say something, to add commentary about it, but Jim doesn’t look like
he’s listening. The strings of the headphones dangle from his hand hardly
noticed, and he swings them absently, making them wrap around better.
“There’s a hairpiece, too?” it’s more of a question than anything, and Jim
doesn’t look or say anything, so he keeps talking. “Cheap trinket. Probably
bought it off a street vendor somewhere. Easily breakable, if you exert
pressure on it just right.”
Jim hums, and the hairpiece is tossed to him. “You bought this on your last
business trip, did you not, my little dove?” The movement of Jim’s tongue
sliding across his lips is audible, a slurping sound, and Sebastian refuses to
grant it a look. It’s just childish taunting. “To - You went to Venice, is that
not correct?”
There’s a moaning sound, and Sebastian breathes in, finger catching along the
tip of a second hairpiece. He can hear Jim open his mouth again, but he
interrupts anyway.
“I’m bored, James,” he murmurs unthinkingly, not a single part of him truly
expecting to be heard.
A certain stillness settles after his words, and the heat from Jim’s eyes
travels across his side. “Are you now, tiger?”
It’s a ridiculous nickname, and all he can think when Jim uses it on him is
that amusing little comic strip that they found once when Jim was just a kid.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as he heard someone say once, just before he
drove a knife through each of their kidneys.
“Yeah. M’bored.”
He feels more than hears Jim stand up and walk over to him, and it comes in the
pressure of hand against his jacket, wiping saliva off on it. The very same
hand clasps across his chin, making him lift it, until he’s looking up into
Jim’s eyes.
Today, they seem almost to be a rich brown, different from the usual pattern of
black. He’s always liked Jim’s eyes. They’re the only part of him that has
truly never changed, even after all these years. The emotions he can read in
them aren’t the same, because the boy that used to be behind them has grown up
so much, changed in so many ways. But he’s still the same, because his eyes are
still his old ones. Even if they look so very different one some days, when he
looks at Sebastian.
But Sebastian knows full well that if it were possible, Jim would have replaced
them by now. He would have replaced just about every part of his body, for that
matter. All of the things that remind him — or Sebastian — of the kid he was
once.
The pads of Jim’s fingers stroke along his skin, and he holds back from
swallowing, air puffing from his nose as he obeys the wordless order to not
look away.
“If you’re bored, Sebastian,” and the viciousness in Jim’s eyes twists, making
Sebastian’s swim with just a touch of water. “Then you may go.”
“Alright, boss.”
He has to shake away Jim’s touch, and he doesn’t want to, but once he’s
standing, the hand can’t follow him. Instead, he presses a lingering kiss to
the very inside of the man’s wrist, his breath hot before it drops. “I’ll be
back later,” he breathes, and he disappears.
Jim hadn’t wanted him here, at least not now, so if he gives the man maybe half
an hour, he’ll be welcome back again. It might even take that long just to have
him get a move on things. Especially without the added distraction of a person.
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
When he walks back in, it’s easy to mask the sound of his feet as they pad
across the hard floor, barely even existent over the sound of the music that’s
somehow playing loudly. He swallows, recognising the sounds immediately as his
eyes dart across the room, looking for the source of it.
The sound is too clear to be coming from Jim’s phone, and sure enough, a dock
that he can’t remember Jim ever opening is set up in the far end of the room,
in a corner, plugged into what is most likely the only socket there.
“~Sail away, sail away, sail away~”
It’s typical of Jim. In the way that he doesn’t always anticipate what the man
will be prone to doing, not until he’s already halfway through something, but
still isn’t all that surprising when it comes down to it. He can only smirk,
rubbing at the bottom of his nose with a thumb as he approaches the man,
wanting to not be heard, and blessing the music slightly for that. Despite how
annoying he’s always considered the sound of that particular singer to be. A
little bit more uplifting than he generally likes to hear.
But it has its use, leaving him capable of watching unnoticed. Not that Jim
doesn’t know he’s here — Jim always knows — but he’d rather not interrupt more
than he has to, because disturbing Jim is never a good thing.
The sleeves of the man’s shirt have been rucked up carefully, practically
folded and sewn into place, perfectly even and aligned on just the right spot
of Jim’s arms to not be in the way in the slightest. That on its own probably
took Jim at least a good five minutes to accomplish, and he knows how
particular the man can — and is — about perfecting things like that.
His sleeves are always supposed to be impeccable and pristine at all times,
even when they’re scuffed up at his elbows; and it really does work. There
isn’t a speck of blood polluting the crisp, starchy white of his clothes. At
least not yet, and that’s good for almost everyone involved. Not the man on the
floor, of course, because the only thing from which he’d benefit right now
would be managing to rile Jim up enough to give him a quick death.
It’s amusing, though, because Jim’s always been good at this. At not paying
attention, but still managing to get things right. He probably hasn’t thought
about his shirt even once since he finished moving the sleeves out of the way,
and yet his forearms and fingers are dripping with tiny little droplets of
congealing blood that he doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.
There’s a drop on his trousers, sure, which Sebastian can see from a couple of
meters away, but he probably won’t notice until he’s taken them off, and that
makes it all right. They needed to be sent out to be cleaned anyway. He’ll make
Sebastian go out to do it.
The shirt will probably be ruined by the end of things. They always are. But
it’s best when things like that don’t happen until things are just about
finished, when Jim is too incited by the feeling of the blood pumping
abnormally fast through his veins to really notice or care about anything
beyond the flow of his own breathing. By the end, he’ll have cashed in on that
high, and there’ll be nothing conscious of him left, only his baser instincts,
and a nearly overwhelming feeling of exhaustion.
He does so love this.
Adrenaline high Jim wouldn’t even be able to recognise himself properly in a
mirror, let alone pick out things that are wrong from any given picture of
himself or someone else.
Jim looks like he’s been pacing himself, flicking back between a variety of
things, unable to decide quite yet what he would like to do. Which is good,
Sebastian supposes, because it means Jim is going to go all out for this one.
It’s just what the man needs.
The first thing he catches — which, by extension, is the most noticeable —
about the man on the floor is the way that his hands have been retied neatly
together with the funny little white wire of the headphones, and the same wire
has them strung up above his head. It’s a horribly shoddy attempt at bondage,
succeeding really only in looking vaguely sexual, but mostly it’s just there as
an obvious reminder.
Don’t try to get away,it screams,I’ve got you.
Jim’s always liked to do that, when he can be bothered. Tying people to things
with items that are incredibly breakable; because if you do try, if you do
break them, you’ll be punished far more than you would have been before. But
then, most people are smart enough to realise that it’s just for show.
It’s all about the illusion, darling,he says, and Sebastian can easily believe
that.
The man’s shirt has been removed from his torso, stripped away into large
pieces that litter the floor beside him, and his eyes are squeezed tightly
shut. His chest heaves up and down, an irregular movement that makes Sebastian
cock his head. He wonders, briefly, if he’d heard Jim mention anything about
this man having a heart problem of some sort.
Maybe.
Probably.
Possibly.
Still, his breathing seems to be quite shallow, and that implies that Jim might
have already gotten to work with hitting him. One or more of his ribs could be
broken, making it difficult to breathe. He might have even passed out from the
pain already, for a few moments, only to have had Jim waking him cruelly up.
Taking a few steps closer, Sebastian can see the carefully disassembled pieces
of the iPod arranged neatly on one of the strips of cloth. He can’t count all
the parts from his vantage point, but it looks like one or two might be missing
from them.
His gaze flicks up, meeting Jim’s eyes head-on.
Jim is still obeying the rules, even unprompted, and this is good. It makes his
heart throb.
He opens his mouth to say something, but Jim shakes his head jerkily, lifting a
finger to his lips, a silent‘shhh’gesture.
As quickly as he’d caught the man’s attention, he’s lost it, and he has no
choice but to follow Jim’s lead and switch to watching their visitor. His legs
are still tucked underneath his body, making an uncomfortable seeming position,
but Sebastian doubts that either of them have been broken yet; and with the way
he’s going to be stretched out, by Sebastian’s estimations, that will be the
least of his worries.
What he’d really like more than anything is to capture that drop of blood left
on Jim’s lips by the finger, lick it off them slowly, before kissing him
indulgently, until Jim melts against his mouth. But right now, it wouldn’t be
in his own best interests to be that sort of distraction.
He can feel just what sort of fine line he’s been walking lately, and he’s not
willing to risk it, which is why when he moves, he walks past Jim, only
lingering long enough to trail his hand across the back of the man’s neck.
It doesn’t make Jim shiver — and he doesn’t acknowledge it in the least — but
he knows the man felt it, and that’s what counts. On another day, Jim might
have pressed up against the hand, purring like a kitten that’s readily
accepting affection, but it’s all right that today isn’t one of those days.
There’s another apple waiting for him on the desk, taken from its bowl, and
placed carefully in the very center of a small, thin stack of papers. Sebastian
snags it, planting his arse down on the wood to peer at the writings. They’re
not anything left specifically for him to deal with, he can tell that right off
the bat, because they’re clearly something that rests in Jim’s area of
interests. He rarely delegates paperwork to anyone, preferring to make certain
that things get down properly by himself, but Sebastian can’t resist.
Not to mention that there’s no way Jim would have left them out so obviously if
he didn’t know that Sebastian would find them, and hadn’t planned for it. As
such, he picks up the top sheet — it’s been stained by water, and then dried —
polishing the apple on the front of his shirt before he sinks his teeth into
it, skimming the first paragraph.
The apple crunches in his mouth, mashed together by his molars, the sound
prevalent in nearly empty room, almost seeming to echo over to where Jim is.
For a second, his eyes flick up to check on the man, making sure Jim isn’t
looking at him for attention — and he’s not, he’s holding something up to the
light from one of the windows, inspecting it — before going back down to the
paper.
He more or less abandons the apple after the first bite, still holding it but
not paying attention anymore to anything but the words on the sheet.
It’s the autopsy report on an employee that had disappeared in North America
after a job had gone wrong. From what he can recall about the incident, it was
about a month or so back, and Jim had thrown a tantrum over it, which had been
the only reason Sebastian had been informed about the details. About a half a
dozen or so men had been sent to the same region, and were also never heard
from again, aside from the two that had turned up dead in an alleyway in
downtown New York after a week.
Sebastian had initially assumed that they’d flipped on Jim. But they hadn’t
been able to figure out the truth about everything that had happened, and the
only conclusion on which they’d been able to agree had been that something for
which Jim hadn’t prepared his employees to deal with had happened. Beyond that,
Jim had concluded that the six might have turned on the other two, killing
them, and then found a way to disappear as far off Jim’s radar as they could
possibly manage.
He swallows the bite still in his mouth, the taste bitter now from sitting on
his tongue, stinging his throat as it goes down, and he drops the paper, going
for the next one. It’s the same as the first. Vivisection, body sliced apart by
a small, sharp, curved blade, and the internal organs had been removed. He
doesn’t even need to look at the other papers to confirm that they all have the
same things written on them, more or less, but he does, just to be certain.
The aftertaste of apple is putrid in his mouth, and he puts it down on the desk
with just that one bite out of it, looking up at the room with the papers still
in his hand.
“Jim —" falls short on his lips, and he winces, his next words drowned out by a
scream. It vibrates through his ears quiet shrilly, louder and at a higher
pitch than Sebastian would have expected from the man.
Jim’s buried something Sebastian can’t see in the small of the man’s back, not
even needing to turn him around to get it into just the right spot. He can see
tears streaming down the man’s face, uselessly blubbering in a way that isn’t
even coherent, proper words. But it all comes down to the same thing.Please,
please, stop it, please, I’m sorry, let me go, I don’t know anything.
“Hey, hey, there, it’s all right,” he hears Jim croon softly, and his lips curl
up at the sight of one of Jim’s hands coming up to caress the man’s cheek
again. “Don’t jerk around so much, peach. If that comes out - Well, you could
bleed to death.” He smiles, almost sorrowfully, lips turned up. “We wouldn’t
want to spoil the fun that quickly, now would we?”
A whining noise is the only response he gets, and Jim laughs loudly at it.
“There’s a good boy,” he encourages with a cooing sound, once the man has
stopped twitching violently.
“James —" Sebastian tries again, louder and voice sharper, and it gets Jim to
pull back, reaching blindly for something on the cloth, which he twirls in the
air.
“Did you wish to pick where this one goes in?” he offers Sebastian carelessly,
and he can see that the item in question is quite a bit smaller, but still
sharp, enough so that with enough force — and Jim has never had any shortage of
force on his side — it’ll drive cleanly through flesh. Sebastian swallows,
flexing his fingers.
“James.”
“No?” Jim giggles, the sound hyper. “You would like for me to decide? You’re so
sweet. If you insist, then I’ll —" he trails off, and Sebastian almost feels
bad for the man, as Jim’s wrist flicks, and the piece is driven into the space
just outside of his collarbone.
The man’s back arches, more a wailing gasp than a scream now, and Jim brushes
back the feeling.
“James!”he snaps once more.
“What?” Jim doesn’t look over his shoulder as he snarls, and that’s good, even
if he sounds annoyed. “What the fuck do you want, Sebastian?” The man quivers,
still stealing Jim’s attention, and he grips his chin viciously, the trace of
sneer still easily seen on his face.
“Why didn’t I see these reports sooner?” he demands, and it’s stupid, but he
needs to know, before Jim forgets about them, or disappears.
A growl rises up from Jim’s throat, reverberating through the room, and if
Sebastian could take a step backwards, he would. His fingers find the apple
instead, idly playing with the length of stem sticking out from the top.
But Jim doesn’t answer him, his shoulders shaking visibly, like he’s holding in
a wave of something powerful, afraid of letting it out for fear of how great
the blast might prove itself to be.
He could repeat the question, or call out Jim’s name again, but he isn’t quite
willing to risk it. Instead, he lets out a shaky breath, eyes sharp as he
watches for any signs of Jim turning on him. He doesn’t, though, doesn’t so
much as twitch again.
“How’s the pain?” Jim hisses at the man, the sound low and harsh. “Is it bad?
Do you think you might need medical care?” His tone shifts startlingly fast
mid-sentence, into one full of mock concern, all honey-sweet, and sticky as it
drips from his tongue down to his chin. It’s incredibly unsettling, even for
someone as used to him as Sebastian is.
“Pl - please —"
“Please? Please, what?”he mocks the man, “Please - Sir, can I have some
more?”He giggles at his own joke, and Sebastian looks down to glance at the
papers again. They’re probably not the only copies, or even the originals, and
he doesn’t stop himself from letting his fingers clench up, crumpling the
papers into his fist.
That gets Jim’s attention.
“I only managed to get my hands on them yesterday,” he tells Sebastian, his
tone low and level as he lifts the man’s chin, inspecting something in his
eyes. Most likely checking to see just how aware he is of what’s happening
around and to him. “Or it was that the day before —? Besides,” he continues,
disregarding the rhetorical question with a click of his teeth. “It’s not like
your knowing would have served any use.”
“Aye, James,” Sebastian sneers, dropping the ball of paper on the ground, and
it bounces, rolling under the desk. “If you say so.”
“Satisfied?”
“Not really,” and that gets Jim to turn towards him, their eyes meeting.
“Too bad,” he chirps, his sneer matching Sebastian par for par. “Now shut the
fuck up or get out again.”
"— yes, sir,” his heart is beating too fast, and he wants to say something
more, even opening his mouth for it, but nothing comes from his lips before Jim
turns back away.
Risking his luck, he takes a step closer, snagging the apple again to take it
with him. It couldn’t hurt to get back into Jim’s favour again, or at least to
try.
When his moving forward goes unchallenged — be it because Jim has started
playing a game of ‘eenie meanie minie moe’with the remaining pieces of the iPod
or not — he decides to take another chance, plopping down to the ground beside
the two men. He’s safely out of his way, out of both their ways, and he’s in
reach should Jim want something from him.
Not to mention that he can watch better from here. Of course, with that comes
the fact that he’ll probably be hit by blood as well, but that’s hardly the
point. He takes another bite of the apple, just as Jim makes up his mind.
He can see a sliver of the battery peaking out from between Jim’s fingers.
“Here, my darling,” he coos at the man, fingering his lips in a manner that’s
more than a little bit too sexual for Sebastian’s tastes. As he pries open the
man’s mouth, he slips his fingers along the line of teeth, until he can work
them apart as far as he needs.
“There’s a love,”and then he’s slipping into the crack of lips, between the
man’s teeth. “Come now,” and he’s almost gentle as he encourages the man to
close his mouth down around it. “Bite down for me. Hard as you like. It will
help.”
Part of Sebastian flinches at that, imagining the acrid taste of the battery on
his tongue, and he has to lick his lips, almost turning away to look at
something else to get rid of that powerful sensory perception.
There’s a muffled sound of complaint, but Jim’s order is obeyed without a
struggle, and even though the man’s eyes are defiant, his lips close around the
battery and he seems to bite down on it. He looks half out of his mind at this
point, and Sebastian in part wonders if Jim cheated after all, and gave him
something while they were alone. A drug, perhaps, to feed the man’s habit, and
make him slightly more susceptible to influence.
But even if he did, Sebastian has no grounds on which to hold an accusation, so
he bites his tongue and keeps himself silent about it.
“Now, Andrew,”Jim purrs, stroking his cheeks again, as if he’s only just had
this delicious new idea, and he absolutely must share it. “If I —" he crawls a
little bit closer, pushing their faces within kissing distance — and the man
goes slightly cross-eyed as he tries to stare down his nose at Jim’s face. "—
were to say that I would let you go if you were really, really good for me -
What would you say to that, my pet?”
Sebastian growls lowly.
“Shush,” he waves a hand in Sebastian’s direction, brushing him off, “nod for
yes,” he instructs the man, demonstrating with his own head. “You can do it.”
There’s a delay, in which Sebastian has to bite back a snarl, but it comes out
slowly. The man’s head moves up and down, his eyes growing even wider,
desperate and pleading relentlessly without words.
Please,his eyes seem to say. Please don’t do this. I’ll be good. I’ll be a good
boy. I can be good.
“Ahh, yes, good boy!” The smile on Jim’s lips is one of his most seductive,
almost silky in its sweetness, with a layer just underneath betraying the
sexual predator underneath it. He might as well be purring, with a smile like
that.
“Oh, I like you,” he continues, the smile melting around with the words, never
losing its potency. “My darling Andrew. Precious sweetheart of mine. Yes.”
Half of Sebastian is unwilling to interrupt Jim. The other half twitches,
fingers clenching in the air, and then he strikes. With Jim still stroking the
man’s cheeks, he doesn’t notice Sebastian out of the corner of his eye until
it’s too late to do anything.
Sebastian snags him by his neck, pulling him up onto his feet seamlessly, and
then shoving him against more than walking him towards the wall, a few meters
down from where the man is. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, James?”
he growls into the man’s face, pressing up close so all Jim can focus on is
eyes and nose and a little bit of mouth. “That’s not how it fucking works. We
don’t play this game.”
Even with his back pressed against the wall, Jim doesn’t lose that sinful smile
of his. If anything, it grows deeper and richer, more voluptuous and
disgusting.
“Tiger, darling,” Jim purrs, and Sebastian can feel the vibration as much as
hear it, as hands settle down on his hips, bracketing him in place — even
though he’s the one doing the caging in against the wall. “Are you jealous?”
His head tilts, his eyes look funny as he breathes in and out slowly.
“No,” he answers quickly, before replacing it with: “James, what? This isn’t
about that, and you fucking know it.”
“What is it about, then?” nothing seems to make any sense at all, and he growls
again, as one of Jim’s hands slips up from his waist, traveling up the line of
his button-up shirt and circling the uppermost of the done-up buttons.
“There’s nothing you want from him, and you know it,” he barks, almost tempted
to slap Jim’s hand away. “You told me that before. You know more than he ever
did already.”
“Yeah,well,” another growl, and then Jim’s lips are pressed against his. The
back of Jim’s head hits the wall as he pushes him harder against it, his eyes
closing as his hands slide into Jim’s hair, holding him in place. It’s really
not the time for this.
The music’s no longer playing. It must have been on a timer.
Jim’s mouth is slick against his, his tongue wet, teeth sharp, and lips ever so
bitable as they clash against his. It feels good, incredibly so, as Jim’s moan
vibrates quietly through his mouth, down to his throat, and he tries not to
jerk him backwards so hard that he risks giving him a concussion.
He’s letting Jim distract him again. He should have realised that before, not
five minutes into kissing him.
Pulling away, he uses the hold he has of Jim’s head to keep him from following.
Hs lips feel bruised and slightly swollen, wet as he pants, “You’re a fucking
idiot, James.”
“Mm.” Jim’s eyes open after a moment, meeting his, and there’s something
missing from them now. It’s still Jim, but at the same time, it doesn’t look
like it. Not that his posture has changed, or physically anything is different
at all. But the light that was in his eyes before has dimmed down to an almost
indiscernible level.
He looks confused, almost. Not that Sebastian has ever described this man as
being confused in the whole of his life.
“Jim,” he breathes against the man’s mouth, pulling him closer to peck at his
lips. He never calls him Jim, but for some reason, it feels appropriate right
now. “Just kill him, already, yeah? You don’t need to seduce him. And I won’t
distract you again.”
Jim sighs, pulling back from his mouth. His fingers are still tight against
Sebastian’s hips — he hadn’t noticed that at first, had barely felt the way the
nails were digging into him — and he has to let go of Jim’s hair to pry his
hands away. He pushes him towards the man, his heart pounding quietly in his
chest.
“Kill him, Jim,”he repeats, for good measure.
Jim doesn’t acknowledge him, almost seeming to stumble for a brief, tiny little
second, before he regains his footing, and comes to a stop just where he’s
again standing over the still bound man. His lips twitch, and for a moment, it
looks like he might fully open his mouth and say something, but he must decide
against it, because he drops to the ground instead.
Reaching out his right arm blindly to the side, he says, “Sebastian. Be a doll
and fetch me some things,” in a voice devoid of anything that could ever be
accused of being human. It’s nearly enough to make Sebastian shudder before
responding.
He doesn’t even ask Jim what he wants, darting quickly over to the abandoned
pile of items that they had collected, and goes straight for the ones he
suspects that Jim wants right now. There’s a slight hesitation before he grabs
the condoms — after he’s picked up the hairpiece — but after a quick glance to
Jim’s still extended hand, he takes them as well, and returns to the man’s
side.
“Here,” he tells Jim, placing the packet of condoms in his open palm, the
hairpiece on top of it. “What you wanted, yeah?” he asks in a quiet voice.
Not answering him, Jim’s thumb curls up, pressing down on the plastic packaging
to hold it down, and then he tips his hand, letting the hairpiece fall to the
ground with a remarkably loud clattering sound. Sebastian doesn’t flinch, but
his eyes narrow, just as Jim lifts the thing in his hand up into the air above
his head — the light isn’t even better there, he must just like the idea of
looking at them from that angle — to inspect them.
“Honey —"normally, that name would be accompanied by a milky sweet voice,
gentle with a touch of softness as it’s purred out, but right now it’s not. It
sounds no different than a staple word, which sends chills down Sebastian’s
spine. “Give daddy another kiss, why don’t you?”
Surprised, something in Sebastian always twitches at that combination of words,
equal parts hating it and kind of liking it, with a mix of being unsettled, and
he finds himself walking back over to Jim. He towers over the still sitting man
for a long moment, before he bends just enough to make it easier when he takes
hold of Jim’s head the same way he had just minutes before, bringing their lips
together into a dry kiss.
“Mmm,” Jim smiles blandly against him, a hand coming up to cup his cheek and
hold him in place just as he starts to pull away, not having had any intention
of dragging this out at all. Mouth opening against his, a tongue slides out
across his lips, and then it’s suddenly more comfortable and easier as Jim
licks into his mouth. “Good boy,” is purred tonelessly along his tongue, and he
growls lightly, almost pulling away anyway.
In response, he grips the back of Jim’s neck tightly, jerking him up enough to
bring him closer, deepening the kiss. It’s going to be brief, regardless of
what he does — that much is always fairly clear — but it doesn’t mean he can’t
enjoy it, dragging the rough surface of his tongue along the tender interior of
Jim’s mouth, making him whine softly. It feels good to hold him like that,
distracting Jim almost fully for several long moments, before it’s him that
pulls away.
Jim doesn’t even look a tiny bit flustered, the only hint of anything out of
place being the faint flush in his cheeks, and the way he carefully pats his
hair back down into submission before turning back to the man. He’s about to
say something — give Sebastian his orders, maybe — when the man interrupts him,
mumbling something inaudible around the battery still lodged between his teeth.
“Oh, what was that?” Jim can’t help himself but ask, his voice turning stiff.
“Here, darling,” he reaches forward before Sebastian can think to stop him,
prying the man’s jaw open to help him let the battery loose. Of course, he
doesn’t actually take it away, just makes it possible for the bloke to talk for
a moment.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the man demands, sounding genuinely afraid,
and quite a bit lost, eyes darting between Jim and Sebastian over and over.
“You - you —"
“Me?” Jim’s smile is demure, soft and sweet, and still so heartbreakingly
devoid of anything beyond that single surface layer, as he runs his thumb along
the battery, eyes sharpening just for a second before he slides it back into
place. Whatever fight is left in the man isn’t enough to make him complain now,
or fight it, and he gives in, his eyes still wide with desperation.
“I suffer from something horrible, my darling peach,” Jim continues after a
moment of contemplative silence. His head tilts to the side, amused and curious
as he watches emotions flicker away in just the span of a handful of seconds.
“Do you want to know what it’s called?”
Unable to speak coherently, the man nods jerkily, his eyes betraying how torn
he is.
“I suffer —" Jim starts, leaning forward until his lips are back up against the
man’s ear, whispering against it, but Sebastian can hear him clearly. "— From a
shortage of real human emotion.”
Whatever the man expected to hear from Jim, it probably wasn’t that, and he
sags back, resigned again, not trying to speak.
Jim, however, brightens monumentally. “I’m incapable of empathy,” he continues,
his voice smoothing out without effort. “I feel nothing for my fellow man but a
desire to kill him.”
Not, strictly speaking, the truth, but it’s not like Sebastian could get away
with calling him on it right now — or ever, really — and besides, maybe today
is one of those days when all of that is the truth.
Instead of saying anything more, Jim pulls back, one of his hands outstretched
in front of Sebastian, palm facing upwards. Give me your hand, is the silent
order, or at least as best Sebastian can interpret it.
He does without consideration or hesitation.
Under his fingers, Jim’s hand feels warm, slick with just a touch of sweat, and
greasy from something. But his hand is soft, gentle, the hands of a man who
refuses to work hard labour, and gets regular manicures. And even better yet,
Jim’s fingers curl around his — even though his are much larger than Jim’s, and
Jim knows it — tucking him into the desired place.
Good boy, he says tonelessly, not even having to speak it for Sebastian to hear
it.
He doesn’t scowl, but it’s a close one.
Jim’s thumb caresses the side of his hand, and he shivers, not expecting it to
go anywhere. Sure enough, before he can really appreciate the softness of the
gesture, Jim is placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, encouraging him to grip
it tightly. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
He complies.
“Hold.” Jim orders him, the single word enough to go on, and Sebastian doesn’t
need to ask for what the next one will be. The hand leaves his, dropping down
to the condoms by Jim’s side, ripping one of the packets away from the rest.
He tears the thing open with his teeth, only using the one hand as he lets it
fall out into it. He shoves his fingers into the end, tugging it open just
harsh enough to risk making it break should it be defective. It doesn’t, and
Jim hums, unrolling it slightly.
As he’s unrolling it, his eyes move up slowly, as if they’re being dragged up
by a machine, one notch at a time. “Would you like to know what it’s like?” he
asks the man, once their eyes have clicked together.
“That —" he pauses, not hesitation, clearly just waiting for something. “That
affliction of mine?”
Sebastian sucks in a breath, holding it, and by the time he’s done, the man is
nodding hesitantly.
It hardly looks like Jim has noticed either of them, his tongue coming out to
wet his lips. “It’s like holding your breath,” he says, sounding hollow and a
little bit worn out from something. “Sucking it all into your lungs without
even thinking about it, and just standing there like that, as the world passes
on in front of and around you, and you don’t even realise you did it. It’s
rushing. Forward. Forward. Forward.”
There’s a smile twitching at his lips, absent and disturbing. “One.”His lips
wrap around the word. “Two. Three.”
A pause. He skips to, “ten,” with an even longer hesitation between each one,
feeling like they’re huge gaps of silence. “Eleven. Twelve.”
His eyes close, and Sebastian releases the breath soundlessly. “And then out.
You release it out into the ether with a gut-wrenching sigh, your chest heaving
downwards, a release of everything within you. It’s out, it’s gone. You’re
breathing again.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, and this time, the man doesn’t as much
as twitch. “That’s what it’s like,” Jim finishes, an air of finality seeming to
come around them all, like a cloak. “That sigh.”
He looks hollowed out, and Sebastian longs to reach out and touch him, but he
can’t. “Jim,”he breathes, that name that so rarely passed from his lips again.
Jim doesn’t blink, eyes dropping back down to the condoms in his hand, as if
he’d forgotten that they’re there. He smiles suddenly, a bright, hollow one,
and reaches for one of the discarded pieces of iPod.
It looks sharp, even from the distance, and he slides it between his teeth,
biting down on it with his lips open, setting the open condom down on his knee
as he leans forward.
“Let me just —" he mumbles fingers wrapping around the man’s arm. The guy
flinches, trying to struggle backwards, but Jim soothes him with a hissed
shushing sound, wrenching the arm free from the bonds of the cord.
“Don’t,” he warns, that word clear, as one hand closes comfortably around the
spot just above the man’s elbow, and the other braced behind his shoulder.
One.
Two.
Three.
Face scrunching up, Jim throws as much force as he can into it, and the man
screams, a piercing, gut-achingly shrill sound.
How he’s actually managing it, Sebastian’s isn’t sure, but he blinks, and as
the man screams again — louder, always louder — he hears a sickening noise like
something cracking, crunching, and then he can see a lump protruding from the
man’s skin.
It looks painful, and odd, but there’s no blood, and the skin isn’t broken, yet
the man looks like he’s going to faint, his eyes have closed, having run out of
air with which to breathe, let alone shriek, stuck with whimpering now as Jim
pets the area. He releases it somewhat, pulling the arm that had curled behind
his body back, going to hold onto his shoulder.
“That looks —" he cuts himself off, frowning, and Sebastian really hopes he
doesn’t forget about the things between his teeth, because he risks cutting his
tongue if he does. With his eyebrows still scrunched up, Jim puts more pressure
into it, shoving the lower part of the man’s arm back against the wall, until
it hangs loosely, with a bloodied, jagged edge sticking out from a break in the
skin.
Jim falls back on his heels, staring contemplatively at it. There’s a moment of
him just flicking his eyes over the whole of the man’s body once, and then
again, and again, and then he’s pressing forward again. He pulls the man
forward by his chin, moving him until he’s lying more or less flat on his back,
a knee pressed to his chest to keep that whimpering, slobbery mess of a man
from trying to get up.
Finally, he reclaims the piece from his teeth, bending very specifically to get
his other knee pressed down into the space of the man’s hollowed out elbow.
With quick, nimble hands, he drags the sharp edge of the piece along skin,
digging it in deeply, and cutting away at it until he can pull the two pieces
of bone free.
There’s blood, perhaps even a little bit more than Sebastian had expected there
to be — not that he’d sat down to work out the maths of it — but still. With
his free hand, Jim snags the condom, unrolling it between his teeth, and then
he’s stretching it out over the red, steadily leaking stump.
The latex is more than tough enough to work its way, slowly filling with clumps
of gooey, dark red, and Jim pauses only to make certain that it’s snug in
place, and won’t get loose.
“Yes,” he murmurs quietly to himself, his hands covered in the man’s blood.
“That’s about -Yes.”
Sebastian would offer him something with which to clean his hands, but all he
has here is his shirt — which he needs — and he can only shift on his feet,
feeling nervous for a moment. If he says something now, Jim could turn on him.
Or kiss him bloody. Maybe both.
It’s a nice idea, in a way.
The man is still whimpering, sobbing incoherently, and Jim lays a bloodied
finger across his lips. “Shh,”he encourages, closing the man’s lips fully.
“Don’t speak, precious. Save your strength. This might just take a while longer
than you had hoped.”
There’s this shade of utter hopelessness on the man’s face, that wasn’t there
before. It shudders reluctantly across his features, magnifying once he’s
managed to struggle enough to turn his head, staring wide-eyed in horror at
what’s left of his arm. His eyes flicker to the part of it that’s on the ground
by his head, and he lets out this gasping noise, his eyes rolling back into his
head as he groans out his utter devastation.
“It’s all right, my darling,” Jim soothes him dryly, dropping his head down so
the man won’t be able to avoid looking at him. He tilts, facing him fully.
“You’re just going into shock. It’s why you haven’t passed out yet. And this —"
he rubs his thumb across the seam of the sickly stained green condom, drawing a
cry from the man’s lips. "— Should buy us a little while before you die on me.”
He says it with such casualness that Sebastian’s heart flutters in his chest.
It would be insane to say that Jim is the only person he’s ever met who can say
things like that in such an unaffected tone, but it wouldn’t be a lie to say
that he’s the most superb of them all.
“Kill him, Jim,”slips from his lips again, for the third or fourth time. He
can’t remember how many times he’s said it, but three feels about right, and he
recognises that the order came from hislips and his alone.
Jim looks up. His eyes don’t flash, not in the way that they usually do, but
something quiet seems to flicker in them. “No,” he says back, the word coming
out longer than it should have to, and somehow feeling fuller and richer than
it usually should. “Not yet.”
Sebastian’s hands clench up, before releasing.
Hurry up,he doesn’t say; because Jim doesn’t need or want to hear that right
now.
“Now —" Jim turns to the man again, reaching out a hand above his head to take
hold of the removed arm. He drags it deliberately across the ground, letting
the blood stain it, before lifting it up in front of the man’s face. “Out of
niceness —" like anyone would ever accuse Jim of being nice,even either of them
included, "— I won’t take the other one. But I don’t want you to take your eyes
away from this, peach. Do you understand?”
There’s a pause, a shudder wracking through the man’s body, his eyes squeezing
shut as he begins to cry.
Jim uses the hand to smack him sharply across the face. It’s not enough to make
him open his eyes, but he stops moving, stops trying to protest.
Belatedly, Sebastian remembers that the battery is still in his mouth. He’s
more than bitten through it by now, after the amount of pain through which he
would have gone when Jim did his thing.
Don’t forget the hairpiece,he thinks in Jim’s direction, unwilling to say it
and admit that he wants to see it happen, whatever it is. A second later, Jim
extends his free hand, feeling about on the ground until he can close his
fingers in around the piece.
Sebastian smiles, and Jim doesn’t look up again. “Where would you like this,
precious?” He asks the man, who only shudders in reply, his eyes finally
beginning to crack open.
Please, is on his lips, as clear as day.Please. Just end this. I can’t take it.
Please!
Neither them are likely to be inclined to grant him mercy any time soon.
Especially not as Jim starts shuffling around, repositioning himself on the
man’s chest. Once he’s settled to his approval, he picks at the man’s other
hand — the one with the arm still attached to his shoulder — fixing it
carefully so that he can tangle his fingers with the ones on the detached piece
of him.
It looks quaint, once he puts them down, entwined together like that on the
ground, and Sebastian doesn’t look, knowing how upset the man must be. Jim must
have given him some kind of drug.
He doesn’t have any proof, of course. But he almost never has proof, and even
when he does, it never manages to accomplish anything. It’s not ever even
enough to get Jim admitto anything.
But there has to be something in his blood keeping his heart from pumping it
out too fast, and killing him instantly, on top of whatever is making the pain
partially tolerable.
The sight of the slowly filling condom is surprisingly beautiful, especially as
the shoulder twitches periodically, always followed by a whimpering sound.
End him, Jim,he almost finds himself saying.I’m getting bored again.
He’s not, but that hardly matters. It’s more of a dizzying feeling, anyway.
Jim’s finger catches along the tip of the hairpiece again, making a funny sound
in the air, as he tests the strength of the teeth. After a moment, he presses
them sharply into his palm, careful not to make them snap, but pushing hard
enough to leave these tiny little indentations in his skin, which he examines
carefully after.
He holds up his hand a second later, palm facing outwards so that the man can
see as well, if he so desires. See? he seems to say.
Finally, he sets the hairpiece down on the man’s spotted chest, reaching for
the piece of iPod that he’d left in a puddle of blood. Making certain that his
hands are in view nearly at all times, and easy to watch, he tucks up the
bottom of the man’s shirt, folding it over so he can reach the softness of his
belly fat.
See?
With the sharp piece tucked between two fingers, he digs it into the man’s
corpulent folds, sharply puncturing him several times in a row. He doesn’t just
prick him, but pushes it in deep until there are leaking holes, and the man is
gasping again, starting to thrash as if his life depends upon it.
Once he’s satisfied, he discards the piece again, hand going for the hairpiece
immediately, lining up the teeth with the holes he’s just made in the man’s
skin. With one hand, he holds it in place, and the other goes down on it palm
facing downwards, pressuring it down into the holes so hard that the man’s back
arches as it goes in, and he shrieks like a dying cat.
Jim doesn’t even smirk.
It’s almost amusing, to see the piece like that as it protrudes from the man’s
stomach, and Jim seems to agree, stroking the top and then around it with a
finger. He hums something under his breath, something Sebastian can’t quite
catch, before his right hand digs into the man’s chest, holding him down in
place, as he drags the piece downwards with as much force as he can muster at
this angle.
The skin barely makes any noise as it’s ripped open, pulled back by the
hairpiece, only accentuated by tiny little pained gasps. Jim doesn’t stop until
he’s open a decent sized area of the man’s abdomen open, so he can peer down
inside.
“Oh,”he says, but he doesn’t sound surprised at all. “I am so sorry. I appear
to have clipped your intestines. How troublesome.”
His head cocks to the side, fingers slipping behind the teeth of the hairpiece,
into the bloodied hole. The blood feels hot and slimy between his fingers,
coating them and making them deliciously slippery. For a moment, it looks like
he might giggle, but his face remains stoic, as he digs several fingers worth
of blood out from the hole he’s made, smearing it across the man’s fat folds.
“Look at that,” he comments, entirely for his own benefit, and not for the
man’s, or Sebastian’s. “So pretty.”
It’s as close to smiling as it looks like Sebastian is going to be able to get
out of him for awhile.
The man whimpers again, chest heaving, and Jim jerks his head up to look, as if
he’d been starting to forget that the he was still there and still alive on the
ground.
“Not much longer,” he adds softly, something that in any other man would be a
hint of regret. “You’re fading quickly.”
With one of his hands pressed onto the ground just by the man’s head, he leans
over his body, pressing a knee down on his abdomen to encourage the flow of
more blood as he brings their faces up close together. His fingers, still dark
with rich blood, slick their way across the man’s cheek, painting him with faux
war stripes, working their way down to the his mouth.
He’s already tasted his own blood once so far, but Jim can’t resist working his
fingers past the man’s lips, digging them down in the back of the man’s throat,
until he’s gagging on his own blood. He chokes him like that, putting more and
more pressure on his torso; and turning his head, he digs his teeth into the
severed part of the man’s shoulder, dragging the suitably full condom away,
breaking the makeshift seal.
The blood gushes, from his belly and from his arm, as he chokes on it. His body
twitches and twitches, and Sebastian holds his breath again, as little sounds
escape, gurgling noises, as blood slowly seeps out, and then he’s still.
His throat stops contracting around Jim’s fingers, the frantic movements of his
chest suddenly disappearing, and Jim pulls back. He sits on his haunches, still
half on the man, staring curiously down at his chest. He almost looks
disappointed now.
Sebastian gives him a minute, letting him sit there, falling into the space of
his own head, until his eyes start to drift shut, and falling asleep becomes a
concern.
“Come on,” he whispers, moving forward to catch Jim before he can collapse,
holding him up by his shoulders, and then pulling him back up onto his feet.
“Let’s get you out of here, yeah?”
Jim goes willingly, without the slightest trace of fight in his body, and
Sebastian more or less carries him off to the desk, where he knows there are
cleaning things.
Ironically, there are wet wipes in one of the drawers, and he makes quick use
of them, cleaning Jim’s hands off thoroughly, followed by his face, and then
any other spots he can see and easily get. There’s still blood on his clothes,
but that can barely be helped, and he’ll give Jim his jacket before he sends
him away, to cover up most of the stains. The ones on his trousers are hardly
noticeable, unless a person knew what they were looking for and exactly where.
Once he’s done, he props Jim up against the desk, holding his face up so he can
peer curiously into the man’s eyes, to make sure that there’s nothing truly the
matter.
“I’m tired, ‘Bastian,”and even before he looks for it, he knows how real those
words are in the reflection of Jim’s eyes. It’s the first genuine emotion he’s
seen in them in what feels like forever. He looks worn to the core, and
Sebastian has the blink back emotion at that, smiling softly instead, as he
wraps the coat quickly around him, and then pulling Jim into his arms.
He understands. The adrenaline highs leave Jim like this sometimes, wearing him
absolutely to the core, and then leaving almost nothing beyond his body awake.
The kiss he presses to that spot just below Jim’s left ear is soft, barely
feather-light, and then he’s pulling away again, framing the man’s face in his
hands. He bypasses Jim’s lips, skipping over to press his mouth to the man’s
nose, knowing how it irks him when he’s fully conscious.
“Go home,”he whispers to Jim’s skin, “I’ll take care of the rest. Get some
sleep.”
“All right.”
But he doesn’t pull away immediately, and it gives Sebastian an extra few
moments to kiss him again, on the side of his face, his hair, breathing in his
smell.
Jim seems to sigh, and he lets go of him, not watching as the man stumbles
away. He’ll be all right on his own, at least until Sebastian is finished and
can join him.
***** in the picture i have of you *****
When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is are the eyes on him. And maybe
that’s why he woke up in the first place, from that unsettling feeling of being
watched.
On one hand, past experience tells him to pretend that he’s still asleep, to
fake his breathing patterns, and maybe they’ll go away, and not bother him
anymore, until he can actually fall back asleep again. But the other part of
him — the part that’s mostly active right now — is undyingly curious, and he
finds himself sitting up on the bed, rubbing sleep from out of his eyes.
It’s Sebastian, he realises after a moment, rather belatedly. He blinks. The
boy is technically at the foot of his bed, sitting comfortably in the chair
that’s there, though it’s meant for sitting at the desk under the window. He
frowns, staring at the boy. “Hi?”
“Jimmy.” His name sounds rasped from Sebastian’s throat, and he shivers
unconsciously, biting down a little bit too hard on his bottom lip.
“It’s —” he hesitates, eyes flicking up to the clock on his left wall. “It’s
three in the morning,” and when Sebastian just stares blandly at him, he feels
the need to clarify. “It’s three in the morning,” he says again, “and you’re
here, in my room, watching me. Why?”
“Oh, that,” and Sebastian doesn’t seem embarrassed in the least, his smile
incredibly relaxed as he moves to a more slouched position, arms bent and
tucked behind his head. “Had the late shift, got locked out of my flat. Only
option was to come here or sleep on someone’s porch.” He pauses, and Jim blinks
at him again. “It isn’t even one degree out, Jimmy,” he scolds Jim, who
blushes, glancing down at his hands on the bed sheets. “I would freeze to death
out there.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Jim feels embarrassed now, at having immediately jumped to the
conclusion that Sebastian was here to stare at him deliberately. “Was the porch
door unlocked?”
“Nah, climbed up your window.”
“Ah,” he swallows, not quite sure what to say to that. “So, uh, did you want me
to get you a blanket from down the hall?”
“Oh, no, no,” Sebastian’s smile is mild. “No need to go to all that trouble for
me, little love.”
As always, the endearment brings a warm red along his neck, to his ears, and he
tries to hide it by ducking his head lower down. “Did you want to —” he bites
his lip again, worrying it between his teeth. “Did you want to sleep in my bed?
With me, I mean,” he hastens to clarify, still not looking up. “Not, like, take
my bed. But it’s big enough to share.”
“You’d let me do that, Jimmy?” Sebastian sounds mildly surprised, and he can’t
help but glance up to confirm that the same expression is on his face.
“Yeah, of course!” he nods enthusiastically, forcing a proper smile. It’s too
late to feel anything all too genuine right now. “We’re friends, aren’t we?
You’re my —” he pauses only a second, internally starting to panic over whether
or not Sebastian will make fun of him for this. “You’re my best friend.”
Sebastian gets this funny look on his face, and Jim’s stomach drops, suddenly
feeling nauseous. “You’re sweet,” he tells the boy after a moment, who blinks
at him, not quite understanding.
He stands up, moving closer to the bed, to other side of it. “You sure you
don’t mind, dove?” he asks, as he peels back the blankets, baring a space for
himself. But he doesn’t get in, not until Jim has confirmed it.
Nodding quickly, Jim scoots farther back on the bed, making sure that there’s
more than enough room for Sebastian to not feel uncomfortable. In truth, his
heart is absolutely pounding in his chest, and if he were to hold his hands up
in the air, they would probably be shaking. It’s been a rather long time since
Sebastian was last so near his space.
The bed squeaks when Sebastian pulls his body up onto it, and he lets out
a ‘ugh’ like sound of relief as he melts into the sheets. “That is —” Sebastian
grins at Jim carelessly, moving closer to him. “Yeah, that’s much better. I was
fucking freezing over there.”
He offers Sebastian a slightly timid smile, shifting to get his head back onto
his pillow, facing the other boy now. “What happened to your key?” he asks
softly, when it looks like Sebastian is finally going to settle down on his
side of the bed. He does, lying down in such a way that he’s facing Jim, too,
with their faces so incredibly close that Jim almost feels as if he could break
the distance with no effort, and steal a kiss.
On his lips, Jim can feel Sebastian’s warm breath puffed out, and he inhales
through his mouth, some part of him hoping to taste the other boy. Just a
little bit, just one taste, and nothing more than that.
“I got mugged on the way home from work,” Sebastian finally mutters, and Jim
blinks, almost having forgotten that he’d asked that question. His eyes narrow
in concern, the skin wrinkling up. He’s about to ask if the boy is all right,
but he isn’t given the opportunity. “No, no, it’s fine. The bastards took
everything out of my pockets, is all.”
“I’m sorry.” If being mugged is anything like being attacked by groups of
schoolyard bullies, then Jim knows an unfortunate amount about how it feels.
Unconsciously, he reaches out to touch Sebastian’s face with one hand. “Did
they hurt you too badly?” he breathes out, eyes flickering up so that their
gazes may meet.
“It’s fine, like I said,” and before he can pull his hand away, Jim gasps,
feeling Sebastian turn his head and press his lips to the inside curve of his
wrist. He blushes automatically, heart racing in his chest, and tries to jerk
the hand away.
No, no, don’t, it’s all right, he can almost hear Sebastian say. One of the
boy’s hands comes up to grip his forearm gently, a tender hold, and Sebastian
breathes against his skin. He’s not looking, and his neck and ears feel like
they’re on fire, and he feels another kiss, closer to his palm.
“Se - Sebastian?” he asks, voice quivering. “You —”
“Come on, Jimmy,” Sebastian interrupts him before he can figure out what his
question was going to be. He seems to have taken Jim’s inability to form a
sentence, and lack of pulling away as all the agreement to something that he
needs. “You know you've been wanting this, yeah?”
Without another word, the bed shifts, and Jim looks up again to see Sebastian
crawling towards him, and then the boy is over him, crouched with a leg on
either side of his torso. It’s a strange feeling that he doesn’t entirely
understand, and he almost whimpers.
“Isn’t - isn’t this wrong?” Jim finally stutters out, face on fire. His hand
hasn’t left Sebastian’s grasp, and though the boy is only really touching that
part of him, it feels achingly intimate. Like something he’s never experienced
before outside of dreams, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it.
He’s never felt himself stir quite so strongly between his legs while awake
before, and it’s so wrong feeling that he almost wants to cry. “Isn’t it sick?”
“Oh, fuck off, Jim,” Sebastian purrs above him, his lips kissing like feathers
tickling him, until they’re up to one of Jim’s fingers, sucking it lightly into
his mouth. “You ain’t got no moral high ground when it comes to degrees of
sickness.”
Jim barely notices, too caught up in staring at Sebastian with a mixture of
complete horror and shocked amusement in his eyes, feeling so completely
confused. His body seems to want this, seems to be telling him to arch up and
press himself against Sebastian. But his mind says that this is wrong, that
Sebastian is a boy, and you don’t do this sort of thing with boys.
“Come on, Jimmy,” he releases Jim’s hand, letting it fall back with a light
thump to the padding of the bed. The tip of his finger feels moist, and he
reacts instinctively, curling it up inside a fist to keep from noticing the
tingling.
Only now does Sebastian plant his hands along Jim’s shoulders, rubbing at them
soothingly. His grin is a cross between his most devious, and his most calming,
as he lowers his voice. “Don’t tell me a blushing virgin on top of being the
prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
Jim growls finally, not feeling quite so weak as he turns his head away, not
wanting Sebastian to see how much deeper the red along his neck feels like it’s
growing to be. “Shut up, arsehole,” he mutters reflexively.
Lifting one hand, Sebastian brings it to his chin, his eyes full of mirth and
the most genuine kindness that Jim has ever seen in any one person. Directed at
him, and otherwise, despite the fact that the boy is holding him in such a way
that he couldn’t escape without a scuffle.
Not that he wants to get away. He’s never wanted to run away from Sebastian.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me, love.” Sebastian’s smile doesn’t waver, as
his thumb caresses the underside of Jim’s jaw. “You think no one’s noticed. But
I caught on immediately.”
Jim tries to pull away, shoulders curling up to try and hide his face as much
as he can. But it doesn’t hide the way his mouth had begun to open, simply from
the way Sebastian was petting him.
“Hey, hey,” Sebastian soothes him, the hand moving until he can rub his thumb
over Jim’s bottom lip. “It’s perfectly natural,” he grins pleasantly, “You’re
sexually maturing and, well,” he preens, just a bit, “I’m an attractive bloke.
Quite frankly, I’d be offended if you weren’t looking.”
“F - fuck off!” Jim blushes harder at the press of thumb, not trying to pull
away at this point, but feeling both more uncomfortable and more pliant. He
knows that there’s still a reason that he should want to get away from
Sebastian right now, but he’s really not sure what it was anymore.
Sebastian won’t stop staring at him, smiling self-assuredly, with his perfect
white teeth practically glistening in the dark. He’s not even sure why he’s so
attracted to the bastard, because he shouldn’t be. He really shouldn’t. He’d
thought he was above things like that. Above being controlled by his body and
not the opposite. But Sebastian defies his reasoning and makes his brain hurt a
little from the fuzziness that comes when he stands too close to the boy.
“Go away.” He tries to keep the whine from his voice, but it’s an obvious
failure that leaves Sebastian smiling fondly. “I don’t want to talk about this.
Can’t we just sleep?” Not that he could sleep anymore, with how funny and
tingly his body feels, and how hard his penis has gotten to be.
And he knows what it means, read books about it, but he’s never really had to
properly deal with it before. In the past, he’s ignored those light stirrings
until they’ve gone away, but now it doesn’t feel like that would work in the
slightest.
“Come now, love.” Sebastian licks his lips slowly, the grin spreading again.
“You know you don’t want me to leave.”
He lowers his body slightly, dropping the hand so he can brace himself fully on
the mattress and slide closer. Leaning over Jim’s body, he breathes in the
boy’s ear, the sound heavy. “You can’t lie to me about that,” he says, as Jim
tries to not shudder and press up to touch him. “I always know.”
“I —" Jim swallows loudly, reaching up to push Sebastian away, but only
succeeding in gripping his shoulders tightly. “I’ve only ever read books, and
I’m not sure if I wanna try the - the —” he cuts himself off, hating how
embarrassed he feels, and coughs. “It looks painful. A - and not normal, t - to
be able to bend like that. I can’t imagine someone could ever be so naturally
that fl - flexible.”
“Don’t worry,” Sebastian chuckles, the sound coming out a bit raspy.
“ You've never been touched by anyone else. I’ll start you out small. Easy.” He
licks his lips again, his tongue brushing teasingly over the rim of Jim’s ear.
“We’ll try out some of the things you saw on another day. Next week, maybe.”
With an almost imperceptible little gasp, Jim jerks his head away, flinching at
the touch of wet on his already overly sensitive ear. “Seh - Seb,” he stutters,
“You - we - you can’t - I mean —” the words come out much less steady, and
considerably less coherent than he would like, and he gulps. “Wh - why?”
Smiling softly down at him, Sebastian follows the movement of his head, ducking
down to kiss the spot just beneath Jim’s ear. “You want me,” he tells Jim,
rasping quietly at him, and there’s no mistaking the surety in his voice. “And
I want you. Why shouldn’t we take advantage of that? It’s incredibly —” he
pauses to repeat the press of lips, rougher this time, dragging drying lips
down toward Jim’s jaw. “— Convenient. Don’t you think?”
As he shivers unconsciously, a light whimper manages to just barely escape from
Jim’s lips when he opens his mouth to speak again. It stops him for a second as
he blushes, embarrassed by the way it sounded, and his head tilts automatically
in catering to Sebastian’s lips. Almost as if his body knows how this works,
even if his mind doesn’t. “I - you —”
“Shh, no, little dove,” Sebastian quiets him softly, encouraging him to tilt
his head up, to gain access to the line of throat directly down from his chin.
He kisses it indulgently, almost lazy with every movement. “Shush now,” he says
again. “Don’t try to speak. I’ll take care of everything. There’s no need in
that pretty little head of yours to work so hard, not when I’m here.”
And a part of Jim wants to protest still. To demand that Sebastian recognise
that he’s not a child. He’s fourteen; he knows what he’s doing most of the
time. He can make his own decisions, and fuck you, he’s been taking care of
himself for practically the whole of his life. For as long as he can remember.
He doesn’t need Sebastian to take care of him.
But he sucks an uncertain breath in instead, nodding shakily. The rest of him
doubts whether or not he likes Sebastian’s words, or the direction things seem
to be going as his neck is methodically kissed. But the part of him that craves
touch and the feeling of being adored like this wants more than anything else
to bask in it, as if it were a single ray of sun on an otherwise cloudy day,
shining perfectly down on a field.
Not to mention how nice the words sound, in retrospect. They’re so nice, so
well spoken, in that deliciously leathery accent of Sebastian’s. They don’t
sound practiced, but they sound true, like they’re unsurprising and well worn.
Most importantly, they make it difficult to focus on anything but Sebastian for
more than a few seconds at a time, and his eyes flutter shut, his muscles
growing pliant finally under the attention.
Yeah, he thinks finally. I want this. This is everything I have ever wanted.
“Good boy,” Sebastian sounds pleased, and if those words were coming from any
other lips, or were said to him on any other day, they would be enough to make
him pause and tense, and struggle to get away. But from Sebastian, but today,
they make him want to fall to his knees, press his face into Sebastian’s leg,
and just bask in him. He wants to be good for Sebastian right now, wants to
make Sebastian more proud than he has ever been before.
The thought makes him blush for what must be the thousandth time by now, and he
loses track of whatever words he was going to make come out in response. “I —”
he swallows, gathering the words carefully. “You won’t hurt me. R - right?”
He already knows the answer; because this is Sebastian. But he has to ask.
“No, no,” and Sebastian frowns, all the way down to his voice, as his lips drag
themselves away from Jim’s skin. “Of course not.” He lines their faces up until
they’re making eye contact again, and it’s hard for Jim to not gasp at the
intensity of it. His eyes feeling like they’re beginning to fill with water
with every second he makes himself hold the look. “I would never hurt you,”
Sebastian whispers to him, making him catch his breath. “You are my sweet,
lovely Jimmy. And I would never let myself harm you.”
Okay, he’s going to say, but before he can, before he would have the chance to
form any sort of rebuttal or continue the conversation in any way, Sebastian
brings their lips together with a soft sigh. “So pretty,” he murmurs, in that
tiny little moment before their lips connect.
Jim’s eyes, which are already wide from the words and the tension between them,
grow wider at the only partially anticipated kiss. There have been so many
times when it felt like Sebastian was going to lean into one, but then he would
stop. Every time, he would stop himself, and pretend like nothing had happened
between them.
But there isn’t anything like that now, and Sebastian’s lips are against his
for the first time. It’s his first kiss, and he tries to mumble that, but the
sound doesn’t come out quite right, and he moves a hand to clench at
Sebastian’s neck instead. This is the first time anyone has ever touched him in
a way that resembled this before, and it’s so incredibly breathtaking that he
feels taken aback by it.
It's not even the kiss itself that makes him feel that way. The kiss is dry,
and doesn’t feel as if it’s truly all that special, not from the way they’re
positioned, which makes it awkward. But it’s not a bad kiss, either. Not that
he has any basis for comparison on that front, but despite the awkward, despite
the strangeness, he likes it. It's everything else that gets to him.
After only a moment or two, Sebastian shifts, pulling away to lick at his lips
— and Jim almost cries out, his fingers clenching down, no, don’t go, I wasn’t
finished yet, please? — and then he moves back in, repositioning their mouths
to bring them together again. It’s softer now, silkier, and despite how
incredibly chaste it still is, Jim finds himself moaning quietly. His eyes shut
slowly, finally, and his fingers loosen against Sebastian’s neck, not really
sure what to do now.
Sebastian can tell. Of course he can tell, he can always tell, and he laughs
against Jim’s mouth, pressing his forefinger into the curve of his jaw. As
intended, Jim’s lips part into a gasp, and he takes advantage of the shift to
flick his tongue out into the boy’s mouth.
He delights in the uncomfortable, shy grunt Jim makes at the strange intrusion
— and Jim tries to shut his mouth, but he cuts off the protests before they can
get that far — and grinning as he pushes closer to him. Jim shivers, more
letting himself be kissed than anything, because he hasn’t figured it out yet,
but Sebastian is more than happy to lead the way.
With Jim’s mouth easily opened, he moves his hand to the back of the boy’s
head, holding him in place and against his lips. “Stay still,” he mutters, as
he sloppily licks into Jim’s mouth.
Only whining weakly in continued protest, Jim lets himself be settled down, no
longer actively trying to get away from the kiss. If he’s honest with himself,
this isn’t how he imagined kissing would be like either; and he’s not certain
how happy he is about it. Sebastian’s tongue feels slick and bit gross inside
his mouth, flicking at his own tongue, swiping along the insides of his cheeks,
and he keeps quelling the instinct to flinch away from it.
The older boy’s breath isn’t bad, fortunately, and he actually almost tastes
nice, like whiskey and cigarettes, and that would have been Jim’s biggest
complaint about this. It feels, more than anything, like his mouth is being
invaded by a fairly large, definitely moving, and quite wet noodle.
Huffing softly into Jim’s mouth, Sebastian daintily flicks his tongue over the
boy’s teeth as if to count and catalogue them. It leaves Jim entirely at a loss
for what he’s supposed to be doing. Isn’t he supposed to participate?
The question is quickly swept from his mind as Sebastian tugs him even closer,
body moving to mold over Jim’s, hips locking against hips — and oh, that’s what
that feels like — utilising the distraction of their bodies to suck Jim’s
tongue into his mouth.
The boy chokes, feeling bothered again by the sudden idea, even as the suction
proves to at first be oddly pleasant, and then growing into a much nicer
sensation. He’s only just beginning to get used to the whole idea of kissing —
hand on Sebastian, desperately seeking to keep up with him by moving his mouth
sluggishly back, too timid to use his tongue to more than kitten lick just yet
— when Sebastian seems to grow tired of it, moving to pull away from Jim’s
mouth.
Here, he presses wet, rough kisses down Jim’s chin and along his neck. They
tickle and feel cold in some places after Sebastian breathes out on them,
mingling with the air in the room, and he’s not entirely comfortable with that
either. But Sebastian must believe that he’ll enjoy this, and he believes in
Sebastian.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, pretty boy,” nipping the skin around his
collarbone sharply, Sebastian scrapes his teeth over the spot. “We’re already
in bed, so I don’t have to get you into one. But I’m going to get up, and
you’re going to stay here. I left my slick on the desk. You know what happens
after that?”
“Y - yes?” Jim shudders, the words buzzing through his ears, sending vaguely
terrified shocks down his body. This is really happening? Sebastian doesn’t
help it, of course, pressing another kiss to the curve of his neck, that makes
him shudder helplessly. He’s not really sure what any words mean at the moment,
let alone these ones. But he’s afraid to ask for clarification, so he blinks
owlishly at Sebastian, not wanting to look stupid. The last thing he’s ever
wanted has been to be seen as an idiot in Sebastian’s eyes.
He doesn’t want to lose him as well.
Sebastian chuckles again, and suddenly his body is no longer pressed so
intimately against his, and he pats Jim’s head in an almost condescending
manner as he forces himself to his feet.
After Sebastian leaves, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes with his fists, trying
to figure out if this is actually a dream or not. It has all the makings of
one. With funny, fuzzy little pockets of light in the corners of his vision,
and Sebastian being a little less sweet and a little bit more aggressive than
he usually is.
But for Sebastian, it really isn’t all that odd. And he does like Sebastian
like this, and any time regardless of how he is. Not forgetting how much he
knows he wants this, which is probably at least half the reason Sebastian is
giving it to him right now.
Before he can finish contemplating, Sebastian comes back, dropping something on
the bedside table that makes a soft thumping sound. He looks up at the boy,
reaching out to touch his waist, because he wants his chance to be at least
mildly the aggressor, and Sebastian lets him.
Except he hooks his hands underneath Jim’s shoulders after a moment, pulling
him up without so much as a grunt of effort, caging him in with hands, and a
mouth against his again. Their bodies are once again aligned perfectly, with
Jim stood between Sebastian’s feet, hands on Sebastian’s waist, Sebastian’s
hands holding his head in place, and yeah. This is good.
Their hips arch together in a way that make him gasp, actually rocking into the
contact this time; and up until now, he’s barely even noticed his partially
hard penis, but the press of Sebastian’s so obviously tented trousers against
him bring the attention screaming back to it. He hisses, backing his mouth away
to bite at his lips, and if he had anything but the bed to fall back against,
he would right now.
He opens his mouth to say something, possibly to complain about something, but
he’s really not sure, not when Sebastian’s hands seem absolutely determined to
leave imprints on his hips, and the boy’s teeth come back to gnaw a pattern on
his neck. He just can’t focus like this, can’t concentrate on his feelings of
uncomfortableness for more than a few seconds at a time, not when he’s stuck
clinging to Sebastian’s waist to keep himself upright and from falling back
onto the bed.
“Shh, pretty boy,” Sebastian sinks his teeth into an already failure tender
spot, the pain only brief before he’s dragging his tongue across the spot in an
attempt to be soothing. His hands have ended up moving down Jim’s body, cupping
his arse as he rocks forward, bringing their hips  tighter  together.
“You’re all right,” he reminds Jim softly, and the boy nods quickly, agreeing
with him as his fingers clench. Taking that as his cue, Sebastian bites down
again, in that exact same spot as before. But this time he doesn’t remove his
mouth from Jim’s skin for several very long seconds, instead biting down harder
to restrict the blood blow.
When he pulls off, he draws back his head far enough to inspect and admire the
swelling redness, and Jim can’t help but open his eyes to stare. Sebastian’s
lips are a little bit swollen as well, reddened and bruised from kissing him,
and he fights not to blush again.
Leaning down, Sebastian presses a soft, loving kiss to the throbbing spot of
Jim’s skin, chuckling as the boy flinches back from it. “Shh, little one,”
Sebastian breathes against it, and Jim gasps. “I’m going to make us both feel
so good. Turn that freaky little brain of yours off for a bit. Just let me have
the reigns.”
He scrapes his teeth almost cruelly back over that same red, lingering along
the edges. “You know you want me,” he continues, tone still low, and what part
of Jim is still aware of more than just the two of them blesses him for that,
for the fact that he’s not making so much noise that he’ll wake up Uncle. “Your
body is telling me all I need to know.”
The rest of Jim whimpers, his jaw hanging most of the way open, too distracted
by everything to really notice. The pain itself isn’t enough to affect him
deeply, but it leaves his knees slightly shaky, and he knows that if Sebastian
were not working so effortlessly to keep him upright, he would have fallen over
by now.
“I —” he licks at his too dry lips, breathing in heavily as he tries to steady
his thoughts. After a moment, he attempts speaking again, only getting out a
few more syllables before he’s shushed. “I don —”
“Hey, now, what did I say about your brain, sweetheart?” Sebastian growls
playfully, claiming his open mouth and licking eagerly into it, almost
appearing to swallow the words down. His hands leave Jim’s arse, back up his
body, pressing a thumb into the corner of Jim’s jaw to keep him from being able
to close up without a struggle.
He traces the rim of Jim’s mouth from the inside, along his teeth with the most
caring of huffs, seeming to want to claim the space beyond Jim’s lips one bit
at a time.
It should frighten Jim, to be wanted this much, with Sebastian need so
endlessly clear along his hip, the way he kisses him, the way he marks him. But
the need for air keeps him from being capable of focusing to clench up in fear,
and the wandering hand is so very distracting as it traces underneath his
shirt, the fingers calloused and hard.
At least he’s kissing Jim again. At least he understands what this is, and
doesn’t have to worry, for a short time, whether it’s going to hurt soon. But
just as that thought has passed through him, it seems to fade, leaving
Sebastian growing tired of his domination of Jim’s mouth. He pulls away
gracelessly, and without pause or question, he drops the other hand to tug at
the hem of Jim’s shirt, pulling it up over the boy’s head.
There, much better.
Jim’s blinks at him, smiling shyly. To the best of his knowledge, he’s never
been without a shirt in Sebastian’s presence before; and despite all they’ve
done so far tonight, he really shouldn’t be anxious about that. But he is, more
than he would be willing to admit.
Their positioning makes the height difference between them feel so much bigger,
and he feels rather like he’s being forced to stare up at a giant. But that
might be — and probably is — just an exaggeration of his mind due to how naked
he feels without his shirt. He shivers unconsciously against a non-existent
breeze, all too aware of how innocent he is in comparison to Sebastian in this.
Sebastian’s lips twist into a pleased smirk, as he tilts his head to the side,
slowly examining Jim’s exposed torso. “Not bad,” he comments, eyes sharp, and
tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “For a runt like you.” He laughs at his
own joke, though Jim isn’t quite sure what it is, exactly, moving closer again
to pet at Jim’s sides. “Pretty little runt,” he corrects himself, and Jim
shudders. “My runt.”
“I —” Jim hesitates, before nodding shakily, and then more eagerly. “Yours.”
On Sebastian’s lips, the words had seemed like the ultimate confirmation of
their relationship, and on Jim’s, they’re more of a hiss of appreciation. An
acceptance of all that they are and will be. Sebastian agrees with him
silently, rolling his hips painfully forward, against Jim’s own. “Feel that?”
he whispers, the words like a dance, mouth moving to cover Jim’s ear. “That’s
what your little body does to me, my dove. Every time I see you. Your fault.”
That really does make Jim blush again, even more painfully than earlier, but
Sebastian’s hands make it clear that retreat isn’t an option. “I - my fault,”
he parrots the words dutifully, smiling in earnest — desperately — in an
attempt to match the one in Sebastian’s voice.
“Such a good boy.” Sebastian licks at the top of his ear tenderly, spitting it
out when it’s accompanied by a stray strand of hair. “Gonna have to cut your
hair one of these days,” he rasps quietly, the words barely discernible to Jim.
He doesn’t pull as far away this time, hands sliding down carelessly to caress
the tie holding Jim’s sleep pants up.
“Let’s see about getting my good boy naked, hm?” Jim is past protesting at this
point, not even really wanting to, just feeling shy. What if Sebastian decides
he’s a freak after all, once he gets him naked? “He’d like that, wouldn’t he?”
Jim swallows hard, fingers clenching uselessly in the air, hips bucking
minutely up as the ghost of a touch along the outline of his still only halfway
tented pants. “Please,” he licks his lips, quivering. “I - please.”
With a laugh that catches in his throat, almost a groan, Sebastian’s hands pick
up their pace. “I like that word on your lips,” he decides. “We’re gonna have
to experiment with it one of these days.” The tie undone, he tugs at the
elastic, pulling it away and letting it snap back into place along Jim’s skin.
“How long you’ll last, I wonder …” he muses quietly, and Jim tries not to make
a noise, he really does, but he bites down too hard on his lip, and taste a
faint bit of copper. Sebastian doesn’t notice, fortunately, preoccupied as he
is working the pants slowly down Jim’s waist.
He’s not wearing anything under there, because it’s easier that way, and the
air in the room hits him strangely once he’s mostly uncovered, when Sebastian
releases the material to let them finish dropping and pool around his feet.
Heart pounding, Jim doesn’t try to find a thing to say. It’s not like Sebastian
would listen now, anyway. But Sebastian surprises him anyway, after a moment.
“Quiet all of a sudden, lovely?” as he slides a hand down Jim’s bare hip,
silently encouraging him to lift it up, so that Sebastian may tug it free from
the cloth that had stuck to his foot.
He repeats the movement with the other, not even looking at Jim’s lower half as
he pulls the boy back into his arms. Utterly naked now, Jim feels so incredibly
vulnerable, and that’s either helped or made worse by the way Sebastian holds
him as if he’s some possession, while still fully dressed. He blinks up at the
other boy’s face, nibbling on his lip.
“That’s okay,” Sebastian tells him, as he roughly caresses Jim’s buttocks,
along the small of his back, and then down again along his hips. “I like you
this way.”
Jim shivers from the cold, silently fearing that he might break the spell if he
mentions it, staring beseechingly at Sebastian in hopes that he’ll figure it
out on his own. But, “so pretty,” slides of Sebastian’s tongue instead, as he
leans down to kiss the side of Jim’s face. “And all mine.”
Not pulling away, he suddenly wraps his arms around Jim’s waist, heaving him up
slightly — and Jim wraps his arms quickly around Sebastian’s neck, hoping it’s
the right thing as he clings to the boy — and walking him backwards until his
knees are pressed to the bed. He pushes him down gently, maneuvering Jim’s
limbs until he’s more or less in the middle.
It’s far from a large or luxurious bed, but it’s reasonably nice, and not too
terribly small, either. And it will more than suit whatever purposes Sebastian
has just fine. He hopes, at least, as he falls back onto the pillows again with
a sharp exhale, arms moving behind to catch himself on the mattress.
It feels like it’s been forever since he was last on it, since Sebastian first
climbed onto his bed, which is strange. But he sits back comfortably, trying to
not feel shame over his body, propped up as he is on his elbows and forearms,
staring at the visage Sebastian makes as he moves over to the foot of the bed.
He’s beautiful like that, the glint from the one lamp he’d turned on in the
corner of the room creeping over to glisten across his face, the shadow he
creates behind him look so intense and nearly terrifying. He looks strong,
almost fierce, his eyes never leaving Jim’s as he peels off his own shirt.
Every movement he makes is slow, suggesting the manner in which he wishes to
tease Jim, prolonging the moment for as long as he possibly can.
But the way that he moves is graceful, stunning, even as he flashes Jim an
almost cruel smirk and undoes his flies. The twist of his lips alone is enough
to calm Jim’s racing heart to a dull, consistent thud, feeling so familiar. He
smiles absently, almost sinking into his position on the bed.
Sebastian is utterly exquisite.
As he tugs his legs out from the trousers, Sebastian moves closer, with none of
his attention on his task, and all of it on Jim. He makes it on the bed in no
time, anyway, crawling on top of and over Jim’s feet, slinking his way forward
until he’s perched above Jim’s body, not touching him at all.
It’s stupid, so stupid, but Jim hadn’t even really realised that Sebastian was
naked until he was there over him. Now he can see it all so clearly, the way
the boy’s hardened penis bounces almost cheerily as he shifts, and Jim moves to
breathe in and out, forcing calmness.
“Such a pretty thing,” Sebastian mumbles again, breaking the spell as he
reaches out with one hand to rub his thumb across Jim’s lips. He seems to enjoy
doing that.
“Are you ready for me, my pretty?” he asks, his tone only vaguely curious, like
he wants mostly to simply entice Jim into speaking again. He pulls his hand
away after a second, stretching his arm out to the little table, to pick up the
tube he had left sitting so innocuously on it.
Hesitantly, Jim nods, eyes still fixed upon Sebastian’s face, on his eyes. The
light in the room has shifted, now that Sebastian is no longer in the same
place, the shadows looking different, and the effect from before is lost. It
doesn’t make him any less of a sight at which to look, but it’s far from as
breathtaking as before.
Shifting back a bit, Sebastian pushes at Jim’s legs without introduction,
jerking him from below his knees to get him to lift and tuck them against his
chest. He goes willingly, of course, not understanding the meaning of it, but
he tenses his muscles to keep his legs from trying to go back after.
It feels silly, with his arse on display like that, but Sebastian likes the way
he looks once he complies, lips twisting deeper to show off his satisfaction at
Jim’s easy acceptance. “Good boy,” he purrs, leaning over Jim’s body to bring
their lips back together — and, oh, he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed
that while it was gone — in what begins as a chaste kiss, a distraction.
He works his way back into Jim’s more than willing mouth, a finger slipping
down to play eagerly at the rim of Jim’s arse. “Don’t clench up,” he orders
absently, licking over Jim’s lip, and then that slick feeling finger slips
inside, pressing its way into Jim’s almost perfectly unyielding body. His
tongue mimics the action, and Jim inhales sharply, using everything in his body
to listen, and not clench down.
It makes him whine pitifully, though, as he struggles with obeying, not wanting
to upset Sebastian with his embarrassing lack of experience. But he remembers
something he’d read once years ago, before Uncle had snatched the magazine away
in exchange for a slap on his face, and he relaxes what he can, pushing against
the intrusion.
It seems to have the desired effect, when Sebastian crows in pleasure, the
finger squirming around inside him with renewed interest. “That’s my boy,” he
tells Jim, who blushes faintly.
With the reward of a tender kiss, the finger moves out again, quickly coming
back with another that both unceremoniously try and work their way into him. He
groans quietly against Sebastian’s lips, the feeling unpleasant, something he
just wants to be over. But he copies his earlier action, trying harder to make
his body please Sebastian.
It’s not easy, and all he wants to do is cry against Sebastian’s lips, but he
doesn’t. He tries to be strong and brave, show Sebastian that even though he’s
only a boy and not everything that Sebastian really wants him to be, he is a
big boy. That he’s tough enough to take anything.
Sebastian mumbles something unintelligible against his lips, parting his
fingers and sharply scissoring them inside the ridiculously tight space.
Feeling uncertain, Jim tries to distract himself from the overwhelming
discomfort by bringing his hands up to wrap around Sebastian’s neck. He’s half
expecting that he’ll be pushed away and he won’t get it, but he has to try. He
needs it.
Allowing the child-like imprint of hands on his neck, Sebastian seems to take
it as invitation to bring up the level of his intrusion. Without fanfare, he
works a third finger slowly into Jim, as the boy’s body desperately fights to
relax around him. It gets harder and harder every time, to actually open up
instead of clenching against it.
He slides his lips away from Jim’s suddenly with a bored disinterest, dragging
his mouth down to kiss at the mark he had left on Jim’s neck before, nibbling
on the tender, discoloured spots again. It grants Jim more freedom to breathe
again, and he bites back a gasp, chewing on his lip as his chest heaves
upwards.
The feeling of having something pressed up inside him so intimately only grows
more uncomfortable as it continues, and he just wants to stop feeling it.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he pushes down as hard as he can to try and force them
to stop touching him.
Cooing in glee at this, Sebastian bites down sharply along Jim’s jugular. His
free hand grips harder at Jim’s hip as he quickens the pace, now thrusting his
fingers in and out of little Jim’s body with a slight fervor. “Knew you could
do it,” he groans happily, enjoying every second of it. “Knew you had it in
you. So eager. So ready for me, aren’t you, boy?”
“Y - yes,” Jim just barely manages to choke out the word, “I’m - I’m ready for
you, S - Seb.”
He pauses at Jim’s words, even his fingers slowing down and stopping entirely,
before he grunts and pulls them free. “Good boy.” The taunting tone is gone,
and he presses a hard kiss to the side of Jim’s brow before pulling the rest of
the way from him.
Slicking himself up with a quiet moan of pleasure, Jim’s hand on his arm takes
him by surprise. He opens his eyes, watching the boy curiously. “Yes, pet?”
“I —" Jim swallows, bracing himself to deliver the words. “Th - thank you f -
for everything. I w - I want this to be good. My f - first time.” He throws up
a brave smile, hoping to convince Sebastian that he’s not scared shitless right
now.
Sebastian smiles fondly at him, his clean hand reaching out to pet Jim’s cheek.
“Don’t fret, little dove.” He hums quietly, deliberating about something. “How
would you like it? Since it’s your first time and all,” he smirks, “Do you
wanna be on your back or your stomach?”
Eyes widening at the unexpected choice, Jim swallows, and smiling adoringly up
at Sebastian. “I want to be on my b- back. If t - that’s all - all right?” I
want to see you, he doesn’t say.
“Of course.” Sebastian practically melts at this, the smile more tender this
time. “Of course that’s all right. Now back you go,” he gestures with his hands
to get Jim to go back to his original position. “Knees to your chest, sweet.”
Nodding earnestly, Jim lies back, obeying the order perfectly. He holds his
knees tightly to his chest this time, his head tilted so he can still watch.
Even if it hurts, he gets to see Sebastian this way. And it will all be okay as
long as he can see him.
He feels more than sees the soft kiss pressed to his calf as his legs are moved
a bit more to Sebastian’s wants, and he shivers at the ticklish feeling of it.
But it makes him smile hopelessly, going doe-eyed at Sebastian.
But it helps him to relax more easily now, and he breathes quietly, feeling
more comfortable and content to wait for what happens next. It’s okay.
One of Sebastian’s arms falls to cradle comfortably around Jim’s head as he
breathes down  hotly , every exhale threatening to shake away the bangs
plastered to Jim’s forehead by sweat. Tilting his face up, his eyes shut now,
Jim sucks in from the heat Sebastian’s body. It’s soothing, knowing that the
only person who’s ever loved him wholeheartedly is the one leaning over him,
preparing to take away his last shred of real innocence.
A blissful smile covers his face, and his cheek kissed just as Sebastian takes
the final initiative by positioning himself just at his entrance. He pushes in
without hesitation or pause, the first inward slide coming easier for the both
of them now that Jim is entirely relaxed and happy.
He sucks in an uncertain breath at the first hint of real pain, worse than the
discomfort from before, but tries to push himself past that. Sebastian doesn’t
stop, instead whispering soothing words into Jim’s ear that leaves him
shivering. They’re enough of a distraction that he’s able to keep himself
focused away from the pain and on staying loose and pliant.
Before he knows it, he hears Sebastian let out an exuberant cry, his pushing
halted, and his bollocks just barely tickling the skin on Jim’s arse.
With a helpless giggle, Jim opens his eyes to look questioningly up at
Sebastian. “You - you’re all the way —?”
“I’m all the way in, precious little one.” The look on Sebastian’s face
suggests that he’s actually even more surprised than Jim that he’d managed to
fit himself without causing pain and tears. Which Jim finds silly, and he
giggles again.
“Knew you could do it!” The grin on his face makes him look so young, so
innocent, that Sebastian can’t help but smile back, leaning down again to kiss
the smile off their faces.
“You’re —" Jim takes in a steady breath now once Sebastian pulls away again,
his eyes filled with awe. “You’re bigger than I’d thought. But you actually
fit!” His laugh is happy — it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he was terrified
that it would, so why wouldn’t he be happy? — and he clenches down
experimentally on Sebastian’s penis. “How do I feel?”
“You feel —" He groans, shocked at the constricting, his teeth gritting as he
holds back the automatic thrust that his body demands he give. “You feel
perfect, my little pet. N - never better. And you should —" he groans a half-
laugh. “You shouldn’t do that again if you don’t want to start immediately.”
“What, you mean this?” Jim blinks coyly, his grin full of innocence and
childlike wonder as he repeats the movement, clenching down harder this time.
“Oh, god,” Sebastian hisses, falling forward with his other arm moving around
Jim’s head now. “You are - you’re going to be the death of me.” Giving up on
waiting for a proper go-ahead, he takes this one for what it is, and draws out
slowly.
His face is sitting directly above Jim’s, their eyes barely apart as he thrusts
forward completely. He gets to see it now, every shift in Jim’s eyes, even the
tiniest of changes in his thoughts, down to the shuddering of his breath.
Crying out in sudden, unexpected pain, Jim’s eyes shut and his arms fly up,
wrapping themselves around Sebastian’s neck in his need for comfort. “Seh - Seh
—" he can’t even force a full word out as he whimpers, legs shaking at the
sharpness of the shock.
Sebastian licks his lips quickly, planting wet kisses up and down Jim’s face,
wiping away the tear stains as he brings himself to a steady, regular rocking
motion.
“It - it h - hurts,” he whines, trying to turn his face away to avoid the
kisses. He shifts his body, in a fruitless attempt to escape the pain, which
only manages to worsen it as he wiggles on Sebastian’s length.
“Hey, hey,” Sebastian brushes the hair from Jim’s face, kissing his nose
delicately. “Hush, little one. It’ll get better, I promise.” He doesn’t
hesitate in the least in the rolling of his hips, only gradually shifting the
angle as he searches blindly for the right spot to hit.
Sebastian’s done this kind of thing before. Jim knows this from the afternoons
they’d spent together with Sebastian focusing his entire attention on bringing
a permanent blush to his cheeks. He trusts Sebastian, so he stops struggling,
another whimper escaping his tightly sealed lips.
“Good boy.” With a slightly dissatisfied grunt, Sebastian jabs himself forward,
annoyed at how long it’s taking him to find Jim’s sweet spot.
He knows the second he finds it at the change in timber of the next gasped out
groan that forces its way from Jim’s lips. His eyes fly open and he stares up
in shock, his lips quivering. “S - Seh - th - that was - What was that?”
“That —” Sebastian grins, deliberately hitting it again several times in
shallow succession. “— Was a little thing called your prostate. Enjoying
yourself yet?”
His breath quickens and he whimpers loudly in pleasure, writhing down as best
he can from their position, to get more of Sebastian’s penis. “Oh f - fuck. Th
-that’s g - good! M - more. P - please?”
“As you wish.” Claiming Jim’s lips in a hurried kiss, Sebastian ups his pace,
pulling back most of the way out and then thrusting all the way in with a heavy
rocking of his hips.
Each of his moans coming out sounding increasingly shrill, Jim tries to
participate in the kiss this time, sloppily licking back against Sebastian’s
tongue. He’s too distracted by the deliciously full ache in his arse to care
how slippery and unsettling the feeling of Sebastian’s mouth is against his. He
just wants more, anything to get more of it.
Sebastian bites down on his tongue, unrepentantly tugging it out of his mouth,
refusing to release it from his teeth. His grin burns fierce, eyes wide and
slightly manic, and he takes hold of Jim’s hands, moving to grip them above his
head.
Eyes flying open, Jim whimpers, not sure how to react to suddenly having
Sebastian domination of his body complete. He’s absolutely at Sebastian’s mercy
now. There’s no way out from the hold on his hands, thighs imprisoning his hips
in place, and teeth at his mouth.
He thinks about crying out, or at least trying to, but all he can muster is
staring wide-eyed at Sebastian. Sebastian, whose eyes are dark and vicious
looking, who looks like he’d as soon tear Jim to shreds as love him in this
moment. The triumph in his eyes, with Jim’s legs hooked awkwardly around his
waist, easily pinning Jim’s arms so he couldn’t fight this properly even if he
wanted.
Flinching automatically when his tongue is released at the exact moment as
Sebastian makes a particularly rough thrust, which hits at just the wrong side
of bad. He whines, closing his mouth quickly, but not daring to shut his eyes
and lose track of Sebastian’s face.
Sebastian growls, the sound resonating distractingly in the room, his fingers
digging into Jim’s wrists, jerking them up in a way that makes his shoulders
ache. He whimpers, feeling that he must be doing something wrong and upsetting
Sebastian somehow. Wracking his brain for the right thing to do, he shakily
rocks down, shoving his arse as best he can down harder onto Sebastian.
It stings, and the moan he gives is that of pain, but it brings the light back
to Sebastian’s eyes, makes his mouth morph into a more pleasant smirk.
Jim does it again, still unable to contain the pained noises. Watching
Sebastian’s face is enough to keep him distracted, to keep it from overwhelming
him. It takes him a moment to realize it, to catch the shift in Sebastian’s
eyes, but then he realizes that the sounds he’s making are bringing pleasure.
Seeming to be directing his thrusts in just the right manner to cause Jim pain,
but not too much of it, Sebastian’s breathing grows heavier with each moan and
whimper.
His face grows hot and he tries to turn it away, to hide away suddenly from
having to see that in Sebastian’s eyes. But Sebastian snarls, his right hand
moving to grip Jim’s chin and jerk him back into place. “Watch me, boy.”
The words are accompanied by a vicious thrust, aimed directly at his prostate,
which makes him yelp loudly in both pain and pleasure. It takes the breath out
of him and his eyes start to roll back into his head, unintentionally losing
his focus on Sebastian’s eyes.
“P - please,” he chokes out, stuttering as the force is repeated. “I - it - I
—”
“Don’t talk,” Sebastian flicks at his chin, tugging his head up to pull him
into a wet, breathless kiss. “Just enjoy.”
Taking Jim’s mouth again in a forceful smash of lips, he moves his hand down to
stroke along down his body, scraping his nails as he passes the nipples, and
coming to a stop tickling around his belly button.
Jim whines, arching his body up into the hint of pain, while trying to suck in
enough air through his nose. He can’t see anything, can’t think, can’t feel
anything but the pinpricks of Sebastian’s nails, the slickness of their tongues
intertwined, and the all consuming feeling of being filled to the breaking
point and beyond with Sebastian.
It’s as if his body has been taken over from the inside, stretched and molded
to bend and fit around and underneath Sebastian’s. In these moments, it feels
as if he exists solely as an extension of Sebastian’s body, a tool and toy for
him to use as he pleases, for his pleasure.
Their bodies rock together, arching in perfect synchronisation, and Jim wants
to cry from how perfect it’s beginning to feel. He feels whole suddenly, for
the first time in his life. He feels like he’s been made new, taken apart and
fixed with everything he didn’t have before. Sebastian is opening him up from
the inside out and molding him the way he wants, creating the boy he wants Jim
to be.
Suddenly in this now of theirs, Jim knows with a surety he’s never had before
that he loves Sebastian just as much as Sebastian loves him — more than, even —
and he would say it, would breathe it out into Sebastian’s skin. He would gasp
it into Sebastian’s mouth, groan it into his ear, if it weren’t for his utter
lack of control.
He is Sebastian’s. Sebastian’s to do as he pleases with him. He cannot speak
because it’s not what Sebastian wants of him. He doesn’t want Jim’s voice or
his words, he wants Jim’s body. All he wants is the pleasure he can pull from
Jim’s body.
Giving it to him gladly, Jim offers up the rest of himself with a choked gasp,
his chest heaving as he submits mentally. He already was Sebastian’s in body
and head, but he gives in, offering himself up at the mind. He is nothing
without Sebastian, nothing but Sebastian’s. Just as Sebastian is a part of him,
he is a part of Sebastian now.
Completing this unwittingly, Sebastian wraps the fingers of his hand around
Jim’s penis, stroking it lightly, delighting in the way it makes Jim writhe
underneath him. He moans something unintelligible into the crevice of their
lips, crying out desperately, the touch almost enough to make him lose himself
and orgasm.
It doesn’t make sense, he’s not sure what’s happening, but Sebastian’s
movements turn tender and loving, his kiss softer, but no less dominating, as
he strokes, squeezing Jim’s penis up and to the base.
Releasing Jim’s hands so that they fall with an empty thud to the pillow above
their heads, Sebastian cradles Jim’s neck, changing the position of his head to
get at his mouth easier. Their lips rub together like they were made to fit,
every flick of Sebastian’s tongue now sending sparks down Jim’s spine.
Opening his mouth wider to try and warn Sebastian that he’s about to come, that
he can’t hold himself back anymore, all that squeaks out is a choked gurgle.
Sebastian’s lips and tongue making it too much, he can’t speak around them, but
he keeps trying until it earns him a painful bite on his tongue again.
The shock of teeth is the final straw, proving to be the last thing needed to
send him over the edge, his vision going blurry at the edges as he comes. His
entire body quivers with his orgasm, his muscles clenching, and spasming
involuntarily against Sebastian’s body.
He hears and feels as much as sees the reaction Sebastian has to it, the sounds
he makes harsh and unfiltered, his thrusting speeding up to fuck Jim through
his orgasm.
Only peripherally noticing the tiny shooting pains that it causes in him, he
moans one last time, his throat feeling absolutely wrecked, before the black
comes in full force and he’s pulled under.
***** a man in black with a meinkampf look *****
Chapter Notes
     Fanart for this chapter here.
The first thing he registers is the sheer amount of people. There are too many
of them, all around him, surrounding him with the feeling of being touched from
every direction. Skin against his, bodies pressed against his back and sides.
He’s trapped in the middle, of noise, of what seems like thousands of sounds,
people blabbering amongst themselves, on their mobiles. He can hear music
playing faintly from iPods and other devices turned up a bit too loud,
squeaking out of earbuds.
Every time there’s a lurch, someone seems to fall into him, shoving him back
and into someone else. People stand, shifting about, getting up to leave or
move to be somewhere else. Hoards of people come every couple of minutes,
someone filling every empty seat in a matter of seconds, squeezing into every
space with hardly enough room.
He hangs on for dear life to the metal pole with one hand, the other stuck
through the handle closest him. It shakes about, someone putting their hand
just above his. Sweat drips down from their body, down their arm and onto his
wrist, making him wince. Oh, god, please, make it stop, is all he can think.
A man across from him — dressed in a smart business suit, eyes bluer than the
sea, hair too blond to be real — is staring at him. He seems to smile, but he
won’t stop looking, and it’s hard to tell from the sparkle in his eyes whether
or not he’s mentally undressing and sodomising, or planning murder.
He looks across, to the car next to his as they both pull into a stop. There’s
man near him, face near pressed against his window and grinning. He winks. He
looks like he wants to fish out a biro and paper and give out his number.
Before he can do anything more than that, the doors close, and they pull out
again, leaving Jim free of him.
A child starts crying, and seconds later, an incredibly distinct smell pervades
the air; it’s disgusting, rotten feces filling a diaper. The woman blushes, and
the few minutes to the next stop are long, but she gets off the moment the
doors open. She shushes the child, almost tripping in her haste to get out,
hurrying off in the direction of the public lavatory. The whole car seems to
release a sigh of relief, but the stench doesn’t fully fade for three more
stops.
The only benefit is the hesitation in people as they start to step inside, more
than half deciding to try their luck with a different car, or with the next
train. They avoid the way the car smells, in a way that the people already
inside can’t quite seem to do. He doesn’t get off, none in his car do, save for
the ones at their stops. They don’t want to lose their seats, or force their
way out from the back only to do it all over again. Or even worse, risk ending
up next to someone whose stench is even worse.
His wait finally pays off when a young lady who had been sitting less than a
meter from him gets up suddenly. There’s no warning as she jerks from sleep,
crashing through people to get to the doors before they close and she misses
her stop. He slides into her seat no less than seconds before the big oaf of a
man who would been beside him lumbers over. The man glares, shooting daggers
from his eyes, obscenities falling whispered from his lips. Jim smiles
pleasantly back, trying to pull something out of the emptiness that actually
mimics real human emotion, making determined eye contact as he plans out the
man’s death.
He thinks about cutting the fat away from bones and muscle one strip at a time,
chopping them up into bits and forcing them down the man’s throat. Making him
eat them, swallowing them down, passing so much of his body into his stomach
that it finally gives way, bursting. He dies of the combined blood loss and
organ failure, and his body is dumped somewhere out of sight. To be burnt
later, until nothing is left of him but ashes.
The man’s eyes widen suddenly in fear, and it’s clear that he’s seen the murder
written plainly across Jim’s face. It’s not well hidden, and even someone with
as low an IQ as him can interpret. A shudder convulses through his body, mouth
bobbing open and shut as he fights the need to lunge forward and beat Jim to a
pulp. His stop comes in the nick of time. The car jerks dramatically when he
gets off, which might be just the delay of the engine jerking, but Jim can’t be
the only one that attributes it to the oaf.
The man next to Jim shakes his head disparagingly, muttering something about
fat American tourists.
His eyes drift shut, trying to close out the noise, push it all away and fall
into his head. It doesn’t work. It only manages to focus it, until he can hear
all of it now, or nearly, down to every last sound. The conversation the girl
six or seven seats away is having plays sharper. She’s breaking up with her
boyfriend, and she’s crying softly. But she’s not as upset as she sounds. She’s
been having an affair with her professor for two months now, the man sitting
next to her, with his hand on her inner thigh.
The effort he’d have to muster to shake his head is too much, so he doesn’t.
The three Koreans at the other end of the car are in an animated conversation
about laws regarding mental illnesses in children, and treatments for it. None
of them know what they’re talking about, and it takes him almost a minute to
realise that they’re not speaking English. But it doesn’t matter, because
they’d be just as uneducated about their topic of conversation even if they
were speaking outside of their native tongue. He tries to ignore them.
The man sitting across from him is watching porn on his phone, and he’s
attempting to be discreet about it. But anyone listening can hear the way he
grunts under his breath every few seconds, trying to hide an erection. Jim
grimaces. Someone starts whispering in his ear. The man in the seat behind him;
he speaks in a tone that’s an attempt at seduction, but it falls flat. He wants
Jim on his knees in front of him, detailing exactly how he’d like to fuck his
throat.
He gets ignored. Even if Jim were interested, it’s clear from the man’s failed
dirty talk that he has no actual finesse. It would be horrifyingly boring for
Jim, no matter how mind blowing he could make it for the voice’s owner. It’s
easy to block him out, until his words fade into only a distant murmur as he
continues whispering.
A middle aged woman gets on at the stop, trying to discipline her children. By
the sounds, there are three of them, all under the age of ten. She scolds them
in French, reminding them that they're in public and need to behave like the
high class citizens that they will be one day. They listen. It’s ironic that
she would consider her family to be high class, and yet she is riding the
London Underground with them.
A newspaper crinkles as it’s being read, the pages tearing when one is turned
too quickly. The man is looking for a job, and feeling distressed about it.
The car lurches.
Someone falls into his lap. He doesn’t open his eyes, and they hasten to get
away. But they don’t step far, choosing to stand directly in front of him. The
girl — based on the sound of her breathing and the momentary press of her chest
to his — stares, waiting for him to open his eyes and acknowledge her. Probably
intent on receiving his seat for her troubles. He doesn’t bother feigning
sleep, content to ignore her.
She doesn’t leave.
The man in the mud-brown suit in the other aisle calls his boyfriend from a
headset, telling him that he’s going to be home late tonight, because he was
delayed at the office. It’s the truth. He asks if he should bring home takeout.
They agree to watch a DVD when he gets home.
Jim sneers lightly.
The call isn’t ended, but he pushes the rest away.
A conversation suddenly starts, the focus on parks, trees and recreation. He
can’t quite pinpoint who it is without opening his eyes, which makes him frown.
They know what they’re talking about, but they’re stupid. It’s a one sided
conversation, and he doesn't hear the rest. It’s drowned out by the beeping in
his ear.
He frowns.
“Hello, love,” is murmured into his neck. Sebastian’s suddenly there, leaning
across his lap to kiss the spot just below the curve of his ear. The car must
have stopped and the doors opened, even though he didn’t notice.
His eyes fly open now, staring at the man. He’s not supposed to be here, but
the warmth of his body makes Jim shiver. He pulls Sebastian close anyway,
doesn’t chastise him for the public display of affection, but he frowns again.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” he’s asked. But Sebastian doesn’t wait for an
answer, happy to claim Jim’s lips in a kiss. It makes his body fall back,
relaxing exponentially. Hands cover his face, fingers stroking along his
cheeks. The kisses change after a long moment, not growing deeper, instead
moving to cover his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his forehead, and then his eyes.
The kisses make him sigh.
“I’m always happy to see you,” he mumbles, eyes falling shut again. He doesn’t
want to have to watch them stare. They don’t matter. Sebastian says something
more, but he doesn’t hear it over the sound of the ocean filling his head. He’s
never seen a real beach, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care. He likes it
anyway. It sounds better than those fake noise machines overpriced and
purchasable just about anywhere.
The sounds of everything else, of everyone else, fall away, and he can focus
now. Focus on Sebastian’s body against his, sharing warmth that seeps between
them. He smiles. Their stop comes before he knows it, the time disappearing
pleasantly, and the two of them move to leave. Sebastian’s arm wraps around his
body, tugging him close as he’s pulled to the exit and out of the station.
***** a cleft in your chin instead of your foot *****
There’s a voice above his head, whispering something indiscernible in his ear.
He tries to focus, to pull the sound to the front of his mind and identify the
words, but he can’t. All he can catch is the tone. It’s playful and soothing,
like someone lovely is chattering away pleasantly, waiting for him to awaken.
Smiling unconsciously at the way the voice sounds, Jim murmurs something in
return, burrowing his head deeper in the comforting warmth upon which he’s
laying. It hurts to shift and he whimpers quietly, distressed. He’s sore, his
body feels like it’s been used up and spat out again.
The voice grows louder, a hand moving to pet at the side of his face. He can
just barely make out the words now, and they really are soothing. He’s being
shushed and calmed. It’s Sebastian.
He whispers tender words into Jim’s ear, stroking his hair, planting the
occasional kiss on the side of his face. “Hey, love. You’re okay. Everything’s
good now. Don’t fret, beautiful. You did so good for me. So good.”
Smacking his lips, he settles back down, nuzzling more carefully against the
warmth and the touches.
He feels safe and warm, something that doesn’t happen often, and he isn’t
willing to give it up without a fight. “Love you, Seb,” he murmurs, voice
muffled by his mouth’s position, pressed up against Sebastian’s clothed body.
“Thank you, Sebbie.” He almost feels silly verbalizing his thoughts, but the
idea of being embarrassed seems equally childish, so he ignores it.
He’s just given Sebastian his virginity and now they’re cuddling. That’s the
way things work, isn’t it? Nothing silly about being sentimental over this.
Nothing at all.
He smiles again, licking at his dry lips, his arms shifting around as he
attempts to locate them and bring them up around Sebastian’s body. “Love my
Sebbie.”
“Love you, too, precious. I love you very, very much.” He can feel the tips of
Sebastian’s hair moving down to cover his face like a light sheet, tickling at
his skin, and he giggles softly.
“Tickles!” But he makes no attempt to pull away or even to hide his face from
the movement. Sebastian laughs, the sound little more than quiet huffs of air,
his hair shifting as his head moves.
The layer of hair disappears quickly, talking Jim’s giggles with it, but
they’re immediately replaced by Sebastian’s lips on his forehead. The pressure
is soft, but still resolutely there. “I love you,” he whispers against Jim’s
skin, moving lower to kiss at his nose. “You’re beautiful,” he pecks a kiss on
each of Jim’s cheeks. “You’re absolutely perfect.”
“Am I?” Jim yawns, smiling as he blindly reaches out to run his fingers down
Sebastian’s face. He moves his hands to the back of Sebastian’s neck, tugging
him close as if to impart a secret. “You should kiss me on the lips, then.”
“Should I?” Jim can practically hear the smirk that must be on Sebastian’s
lips, the raised eyebrow, as he tries to avoid giving in immediately. “What
makes you say that, love?” He leans close tauntingly, just barely kissing the
corner of Jim’s mouth.
Pouting fiercely, Jim whines deep in his throat. “Sebbie! You know that’s not
what I meant. Don’t you - don’t you want to kiss my lips anymore?”
“Aw, darling.” Sebastian clicks his teeth in mock annoyance. “You know I always
want to kiss you. You’ve only just started letting me. I wouldn’t want to get
used to being allowed, only to find out that you’d banned it again, now would
I?” He smiles softly, turning his head just a bit. “Here,” he whispers,
pressing their lips together in the chastest of kisses.
Sighing happily, Jim lets out a pleased sound, moving his lips ever so slightly
against Sebastian’s. “I like this,” he mutters, not quite pulling away. “I like
it when you kiss me.”
“I like kissing you, too.” Sebastian moves back just far enough to separate
their lips and does it again, planting half a dozen soft kisses over Jim’s
lips. “You have a lovely mouth.”
Squeaking at this, Jim blushes lightly, curling into himself as he tries to
hide his face. “Do I?” He can’t help but ask, biting his lip. The idea
embarrasses him, but the words make his heart flutter in his chest.
He can feel the twist of a grin on Sebastian’s mouth against his cheek, and he
giggles quietly again. “Your mouth is beautiful. Just like the rest of you.” He
rubs his cheek against Jim’s with a soft sigh. “Everything about you is lovely
in every way. I don’t even know how you manage that, but you do.” He kisses the
side of Jim’s nose, nipping lightly at the ridge. “You shouldn’t exist. And yet
you do. Which makes you all the more perfect.”
His heart clenching up at this, Jim slowly and carefully opens his eyes,
cringing only a little bit at having to adjust to the light of the room.
Sebastian’s words don’t sound like a joke anymore, they sound sincere and
loving, something that Jim hadn’t really been expecting. Normally one or both
of them would play things off as funny before they got anywhere close to being
this serious.
Staring earnestly into Sebastian’s eyes, he searches for anything that might
hint that he doesn’t mean his words. But Sebastian watches back, unmoving under
the inspection, knowing that it’s what Jim needs. He waits until his cue that
Jim is satisfied.
Finally seeming to reach the conclusion that Sebastian means his every word,
Jim nods sharply in an attempt at being authoritative, licking his lips slowly.
“I - I believe you,” he blushes at the words when they come out cracked and
slightly stuttered, but can’t bring himself to look away.
Sebastian smiles, his hand moving up to stroke the side of Jim’s face with his
knuckles. “I love you, Jimmy.”
Closing his eyes again, Jim nuzzles against the hand, and he yawns loudly. “I’m
sleepy, Sebbie.” He mumbles the words, lifting one of his hands to try and wrap
his fingers around Sebastian’s hand and hold him in place. “But I don’t want to
sleep again.”
Chuckling fondly, Sebastian brings himself closer for another soft kiss to
Jim’s lips. “You don’t have to sleep, dove. But you probably shouldn’t try and
move around for a while. I’ll stay with you. How does that sound?” He traces
over Jim’s cheekbones with his thumbs, rubbing at the areas just below his
eyes.
“Sounds real good,” the words stick pleasantly in his throat, sleepiness still
like a blanket around him. “But I think you should do it closer.” He smiles,
pulling gently at Sebastian’s hand as he mumbles something to soft to make
out. 
“What was that, love?” Sebastian moves closer, pressing his ear up close to
Jim’s mouth to hear.
“I said,” he yawns again, the words coming out choppy. “Come here. I wanna
cuddle with you.”
“You want to cuddle?” Sebastian leans back with a smile, reaching out to tweak
Jim’s nose. “I think I can manage that.” He kisses away Jim’s giggle, shifting
to push himself up off the floor.
For a moment all he can do is look at Jim. He’s so pretty like that, like he’s
the most innocent thing Sebastian has ever seen. All the pain, the fear, and
the hatred that Jim feels but tries to hide under a mask is stripped away in
these moments. He’s quiet and soft, like the cliché of an angel fallen to
earth.
He looks like he would never dream of hurting a fly. He looks happy, at peace.
Seeing Jim like this threatens to break his heart, because he knows that it’s
just temporary. The old Jim will come back eventually. He won’t always be like
this because this is just a small part of who he is. And who he is right now,
at this very moment, is someone that Jim won’t be able to keep being forever.
Brushing away the drop of tear that threatens to spill down the side of his
face, Sebastian brings a smile back to his lips, and crawls onto the bed to
wrap his long limbs around Jim’s body. He pulls Jim close, holding him tightly
as if it could possibly make up for the innocence that the boy has lost.
“I love you,” he breathes into Jim’s hair, the puffs of air from his mouth
making the hairs on his head quiver. “So much.”
“Lov’ ‘o t’, S’by.” Jim wiggles back against him, turning his head just enough
to lazily kiss the side of Sebastian’s mouth. “Ne’ar le’v m’.”
“Never. I will never leave you.” His words surprise him just a little, if not
only because of the strength of his conviction hiding just behind them. He
accepts it with a determined flair of his nostrils. “I will never leave you.
You’re stuck with me until the day you die.”
“G’d,” The meaning in Sebastian’s words sneak through Jim’s sleep addled brain,
and he can feel his heart clenching fondly at them. “S’me t’yoo.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
***** and a love of the rack and the screw *****
It’s days until he leaves the flat again. Sebastian still goes out regularly,
because he always has things to do, places to be, and a hundred interchangeable
excuses that explain his desire to be away from Jim at any given moment.
But it had taken a great deal out of Jim, draining what felt like every shred
of energy he had in his body. They hadn’t even had their chance to discuss the
papers, or what had happened, because by the time they got into the flat, he
was already on the verge of collapse.
He’d slept for the better part of the three days that immediately followed,
passed out on his stomach, with bed sheets strewn about him, his legs tangled
up in them. He would wake, for minutes at a time, to stumble towards the
bathroom and piss, or to let Sebastian shovel some sort of sandwich and some
water down his throat, and then he’d be off again, collapsed on the bed for
another dozen hours.
It hadn’t always been this way, this horribly unhealthy diet of far too little
sleep, followed by amounts far too great. He used to be able to sleep through
the night, every night; and maybe that was because in a way, it was easier
then. When incredibly young, it had taken only a few moments for sleep to take
hold of him — and yes, he’d figured out what that had meant, many years later —
and in his teen years, it was easiest with Sebastian at his side, curled up in
the boy’s comforting arms.
He still has Sebastian on most days, if he wants him, if he’s willing to let
the man sleep in his bed, but it’s not the same as it was. Their relationship
isn’t the same.
Sebastian still loves him, yes, still adores him and worships him and protects
him, from everyone — including himself — but there’s something funny about
growing up. About the way that aging changes a person, wearing them down, to
some faint echo of what they used to be.
Unlike when he was young, he doesn’t wake to the feeling of Sebastian’s hands
on his body, more often than not; because he tends to wake up first, and
because Sebastian knows not to do that, knows that it would not be appreciated.
It’s not that he didn’t like it then, but now, it just doesn’t feel right in
the same way.
The final time he wakes up, after what must have been days and days, but felt
only like a matter of hours, the flat is empty. It doesn’t even smell like
Sebastian anymore, when he lifts his nose to the air, and he’s more conscious
now, more aware of what’s happening around him
It doesn’t smell like Sebastian has been here at all, not for hours, or not
even for upwards of three days. But that can’t be right.
Inside his mouth, it feels like something foul has made itself a final resting
place to die. His teeth are covered in disgusting grime, like sludge against
his tongue, and it makes him almost want to gag whatever bile is in his stomach
back up.
But he passes the bathroom, going past where he could brush his teeth, and he
goes straight for the kitchen.
His stomach is empty, but he’s not at all hungry, only cold, and he goes first
for the bottle of whiskey that he keeps under the sink.
It’s disappointingly empty, and he knows Sebastian has either been drinking
from it, or dumped it out for him. But the bottle of vodka behind it is almost
entirely full.
He falls back against the wood, and uncaps it, lifting it to his lips.
It burns his mouth as if the inside of his cheeks are full of cuts and scrapes,
like rubbing dirt into wounds, but he swallows it anyway. Just a few gulps. A
couple shots worth, going down like water, and then the bottle goes back.
It doesn’t particularly serve to warm his stomach, or make him feel better. It
doesn’t make him feel much of anything at all. But it’s a trick he picked up
years ago, from a man who never seemed to stop drinking.
His uncle would drink before he went to bed, and he’d drink before he did
anything in the morning.
It kills the hangover, kid, he’d told Jim the only time the boy had dared
ask. What you want to do is first thing in the morning, before anything else
goes into you, you put more alcohol in. You don’t gotta get drunk. You just
gotta get some of it into your belly.
In reality, he shouldn’t do anything he learnt from his uncle. But it works.
Whatever headache must have been stinging at the back of his mind stays where
it was before, and he can ignore it.
It even takes away a small amount of the sluggishness in his step as he moves
up again.
His body doesn’t shake or quiver in any way. He’s able to stand perfectly fine,
blinking up at the soft light of the cracked open fridge. Either he left it
open, or Sebastian did; and there’s no point in betting on which.
He slams it shut, and on the trek back down the hallway to brush his teeth, he
wanders where the man has got to this time.
Everything after that passes in a blur.
From the sink to spitting, from finding whatever clothes haven’t ended up in
the hamper yet to his desk and his computer. From there, it’s to the drawer at
the very bottom on the left that he pulls open all the way, but doesn’t look
into it, even out of the corner of his eye. It’s best to just have that open.
Even if he’s not sure why.
He stays there with his computer, despite not actually doing anything on it.
There’s paperwork that needs seeing to, but none of it seems to make sense. It
doesn’t feel like it’s written in English — or any other language that he knows
— and it’s all as good a gibberish to him.
An hour passes. Perhaps two. He reads the same sentence over and over until
they blur together.
He ends up in the living room, sitting with his back perfectly straight on the
sofa. The weight of the contents of his drawer is light in his hands, but
again, he refuses to look at it.
He hasn’t cried a single tear, and yet his eyes feel dry and crusted over, like
they’ve been gently wiped clean with a sheet of parchment paper, cutting and
cracking open the skin. It stings somewhat, just enough to be obvious, and
every time he blinks, he’s trying to make them water enough to not feel so
pained.
It doesn’t work. It only tinges them with more pain, a heavier reminder that
something is the matter, and that his body is protesting.
It’s not even that he’s refusing to cry. He just can’t. The tears aren’t there
to release. There’s water, of course, the little tidbits of liquid that promise
moisture, but only feel like acid as he blinks them back against his eyeballs.
They swim around, covering the whole, and he can still see through the haze
they leave that’s only in his mind.
His eyelids feel like they’ve been collecting it, that constant drip-drip that
might just be the sweat that’s been clinging to his forehead, as it slowly
makes the trek down his face. It might just be perspiration, not tears, not
watered eyes, filled with salt as they coat his eyes, slipping beyond the
relative safety of his eyelids.
Still, as great as the burn is, as vile the memories that sting with every
flicker of his eyes, it doesn’t bring tears to them, almost as if he has none
left. As if they’ve all gone away now and dried up, turning his mind into a
desert; and perhaps that’s it. Perhaps that’s why he can’t cry, why it feels
like sand has been rubbed into his nostrils, into the corners of his eyes, his
lips, his cheeks.
It’s somehow rubbery, somehow soft; somehow a stinging mutilation of
scratchiness, finding his weak spots, stealing whatever natural liquid might
have been there.
Maybe it’s the salt. Salt that’s being rubbed into him, rubbed out of him,
until it’s all that’s left.
Even his throat feels dry, a pipe of warm, fast evaporating saliva that clings
to the sides as he swallows back the lump that isn’t there, no matter how much
it feels like it’s formed.
There’s an insistent, nasty taste on his tongue, pooling along the back of it,
and every time he swallows, it disappears for the barest of seconds. But it
always returns and it always comes back changed, until he can’t recall each
taste even seconds after it’s been there.
It had been apple, though. A sour, putrid stink of apple that he shouldn’t have
swallowed, that he didn’t actually swallow, that couldn’t have been there. It’s
a salty sweetness, a thick coagulation of warm goo that doesn’t taste natural,
that doesn’t taste human, and it leaves him genuinely wishing to throw up. If
only expelling it from his body would help, would cure him of it as it sits in
wait within the safe confines of his stomach.
At least he can’t taste it down there, even if it does feel like a stinking
pool of acid, bubbling up and wearing away slowly at the lining of his insides.
It seems to fill his nose, too, that wrong, clogged and desperate feeling of
unhappiness, of something being incurably wrong. Like it’s wrapped him up in a
shawl of disgust, of self-hatred, of never ending, never hesitating vomit that
will follow him as long as there is some part of him to which it can cling.
But above all that, above the worn paper of his eyes, above the thickness in
his throat, above the waste in his stomach, comes everything else.
It wasn’t meant to be this way.
That’s the only thing that really is there. It was not meant to be this way; it
should not have been this way. It is this way.
Only a fool would think that Sebastian doesn’t love him, that Sebastian
wouldn’t lay down his life in an instant if he genuinely believed that it would
benefit Jim.
Perhaps that’s the issue. That constant reminder, the man he can’t kick out of
his life, no matter how much force he might try to use. Sebastian will never
leave him, has never truly left him, and will always be there, until his very
dying breath. Sebastian will be there at the end, and as warm a feeling as that
should be, it’s utterly terrifying.
It always was terrifying, especially before he actually understand the severity
of it, and what it meant.
He was always meant to have died first. Before it all, before anyone else,
before anything else. It wasn’t supposed to be Jim that lived. He wasn’t
supposed to live at all, and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why they’re
stuck here like this; because Jim wasn’t meant to be. Life wasn’t meant for
this.
It is, though, and Sebastian knows it, perhaps even better than Jim himself
does.
The gun is still in his hand. It never left. Sure, the magazine is gone. It’s
not actually dangerous anymore, no matter where he points it. He hadn’t cocked
it and there aren’t any bullets in the chamber. No matter how hard he might
press down on the trigger, he couldn’t make something come out of it that could
actually slice its way through his skin and bone and tissue.
As is to be expected, it feels too light in his hand. It’s not the comforting
warmth that it had been before. It’s not heavy enough, doesn’t weight the right
amount to feel like it might be dangerous. Without bullets, it’s just a piece
of metal. A useful one, of course. He could easily bash in someone’s head with
it — perhaps his own, if he tried rather hard — but that makes it no different
than something he might find on the average bedside table.
It’s just metal. Just a piece of man-made machinery that can’t do anything,
that isn’t anything, that has no intrinsic value anymore.
It’s not the only gun in his flat. He has dozens. They’re probably still there.
Sebastian couldn’t have found them all — and if he had, he wouldn’t have dared
to touch them. There are bullets in his desk. Nice, glistening bullets that he
could use. There are magazines filled with them, or ready to be filled, that he
could grab.
He could easily slide a new one into the chamber, could force back the top, and
have a loaded gun in his hands in a matter of seconds.
He could easily point it at his head, like he hadn’t before, and think about
how it feels, think about the weight against his palm. He could think about the
way the barrel feels against his temple, in his mouth, under his chin, or
against the tender skin of his neck. He could feel it and he could understand.
It’s not like it would be the first time he’d ever held a gun to his own head —
or had someone else hold one, threatening him — and it’s not like he hasn’t
come close before. It’s not like he hasn’t clicked back a safety, and taken a
deep breath, thinking about how much will power it was taking to not pull the
trigger.
Perhaps that is because, when it comes down to it, it’s not that he has to find
the strength in him to do it. It used to be because of that. But now, it’s
because he has to find the strength to not.
It doesn’t make him stronger, though. It doesn’t make him a tougher man, a
healthier one, or even a happier one. He doesn’t pull back at the last moment,
feeling alive again or feeling free.
Even if the tears did inevitably sting at his eyes, truly blurring his vision;
even if his lips did whisper a soundless, near wordless prayer to gods in whom
he doesn’t believe, and never shall.
The only god in his life has always been himself.
Everyone is their own god, after all; and as can be said of the opposite, no
one is ever truly a god.
Maybe it would have dried out his lips; maybe it would have cracked them open,
until they were bleeding into his mouth. Just tiny little specks of molten
copper, metallic, thick, and heavy along the whites of his teeth. Maybe it
would have washed away the taste in the back of his throat.
But maybe not.
Get out of my flat, he’d said instead. Leave, he’d insisted, I don’t want you
here. You need to go.
Is it the worst part that Sebastian had taken his cue and left?
He’d stopped only long enough to trail his fingers along the side of Jim’s face
— skin too warm, too soft, too loving — and to steal the only thing that made
the gun worth holding.
The door hadn’t even slammed behind him.
It had just shut. Like doors are meant to shut.
The magazine is probably still on him, tucked into one of the pockets of his
jeans, or even in his hand, nearly hidden by his bulk.
But it doesn’t matter.
Jim had asked him to leave, and he’d left.
It’s not permanent. It’s never permanent with Sebastian. Nothing could ever
stay for good, no promises for something that might inevitably leave him.
It isn’t even that he’d taken Jim’s heart with him.
It isn’t even that he wasn’t supposed to know.
It isn’t even that he had barely said a single word to Jim; it isn’t that he
hadn’t fought, hadn’t argued, and had only told Jim to put down the gun. He had
only told Jim not to hurt himself.
I’ll do what I like, Jim had said back, but it had sounded hollow and weak to
the both of them, and they knew that it didn’t matter. He could say anything he
wanted, and it would have no value at all in the long run.
I want you gone, and maybe that’s because he’s wanted Sebastian gone for ages.
For years and years, Sebastian has been there, since nearly the beginning,
since before Jim had ever realised he could ever need another human being
properly.
He’d needed Sebastian then; and perhaps he does still need him now.
But with that need, with whatever that really is, will always come a hatred of
the man. A hatred of the very idea that a man like Sebastian could ever exist
as a part of who Jim is. Could ever love someone like Jim.
He can’t help but feel his disgust in the very depths of his stomach.
He pulls the trigger. He hears the click. Hears the hollow ringing that fills
his ears, that’s just a figment of his overplayed imagination.
It doesn’t bring him any sense of closure, or absolution. To have a bulletless
gun pointed at his head, to pretend to shoot himself. It doesn’t feel real, and
he can’t trick his mind into believing that it is — in some way or
another — really happening.
It doesn’t warm his belly. It doesn’t swell in his gut and boil up through his
lungs, overflowing at the surface of his throat.
It’s just gone.
He sets the gun down blindly, and maybe he hears it clattering to the floor as
it falls from the edge of the table. But maybe not.
It hadn’t felt real before Sebastian came, and it doesn’t feel real after. So
perhaps that’s the point.
He falls back onto the sofa, listening to the squelch of leather moving to
accommodate his body, and he closes his eyes.
There are plenty of other ways he could kill himself. It wouldn’t take any
effort.
He could drown himself in the bathtub, if he was feeling particularly parched.
The water would sink into his skin, past his lips, and into his lungs, and he
could breathe it in as if it were air, or he were a fish.
He could choke himself that way. Could shed invisible tears into the burning
hot bath water, eyes stinging and painful, making himself stay below the
surface. Making himself breathe it in over and over and over, until his head
began to grow fuzzy, and the need to move his arms started to fail him. Until
his body went limp, and he pretended that it’s really just like falling asleep.
If he really wanted, he could set himself on fire. There’s a can of petrol
under the sink, that he could pour over the sofa, over his entire body, and all
he’d have to do is light the match and lay back his head. It wouldn’t be quick.
It would hurt, it would be like screaming madness descending upon him, and he
wouldn’t be able to stop himself; because if he did, he would be forever
marred.
So no, he would have to lock the door. Have to have his phone in his hands,
doing some inane thing on it, throwing all of his focus into letting the fire
wash over him and burn him to a cinder.
It would be ironic, in a way; and ultimately incredibly fitting. To burn
himself alive would make sense.
But then there are the knives in the kitchen. All sharp, all perfectly kept, to
be able to slice through practically anything like butter. They’re for cooking,
not for hurting, but it wouldn’t be the first time his skin has been scarred by
a blade.
They’re sharp enough that he wouldn’t even feel it at first. He could slice
through one of his arteries, and then just collapse back against a wall,
waiting for the pain to come. It would greet him, eventually, but it would be
too late. It would be just the right amount to overwhelm him, to feel the hot
burn of his blood flowing between his fingers, ruining his clothes as he falls
back into a dreamless, endless sleep.
There are the other guns. Sebastian’s guns. His guns. In his desk, under his
bed, in the wardrobe. In every conceivable spot in the flat, there’s a gun; and
Sebastian knew that when he left Jim here with them. When he took only the
bullets from the gun that was in Jim’s hands. Not the other ones. Not the more
dangerous guns. Not the automatics, not the rifles.
Just the one gun that seems to be relevant, though he can’t quite remember how.
There’s words carved into it in some place, or maybe just symbols, and he can’t
remember why they’re there or what they’re for, but he can recall their being
there.
Perhaps that’s why Sebastian only took the one thing. Maybe he thought that Jim
would only kill himself with that one gun.
Maybe he was right. It wouldn’t be the first time.
They live on the top floor of their building. On the sixth level. Their balcony
reaches out over a car park, over a long stretch of hard concrete, and he could
throw himself from it. Or perhaps just tip himself over.
The only thing that separates him from falling is the measly little railing,
that’s easy to move out of the way, or just climb over if he felt like it. He
could sit on it, and he could close his eyes, and then he could let go.
It would be nice. To feel the wind in his hair for those few seconds, and just
to breathe, to let himself go before it all began to pass away.
There are pills in one of the cabinets. Oh, so many pills. Drugs he’s never
used, drugs he never intended to use, drugs people have given him, and drugs
he’s bought for himself. Some are for pain, some are for sleeping, and some are
stockpiled as a way out, if he ever were to need them. There are even little
pill shaped poisons, in one of the compartments.
He has everything in there. From mild painkillers to cyanide, to arsenic. To
little vials of venom, taken from the salivary glands of snakes, from the venom
glands of spiders, and all the way to ones from deadly fish. He could take any
number of things that he wanted, injecting them into his body, swallowing them,
forcing them down; and it would hurt, it might take a while, but he’d die from
them just the same.
It would be easy to kill himself in some way other than the empty gun on the
floor.
Maybe that’s why he so conscious of his breathing, in and out, in and out,
abdomen moving up and down, over and over, air filling his lungs to be exhaled
again and again.
There are things he can put into the air. If he closes all the vents, the
windows, and blocks off the door. He could poison his air, and let it put him
to sleep. Sebastian wouldn’t be able to stop it if he did that.
He breathes in and he swallows, opening his eyes. The world feels hazy.
He could put something in his food. Have one last meal, put together with shaky
hands, swallowing down as much as he could before his body went into shock, and
then tried to come back up with the contents of his stomach.
He could go out like the addict that he knows he really is. A punctured vein.
Too much heroin in his blood. An overdose. No one would get to him in time.
It’s not like anyone would even notice, not even Sebastian. Sebastian would
never have to know.
It would all be over.
His lips feel dry and cracked and he slips out an equally dry feeling tongue,
attempting to wet them. He can almost taste it.
He stands slowly, pushing himself off the sofa, and he moves to the kitchen to
find a cutting board, to look for his favourite knife.
***** i was ten when they buried you *****
Don’t open your eyes.
It’s not the words that drag him from his sleep. They’re not what shake him
back into coherence; but they are the thing that make him want to open his
eyes, and do more than just nuzzle deeper under the warmth of the blankets.
His eyelids twitch.
“Do not —” there’s pressure of a finger on his chest, moving downwards, until
it’s digging into his abdomen, into the space below his ribs. It doesn’t hurt,
but he stifles a gasp at the sudden push into him, and he squeezes his eyes
tighter shut. “— Open your eyes.”
His lips part instead, breathing in shallowly, until the finger releases him.
“Seh —” is all he gets out before the very same finger — he can only assume, by
how warm it feels, by the way the pressure just gets him — slips over his lips,
shushing him.
“Don’t.”
It’s tempting to open his mouth wider, to let the finger slip between his lips,
and caress it with his tongue, sucking on it; but before he can do anything
more than think about it, it’s gone from there as well.
It doesn’t feel like he’s fully awake. That’s partially because he can’t
actually remember what really did wake him up, and in part due to how fuzzy
everything feels around him.
Before he can contemplate it further, he feels the mattress shift, and the
blankets are plucked away from his body. The only response he has is to
whimper, to try and curl up into himself on his side. It’s cold in the room,
and he has no protection from it now, as it tickles at his bare skin.
He’s completely naked, and he can’t remember when he got like that. But it
makes sense that he would be.
What he can remember of last night is Sebastian’s hands in his hair, fingers
threading through to hold him in place. He can remember fingers on his lips,
tracing his mouth, his cheeks, and his jaw. He can remember the steady pressure
of Sebastian’s body against his own, learning every centimeter of him.
He can remember Sebastian’s long, artful fingers, as they dug across his chest,
tweaking at his nipples and finally travelling low enough down to stroke him
steadily, until he couldn’t hold back, and spent himself, gasping and jerking
into the fist.
He can remember the feeling of breath on his neck, warming him, tickling him;
the sensation of skin against his, arching against him, a chest pressed to his
back until their bodies felt molded together like the finest clay. He can
remember patterns drawn into his skin, tormenting him, teasing him, until he
was hard enough to go again and again. He can remember the way that Sebastian
kissed him, as if he was the most fantastic thing to ever live. Tongues delving
against each other, lips slipping together, a mouth on his cheeks, on his neck,
his nose, his eyes, everywhere on his face.
Despite the cold, his body has to harden, his teeth have to come down on his
lower lip, and the barely audible moan has to escape his lips.
“Good boy,” is whispered into his ear, a soft, breathy sound, and his
distraction had denied him the ability to feel when Sebastian had crawled up
his body, not touching any of him, boxing him into an imagined embrace.
He arches against it, chest moving upwards in search of affection, smiling
softly in the direction in which he can only assume holds Sebastian’s face.
“Little minx,” is what he’s called when he’s denied it, and although it doesn’t
sound affectionate in the slightest, the growl is accompanied by a hollow
chuckle. “More trouble than you’re worth, eh?”
There’s a pause, and he breaks into it. “I’ll be good,” he breathes out, still
smiling in earnest, begging with just the curve of his mouth for Sebastian to
tell him that he already is good. That he doesn’t have to try. 
“Hey,” and for a moment, it honestly feels like Sebastian might slap him, and
he trembles — but that might just be the cold — but the hand that felt like it
was poised above his face comes down slower, and only grips him, holding his
chin. “Don’t talk, boy. If you - if you want to be good for me, then you won’t
say anything.”
Jim can only breathe harshly, the urge to open his eyes even stronger than it
was before.
“Do you understand me?”
He can’t speak, so he nods instead, jerking his head up and down without
dislodging Sebastian’s hand. He can still nuzzle, though; with what little give
he has, trying to remind Sebastian that he’s good, that he’ll always be good
for the older boy, and that all he needs is just the chance to prove it.
“Good,” and the hand slips away from his face, down to his neck. He arches
against it, but only just his neck this time, pushing it back to pant up at a
ceiling he can’t see, feeling the way every touch sets off tingling across the
surface of his skin.
It’s almost a tease, though it doesn’t feel like it’s meant for him. The hands
feel greedy as they slither down to grip at his hips, to push him until he’s
lying flat on his back again. The way they rub across him is so utterly
selfish, and he loves it, because it makes him feel like he’s some incredible
treasure, worth so much, capable of inspiring such a great amount of lust from
Sebastian.
The way that Sebastian’s fingers dig their way into his hips, into his thighs,
into the curve of his buttocks, is all nearly overwhelming, and he can’t see,
can’t steady himself from it. He can breathe, but only barely, and mostly he
can just lay there, trying not to twitch too much, as he soaks in the affection
that’s being so adoringly pressed into his flesh.
His thighs are caressed and pulled apart, a kiss pressed to the inside, a cruel
scrape of teeth that stings and makes the saliva pool in his throat, and though
he’s hard, though he can’t help it, Sebastian doesn’t seem to actually care or
want that part of him. Fingers work their way lower, down between his buttocks,
scratching over the tense muscles of his hole.
The gasp that he releases is entirely unintentional.
The first finger to go in is dry, too dry, and it burns as it’s pushed into
him, forcing its way through layers of protesting muscle. But it goes in all
the way anyway, until he’s met with knuckles against his taint, his mouth all
the way open trying not to cry out Sebastian’s name. It’s only relatively
small, but it still feels so wrong, so alien, even counting how many times
Sebastian has done this before.
Without any sort of lube, it doesn’t feel anything like it always has in the
past when Sebastian has worked him open. It feels wrong and painful, and like
it’s not supposed to happen, and he wants to tell Sebastian that.
His lips move soundlessly, not truly daring to speak, and his chest heaves,
trying to remember how to breathe.
It’s no longer too cool in the room. He’s warm now, with sweat collecting on
his forehead and underneath his arms, a slick layer down his neck and chest.
One of his feet is braced on the bed, making it easier to get down there — and
Sebastian is, forcing the finger back and forth, just rough enough to make it
impossible to forget that it’s there — and he can’t seem to resist. Can’t seem
to ask Sebastian to do things differently.
But it doesn’t last, and then the finger is gone, hurting almost more as it
retracts from his body, and he’s left feeling like he’s been left open and
sore.
He can almost hear the sound of a grunt in the air, followed by a cap being
flicked open, and then seconds later, the finger is back.
His instinctive reaction is to flinch, his entire body betraying the fear
within him. As much as he wants Sebastian — loves Sebastian — he can’t help the
fact that his body suddenly doesn’t want to accept the boy, and it sets his
heart racing too fast.
A please almost escapes from the back of his throat.
But fingernails catch on the inside of his thigh, a slice of pain, threatening
him for just a second or two. “Be still,” is the gruff order, nearly barked
out, and he wants to whimper again.
He has to listen, because there really is no other option within his mind but
that of pleasing Sebastian; and he knows — as he always has — that when it
comes down to it, if he does a good enough job of pleasing the boy, he’ll be
allowed his own pleasure as well.
It’s to his great relief that when the finger works a rougher way into him
again, it slides in smoothly, slick with the lubricant. It’s a cool sensation
now, chilling his insides, and taking away the pain like some sort of salve,
and his body relaxes around it.
It’s all right now. It’s not going to hurt as much as he had feared it might.
There’s still a hand on him, on the outside of him, and it slides up to his
stomach, pressing over his abdomen. It sits there calmly, pushing down just a
tiny bit, as if cupping a nonexistent belly, or perhaps just as a reminder, and
it seems to only make his breathing quicken, head thrashed to the side.
Soon, he thinks, there will be two fingers. But then there aren’t, and
Sebastian moves straight to three. They burn again, as they drag their way
inside him, separating him one layer at a time, and then he really can’t suck
in a breath.
It doesn’t hurt, per se; it doesn’t feel like he’s dying. But it’s too fast a
stretch, before he’s ready for it, and it’s like being split open without
warning.
There is still a part of him — a rather large part — that knows what it means,
and knows that this is good, that finds this to be a good feeling, and he
flings himself at that part, latching onto it to bring it around the rest of
him.
He pushes down, encouraging the fingers penetrating him to move deeper, to move
harder, and to move rougher. He has to bite down on his lip still, barely
noticing it, but it serves to ground him, to center him, and he knows now more
than ever that this is okay. Everything is okay.
The fingers scissor, parting inside him, dragging the muscles further and
further open, a hint of what is to come, and it makes his mouth and eyes water.
They don’t stay for long.
They disappear as quickly as they had come, once Sebastian is satisfied, and he
feels the bed shift. For a moment, an irrational part of him fears that it
means Sebastian is done, he’s leaving now, bored of Jim, bored of this, and
he’s going to leave Jim to himself again.
But the rest of him scoffs, and the rest of him is validated when he feels the
warm pressure of a body over his, of hands on the inside of his shoulders. They
don’t do anything at first but sit there, and then they move along him, playing
with his unmarked skin for a few moments, before they hook underneath his sweat
slicked underarms.
He gets the message.
He’s turned, until he’s on his hands and knees, his head hanging down onto the
mattress; and he still doesn’t open his eyes, even now. Even if Sebastian
couldn’t tell — which he probably could, anyway — it wouldn’t matter, because
he’s not supposed to and he won’t.
As his breath falls steadily again from his lips, he accustoms himself to the
pillow just below his mouth, that grows warmer from the air he’s expelling. He
gets used to the feeling of bed sheets clenched within his fingers, and to the
spreading of his legs, until his thighs are absolutely on fire.
Sebastian doesn’t ask him if he’s ready.
Sebastian hasn’t ever asked. He takes.
The thrust that enters him is long and deep, the length of cock completely
buried with him, and he can’t stay silent for it. It isn’t words that break
free, but sounds, a desperate, gasping moan, that almost resembles an oh
god, but doesn’t really.
He’s so full so fast, given no time to think about it, no time to decide if he
wants to back out — not that he actually would — and he’s been split so far
open that it feels like his body might never go back to the way it was before.
It isn’t that it hurts, because it doesn’t, at least not really. Sebastian’s
cock is just slick enough to not sting too much, and most of what burn there is
comes from the sudden stretch, the fact that he wasn’t eased into it.
That’s okay. He doesn’t mind it like that.
His cock hangs heavy from his legs, and he knows that Sebastian isn’t going to
grab it, and that he isn’t allowed either. It feels almost natural like this,
and the thrusts start before he’s even been able to process that.
One thrust.
It hits his prostate dead on, and he cries out again, a desperate sound, like
he’s falling apart.
Two thrusts.
They go deeper, harder, pushing the very limits of what his body is willing to
take, and the tears are stinging his eyes, and his lips are moving constantly,
wordlessly.
Oh, god, please, please, please, please, Sebastian, please, please, Seb, Seb,
please.
Three thrusts.
It almost hurts, a screaming, blinding pain that takes away even the blank
darkness behind his eyelids, replacing it with bright white. But it’s not pain,
at the same time, it’s the most fantastic pleasure he’s ever felt, and he wants
to scream.
Four thrusts.
He almost bites through his tongue, and he’s openly crying, just short of
breaking his temporary vow of silence, just to beg Sebastian for something of
which he’s not entirely certain.
It feels like his entire body is on fire, is being brought into this; and in a
way, the rest of him is. Sebastian’s hands tighten on his shoulders, jerking
him harder back, so that their bodies are aligned again. Chest to back, skin to
skin, sweat mixing, teeth on his neck.
Five thrusts.
His back arches endlessly, and he knows he must be drooling on the pillow,
clambering for a grip of the headboard, so he can pull himself up again, but he
just falls on his face. Sebastian pushes his shoulders harder down, until all
that’s in the air is his arse.
Every press into him is deep, measured, and oh, so careful. They’re all planned
out, almost like they’ve been set for specific seconds, and so, when they come
to a stop, he knows that it’s not his fault.
But he can gasp anyway, into the pillow, mouth split as open as his arse feels
like it is.
Sebastian is all the way inside him still, his bollocks against Jim’s arse,
tickling at him, and arms have curled down around his chest.
He grunts something in Jim’s ear, which he can’t quite make out, and Jim heaves
out a dry sob.
Please.
It’s not another thrust. It’s a rocking motion inside him, a swirling of hips,
that drives the cock almost viciously against his prostate, seeming to get even
deeper than ever before, and it’s driving him mad.
His eyes hurt like he’s bleeding acid, and then it starts again.
One thrust.
The muscles in his thighs are burning too hot, pulled too far apart, and
they’re screaming at him over and over, that it’s too much, that they can’t
handle this; but Sebastian’s hips work ever harder against his, pressing his
legs farther and farther apart.
Two thrusts.
The only intent left seems to be to cram himself as deep as he can, grunting in
Jim’s ear, clamping down on it to see how he reacts.
Jim can only howl into the pillow, his arse clenching over and over, as his
body tenses, and it makes Sebastian groan, pleased by it.
“Good boy. Yes, you’re a good boy, aren’tcha?” is growled lowly into his ear,
just as his eyes begin to roll back into his head.
He’s lost count of how many thrusts it’s been. Too many and not enough at the
same time, and it’s making him desperate.
Please, please, please, Sebastian, he mouths into the pillow.
His head comes up a little, to say something, perhaps, but Sebastian’s hands go
farther down, bypassing his cock, straight to his legs. They grip at them,
tugging them up higher, until they’re nearly tucked underneath his body, and
it’s amazing, sweet relief, for all of a few seconds.
With his legs are underneath him and they no longer burn, but then they’re
pushed apart from there, from inside of his body.
This time, he does scream. Not because his cock should be flagging, or because
the next thrust hits his prostate so hard that it feels like he’s going to be
bleeding and permanently injured once this has finished; but because his legs
are pushed apart so horribly far apart that it’s pure agony.
“Se - Se  —" is all he can pant, and the now freed hands are in his hair,
threaded through it like before, and they jerk him back so he’s baring his
throat for Sebastian.
“Shuddup,” the boy growls, sinking his teeth into the defenseless line of Jim’s
neck, only increasing the volume of the cry.
He can barely think anymore, and it’s almost beautiful, how overwhelming it is.
It’s so good, it’s so wrong, it stings so badly. He should be used to it, he
really should, because he’s flexible, but it’s still so much more than he’s
used to it being, and his legs probably aren’t meant to be pushed apart like
that.
But they are, and he is, and it’s still good, it’s still painful, and
Sebastian’s teeth are still buried in him, and all he can do is let himself
sob, tears streaming down his face, mouth wet, sucking in what little air he
can get into his lungs. The goal, almost, is just to stay conscious, to survive
this with his sanity intact.
It’s thrust after thrust after thrust, again and again, and they only seem to
get harder and harder, and yes, he knows what it means, that Sebastian is
getting ready to come, but it feels like it’s infinitely more than his body
could ever possibly take. He’s already so full of Sebastian, with his insides
carved out, and splayed open for whatever the boy wants to do to him.
He can only accept it, and hope that it’ll bring him as much pleasure as it
can.
Maybe he passed out, maybe he forgets some of it, but he doesn’t know, if he’s
lost moments, lost thrusts, or just lost those foggy bits of his mind, but
before he knows it, the thrusts are slowing down. Sebastian’s teeth are drawing
away, and hands are back on his stomach, pulling at him.
He clenches helplessly, knowing what the cue means, holding himself tighter and
releasing with a steady rhythm, still panting, and with one final, destructive
thrust, Sebastian still himself entirely.
It doesn’t stop after that, it’s still rocking, still the rolling of hips, but
he can almost feel it as Sebastian spills his seed inside Jim.
Wet lips continue to mouth at his neck, at the mark that he’d left there, and
Jim groans, still obeying, still clenching, and doing his best to milk
Sebastian dry. It stings to do it, to feel himself like this, and his body
feels incredibly weak, but it’s still absolutely beautiful.
It’s tiring now, though, as Sebastian’s body begins to collapse atop his, as
his hands are finally allowed to move, and one flies underneath him, so he can
finish himself, a desperate jerking of his hand. It barely takes a few strokes,
and then he’s gone, sobbing into the pillow, as all of Sebastian’s weight ends
up on his body.
He can feel it leaking out him, that wet, slick feel of semen as it dribbles
from his hole, as Sebastian pulls his softening cock from the confines of Jim’s
body.
It makes him groan, almost remorsefully, at the dirty feeling with which it
leaves him. He feels soiled, somehow, like a used, mucked up rag, and he tries
to move a little, but Sebastian does instead.
The weight is pulled off him, slipping to lie beside him, and he can hear heavy
pants coming from Sebastian’s lips, and he smiles, relaxed as he is.
His stomach is painted with his slick, he’s lying in a disgustingly wet spot,
and his arse is leaking with white goo that will soon dry and crack and be
incredibly itchy, but he doesn’t care; because his limbs still feel like
they’re on fire, and the rest of him is screaming that he should never move
again.
He groans softly, shifting closer to the warmth of Sebastian, his eyes still so
shut that they feel glued that way.
But the bed shifts, the mattress moves, and there’s a hand on his back. It
makes him shudder.
“Thanks, kiddo,” he can hear the smirk in the boy’s voice. “Goodbye now,
Jimmyboy,” and then the hand is gone, and feet are moving, and Sebastian is on
his way out of Jim’s bedroom.
No! He wants to cry out, don’t go! Where are you going? Come back.
But he can’t move, and the door shuts, but there are still footsteps.
“Oh, hey, kitten,” the hand has come back, more gently now, a touch that feels
personal instead of dismissive. “I’m sorry, love, you’re right. Open your eyes
for me, yeah?”
He peels back his eyelids, blinking blearily at the sudden light, and he can
just barely shift his head to stare at Sebastian.
The boy looks so beautiful like that, so majestic as he stands over the bed
naked, and Jim longs to wrap his arms around him. He mewls.
“Adorable,” Sebastian is smirking, running his fingers through Jim’s hair, and
distantly, he can hear footsteps in the hallway, a door slamming shut.
Uncle must be home from his shift, and a part of Jim begs the universe for the
man not to come into his room anytime soon. It reeks of sweat and sex.
“Shove over, yeah?” Sebastian clambers onto the bed with him, to wrap his arms
around Jim, to bury his nose in Jim’s neck. “Mmh, you’re warm, love.”
He rolls Jim over, out of the wet spot, and Jim shuts his eyes again, as the
warmth of wet kisses are pressed onto his face and lips.
Soft material touches him, like a shirt, and Jim doesn’t complain as Sebastian
cleans him up, kissing along his body, loving him as he falls with his aching
muscles back into asleep, still aware of the boy’s touch.
***** and i said i do, i do *****
He doesn’t hear Sebastian when he comes back.
The first thing the man does after creeping into the flat, quieter than a
mouse, is to sneak up behind Jim and throw him against the nearest wall.
The knife that was in Jim’s hands clatters down onto the countertop, but he
ignores that, ignores the sounds of protest that the man makes. Jim’s eyes
widen, hands coming up to brace himself against Sebastian's shoulders, trying
to shove him back. “The fuck —” slips from Jim’s lips, looking like he’s nearly
ready to slap or kick or punch him away if shoving doesn’t work, but Sebastian
resolves to not let it get that far.
Instead, he growls quietly under his breath, pushing just a little bit closer,
shoving harder against Jim to claim his lips in a kiss. It’s chaste, but only
at first, and as chaste as it is rough, more or less just a dry scrape of lips
against each other. Until Sebastian shoves him again, against Jim’s chest,
knocking the air from his lungs.
Jim has to gasp, his lips have to part, and then he’s open and vulnerable, his
body trying instinctively to breathe in, and Sebastian takes advantage of that.
He slips his tongue past Jim’s partially open lips, making them wet enough to
smooth out the kiss.
He doesn’t stop struggling, even then, and Sebastian has to wrap his fingers
around the man’s wrists, tugging them up above his head without any sense of
finesse, to keep from being hit or punched. He doesn’t relish it, not really,
but he still enjoys the kiss. He still enjoys the way he’s able to dominate
Jim’s mouth like this, thrusting his tongue in and out like he’s artlessly
fucking the man, until the threat of teeth becomes imminent and he has to pull
back. But only enough to bite down hard on Jim’s lips, shoving a knee between
the man’s legs.
It makes Jim gasp again, and start to go limp, but something tells Sebastian
that it’s just a feint. As the man whimpers into his mouth, jerking his hips up
and against Sebastian — as if that’s not a giveaway, with Jim nowhere near hard
— but he doesn’t let it convince him. Jim tries to kiss him back, but he’s
given no quarter, as Sebastian draws Jim’s tongue into his mouth to suck on it.
He trails his fingers along the man’s wrists, making him shiver, and that’s the
very first of the genuine response he’s gotten.
It’s what makes him keep pushing, slowing down the kiss until he’s just
sloppily licking in and out of Jim’s mouth, making the man shudder, seducing
him with his lips; and that’s when it happens. When Jim really does start to go
pliant, after a while of fighting internally, he starts to let out these little
aborted, soft moans, and his tongue starts to move in more than just
retaliation.
His hips don’t jerk, but he does twitch, and that’s when it stops being a
fight, and becomes hungry kisses instead.
Their pace continues, as Sebastian loosens his grip on Jim’s body, still
pressing fully against him, but it becomes something more like standing against
each other, their bodies pushed together as they suck on each other’s mouths.
He pulls away then, pressing a few extra kisses to Jim’s mouth as he does, and
they’re wet, full, and a bit shuddery. Jim tastes like mint toothpaste and
faintly of some sort of alcohol, and he only barely notices it now.
Pulling away allows him to press their foreheads together. It allows them to
breathe against one another, sharing hot air between them, and neither of them
speak as they actively work to collect themselves.
Eventually, though, Jim finally starts to speak. At the first twitch of his
lips moving, Sebastian is tempted to shut him up with another round of mouths
pressed up tight, but he restrains himself, and he allows Jim’s wrists to move
down. He still holds them at the man’s sides, but it would be easy to escape
his grip now.
“‘Bastian —” is trailed off with a groan, and their eyes seem to flutter shut
in perfect synchronisation, at the sensation of fingers along Jim’s pulse.
Touch has always been Jim’s greatest physical weakness, for as long as they
both can remember, and it’s what Sebastian has always been able to use against
him. Even — or especially — when they were young and just beginning to explore
each other’s bodies.
It’s been what works when nothing else does, and this is what it does to him.
It makes it hard for him to focus, hard for him to hold onto his anger, when
Sebastian’s skin is against his, when their breath is mingling.
“Aye, kitten?” he kisses the words into the corner of Jim’s mouth, that little
crevice by his lips. It’s supposed to be just the one kiss, but he doesn’t
stop, and he pulls Jim’s mouth back against his, aligning them so he can
flutter their lips together quickly. Then again, and again, until their noses
are bumping together awkwardly, and they’re stuck trying to press themselves
closer and farther into the other’s mouth.
Sebastian doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want to go back to letting Jim be
angry with him. He doesn’t want Jim to be allowed to forget all the good times
they have had together, going back to letting Jim hate his very existence,
wishing that he’d fade away into nothingness.
He kisses that into Jim’s lips one last time, pouring his emotion into it, and
it makes Jim groan again, moving higher on his feet to get closer to
Sebastian’s mouth for a second. It’s an aborted movement to try and get their
mouths back together, and then he’s withdrawing again, realising what he’s
done.
He opens his eyes again after that, staring achingly into Sebastian’s, a fire
simmering in his own. A hand is tugged from Sebastian’s grip, and he reaches up
as if to stroke the man’s cheek — and he does — but then he pulls back after a
second, to slap him hard across the face.
It makes Sebastian flinch, the imprint of hand hot and stinging on his face,
but he doesn’t pull back away from it. He only turns his head slightly, so he
can kiss the skin of Jim’s wrist. His eyes shut as he embraces the fleeting
pain, and he pulls Jim back closer again, letting their bodies melt together.
His hands slip down to Jim’s waist. “James —” he has to swallow, and he pushes
his head down to kiss the man’s jaw softly. “Don’t do this to me, James.”
His lips trail upwards, across Jim’s cheek, to his ear, breathing into it,
kissing it.
“Fuck you, Sebastian,” is hissed back at him, as Jim arches his neck in a
futile attempt to get away. The sound of his complaint is high in pitch, and
nearly cracked. “Fuck you and your —” he gasps as Sebastian tugs at the bottom
of his ear. “— Stop it,” he orders, “just stop.”
But he’s shuddering still, his body weak and tired against the onslaught of
sensation, even with his mind whispering at him that he needs to try and get
away, despite only barely remembering why.
This is a bad idea. But he can’t remember what it even is. Why it’s better to
get away. Why he should get Sebastian to stop touching him, just so he can
think. He knows that much. That he can’t focus when Sebastian is around him
like this, working past his defenses; but it’s not enough to explain why it’s a
bad idea to arch against his body. Why he should stop his mouth from pressing
up to steal kiss after kiss, until they’ve begun moving again, until they can
fall back into Jim’s bed.
“Shhh, m’love,” is kissed into his mouth, arms going around his waist instead
of just resting on it, pulling him into a hug. They feel strong around his
body, holding him at the small of his back. Lips leave his to press against the
side of his head, over and over, mumbling half audible things into his air.
“S’okay,” he hears, “you don’t have to - don’t hafta fight - m’not leavin’ ya.
Never - never, Jimmy.”
It makes Jim do little else but whimper, and that escapes their ears, fingers
clenching and curling against the fabric of Sebastian’s shirt. He tugs
uselessly, struggling again until he forgets whether he’s trying to get away or
make Sebastian stay.
“Fuck you,” he growls back, and his voice slips, starts to break. “Why the fuck
—” he has to suck in a sharp breath, and it confuses him. “Why the fuck do you
do this to me? Why are you - you shouldn’t be —” as he speaks, his words grow
more and more muffled, as his mouth is tucked up against Sebastian’s shoulder.
But he can still hear himself.
“You’re nothing, ‘Bastian,” slips out. “You’re nothing.”
He doesn’t mean it. Of course he doesn’t mean it. Or maybe he does. But with
every word, he struggles harder, tiring himself out; until he finally stops,
and he swallows a painful lump hiding in the back of his throat.
Sebastian draws back again, away from his head, but he doesn’t hold him any
less tightly. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, pressing a chaste kiss to Jim’s lips.
“So fucking sorry. For everything. For all of it,” another kiss, “why do you
think I did it?” again, he’s asking, but not expecting an answer. His fingers
rub circles into Jim’s back. “I need you just as much as you need me. Jesus, I
fucking swear that, Jimmy.”
“I know,” Jim bites back, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to even out his
breathing. Trying to focus against the hum of his skin. He accepts a harsh
whoosh of air into his lungs, pushing it back out, and he starts to steady
himself. 
“I love you,” slides against his cheek.
“I know,” he repeats, voice sounding harsher. “I know you do.” His hands come
up to cup at Sebastian’s chin, forcing the man to look at him, to stare into
his eyes, revealing the broken hearted, desperate look in both of their faces.
Another fuck you doesn’t come, but it almost escapes his mouth as he exhales.
He can feel his heart as the beating slowly begins to calm down, moving to a
more manageable pace, and it’s no longer distracting him.
Above the haze, he’s distinctly aware of the internal demand to know why. Why
Sebastian is this important to him, why Sebastian is this part of him. He wants
it, and a part of him needs it more than air; because he needs to understand
why this is all the way it is. Why he can’t get over this man, no matter how
hard he tries. This overwhelming, horrible, heartbreaking man, who’s been a
part of his life for such a long time. So long that he can only remember the
faintest traces of his life before Sebastian was a part of it.
He needs to know why he can’t get rid of him. Why he can’t shed the part of
himself that can’t live without Sebastian, so he can rid himself of this man
for good.
But at the same time, he doesn’t.
It’s easier not knowing. Isn’t it?
It’s easier pretending that it’s all okay the way it is. That it’s good enough
the way things are. That there’s no reason to know, because knowing means
change, and change means difficulty. Change means overhauling everything he
knows and has known and is, and replacing it with something else. Something
different. Something alien.
Knowing means that Sebastian might leave — that Sebastian will leave — and it
will hurt as much as having him here does. Or perhaps more. As much as it would
be easier, and he insists quite resolutely that it would be, the idea of not
having Sebastian is nearly impossible to fathom.
“You’re like a parasite,” he breathes, eyelids drooping shut again. “Fuck
you. You little worm.” But his hands are still braced on Sebastian’s shoulders,
holding him in place. His mouth is still against Sebastian’s cheek, his lips
hot and wet as they leave temporary marks of stinging saliva.
“You’ve infested me,” he tells Sebastian, as he uses his leverage to push. But
not away. Never away. Down. He pushes Sebastian down, putting his weight into
it, until the man hits his knees on the floor. “You little lifesucker.”
His head falls back against the cabinet with a heavy thump, and his fingers
stumble over his flies, suddenly feeling the hot air from Sebastian’s mouth on
his skin again, against his belly. It makes him shudder. His trousers go down,
not all the way, just enough to make room, not that he notices. He’s too caught
up in letting himself fall back into it, into the way Sebastian follows orders
that don’t even need to be spoken.
He lets himself get caught up in the stretch of Sebastian’s fingers as they
splay out over his cock, over his stomach, and then the wetness. It’s warm and
wet as he’s taken down, as lips suck around him, pulling him down towards the
back of Sebastian’s throat. A groan rumbles through, vibrating across his
length, and one from his own throat echoes after it.
His eyes squeeze tighter shut, his grip impatient, shifting quickly so that he
has a hand on the top of Sebastian’s head. It hurts. More so than he could
possibly ever understand, as he jerks Sebastian’s head against and onto his
cock, over and over. The skin on his knuckles goes white, and it’s painful,
nowhere near blinding, but sharp and vicious pleasure that stings more than it
soothes. He fucks into Sebastian’s willing mouth over and over.
It’s too much. Too much sensation, too much Sebastian, and too much of those
sounds. Those desperate little whimpers, fluttering up from Sebastian’s throat,
a reflection of everything so tightly bound in his own chest.
Without intending to, he follows suit, a tiny, fleeting whine bursting from his
lips, as his mouth falls open and he tries to breathe properly. The air doesn’t
seem to want to make it into his lungs, and it’s hard to focus.
It’s so hot in Sebastian’s mouth, and he’s as deep as he can possibly go, and
that’s why he has to hold the man’s head in place. He does nothing but roll his
hips around, pumping that tiny bit deeper, triggering Sebastian’s gag reflex
repeatedly. But aside from making it even tighter in there, it does nothing,
and he can’t bring himself to open his eyes and look down to see whether or not
Sebastian is looking up at him.
It would be wrong, somehow.
“I fucking hate you,” he growls, as Sebastian struggles to breath, and he
finally lets up, lets the man gasp around his cock for a few precious seconds,
before he goes back down of his own will.
Sebastian is desperate, needy, trying so incredibly hard to make this good.
He hates the man for it.
“You’re disgusting. A leech. You latched onto me and you’ve been sucking the
life out of me ever since,” he insists, but it’s weak. As honest as the words
are, they feel empty and nearly false on his tongue.
He thinks of the cabinet above his head. Of the contents of the box on the top
shelf.
Sebastian’s teeth scrape over him gently as he moves back, tongue swirling,
growing somehow wetter, and he has no idea how long this has been going on, but
it’s over suddenly. He’s coming down Sebastian’s throat with a choked gasp, his
mind blanking out of everything else as he topples over.
It hurts even more. Like being stabbed sharply in the gut, jerking along with
the pressure along his hips, and he doesn’t cry out, but it’s a near thing.
Only ‘Bas would have escaped from his lips. He’s glad, in some distant corner
of his mind that it’s over; while at the same time, he’s not.
It’s hard to focus after that, after he goes soft. He can’t look down at
Sebastian’s face. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to look.
He feels dirty. Disgusting. It’s nothing but a reminder of how incapable he is
of resisting this man.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck you,” he whispers, tugging himself away, out of
Sebastian’s still suckling mouth. His hands shake as he forces his spit covered
cock back inside his trousers, hiding it away so he can escape, and run to the
other room. Somewhere that Sebastian isn’t. Somewhere that he doesn’t have to
think about his weakness.
“Jimmy —” Sebastian starts to say, but he’s cut off, thrown backwards, onto his
hands and arse on the tile floor.
Before he can even try to finish what he was going to say, Jim is away from
him, darting out of the doorway, leaving him frozen still in shock.
“Fuck,” he parrots, and his eyes close.
His lips and face are wet with saliva and the remainder of Jim’s semen, and it
feels grimy, like it’s already beginning to dry, and he should clean it up.
He should stand up.
He should go after Jim.
But he’s fucked up. He knows he has. He shouldn’t have gone about it this way.
Things should have been handled differently. He should have fixed things,
instead of breaking them down further.
He falls forward on his knees, pressing his forehead to the unsympathetic cold
of the tile floor.
Fuck.
***** the boot in the face, the brute *****
It’s the first time he’s ever let Sebastian touch him. Or, at least, the first
time it’s ever been more than just an innocent brush of hands, or the momentary
touching of bodies when sliding past one another. It’s never been something
he’s wanted, and his hypersensitivity to it makes it most definitely not
allowed.
He doesn’t touch people. It’s not something that happens, or ever has.
It isn’t something they ever addressed, because Sebastian had that way about
him. He always seemed to understand, sometimes — or especially — when Jim
himself can’t quite grasp what some part of himself means.
But when it comes down to it, as much as he adores Sebastian, as much as he
loves having the older boy as a part of his life, the idea of being touched by
him has never been much of a pleasant one. It’s a conflicting thought, because
part of him almost craves it, a part of him that he didn’t really understand or
can interpret coherently.
He blames that partially on the fact that he doesn’t actually have a solid
memory of being touched by anyone. He has dreams about it, yes. Big, painful,
colourful dreams, of being caressed by fingers that are too large for his body,
of someone stroking every line of his skin, and learning it all down to the
last sinking crevice.
Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s how uncomfortable it makes him, antagonised by the
way it plays out in his fears, that make him so adverse to the idea. Or maybe
it’s because no one ever touched him for as long as he can remember. He had no
mother to do it, no father, and his uncle barely can be trusted to remember to
leave the door unlocked for him.
But regardless of the why, he doesn’t plan it. He doesn’t wake up one morning,
and decide just that he was going to let Sebastian hug him. He hadn’t even
thought about it, in the days leading up; hadn’t plotted it, how to work it
out, how to get it, or what the aftermath would be.
Unlike so many other things that he felt were within his control, this isn’t
one into which he put even the smallest shred of forethought.
It’s just him rushing into Sebastian’s open arms. They welcome him. They
embrace him. They express no judgement, offer him no shame, no taunting of what
he should be doing or feeling, or for what he feels.
It’s incredibly simple; from Sebastian’s end, at least, even if it isn’t for
him.
The moment he’s up, the moment he’s closed around, he knows it, he remembers
it, can feel it. It doesn’t make his body stiffen — not quite — because he’s
not afraid, at least not consciously so. He doesn’t think that Sebastian will
take advantage of this, that the boy will hurt him, touch him in some other way
or ways.
It just doesn’t feel natural, not at first.
In reality, it feels like he’s collapsing. His knees begin to grow weak — and
that’s just seconds before the thought of pulling away starts to buzz inside
his mind — and his breathing feels unsteady, and somehow wrong.
Somehow, perhaps even the strangest part is that he can’t help but smile, as
disorienting as this is. As strong the smell of cigarettes is, as he nestles
his face into the crook of Sebastian’s neck. It’s not a smell he likes, or ever
has, but it doesn’t make him wish to pull back in unmitigated disgust or
horror.
It almost makes it better, somehow, because this isn’t perfect. It doesn’t all
line up just right. Sebastian’s knee is pressed into him awkwardly, the bone
hurting Jim just a tiny touch, and it’s too warm to feel truly comfortable. Not
to mention that it should have, by all rights, only lasted a few seconds,
before he began to pull back.
But no, it’s more than that, it’s stronger than that. It weakens him, tugging
him in closer, until he’s collapsing fully against and into Sebastian. It
becomes more than just instinctual, but instead, a desperate need to be held,
to be tightly hugged.
Sebastian’s hand ends up on his head, patting him comfortingly, and he hears a
sniff, almost like the boy has been crying. But Jim knows he hasn’t.
“Oh, Jimmy,” he whispers, and Jim can only burrow deeper, close his eyes
tighter. “Jimmy, Jimmy. You okay, Jimmy boy?”
“No,” is all with which he can respond. “M’not.”
“Oh,” and Sebastian sighs. “I —” he can almost feel the older boy’s eyes close,
and a sad smile drift across both their faces, but he knows it’s just his
imagination feeding him things. “What’s the matter, love?”
“I don’t —"
“It’s okay.” Sebastian’s arms tighten around him, squeezing him inwards, and
for a moment, the air is sucked out of his lungs and he can’t bring anymore
past his lips. When he’s given slack again, he gasps for air to replace the
lost, and he can’t help but giggle once he does.
“Do you ever —” it’s starting to feel better to be like this, even if there’s
something sensitive about it on his skin, dancing across like fingertips, or
the ink of a ballpoint pen. “Do you ever feel like you’re nothing?”
“Like I’m - like m’nothing?” is parroted back at him, and he can practically
hear the frown in it.
“— yeah,” his eyes close slowly, and he breathes in as deeply as his lungs will
allow, the scent of Sebastian filling him fully for the first time.
“I don - I don’t think so?”
He didn’t really expect Sebastian to understand, and it was silly to ask. “I
just —" he swallows, and unconsciously, his fingers tighten in the back of
Sebastian’s shirt. “Some days I wake up and - and there’s nothing inside my
head. But that’s …” he lets out a sound nearly like a dry sob, shaking against
Sebastian when his words don’t come out right, and it’s only stopped when a
hand slides up his back.
It rubs evenly along the space between his shoulder blades, soothing him.
“Shhh, shhh,” Sebastian seems to be whispering.
“That’s not it,” he breathes out, “It’s when I - when I doubt my own
existence.”
Sebastian’s hand stills.
“When I ask myself if I’m - If’m really real, and I really am —"
“Breathing?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers loosen, and he apologises for the wrinkles by smoothing them out,
fingers lingering shyly on Sebastian’s back. “I just - I guess I just wonder
what the point is.”
“Which point?”
He nuzzles deeper into Sebastian’s neck — and really, he should be embarrassed
by this by now — and his words come out even more muffled. “My being here.”
“You’re here because …” he can’t seem to finish the sentence, be it because he
doesn’t know the answer, or just doesn’t have the right words to form one. Jim
can’t tell.
“Do I hafta keep it, though? Keep m’life?”
It feels almost like he’s swimming in a sea of Sebastian, where everything
around him is made up by parts of the other boy. The water in which he is
drowning, the air he can’t get into his lungs, the traces of sunlight — the
clouds, too — and even that tiny hint of shore he can just barely see, as he’s
pulled further and further away from it.
His body has gone slack against Sebastian’s, propped up in his entirety by the
boy’s willingness to hold him, and he knows that it can only stay like this for
a few minutes more, before things begin to change again. Before they morph into
something new.
As childish as it is, as unlike him as it is, he needs this right now. He
craves being held, and it feels good, better than anything else. With
Sebastian’s hand at his waist, not touching him wrongly in any way; with
Sebastian’s chin resting on top of his head, just at the edge of it.
Being touched like this isn’t real — or it shouldn’t be — and it’s certainly
not normal. He knows that. He knows that he’s never been the type that anyone
has ever willingly hugged; and that’s okay. That’s perfectly all right.
But Sebastian seems to want this just as much. Sebastian seems to understand,
to not push this the wrong way, and he seems to get why he shouldn’t laugh at
Jim for stealing this from him.
Maybe there’s something wrong with Sebastian for putting up with this, for
putting up with Jim the way he does. Maybe it says something about the type of
boy he is, deep down in his heart, that he so willingly and happily seems to
submit to this. To whatever whims Jim may have, and maybe that’s even why it’s
okay, in Jim’s mind. Maybe it’s the confusion over what type of person
Sebastian is that makes Jim feel safe.
When it comes down to it, Sebastian is probably no safer than his uncle, but
something has always felt different with the boy. Since the very beginning,
since they first met, he never felt like Sebastian would hurt him in the same
way everyone else ever has. 
“Jim? S - say something?”
“I have no mouth —” he starts to say, and Sebastian sucks in a shaky breath, “—
and I must scream.”
“Don’t scream,” Sebastian asks him quietly, his tone more pleading than a
demand. “Please.”
“I can’t.”
“But don’t try, he clarifies.
“Why not?”
“It —” he feels Sebastian’s throat contract and he sighs against it, nose
pressing harder against the line. “It won’t help.”
“How d’you know that?”
“Because it - I just - I know, okay?”
Sebastian’s arms are starting to feel looser and looser around him, like this
is winding down, and they’re both ready to face back into nothing again. He
doesn’t say anything, though, because it doesn’t actually feel like there are
words left in the English language that he can use to respond.
His fingers drop from Sebastian’s hair, and his hands end up hanging back at
his sides, lifeless as he stands there. He’s still being hugged, still has
Sebastian’s arms around him, but even those are nowhere near the vise grip in
which he was earlier.
Even that passes, and before he knows it, it’s gone as well. Sebastian’s arms
unfold from around him and he’s left standing on his own.
But that passes in the blink of an eye, and suddenly his eyes are opening up to
look into the boy’s. Fingers grip his chin softly, and the whole of his body
shudders, exhaling loudly. A hand comes up to the back of his neck, holding him
in place, and his eyes squint. Stop, he wants to say, please don’t touch me
like this. You haven’t proven that you - just, please.
He doesn’t.
“You’re going to be okay, Jimmy,” Sebastian licks his lips, tongue dragging
uncomfortably slow, and Jim doesn’t want to be looking at his mouth right now.
Or ever, really. “I promise you that you will be all right.”
He blinks. “How can you promise that?”
“Because I’m not ever planning to leave you. And as long as I’m at your side,
I’ll be keeping you safe.”
At this, he shakes, and he has to hold back the cringe. The words have his
heart beating faster, to an unusual tempo, and he can’t decide if he wants to
embrace Sebastian again, or run so far that he’ll never have to see the boy
again.
“You can’t —”
“Not gonna.”
He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, counting upwards. Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
fünf —
“Listen to me,” the boy’s voice has gone urgent, nearly aggravated, and he
doesn’t breathe. “No one hurts you under my watch, Jimmy,” Sebastian swears, a
great fervency in his tone.
“What about when you’re gone?” he opens his eyes for this, just a crack, so he
can see Sebastian’s face. See his eyes.
“I’m not planning to ever be
gone.”                                                                                        
“That sounds incredibly …” he can’t finish.
“Creepy, yeah, I know,” Sebastian seems to be laughing at himself. “But it’s
the God’s honest truth.”
A tear that he hadn’t even noticed as it pooled in his eye, trickles down his
cheek, and he asks the words that he hadn’t ever realised he would parrot so
many times, much later in his life. “Promise me, then. Swear it to me on
something important. Swear you’ll never leave me.”
“I swear it on —" he can feel the way Sebastian swallows in the air. “I swear
it on —” he can’t seem to make up his mind, and already Jim is starting to pull
away, to deflate, and huddle back into his own corner again. He’s better now,
not as scared. He doesn’t need Sebastian anymore. All he needs is himself.
“I swear it on you, Jimmy.”
***** the black telephone's off the root *****
Pubs are the sort of scene that Jim will only rarely find himself frequenting,
which ultimately comes down to more than just a small variety of factors. In
part, it’s because they rarely fall on his radar outside of when his business
ends up becoming involved with one — and under that category falls the
occasional situations where there is cause to have a meeting at the pub of his
choice.
How seldom he takes the time to go to one is in part a reason why he will very
rarely choose to do so when needing a night of anonymity, when he needed to get
away from anyone that might know who he is by his reputation alone, when he
longed to simply wallow in a glass of whiskey. On a night like this, he craves
being away from Sebastian, craves the solitude of a stolen moment where he is
indistinguishable from the world of London around him.
It’s a place that Sebastian would never think to look for him — even assuming
that Sebastian is actively searching for him — and it’s one that feels as safe
as any, at the very least from prying, dangerous eyes. It might not be the
smart thing to do, but on the scale of all the things done in his life, it’s
far from the least intelligent.
He happens to own the pub in question, albeit only indirectly, and
the indirectly guarantees that there isn’t a soul inside that should have heard
his name, even in passing. It’s not his real name that’s attached to it in
anyway, as is, and the two people connected to him personally through it would
sooner volunteer to slice off their baby toes and eat them in a kebab than set
a single foot inside the establishment.
It works. He keeps it on the side, insurance, as it were; because out there,
even beyond the deepest trenches that make up the whole of London, he has his
fingers in a great many pies It all boils down to making certain that at the
end of the day — at the end of the worst day he could possibly imagine — there
is always something on which he can back if need be.
It has the somewhat added bonus of only being about a dozen or so minute’s walk
from the flat that he likes to affectionately call his main and favoured, even
if it’s just one of several
Public Houses are far from known for being quiet, or even a good place to
think, but today that comes in handy, when he finds it easy and incredibly
relaxing to just lose himself in the lull of far too much noise. Where
everything and everyone around him is buzzing with sound and life, and he
himself can fade into the soft underbelly of it, an experience difficult to
find elsewhere.
Choices like that come with the risk of walking away with a headache, but for
the time being — for Jim — it’s worth it, at the very least for the peace of
mind that is allowed to overtake him within minutes of slipping past the doors
and into the little world that lays beyond them.
The entire place is packed, which is to be expected on an early Friday evening
in a more populated area; it’s filled with people having just gotten off work
for the weekend, voraciously seeking a way to kick off their temporary freedom
with a taste of liquid indulgence among friends.
There is no crowd through which he must move, only the occasional body planted
firmly in his way, and he bents past, dodging walkers with their trays of
drinks and little platters of food stuffs, making his way steadily towards the
bar near the back. He has to walk around chairs that have been pushed out,
through people that can hardly seem to see him or care that their paths
temporarily intersect with his, as they laugh loudly, and seem to genuinely
feel their pleasure in great levels.
There is but one stool by the bar that is yet to be taken, and he slides
seamlessly onto it without hesitation, unconcerned that he might be stealing it
from someone. He’s tempted to let himself fall upon the wood the moment he
comes to a stop, to let his arms collapse in front of him in an attempt to hold
himself up, keeping his face from the dirtied expanse, but he resists. In his
resistance, he ends up staring right across from him, at the man with the eyes
that look perhaps more tired than his own.
Words come from the mouth of the man with the tired eyes, and they fly directly
past Jim’s ears, out of sight behind him. It could be anything, from a request
for an order of drinks, or an introduction, to an inquiry about his health or
his day.
How he manages to order something without hearing, while barely seeing or
feeling himself as he speaks is nearly beyond him, and it isn’t immediately
that he even recognised that he has. The only real sign that anything has
passed between him and the man — beyond the quiet meeting of eyes — is when a
small glass loaded with whiskey is suddenly abandoned right next to his hand.
He stares at it for a delayed second, watching as the ice settles, only seeming
capable of blinking; and there are more words from above him but he doesn’t
bother to look to see if he can read the man’s lips. He can — or could, if he
tried — but it hardly seems to be of any importance. He’ll pay for it later, or
someone else will. It doesn’t matter.
Eventually the man must disappear, though, because Jim ceases to feel as if
he’s being watched and bothered; and when he does glance up, he catches the
smallest glimpse of what could have been the back of the man’s clothes, as he
flutters off to the far end of the bar to serve someone else a drink. Again,
it’s hard to categorise it as anything more than utterly meaningless, and he
forces it away.
To get more comfortable, he shifts around on his seat, pressing a hand up to
the space between his eyes as he shuts them tightly and focuses on the excited
exchanges of chattering all around him. It doesn’t work immediately, and at
first it only makes the unpleasant layer of film in his head feel worse, but
just as he swallows, the effect comes. It’s in the form of a body pressing up
against his back for just a split second, a person accidentally running into
him as they pass behind him, and it jerks him towards the place in his mind
that he had been so avidly seeking.
Of course, with it comes a muttered apology that just barely reaches his ears
before it dies, and then comes the temptation to turn around, to open his eyes
and say something. To perhaps even start a fight. He’s barely thinking about it
anymore, edging closer every second to running purely on sensation instead of
focusing on remaining still in his intelligent thought, but it’s the signals of
his body that are really the ones fighting.
He doesn’t even move, just the twitching in his hands, as part of him longs
desperately to launch himself at something, at the nearest shred of humanity,
of whatever is closest and alive and breathing, so that he may beat the life
out of it. It would be so easy, to utilise the precious couple of moments it
would take for anyone here to shake themselves out of the shock of their
surroundings to react, to pull him away.
He could do it. With just his hands, with a glass, with a stool somewhere. Even
just slamming a head into the bar, into the floor; it doesn’t matter. He’s
killed men in less time with less available to him. He’s killed men for so much
less, even, and he could do it before anyone stopped him. He could still make
it painful, excruciating, not even ending them immediately. Just guaranteeing
that the person would expire within hours or days, giving them as long as
possible to suffer.
The muscles in his back tense, preparing for a fight, but after a moment of
being ready to pounce, the feeling begins to pass him again and he slumps back
down around his drink.
It doesn’t matter what’s in his mind. What matters is the amount of energy in
his body, drained and almost depleted after weeks of moving nearly nonstop,
always having to be doing something. He doesn’t have it in him right now, to
even indulge in a verbal duel. He came here to forget, after all, not push
himself closer to that inevitable breakdown of his spirit and his body.
Not to mention the part of his instinct that knows that spending the night down
at the Met, regardless of how easy it would be to worm himself out a prison
sentence, would only make his head worse.
Without further thought, he lifts his glass to his mouth, feeling the tickle of
the whiskey on his upper lip before he parts them to take a drink. He almost
doesn’t feel the way it burns as it goes down, only really noticing because he
knows it’s supposed to be there. But his senses have already dulled down so
much that he’s only partially conscious of it.
The alcohol fills his stomach with a mocking, perverse sort of pleasantness,
and before he knows it, he has another one. Or maybe it’s just been refilled,
and he didn’t see it happen, but there’s more. As if it’s a glass that is never
allowed to be emptied.
For how long that goes on — the endless drinking of the sting, of watching the
liquid’s level rise again, only to seal it back in his throat within minutes —
he doesn’t know, and he stares blindly at a spot on the wall, at the red mark
that seems only to grow and grow as more time passes. Occasionally it’s blotted
out by the shape of a person standing in front of it, but it remains fixed
there, as his growing intoxication befuddles him. The longer it lasts, the more
time moves on without him, the more his vision blurs and the more he feels a
lazy sort of grogginess settle in around him.
He feels almost human, almost normal. With his mind not bogged down by the
endless movement of his great genius, not consciously plagued by thoughts of
every conceivable outcome for all of the possible choices laid out and always
moving as each of them falls away.
He could sleep right now if he wanted. He could just lay his head down on the
bar, on his arms, and pass out; and maybe he’d even get away with it for a
while. Perhaps someone would assume he was simply resting, simply tired out
from a long day, and he might get some peace before someone noticed and paid
enough though to throw him out from the pub.
But instead he finds something else. A state into which he passes that is
better than sleep in a way. One where he’s unaware of most of what is happening
around him, nearly unconscious to it, but still able to reap the benefit of
enjoying it. He can listen to the incoherent ravings of dozens of conversations
happening just around him in seemingly every directly, but not have to even
consider picking out and dissecting each of them one at a time, until he knows
exactly what’s happening and who each individual is in their own right.
He can feel the little touches of bodies against his back, of people carelessly
brushing by him, unbothered by physical contact with a stranger, and not feel
hypersensitive to it. He can feel them and not long for something more than
them, for someone more than a stranger to touch him.
Most importantly, however, he can let it all work to hypnotise him with the
energy of it all.
Which is why, when hours have passed, and the pub is nearing some sort of
closing time, and people have already begun to move onto better, newer places,
the man comes back to whisper in his ear.
“You’ve gotta leave soon, mate,” tired eyes says, and this time he can hear him
properly, though the words come out fuddled a bit. They might have been
something else, but it’s the only logical thing he can assume from what ones he
understood.
It’s a whispered sound, somehow peaceful, and that’s half of why he finds
himself obeying it without question. He lets the arms pull him up, genuinely
not caring when the wallet is lifted from his back pocket and money is taken
from him before it’s returned. The paper money in there means virtually nothing
to him in terms of how much belongs to him, so he lets it happen, feeling his
fingers clasp around leather again as someone else pushes him towards the door.
Only a few steps out, and suddenly there is nothing around him but the chilly
night air as it wraps possessively around his body, creating and prolonging
full body shivers down his spine. He doesn’t have a jacket.
It’s late, even if he can’t remember how late, and the sky is dark and filled
with unforgiving clouds above him, street lamps scattering the street just
below that, and the majority of the buildings populated behind the lamps have
windows that are entirely darkened out and hidden from sight. The lights shine,
seeming to go directly into his eyes, and they distort his vision as he
stumbles in the first direction that comes naturally to him, down an alleyway.
He’s heading in the right direction, he knows at least that, even if it’s not
the right path to get back home.
The bricks feel like they might be trying to close in around him, and
mindlessly, he forces his wallet back into his pocket so he doesn’t drop it,
not that it matters. It’s not quite claustrophobia, and it’s vaguely
distressing, but not as much as it should be, so he finds himself trailing a
hand along the wall as he walks, with his eyes focused intently on staring
above him at the sliver of sky above his head.
Under his breath, he isn’t whistling, or singing, just wheezing as he forces
air into his lungs one swallow at a time, a distant part of his useful mind
willing himself not to keel over and die. His throat rumbles instead, after a
long moment with his ears perked as the clattering of rubbish bins behind him
pierces through the veil of his consciousness.
As he hums, continuing to walk slowly and steadily forward, he listens for the
telltale sound of a cat shrieking — it comes only a few seconds late — and then
half paying attention as the yowling stretches on for longer than it probably
should.
There’s a part of him that feeds on the temptation to join in on the screaming
sound, forcing out air from his lungs in a manner so shrill that he’ll shriek
until his vocal chords feel too stretched and worn to continue to make more
than just noise like a rat’s squeaking, but a part of him resists that. It’s
thoughts like that one, though, that distract him enough that he doesn’t feel
the hands coming towards him until it’s too late, and they’re around his
shoulders and pressing down on his chest.
When he does register them, he stumbles, and the person — people? — behind him
takes advantage of that, using the opportunity to shove him up against the
bricks, hard enough to make his entire body feel like it’s been violently
shaken.
It should have been obvious, and he should have realised sooner that the hands
that had pushed him towards the exit had belonged to a body that followed soon
after him. In hindsight, it’s so clear that it nearly hurts, but he didn’t
notice and now it’s too late to kick himself.
The man’s face is fuzzy and unclear, almost as if it’s been pixelated — which
makes Jim suppress an untimely giggle — but he can see well enough to know that
it’s not tired eyes man, and only that flickers through his mind before the fix
comes out of nowhere and shakes it free. It hits him hard in the gut, and he
doubles over in pain, crying out with a hysterical bark of laughter.
It hurts, but that detached sort of pain, that is obviously there, but doesn’t
feel quite real or genuine, and is easily discarded as not quite relevant.
A hand comes up to cover his mouth, jerking him back just enough that lips can
flit over his ear and growl into it, words that he can’t quite get because they
don’t sounds like anything more than gibberish to him.
It doesn’t really make sense, because he speaks more than languages than he can
remember the names of right now, so it’s just silly that he wouldn’t be able to
understand whatever this one is. Especially since the sounds so blatantly
resemble English, which just makes him laugh harder, undeterred by the slew of
blows released onto him.
They range from hitting his chest, the side of his face — which hurt damn near
the most, and for a second, he fears the pressure in his jaw might be because
it’s being broken — to his sides, his ribs, and kicks to his thighs. He loses
count of how many there are, because it doesn’t really matter.
The only thing that’s important is that they hurt; but even that matters just
barely.
It’s not even that they make him feel good, because they don’t. He’s not that
type of masochist, and never has been, not really; but in his inebriated state,
it’s impossible by great leaps to take anything seriously. It’s all too
ridiculous, being attacked in an alleyway on the way back to his flat, when
he’s so drunk that all he can do is suffer through and see double and —
He realises quickly that he’s not actually seeing double, and it croaks
another, louder laugh. There are two of them. Twins, his mind feeds him,
through some more intelligent part of his brain filters through that, knowing
that they’re most likely not related in any way.
But still, it’s nice to think that they’re identical, as they stand perfectly
cute side by side, raining down blows in nicely timed intervals, until the
majority of his upper body is completely numb and useless.
It brings another giggle to his lips, sharper now that his ribs feel bruised,
and it’s punctuated when the fists stop coming; and suddenly there’s a knee
there, right between his legs — deliberately nudged up right behind his
bollocks — and it seems mostly to be holding him up.
Hot breath fuzzes through his ear, drying out the laughter in him, and it
worsens things when he starts to understand the words being spoken again.
Pretty boy, the man calls him, almost disturbingly seductive, shouldn’t’a gone
out alone, shouldn’t’a been temptin’ us loike that.
It’s still funny because it’s true. He’s always been pretty. Far too pretty,
and he’s always tempted people when he shouldn’t have. Even when he was too
young to realise what his prettiness did to people, how it made them long to
take advantage of him.
Fingers scrape along his sides, tearing at his shirt, ripping a couple of the
buttons clean off, and suddenly he can hear it all in his mind again, just like
he used to when he was younger. Slut, slut, that’s all you are, little boy,
you’re a slut. You’ll bend over for just anyone, won’t you? Jimmy the little
slut. That’s what you’ve always been, that’s what you’ll always be, a S l u t.
Maybe they’re the ones saying it, which would explain how crisp the sound
quality is, but he can’t tell when he blinks up at the nearest face, because
there’s nothing but a sneering anger in those eyes.
There’s a thumb pressing up against his mouth instead, forcing his lips to curl
back and his tongue to wet it, to smooth its way along his face until it feels
like a violation of his body as much as just cruel. It smears his saliva around
his mouth, knuckles pressing into his aching jaw, and for one agonising moment,
he dreads being pushed to his knees again.
But his arms swing up instead, not having consciously thought of it, and they
wrap themselves around the nearest neck. The hand on his face withdraws, and
the eyes in front of him seem to glow an unearthly red, before they swim closer
and down to his neck. His grip is weak and pointless, and teeth dig sharply
into the tender skin around his pulse, making him cry out in pain.
It’s the sharpest, most real thing he’s felt all night, and for one
disgustingly perfect moment, he can’t breathe.
It passes, as he feels the warm sting of blood being drawn, that feels almost
still a part of him as the air chills it, and he shudders, mouth still parted.
No words come up to his lips, even as the mouth on him stays in place, gnawing
at him, and a hardness settles against his hip, humping him. Only then does he
notice that he’s being moved, that he’s being placed in between the two of them
— two? — like a ragdoll.
He gasps, tongue lolling out his mouth to wet his lips, to try and say
something, but his mind is too foggy to explain anything to him. It’s not that
he doesn’t understand, it’s just not computing, and he’s left like a stalling
car on the side of an abandoned motorway.
His mouth is claimed suddenly, as his neck is released for a second, before the
pressure comes back as a hand closed over it, and teeth bite against his lips.
It’s not the good kind of kiss. Not the kind of kiss that Sebastian bestows
upon him, where he feels nearly worshipped from the inside out, like every part
of him is waiting to be explored and devoured.
It’s the kind of kiss that made out of hatred, of bucking against something
disgusting just because you can, just because it’s there to do, and it crawls
inside him, teeth gnawing unpleasantly again, dribbling slobber down his chin
as it works its way roughly through him. The tongue trying to choke him is too
slimy, tastes too much like ash and cheap beer, and not enough like gin as it
slicks along the walls of the insides of his cheeks.
The whimper he releases is the first sound that he makes that isn’t insane,
that isn’t just the movement of air as he breathes, and it makes both of the
men still, even if just for the shortest of seconds.
But when it picks up again, when they pick up again, it’s at a considerably
more frenzied pace. There are more words, more thrusts into his back, against
his arse, and between his thighs as he’s groped. There’s more moving, more
being jerked around and used, growled at even though they haven’t done much
yet. They don’t really try to get him out of his clothes, seeming content to
try and debase him just like this, between them.
It mostly just hurts to breathe, and a part of him whispers that they’ve
damaged a rib — have to get that fixed later, bandaged, Sebastian will do it,
when this is over, when is it going to be over? — and the hands on him roughly
caress over his hips, down to squeeze at his arse, pulling him away from the
body behind him.
There’s a growl, not for him this time, for the other one, and they’re fighting
now. Fighting over him, and he can hear it dimly. They’re trying to decide who
gets his mouth. Who gets his arse. And again, a ridiculously out of place
giggle bubbles up from his throat.
There’s that part of him, that debased, uncaring part of him that wants to let
them. That wants to just give them what they want, and fall into the lull of
pain until they leave him. They’ll probably kill him, though, or leave him
beaten and given up for dead, once they’ve fucked what life he has left out of
his body.
There’s that part of him that thinks it would be better that way. That it would
make things okay.
A hand comes up again, another blow. Open palm, flat across his face, and it
makes his eyes sting with the first tears of the night. He sniffs, smacking at
his lips, once he realises that his mouth has been freed. There’s no longer a
disgusting intrusion inside his lips, even if it still tastes like there is.
Tastes like someone violating him, and the other part of him doesn’t like that.
Decides that he doesn’t want that.
That part of him is faint, almost suppressed, and as his eyes close, he gives
it the freedom it craves to decide for himself. There’s still a hand down his
trousers, cold and unforgiving as it squeezes roughly at his flaccid cock,
trying to make him interested in this. But he can only really feel it
peripherally.
That part of him seems to feed on it, fighting with the only other one that’s
alive now, and it growls in the back of his mind. Telling him that this is
revolting, he doesn’t like this. This isn’t like it is with Sebastian. It’s not
good; he hasn’t learnt to enjoy it yet.
As they squabble over him, it wanes back and force, that part of him that
craves being pushed down and forced to take it, and the one that says he’s
better than this, better than being used and demeaned, between two men that
hate him.
Not that the words matter, not that his words or their words do, because they
don’t. He’s heard worse and thought worse, and felt worse without external
effort. He’s had worse done to him, worse than this, worse than anything they
could do. He knows that, even if he can’t quite get his brain to feed him
exactly what it is at the moment.
Hell, he’s done worse. Probably. In some distant part of his memory, he knows
he has.
He almost doesn’t notice when the corners of his vision start to fade black
again, the way they do so much, especially when he’s upset. But he does see it
when his hand curls into a fist.
In good time, as well, probably. They’re almost done fighting over his body.
His body is done fighting over them.
The punch he throws is at a horrible angle, weak, just mustering up a small
portion of energy, but it hits the man in front in what turns out to be a
sensitive spot. Somewhere on his face, along his nose. It pushes him back,
making him cry out in fury as he cups at it, and Jim can see blood start to
well out of it. Maybe he’s broken it. Rebroken it. Something.
The hands behind him grip at him again, the one in his trousers having slipped
out, and he can only stare for too long a moment at the one in front. He seems
more important. The hands try and jerk him back away, and they succeed. He’s
thrown against the wall again, and it knocks the air from out of his lungs,
leaving him bowled over again.
He’s definitely broken a rib or two.
He almost gives up here, without another throw, because it would be so much
easier. But he kicks instead, and his leg misses, when the man dodges just in
time; and then there’s a blade. That’s what decides it. He doesn’t want to be
stabbed. That’s right, isn’t it?
It’s nearly impossible to miss this close with a blade, with the way that it
glistens in the light, as if it’s some supernatural, all capable force. The man
in front of him looks feral now, like a rabid dog, like Sebastian when he’s
dangerous, crouched and ready to lunge at the first weak spot.
There’s something in the sight that makes him begin to salivate, liquid pooling
at the back of his mouth, making it feel sticky and dirty, but it would be
impossible to deny the way that more of his instincts are starting to wake up.
That there is a part of him, a normally incredibly strong part, which is
excited by this.
It sets his blood racing in a way that nothing else has in awhile, and when the
man charges, it’s easy to sidestep, perfectly timed. It’s even easier to tackle
the man to the ground, to start wrestling the blade from his grip.
But it hurts. He can feel it slice through him first, not too deeply, just
catching on the soft skin of his side, not quite penetrating. It’s just the
edge, just a surface wound, but it’s a shock, and the knife isn’t sharp enough
to conceal the pain.
He doesn’t cry out, though, doesn’t spare a glance down to see the blood. It
would be too easily to get distracted by it, and that’s the advantage; because
the man does, letting his attention flicker away for a second. Just long enough
to give Jim a grip on the handle, slamming with his other fist down on the
wrist to jerk it free.
Half of him wants to just slit the man’s throat.
To be done with it.
He’s proved himself nothing more than a boring adversary, and that same half
wishes to curl up and pout like a child for it not being good enough. Maybe he
should have let them do it after all. Or stopped them sooner, because obviously
they weren’t good enough at their trade to actually deserve him in any way.
It should have been harder, shouldn’t it? To take down two men?
The other one is still there, though, because he hasn’t. He realises that when
a boot comes from behind it, kicking into the very center of his back, knocking
him down flat on his front. And then back, right where the knife went.
His teeth bite down hard on his lower lip as he holds back the desperate cry of
pain. It hurts now, so fucking much, but he holds onto the knife still in his
hand for dear life, refusing to let it go.
It feels, quite suddenly, like he’s covered in nothing but blood and grime —
and maybe he is — as if he’s been fighting in a pit full of wild dogs, being
covered by their disgusting, unwashed scent, and thrown around between dozens
of them.
They are, in a way. Like dogs. They’re technically bigger than him, because
most dangerous men are, and they’re stronger, in their own way. He’s
technically outnumbered.
He could still die. He knows that.
There are two, presumably in perfect health, against his body, and he’s
intoxicated and plenty small eve on his best of days. One right move, and
there’d be nothing he could do to stop them. Maybe they’ll still fuck his
corpse, drive the blood out of him with their cocks, until he’s thoroughly
gutted. Maybe they’d carve new holes into him, just for the novelty of fucking
more than just the ones he already has.
They’re probably not that creative, though. They’d probably get squeamish over
the idea of fucking a dead body. They’d probably keep him on just the brink of
death for it, so he could suffer through agony as he clings onto the last
traces of his awareness.
The only thing he really has over them is his mind. Which doesn’t do him a lot
of good. It’s what got him here in the first place, in these circumstances. But
he’s the more practiced killer, and it shows. From the way he flings himself
forward, clawing at the face of the one with the boot, forcing him against the
wall so he can drive the knife through his heart.
It barely takes a few seconds before it’s done. Before the man is staggering,
crumpling, the handle still protruding from his chest, and there is blood on
Jim’s hands again. Fresh, hot blood, seeping through his skin. Polluting him.
Even once he lets go, he can feel it. Just how the man feels before he dies.
The way the warmth of the knife is a shock to him, as his body slackens, in
those seconds between his eyes going from wide and terrified to utterly empty.
The man doesn’t feel like he’s dying, doesn’t feel like he’s been bested. He
feels as if he’s been knocked down, and something’s not right, as his heart
pumps quicker and quicker and quicker. And then it stops.
It’s satisfying in the way that gluttony quenches a person’s thirst.
As the body drops to the ground with a dull thud, face first, blood seeping out
onto the ground, pooling around Jim’s shoes, he breathes in the crisp night
air.
Then there’s the other man, coming up behind him. Wrapping his arms around
Jim’s neck, tugging him away, trying to grasp at his bloodied hands to
incapacitate him again.
“You- you —" the words don’t form a sentence, or even a complete thought, and
Jim closes his eyes for a short second, letting himself fall back against the
man left. The grip around his neck hurts, and he’s unable to breathe. It’s too
tight. It’s not worth the proper struggle; he doesn’t bring his hands up to try
and tear away the arm that’s cutting off his trachea.
He doesn’t kick helplessly at legs that won’t even feel it. The man is running
on adrenaline. He’s even stronger than before. But he’s more vulnerable as
well.
Jim goes completely slack, body falling back like a dead weight, much in the
same way that the other man had when he’d died.
It gives the man enough to growl something slightly more coherent, but no more
heard in Jim’s ear, and he faintly recognises the words as threats. As
disgusting outrage, anger and vile hatred that’s stronger than before, more
passionate.
Maybe the man is telling him how he’s going to strip his skin from his body as
he fucks him, making him bleed out from his arse as he’s torn to shreds.
It makes Jim smile at the thought. Maybe he’d like that, to experience that
once before he dies. As he dies.
Not today, though. Today there is nothing like a man who thinks he can win
against someone like him.
It’s funny, though, because he still can’t actually see straight. Still
couldn’t walk in a straight line, even if he had someone holding each arm and
directing him. He still couldn’t consciously make up his mind about anything.
There’s another knife, apparently, he thinks. He knows because it tries to
force its way into his gut, but it misses, because the man is too angry,
because he only has one arm free and Jim has two.
It goes, instead, into the man’s abdomen, tearing through his flesh, until the
lining of his stomach opens up, until his intestines are falling out onto the
ground. It’s too easy, Jim thinks, as he’s released.
There’s still that rush of success, but it’s less satisfying than the first one
had been.
He’s tempted, as he turns and watches the last twitches, to linger here, to
drive the knife again and again into the man’s body before he goes, as his
heart fails and he bleeds from his mouth instead of breathes. In the last few
seconds before he dies. It would be fun, after all. To cut him up into pieces,
to make a game out of it, out of how much of a mess he can make before his time
is up. It would certainly send some sort of message, even if it wouldn’t be the
right kind of one.
But the part of him that sounds like Sebastian says that he can’t.
It’s stupid, because he came here to get away from Sebastian, but even when
he’s not physically in the man’s presence, there’s a part of him that can never
escape his awareness of him.
But it would be even more stupid to stay, because his blood still faintly
splattered around the scene, mixed in with the blood he had spilt, and his
fingerprints are on both knives. It’s only going to be a few minutes before
someone walks past and sees the carnage. Busy streets and all.
There isn’t a better word for it than carnage. Even in the dark, it looks
ghastly, like someone has ripped through a body with a meat grinder, and
forgotten to clean up the mess.
He really should clean up the mess he made, shouldn’t he?
He stumbles away, collecting one of the knives. Maybe both. Tucking them away,
forgetting about them. Into his trouser pockets. They’re already ruined, after
all.
His flat is still only a few blocks away, and he has to use the wall, and maybe
he’s still bleeding against it, but it’s too dark to see to stumble, and no one
is around to look at his clothes. At the blood painted across his body, like a
canvas done up in red finger paints.
He’ll go home. He’ll have a warm shower. He’ll fall asleep in his bed. There’s
nothing more for him here, nothing keeping him from what he wants back.
He’ll sleep, and when Sebastian wakes him up to tug off his clothes, and wash
him down with a damp cloth, he’ll let the man finish; and he'll wrap around
him, before he falls back asleep.
***** at twenty i tried to die *****
She liked to scream. That was something everyone knew about her, even if they
didn’t know her personally, or had ever had cause to meet her. She was the girl
that screamed at everything. It would be anything from a quiet shriek to a
blood curdling screech at the top of her lungs, and everything in between.
It was the only thing anyone ever really remembered about her. Not her name,
not her face, not even her real story; just traces of it here and there,
fabricated a thousand times over with whatever people wanted to add to it.
Everything she was to them was built around the way she screamed.
Hysteria, someone had called it. The boy had said his father was into psych
cases, and that he’d read all the books about it. The story had gone off on
some horrible tangent about the way doctors dealt with cases like hers, back a
hundred or so years previous, and Jim had stopped listening. Hearing about
women strapped to tables and fucked with inanimate objects until they stopped
screaming wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, nor, did he suspect, would it
ever be.
The point was that all she was to them — to her class, to her peers, even to
her teachers and the other adults in her life — was as that hysterical girl
that never shut up.
It even made her the only student from his school that he could actually tell
from the rest, on categories other than gender — on which he’d mistaken more
than a few girls before. Thus, when he heard that sound coming up the hill
after him, he knew immediately who it was.
She couldn’t see him, not really, there wasn’t any actual way that she could.
At least not from her vantage point; and she looked sweaty, like she’d been
running for hours. But then she wasn’t the most in shape of girls, so she could
have only made the trek up the hill, and Jim would have been none the wiser.
But she was looking for him, and that was the part he didn’t like. Even more
than the piercing sound that threatens to shatter his eardrums, it’s the fact
that she’s here for a reason that unsettles him.
“Jimmy!” she called to him, the sound somehow rustling the leaves in his tree.
“Jimmy fucking Regan!”
If he aimed properly, he could probably hit her with his book. It wouldn’t kill
her, but it might do enough damage to actually knock her out for awhile; long
enough for him to get away. Of course, at least half of that would be hitting a
moving target, and his arm isn’t exactly comfortable, cramped up into one of
the branches.
Chances are that he’d miss, even with his good aim.
“Jimmy!”
Each syllable of his name sounded especially repulsive from her lips, from the
back of his throat, in a way that he’d never recognised before.
She darts under his tree, and she’s looking up at him, through the branches,
through the dying leaves between them. “I know you’re up there! I can fucking
see you, you skinny little bastard!”
“Oi!” he can’t help but scowl at that, even though he knows it’s true, just as
well as everyone else who’s ever met him seems.
Her eyes swivel around in this really eerie way, moving about in her head, and
then she seems to be staring through him. She lets out this little sound, this
tiny little shriek, that doesn’t really have any volume, but it’s disturbing
enough to send a shiver down his arms. It seems to squeak out from her mouth,
the pitch completely even until the second it dies.
He closes his eyes, grinding his teeth together.
“Come down,” she calls up to him.
Without knowing exactly what possesses him to relinquish the relative safety of
his tree, he finds himself dropping the book down. It lands by her feet with a
dull smacking sound, and she moves away, one foot back, not really enough space
to let him land a safe distance from her.
A sigh on his lips, he drops straight down, not bothering to climb from branch
to branch, and he, too, hits the ground. It’s a thumping sound underneath him,
of drying mud being pressed harder down, compacting under his weight, and he
doesn’t wince at the pressure on his ankles and wrists.
He’s like a feline now, crouching on the ground, acting as if his hands don’t
sting from the burden of him, and he stares up at her. His eyes must seem
impossibly dark in the light around them, and he knows from experience with
what other people have said that they glow slightly, just enough to be
frightening.
It doesn’t show in her face, or even the rest of her body, but he knows she’s
as put-off by the way he looks as he was by her showing up to see him; maybe
even more so.
He doesn’t make to stand immediately, instead creating a show of the way his
hair flicks over his eyebrows, lips curling into a sneer. It’s effortless to
arch his back, like he’s stretching out in sun that’s not actually there, and
his body bends and contorts to his wishes.
It doesn’t incite a verbal reaction, and she only seems to get more annoyed
than she already was, her nostrils flaring overtly; and her lips part, ready to
speak again. She changes her mind, at the very last second, and his name comes
from her lips, barely recognisable in the mess of sounds.
With that, he sighs, pushing himself up off his ankles, looking away from her
to brush the dirt off his hands. It’s collected between his fingers, and
underneath his nails, and he almost scrapes it off on her shirt. It’s clean and
white, and it would look good with his hands printed on it; the perfect
finishing touch.
“Did you want something?” he doesn’t even pretend that he knows her name, and
she probably knows anyway, so it would just be silly to make her think that he
cared.
Instead of answering, her hand comes out, slapping across his face with an
incredibly loud smacking noise. The sound itself shudders through the both of
them, and he can’t actually feel it at first, instead registering the sound on
more levels than just the one.
When he twists his head back to stare at her again, there’s nothing but pure
fear in her eyes. Her hand has dropped back only halfway, and it’s shaking
slightly, like she’s ready to make a break for it. Like she’s ready to run away
again, message delivered, goodbye.
The pain plays out slowly, one tinge at a time, until the whole of his cheek is
spread out in a light layer of burning red. It makes him smile.
“Darling —" and he feels different, somehow, like fuzziness is replacing his
consciousness, and he’s not quite sure what it means. But it feels natural, in
some strange way, to smile like this, to not fight the feeling that’s pounding
through his chest. “— that’s not very nice of you to do. I mean, really.”
He can feel himself pouting, can feel the tilting of his head as he watches
her. She doesn’t look like a girl to him; at least not in the way that he’s
always heard people talk about girls. There’s something strangely enticing
about everything that makes her up, and he’s not quite certain what that means.
It’s not a desire for her body, not in any way, but he wants her, in ways he’s
never really wanted anyone.
“Regan, I —"
With the smile still on his lips, as if painted across them, he takes the two
steps forward that bring him within the span of her personal space. He can feel
the heat of her body, resonating off her and onto him, and his fingers
gravitate upwards, dirt still on them as he tilts her chin up, to stare deeply
into her eyes.
She looks like she’s about to say something again, to make some noise like a
scream, and he steals it from her lips, jerking her cruelly towards his own.
Her mouth collides with his, teeth bumping against the tender, plump line of
her lips, and she’s gasping, letting her lips fall open.
It takes hardly a moment of effort to spin her, to throw her back against the
tree, and he claims her mouth again. He kisses the thought from her lips,
licking across them  —  much in the same way Sebastian does for him  —  and it
feels like she might be struggling. She seems to be fighting back, protesting
weakly, but he ignores it.
There’s something about having her body like this, pliable against the hard
trunk, her tongue wet under his, and her teeth sharp but useless under his
clashing forward.
He isn’t hard from this.
She tastes like spring. Like sunflowers on a soft, fictional day; and the
warmth of cotton candy melting on your tongue.
Somehow, his hand ends up in her hair, tugging her head even further backwards,
so she can hardly breathe against the onslaught. It’s good like this. He feels
like it’s his turn to be Sebastian. It’s his turn to ravage someone until they
don’t have the strength left in them to fight.
But she pushes back him, and she’s stronger than she looks. She shoves him like
he’s a wild animal trying to attack her, and he stumbles back, eyes wide as he
stares at her.
“Oh, god,” her hand goes to her mouth and she looks within an inch of tears.
“Oh, god, no, I shouldn’t have - Daddy said that - oh, god, please —"
He growls at her instead of listening, pushing forward again, but not to kiss
her this time, but to tug her against his body and shove her back again. “Shut
up!” it’s his turn to shout at her, shoving her against the tree.
She hits it with a sickening crunch, not hard enough to damage anything, but a
weak little girl like her can’t quite handle the strain, and her body crumples
down into a heap. It’s nothing like he had been, not feline, not deliberate,
and it looks almost like she’s trying to incite some form of pity or even just
disgust from him.
“Jimmy,” she croons nonsensically, “Jimmy Regan.”
A wave of calm flows through him, the fists he didn’t even realise he had
formed, going slack at his sides. He hates that sound.
“Don’t call me that again,” he warns her, because it’s only fair. It’s only
right to warn her, before he goes further than she would like, and something
unfortunate happens.
“I can call you that if I like.” She lifts her head, hair splashed across her
face, and he can see the flash of fear and defiance in her eyes.
“Do not call me that,” he repeats.
“I can —"
He drops to the ground with her, ignoring the way his the way the material
covering his knees presses into the compacted dirt. She flinches when he
reaches out, brushing the hair from her face, and he wants to know what she
fears he’s going to do.
He wants to know what she thinks she sees in his eyes.
“What do you see…” he purrs, as his fingers trail across her tear stained
cheek. “When you look at me? Do you fear me?”
“I —"
The way he pets her face is the way Sebastian strokes his, the backs of his
fingers careful and tender as they scrape away every drop of sadness, and he
almost loves her in this moment. “Do you fear me the way they do?” He wants to
lick the skin on her face, soak up her tears, and find out how she tastes.
She exhales heavily, a “no,” but she’s shaking, her body’s impulses betraying
her words, even down to the way the word quivers from her lips.
Her fear is intoxicating.
“— if I could…” he thinks aloud, the thought left unfinished, taste the
fear dry on his lips. She’s already so scared, and her eyes are begging him,
offering him a way out of this. It’s not too late, her eyes implore him, you
can still get out of this, you can still change your mind, and I won’t tell
anyone.
As his fingers squeeze into her jaw, her mouth is jerked open painfully,
fingers tucking into the crevice inside her cheeks, and she whimpers. It’s the
first time he’s heard a sound like that from a human being, the first time he’s
drawn one out, and something about it calls to him louder than her unspoken
words had.
“What would you do,” his words are like a poem, a song played out to a tune
from his lips, “to save yourself from me?”
She doesn’t have an answer for it, not a verbal one, but he knows what it would
be if she were willing to speak, and able to utter the words.
She would do anything, anything he asked, anything he demanded from her body,
because right now she’s afraid more than anything else that she might not make
it out alive.
It’s only this that redeems her in his mind, telling him she’s not quite as
stupid as she’s always looked.
“Come here,” he drops her face from his hands, and when she gasps, he stands,
he takes a step backward, and then another. The chance at freedom shines in her
eyes.
“Crawl to me,” he orders her, lips wrapping around the words like they’re the
most elaborate seduction, and still the most disgusting sewage.
The way her legs moves shows how used to this she is, how familiar she is with
following the orders of someone she fears, and instead of the pity he knows he
should feel, a flicker of something else waves on its way through his mind.
It stops him from waiting until she’s finished, or from drawing out her
degradation.
Someone else has gotten here first, and he doesn’t like that. With his toes
curled in towards his foot, he kicks up, the front of his boot impacting
sharply with her chin.
It throws her backwards, hitting her head against the trunk of the tree, and
her skull almost sounds like it’s been cracked open. But after a second, after
he stares long enough to see if she twitches, her eyes flutter halfway open,
and a soft moan escapes the confines of her closed mouth.
Please, she seems to say. You don’t have to do this.
“Oh, but I do.” His grin is vicious, pushing away the last traces of the regret
he chooses not to feel, and even as all the possibilities dance through his
mind, he picks the one most simple.
If she were someone else, he would strip her of the clothing she wears like a
set of armour, and he’d break off sticks, dig them into her skin until she’s
bleeding. She’d cry, naked as the day she’s born, and it would begin to rain,
wash away the blood, even as he drives the sharpest stick straight through the
little crevice of her belly button.
If she were someone else, she’d bleed out like that, looking violated and
ripped to shreds, eyes still widened, set in perpetual fear, for all to see
once she’s discovered.
His heart breaks, just a tiny little crack.
He bites drops to bite at her lips again, giving himself away in the falseness
of the kiss, more stealing the agony from her lips as his hand closes around
her throat, and he pushes her back against the tree again.
Every time her head impacts with the bark, her body weakens, and her moans grow
softer. Her chest heaves under him, moving more desperately as he steals every
smidgen of air from her lungs, making it clear that he doesn’t think she
deserves to be able to breathe.
Finally, her body goes completely limp, and he lets her drop, their lips
parting. Hers collide with the dirt, mouth pressed into it, the blood he’d torn
from the soft little teeth marks congealing across them, and he wipes his own.
For a second, he wonders what she had wanted when she came after him.
But she’s dead now, and he may never know. But best — or worst — of all is that
he can’t feel anything.
The rain will come, and it will wash everything important away.
***** and the voices just can't worm through *****
When he left the flat again, two nights later, Sebastian had still been
sleeping, curled up into himself under the pale sheets of their bed. Jim hadn’t
woken up in his arms, hadn’t been asleep at all, just laying there as he waited
for the other man to pass out into unconsciousness, so he could leave unnoticed
and undisturbed. If Sebastian were to wake, then he would have ended up earning
himself an eventual tail, and it wasn’t a night for that.
He doesn’t need Sebastian’s permission to leave, nor is he afraid of the man;
but it is something about which he has to be careful, when he wants to be alone
for something. If Sebastian knows when he’s leaving, he’ll be followed, and
while Jim doesn’t mind on some nights, tonight is one that isn’t good for
company. 
Unfortunately, Sebastian has been paying extra attention to him since the night
of the pub. When he’d walked back into the flat, the man had taken one look at
the bruises marring his body, and had resolved not to let Jim out of his sight
for a while. It’s a hunting night, more than anything else, though, and
solitude is the only friend for whom he longs.
It’s two o’clock when he catches his first glimpse of the man across the way,
stepping out from his car, looking paranoid even at the distance. Jim steps
back into the shadows easily once he’s dropped the mental pin, that will help
him track the man’s movements. He conceals his body until then, waiting for the
inevitable approach.
Hunkering down into himself, he plants his arse firmly down upon the pavement,
pulling the worn blanket down around his shoulders. It scratches unpleasantly
against his cheeks, too threadbare to really be decent protection against the
wind chill, even as he ducks his head down to make play as if he were caught
amidst slumber.
The stains on the fabric leave it offensive to his nostrils,  making him sniff
loudly in part from the cold, and the rest from the agitation. It’s wool,
cheap, scratchy, and horribly uncomfortable, which makes it utterly fitting.
In all honesty, he would be shocked if the man were to spare him even the most
idle of glances when he passes by Jim, but that doesn’t defeat the purpose of
actually taking the time to do it. It’s rather the point, really. There’s a
part of him that enjoys this, remaining nearly invisible as his prey disappears
from sight just down the way. He caught sight of Jim, that’s certain for a man
that anxious of his surroundings. But Jim is hardly the first homeless person
he’s ever seen in his life.
After a long moment of waiting, counting the seconds down until he
hits one, Jim stands and creeps around the corner. He’s more than adept at
navigating the back alleyways blindly in the dark, knowing them by the map in
his head, and by the feel of the walls pressed through the gloves on his hands
that are falling apart as he extends a hand occasionally to feel along with
him.
It takes him three minutes to make it to the next corner, and precisely another
thirty seconds before the man does. It’s time to shuffle about, coughing
hoarsely into the blanket, a low groan not just passing from his lips, but
remaining there like a stain. It’s the sound of a man dying, and he knows it
all too well, how to get it just right. In the sort of way that the average
person wouldn’t be able to fully comprehend, but accomplishes the point of
instilling disgust, pity, and sadness that one can never properly explain.
He does catch a full glance this time, and in reaction to it, Jim pulls the
blanket tighter around his head, shuffling backwards as if having been seen has
burnt him badly somehow. The man, of course, spits something vile under his
breath as he steps from out of sight a second later, and Jim smiles pleasantly,
hidden underneath the brown.
After that, he crosses the street before the prey can, one block before him,
and he slides soundlessly into the alleyway just off there, darting behind a
large collection of rubbish bins, where he collapses on his front to lay prone,
as if dead.
For five minutes, he stays there like that, his breathing shallow and almost
imperceptible, his cheek pressed to the cold, disgusting ground, mouth open to
breath in air that’s been polluted by the concrete. But it pays off with a kick
to his side. His body is shoved backwards, and then a second smack of shoe.
Body limp, he doesn’t react, and he can hear the sound of another curse, more
distinct now. “God-fucking-dammit,” the prey spits, “of all the fucking nights
for —” through the crack of his eyelids, he sees the man beginning to turn
around, fishing around for something that lays on inside the inner pocket of
his jacket.
The man punches something into his phone angrily, lifting it up to his ear as
Jim quietly watches, cursing again after only a few seconds. With his back
turned, he doesn’t see Jim’s hand begin to move, a leg sliding up soundlessly
so that he can work his fingers along the boot, palming the blade that had been
hidden there.
“Where the fuck are you?” his prey demands into the phone, no pause between the
stream of his words. “If it really wasn’t important enough to make it on time,
then fuck you, Karl. There’s a dead fucking piece of shit here that’s stinking
up the alley, and I’m not fucking waiting around for you.”
As the phone beeps, a dying sound, Jim stands up. The first noise he makes is
the tiny scuffing noise of his shoes — intentionally, entirely — on the ground,
and before the man can do more than faintly register it, Jim covers his mouth
with a hand, driving the knife around his front and into his body at an upward
angle.
He screams, of course, muffled through Jim’s hand, an absolutely wrecked sound.
The blade a sharp one, but considerably less so than most of the ones Jim keeps
around, and it’s designed to hurt the most when forced through someone’s flesh
with deliberately limited finesse. The edges are jagged, some sharp and some
dull, twisting once inside the soft area of the man’s side, most certainly
knicking several organs on the way into him.
This man, this Robert, didn’t come here to die. Not consciously, at least, even
though his life was meant to end tonight, had being going to since the
afternoon Jim had first met him. It had been set in stone on that day, down to
nearly the last detail, destined for this unfortunately cold night.
He may not have been part of the original plan, but he had played what small
role he’d had perfectly, filling in the necessary gap, and dragging out just
the right things to get in the way. All that was left after he’d made the one
wave he could, was to eliminate him before he could become actual trouble.
All because he thought himself important enough to play the rook that he saw
when looking at himself in the mirror, not realising what a pawn he really was,
and how utterly dispensable a piece his existence made him. He had thrust
himself into the game too soon, not ready for it, not realising how dangerous
the situation was, or recognising but not correctly estimating his own level of
skill against them.
Two players too big for him, and Jim making the decision to kill him was really
almost entirely beneficial to his former boss, who Jim knew would spare almost
no expense on getting to him. The only difference would have been a day or two
more of life, perhaps a week, if he were truly unlucky. But either way, in the
end, he would have died because of his idiocy, because he overplayed himself,
thinking the connections he had were enough to keep him afloat.
It’s easy to take advantage of the man’s open mouth to work dirtied fingers
into it, stabbing against the back of his throat to gag him, making him choke
and cough raggedly as he struggles to stay upright on the ground. Jim only
smiles as he walks him backward, towards the wall.
He easily could have put someone else on this job, had Sebastian do it, had one
of his other men, one of the other snipers, take care of things. But this
wasn’t a job for a marksman, because it required a slightly more personal
touch. Or at least it would soon; and in itself, a knife is a noiseless weapon,
easier to conceal than a gun, with a quicker delivery, and unabashedly deadly
when used by just the right person.
In a neighbourhood like this one, no one ever thinks twice about a single
scream in the night. A gunshot draws attention, but the sound of a voice is
quickly forgotten, and not enough to draw gawkers or curious witnesses that
would later give statements about what they saw and heard.
Regardless, his fingers dig in too deeply to allow more than a second or two of
the blood curdling scream that echoed from the man’s chest, before the man is
no longer able to suck in enough air, let alone make another noise like that
one.
They’ll remember the scream, of course, just not consciously. Even if it’s just
the little boy watching from his mostly closed off flat, eyes peeled in the
dark as he stares at the figures just below his window, as they thrash about in
some way that he doesn’t understand.
He won’t likely tell anyone, because he was supposed to be in bed over an hour
ago; and even if he did try, it would be a fanciful tale about the homeless men
on the street doing something with someone whose face he didn’t see.
It’s fun to have witnesses, and a retarded child with his nose presses tightly
to the pane of a window is more than rats scurrying about under his feet, so it
hardly matters what the boy knows.
“Mr Burbanks,” he rasps into the man’s ear, voice deliberately coarse and
throaty, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment as he holds the man up. The
sensation of blood trickling down from the knife is strong, warm against the
chill, and it coats his gloved hand. If he had more time than he does, he would
stop to savour it, stop to enjoy it for a few minutes, dragging the blade free
to sink fingers into the wound, pulling out as much blood as he possibly could,
polluting his clothes with it.
But it’s not playtime, as regrettable as that is. “I’d ask you if you know who
I am,” he flicks his tongue out cruelly, wetting the man’s ear, and it draws
out a abhorrent sounding sob. “And why I’ve come here tonight and had to kill
you. But an answer would require allowing you to speak, which would waste what
precious energy you have left with which to struggle and fight for your life.”
After a pause, he chuckles softly, sounding hoarse before he continues. “At
this point, I suspect that you know exactly who I am, and that’s why you’re so
terrified right now. You are not foolish enough to assume that this is just
some random mugging, where you happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong
time. Hm?
“An unfortunate happenstance, if it were that you had managed to get yourself
caught at the wrong end of a knife, just when you thought you were about to
play your best piece.” He grins, knowing that he has exactly two minutes before
the man will be almost useless to him, and it’s not something he intends to
waste. Only under the most dire of circumstances does he fail to take the
necessary moments to enjoy the very last seconds of a victim’s life.
There is something so utterly revealing about a person as they gasp for air and
their limbs twitch reflexively as they try hopelessly to understand what’s
happening to them and why.
“I do hope, of course,” he adds, cooing once the struggle begins to die down a
little bit more, lifting his hand free from the knife to settle on top of the
man’s head, petting him through his thinning hair like a dog that’s being
rewarded by its master. “That you have been enjoying this little game as much
as I have.
“And I am enjoying this an awful lot, if you haven’t realised that yet. It’s so
very fun to be there as someone dies, don’t you think?” The man’s mouth moves
under his fingers, the gagging sounds growing in strength, throat clenching,
and Jim barks out a quiet laugh. He might be dying and utterly terrified, and
fully aware that he has no possible way of walking out of here alive, but
there’s still those latent little survival instincts in him that are just
intense enough to convince him that he’s strong enough to make getting out of
here a possibility.
“Shh,” he murmurs against the side of the man’s neck, teeth clicking
disdainfully. “It’s a rhetorical question. I know that you’re not nearly man
enough to end another’s life. You’ve never experienced that high, little
peach.” He scratches behind the man’s ear, soothing him like a pet.
One minute.
“I hope it pleases you, of course. To know that in the end, you got to be
slightly more than pointless.” He drops his hand back down to the blade,
jerking it, but not completely out of him. Just enough to dig the ridges along
the curve a little bit deeper inside the man, driving a muffled shout of pain
from between his fingers. It must absolutely ache. “After all, you did bring
me Karl.”
Sneering, he drags his teeth along the man’s ear, tasting his sweat. “But not
everyone is special enough to get to die by my hand. You should consider it an
honour, my darling.”
He’s more than halved his time, but that’s all right. He’s winding down.
“You were always meant to die like this, you know. In an alleyway, in the
middle of the night, with a knife buried so deeply inside your belly. They
won’t find your body for weeks, and by then, it will be too late to ever
identify you. Just another John Doe, enough drugs in your system to assume that
you were just a mugging. Your body will be forgotten inside of a day, and no
one will attend your funeral.”
Eight seconds.
There’s a faint, but distinct, whimpering sound, and he suspects the man has
wet his trousers, and his hand feels wet with more than just saliva. The poor
little dear has been crying, his nose clogged with snot and tears. “Goodbye,
little thing,” he kisses the man’s ear, breathing against it, “Happy
afterlife.”
In Jim’s head, this is the part where the invisible heart rate monitor appears,
just in time to get loud with lack of connection, the sound spinning through
his ears until he shuts it off with the imagined flick of a switch.
He lowers the body slowly, dropping it just slightly off the ground to hear the
telltale thump of impact, which brings a genuinely pleased, fairly blissed out
smile to his lips. Not quite on his knees, Jim lifts a hand to his nose,
inhaling deeply the scent of fresh blood, and biting his lip from the pleasure
of the sensation.
He only has about five minutes, by his count, and after delaying himself, he
pushes back up off the ground.
With great care, he arranges the body just right, laying the man on his front
with an arm extended out as if clawing its way to life, just right to make the
fact that he’s dead utterly inescapable. With one last rifling through the
man’s pockets, he opens his phone to pull out the SIM card, tucking it into a
pocket. The only other thing he takes once the mobile is discarded is the
lighter the man kept in his inside pocket, despite never being a smoker.
Standing and turning to face the wrong end of the alleyway, where the walls are
almost impossible to see, too black and hidden, he pulls out his own pack of
cigarettes.
His hands are still bloody, speckled with it, and it’s quickly drying on the
parts the gloves actually cover, which makes the cigarette he lights slightly
tainted with the stain. It’s perfect, as he lifts the little stick to his lips,
and relaxes on his feet to wait.
The smoke burns his tongue, bitter and pungent, filling his throat and lungs
with warmth he swallows down, keeping it in him longer than necessary before
each exhale through his nostrils. It’s strong enough to lighten the beating of
his heart, warming his body to the point where his hands aren’t on the verge of
shaking and dropping the cigarette, and he almost forgets about the cold around
him.
It coats his mouth with the stench, filling the suddenly almost completely
still air around him like a cloud above his head, swirling around and out from
his face, stinging his eyes until they feel reddened and wet.
But it doesn’t stop him, with every drag in that he holds in his lungs—
One count.
Two count.
Three count.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Exhale, and then the breath after is easier, more free, feeling as if it’s the
most natural thing in the world again. To breathe in air, already polluted by
smoke, and let it swirl around his tongue, playing with the edges of the his
throat.
“Rob?” he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge the presence of the man
who’s come up behind him, save to extend his free hand and point at the body
laying to the side, against the wall.
It doesn’t bring forth a gasp or shock, or even a resigned sigh, but he can
hear the man sink to his knees on the ground, presumably pressing cold fingers
to the dead body’s pulse. Seeing if he’s actually dead, or just passed out
here. How quaint.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Rob,” comes after a several moments of that, and the man
is louder as he stands back up, approaching Jim from behind. “I’m fucking
sorry, okay? I got held up. The baby was crying, Shane was shouting at me, and
I just —”
Jim silences him with a hand, the one with the still burning end of the
cigarette caught between his fingers this time. It makes the man inhale
sharply, falling back a step. “Rob? I thought you gave up smoking.”
“Did I?” Jim coughs hoarsely, laughing as he turns on his heel to stare head on
at the man. “Shame on me, darling.”
He can see the moment it flickers through the man’s eyes that Jim isn’t the man
he was meant to meet, and the moment after, as his eyes dart down to his side,
widening as they come a stop over the body. “...”
“Now, now, Karl,” taking the necessary steps forward to bridge the gap between
them, Jim rests a stained hand on the man’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be
like that.” He offers the man a consolatory smile, bringing the cigarette up to
his lips for one last breath in, before stubbing it out on the man’s cheek.
It makes him flinch, but it’s a perfunctory movement, as if he’s not really
felt it, but reacting purely on instinct. “What did you do to Rob?” the man
asks, after the glow has gone out, as Jim drops the cigarette butt to grind it
out underneath the heel of his boot.
Instead of answering, Jim clicks his teeth, head shaking in concern. “You ask
too many questions, Kah-ehrl,” he repeats the man’s name, dragging it out from
his lips, and only now does Karl register that Jim shouldn’t have been able to
address him so casually.
The realisation takes a second, but it settles across the man’s face like a
death sentence, and he steels himself against it, back straightening, shoulders
quivering before coming to a standstill. “You’re him, aren’t you?” he asks Jim,
as the hand on his shoulder slides up and around his neck, loosely locking him
in place. It’s an obvious threat. “The one he called M? Said you could —”
Jim silences him with a finger pressed to his lips, eyebrows coming together
into a frown. “Think about it very carefully, my darling peach,” he coos. “Do
you really want to betray your friend in such a crass, unseemly way?”
The man flinches, this time a genuine reaction. “He’s already dead, isn’t he?”
he demands as the finger drops, releasing him. “You killed him.”
“Well —” Jim purses his lips, looking contemplative for a second. “I suppose
one might call it that.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now, you’re not nearly pretty enough for that, pet.” The man’s face melts into
a sneer, and it’s the first non-frightened expression he’s managed to sum up so
far, so it makes Jim smile back brightly, if a little bit too toothily. “Though
if you’re very good, then maybe —” he drops the sentence without finishing it,
lips pulling back further to show more of the glistening white.
“Not if my fucking life depended on it!” And on another day, Jim might be
tempted. He’s not really the type he likes, but he could make an exception. But
he can’t really feel in the mood for it tonight.
“Mm, shame,” he purrs, pulling the man’s head towards him, so every exhale of
his fogs up the man’s glasses and blurs his vision. Karl trembles slightly,
even as his head comes up, trying to look unperturbed and failing at it. “I
have a question for you, my dear Karl,” he puts forth softly, nearly close
enough to nose along the man’s cheek.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Why —” he pauses, flicking his tongue out to catch just the edge of the man’s
chin. It tastes of sweat, even with the cold. “Everything you can tell me about
my darling Jack, of course.”
He doesn’t have to see it to know the man’s hands are clenching up at his
sides, panicking internally as he tries to figure out if making a run for it
would actually guarantee him even a small likelihood of genuinely escaping.
“I know nothing,” Karl spits, as if the words are venomous. “The only fucking
Jack I know is a butcher, and I doubt you give two shits about him.”
“Oh, peach,” as if disappointed in him, Jim frowns, pinching the back of the
man’s neck harshly under his grip, and pulling back his face to look more
closely at him. “We both know that’s a lie. Don’t play stupid with me.”
“I’m not —” the man’s eyes dart to something behind Jim, and he shifts on his
feet, getting antsy. “I’m not telling you nothing,” he insists. “You can’t make
me tell you shit.”
“Would you like to turn that into a bet?” Jim’s smile is cruel as his hand
comes up to grip the man’s chin, holding him tightly as he manipulates his
head. “I would break you inside of a day,” he decides, as he examines every
pore that makes up the man’s face.
“I’d rather take my chances with him than with you, really,” the man’s voice
quivers, betraying his words for their false bravery.
Jim could be offended by it, but he’s not. “You would look so pretty like that,
for me,” he murmurs softly, “Broken and torn to shreds. Have you ever thought
about that?” not waiting for an answer, he slides a finger up to block the
man’s lips. “No, don’t answer that,” he orders, continuing. “But do tell me.
Are you afraid of death?”
The man swallows. “No.”
“Oh?” he makes a noise of surprise, despite being not. “That’s a shame. You’ve
experienced loss, then. You’ve felt how painful life can be, and you know how
horrible someone could make it for you.”
Not answering him, the man’s eyes drop to the floor, and Jim’s narrow, his
fingers digging harshly into his skin in lieu of slapping him. “Tell me,” he
whispers, and there’s no mistaking the authority in his quiet words.
It brings the man’s eyes back up, nearly flinching as they meet Jim’s,
determined to stare him down. “He killed my father,” slips from the man’s lips,
unchecked by his brain, and then the rest follows after. “Because he didn’t
think I was loyal enough. When he thought I was working for someone else on the
side, he —” he swallows, almost snapping out of it for a second, before Jim
soothes him, softening the touch to his face.
“He took me and another man into his basement. Kept us there for who knows how
long, slowly cutting us open. We both - we both survived. But only after he —”
 he flinches, the memory making his shoulders shake slightly. “He drugged us,
just enough so we didn’t bleed out, but we could feel everything, see it all.
At least - at least I could feel and see it all.”
“And?”
“And he dug out our organs. Not all of them, but he thought it would be fun to
see how compatible our bodies really were. Swapped them out. I —”
With a soft smile, Jim nods, interrupting the man before he can finish his
thought. “That’s enough now, kitten,” he coos, releasing his chin to stroke his
cheek. “You’ve given me all I wanted to know.”
He gives it enough time for the man’s eyes to widen fearfully, enough time to
run through what he’s just said to try and figure out how he gave something
away, before Jim slides his hands along the sides of his neck. Before any
understanding can hit, he moves so one hand just cups, the other one tucked
under his chin.
Jerking his wrists sharply, in a vicious pulling motion, Jim twists the man’s
neck around, snapping it suddenly to the side with such force that the tendons
break from under the strain. The noise it makes is quiet but sickening, only
lasting a second or two before its over, and the body crumples down to the
ground.
He’s alone again, not looking down as he sighs into the cold and stares down
the alleyway at the empty street. After a moment of watching a piece of paper
travelling down the pavement, he twists his head, looking down at the man’s
body at his feet. He drops down into a crouch, his curiousity overwhelming him
slightly, fingers nimble as he works open the buttons of the man’s shirt.
Sure enough, once he’s torn away the open coat, and then the undershirt, he can
trace the all too prominent scars painted across the man’s chest like intricate
tattoos. They’re beautiful, undeniably works of great art that he traces with
his finger, humming along each line. There isn’t a single blemish in them, the
knife used was absolutely perfectly sharpened, dragged along without the
slightest hesitation that would have caused his work to be ruined.
He can’t help but smile as he admires them, ignoring the cold around him until
he’s done. With a regretful sigh, he reaches over for the other man’s boot,
dragging him closer so he can work the knife out from his flesh. He cleans it
carefully, wiping it off on the man’s soiled shirt, just enough to clear it of
blood, before he turns back to the second man.
Now let’s see about what you have inside you, he thinks, the admiration having
been overridden by now by his desire to see, and to touch, and to feel.
He has to brace his palm flat on the man’s chest in order to dig the blade into
him just right, cutting open along the scars; and his knife isn’t nearly sharp
enough to do more than a sick job at it, more tearing him open than anything.
But the man opens slowly, and Jim can pull back strips of flesh to reveal the
real human inside him, his ribs, his organs, his abdominal
cavity. “Beautiful,” he breathes, not even aware he’s spoken aloud, caught up
too much in how stunning the human body is, despite how many times he’s seen it
before like this. “You are just —”
If he had more time, if he were not so exposed out here, he would let his
fingers travel along the little niches and crannies inside the man, touching
every exposed organ, perhaps even pushing his nose down low to smell them. But
he can’t, he doesn’t have enough time to relish this, so with one quick,
thorough glancing over to see just the way the man’s organs are aligned — how
perfectly they were placed into him — he nods to himself, closing up the flesh
again.
Before he discards the knife, he lifts it to the man’s face, drawing a crude
little star on his left cheek. Jack will get his message eventually.
Once he’s done with that, he wipes the blade off again, before stashing it
carefully away inside his boot. Still on his knees, he pushes an arm under the
body’s shoulders, and one tucked under his legs, lifting him up into the air as
he stands. He’s heavy, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s not hard to manage
as he makes his way slowly down to the darkened end of the alleyway, towards
the old, forgotten sewage grate there.
He drops the corpse down, not caring as its arms splay out on the concrete,
fingers stiff from the cold as he pries at the sides, grunting as he lifts it
up and pulls it back out of the way, the sound almost screechingly loud as he
slides it along itself. There’s just enough room in there for a body to fall
without blocking off anything, and once he’s peered inside to check, he steps
back to lift the corpse back up again.
With less finesse this time, he more drags than carries it closer, shoving and
working bits of it over the top, until it finally gives into his wishes, and
drops deep down inside the hole. He doesn’t hear anything from it after that.
There’s no splash or sound of a crunch as it thuds, and he nods once, accepting
that, before working the grate back over it.
Retreating quickly, he blows on his fingers, warming them slightly with his
breath until he reaches the other body, lifting it up the way he did the first.
He lingers for a moment, collecting himself before walking the second body over
to where he discarded the first.
He sets this one down next to the grate this time, pushing it over to fall
halfway on its side, face hidden, and then arranging it slightly more. It takes
a moment to get it to look just right, but he gets it there. If he’s right, the
detective will know the whole scene isn’t what its set up to look like, but
that doesn’t matter. The rest of the details will be a mix of real and
misunderstood, and they won’t catch him.
Or, if they do, by the time anyone connects him with it, it will be too late to
actually get him.
From inside one of his pockets, he pulls out a syringe — careful not to touch
it with any parts of his hands that aren’t covered by the gloves — pulling back
the man’s jacket and shirt to get to his inner arm, but he doesn’t prick him
with it. Instead, he presses it into the man’s other hand, pushing down on the
top to release the liquid into the air and onto the ground.
It’s enough to get the fingerprints there, and then he and the hand drop it,
letting it roll a small distance away.
He steps back, head tilted to admire his work, and decide whether or not he’s
missing anything before he finishes.
He checks his watch.
Ten minutes.
Yes, that sounds about right.
Eyes sliding over the man to survey the scene, he nods once, pulling the
bottles that are carefully arranged inside the lining of his jacket just right,
mixing the two half full ones together — careful to not spill a drop on his
fingers — and then he goes back down to his knees, tilting the man’s head up so
it’s facing what little bit of sky is visible.
Delicately, he splashes the head with the liquid, only watching long enough to
make sure that he gets everything important, before stepping back again and
retreating quickly. It’s as good as it’s going to get.
His pace from the alleyway is quick, though not enough to cause any eyes in any
other windows to linger on him, head ducked low until he reaches one of the
rubbish bins a block down. Into it, he discards his hat, the blanket that had
nearly fallen off his shoulders, and then the tugs off the gloves.
From his pocket, he pulls out a small bottle of isopropyl alcohol, splashing it
across his hands to clean them of the blood, and then the gloves themselves,
before they, too, are dropped into it. With his hands more or less clean, he
shoves the nearly empty bottle back into his trousers, checking himself over
once before walking briskly away.
It’s a twenty minute walk from here to the nearest place he can flag down a
taxi, but he’s sure he can make it there in seventeen.
What happens beyond that, he knows, is that a small group of adults will
finally make their way into the alleyway come morning, perhaps to investigate
any claims the boy from the window may have made. If not, then because someone
else saw something, and demanded attention. They’ll find nothing in the
alleyway itself, except for some drying blood, but that’s enough of a common
occurrence than no one will think twice about it, or even properly notice.
Beyond that, one lucky fool will find the body of the first man, and then there
will be coppers everywhere on that street.
The first investigators on scene will assume it was a drug deal gone wrong.
They’ll be confused by the burnt down face, but there won’t be anything that
can be done to identify him by looks alone; and his fingerprints won’t be in
any system by the time they get to checking.
No one will notice that the man has actually gone missing until five days
passed, and by then, it will be assumed that he’s run away with a mistress of
some sort to another country, evidenced by the blip about which passport
control will eventually notice. But come that, it will be too late, and the
only one left that actually cares will be his wife.
The missing persons case will be dropped, and then slowly but surely, everyone
but her will forget about it.
In about two to four weeks, the second body will be found during a routine
check of the sewerage systems. It will be impossible to identify by then, and
then it will be labelled as a John Doe, disappearing into the system, to be
burnt a few weeks later.
Even their most skilled investigator won’t be able to figure it out, because he
won’t be called onto the case, assumed unworthy of his time.
But Jack will hear word of it, come a month from now. He’ll access the autopsy
photos, he’ll see the damage, and he’ll understand what it all means to him.
Good, Jim thinks, smiling again, stiffly now.
Fifteen minutes after getting into a taxi, he makes his way into the coffee
shop of his choice — one of his favourites — and orders a caramel latte. The
chair he fills is nearly hidden in one of the corners, out of the way of
anyone, and he nearly disappears into it. It’s his favourite seat, the one
affording him the best view in the entire establishment.
He can see everything from every table, to both the entrance and the exit,
beyond that to the counter, nearly every window, the WC, and the opening to the
little back area where the other member of the staff is located.
He collapses back into the comfort of its cushioning, the muscles in his body
seeming to decompress instantly, and he doesn’t taste the first sip of the
drink. The flavour seems to pass immediately over his tongue and down his
throat, warming his body deliciously, and in a way, clearing his head with the
steam.
It isn’t until the next, when the girl from the counter walks over to his table
and bumps his shoulder to get his attention — incidentally spilling some of it
on his chin — that he opens his eyes, and realises he had actually closed them.
The world begins to close in around him, until all he can hear is the buzzing
of his skin, and the blood thrumming through the veins along his body.
His head grows lighter, pulling him in and out of sync with the rest of his
body, eyes dilating, and whatever the girl tries to say to him disappears
entirely. It’s not like it mattered.
The sound of something being dropped — smashed — on the floor several meters
away jerks him back to full consciousness, and it’s like he’s being thrown from
a wind tunnel into a flat expanse of dirt. By then the girl has disappeared,
and he’s more or less alone, with the presence of the aching in his stomach.
And for about a half minute, he considers the possibility of completely
upheaving what little he has in there to be a serious one, but then that
feeling melds into another.
Too much stress, he chalks it up to, after it ceases to be a physical ache. The
sensation people often attribute to their internal organs being tied up into
intricate knots and left to stew in gas and fluids stays, but that’s a more
common one, and he ignores it.
His eyes melt shut again, for longer than he can keep track, until the coffee
in his hand has grown cold, and the bell above the door jingles when the sign
is flipped. The girl sidles up to him again — he can hear her approach, despite
not watching it — to whisper into his ear.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir,” she murmurs, sounding genuinely
apologetic, and it must be his clothes, because it’s a rare and perhaps even
disturbing thing. “But we’re closing, and I’m going to have to ask you to wake
up and vacate. It’s - I have to lock up, sir.”
Opening his eyes dazedly, he stares across the room, at her distant reflection
in the darkened glass of one of the windows. Her body seems almost to loom over
his, to an extent that’s nearly cartoon like and amusing, before the sense in
her words flickers over him. He laughs, turning his head to stare directly into
her eyes. “My apologies,” he returns dryly, stretching out the vowels in an
attempt to sound like he’s not just woken up from a nap. It fails.
He needs sleep. That’s the thing that’s most obvious to him now — and surely to
her as well — and that brings a sigh to his lips as he moves to stand unevenly.
His body drags, limbs a bit too loose, and forces himself to abandon the cup
and make his way across the room to the nearer of the exits.
It isn’t until he’s through the door that he remembers he has no way of getting
home; and the part of his brain that owns the map in his head is mysteriously
absent, if he’s perfectly honest with himself about that.
Distantly, he thinks about finding another taxi, but he knows he would find it
difficult to get one standing on the curb at this time of night.
He stumbles on his feet, laughing quietly at the man walking along the other
side of the street, who looks at him as if he’s some sort of drunkard. Not that
he isn’t, in a way, but not in the way the man thinks.
With a smile, he salutes him casually, with that loose-limbed laziness of a
drunk, continuing to trip along his feet, not minding the way he almost
continuously comes close to landing flat on his face. It would be a relief, in
more than one way, for that to happen; and he finds he really wouldn’t mind
that prospect much at all.
He licks his lips as he walks on blindly, in the first direction that comes
naturally to him, which doesn’t exactly guarantee that it will be the right
one. Fortunately, his instincts quite often prove him correct, or at least help
him out in the end; and he’d be the first to admit that it’s always a mite bit
thrilling. To feel like this, look like this, to stumble absently in the first
direction his subconscious mind has picked. It’s one of those ideas a person
gets at some point or another, but writes off as too stupid, too pointless.
Maybe it is pointless. But he likes it.
The car catches up with him after who knows how much time has passed — and oh,
isn’t that quaint, that he noticed, but didn’t at the same time — while he’s
long past the idle contemplation of pickpocketing. It’s something with which he
has plenty of experience, and he’d like to believe that he could snatch goodies
off just about anyone he might see, on this street or otherwise. It’s been a
long time since he’s needed to steal to get somewhere, or to keep himself from
starving to death, and the prospect is disturbingly alluring. For old time’s
sake, if for no other reason.
He almost does, even going so far as to slip nearer to a person walking on the
same side of the street as him, but the man is wary, and Jim is tired, and his
hands have begun to shake from the cold again. So for some reason undetermined,
he can’t seem to feel his legs anymore.
It’s obvious that they’re still there, and he can walk just fine, but he’s
ceased to get any sensory input from them, and that’s unsettling enough to
prove incredibly distracting, and by the time he looks back up again, the
opportunity has been lost.
The man is gone, wandered off quite a few paces away, far enough that Jim would
have to dash to get to him, and doing that would guarantee losing the benefit
of surprise. It would either end in him getting to spend the night in lockup,
of having to cover up the murder of yet another person.
Instead, he ducks into the car, just as it starts to pass him, making sure the
door shuts carefully behind him. The driver notices, but only barely, and he
curls up into the backseat, his head pressed into the the corner between the
seat and the window.
He sleeps.
***** every woman adores a fascist *****
Chapter Summary
     With bonus art here.
When he wakes, he’s surrounded by nothing but the darkness. His eyes don’t
adjust, don’t learn to accept it and filter through the little bits of light,
because there is none at all. He can’t see, can’t think, can’t breathe for
agonisingly long moments.
The only thing he can think to feel is the sheer terror, not remembering how he
got here, not knowing where here even is. It hurts in his body, because the
last thing he can recall is falling into a dreamless sleep, underneath the
tempered warmth of his bed sheets.
A twig snaps to his left and he gasps, head jerking around, feeling around in
the dark. The ground under his hands is wet, covered up by leaves, and
something slimy slithers across his thumb, causing him to shriek and fall
backwards.
“No, no, please! I’m sorry!” spills from his lips without meaning, a desperate
cry, and his eyes start to water. In the distance, a bird cries out in answer
to him, cackling with the shrill sound of the wind through leaves, and he can
only scramble back farther, desperate to find something he recognises.
His eyes begin to grasp onto things, sensations, and he can see the shapes
moving through the trees now, the darkness of shadows that shouldn’t be there,
but are. It’s like a bad dream, like the worst dreams he’s ever experienced,
and the shivers of utter terror wrack his body.
The bed clothes he’s wearing are too thin, not covering enough of his body, and
he feels painfully cold and alone. “Help!” falls, rasping from his throat, and
then again, louder, shriller. “Help me! Please! Is someone out there?”
It’s stupid, it’s foolish, because if there is someone out there, they couldn’t
possibly mean him any good-will, and he’s just drawing them in towards himself.
But there’s still that trace of naivety in him that he recognises so easily,
that’s making it impossible to quiet himself.
A clap of thunder sounds, the noise far too close, and he shrieks. His teeth
won’t stop chattering, and he can’t think, can’t remember how to get out of
here. Nothing looks the same in the dark, and he’s never ventured out here so
late — wherever this here is — never taken the time to learn these parts well
enough to be able to see them. It all looks like a different world, with just
the barest glimpse of the moon peeking out from quickly moving puffs of clouds,
like something taken directly out of his most horrific of fantasies.
The shadows dance and even though he knows that it can’t be — it just can’t!
— it feels like they’re coming for him, like they’re moving closer and closer,
wrapping around him as they form a makeshift circle. He can feel them almost,
touching him through the thin confines of his clothes, crooning in his ears.
Only they’re not telling him to come with him. They’re not feeding him lies
about it being better with them, which is what the nightmares always say.
They’re telling him that it’s not okay, that he’s not safe here, and that they
want him for their own.
“Please,” he cries, water spilling down his cheeks, all trace of logic
evaporating now that he has nothing safe, nothing he knows. “Don’t, j - just
don’t!”
There’s something moving through the black around him, something that’s not
just shadows, because he can hear it, too. He can hear the sounds it makes as
it prowls around him, like he’s some sort of prey.
For a second, it feels like a hand is closing around his ankle and pulling him,
but he jerks it back, tugging it up close to his body, despite how futile it
must be. A leaf blows across his face, making him jump.
“Please! I need - I’m - help!” he sobs out, all embarrassment he’ll feel later
for this gone now. There’s no red filling his neck of his cheeks, no hot
feeling of shame, just the sheer, desperate need for something that he knows
can’t possibly be there.
“Sebastian!
“Please! Sebastian!
“I need you! Help me, Sebastian!”
There’s the sound of something else snapping, something larger than just a
twig, like a falling branch breaking on something much harder, and it’s
followed by a very distinct growling noise. It seems to hiss towards him,
through him, and the saliva in his mouth dries up.
He can see a light somewhere, fading in and out of his vision, moving quickly
like two little specks in the dark, and he knows he shouldn’t look, but he’s
gorgonised by them, his own eyes seeking desperately to follow them in the dark
every time they reappear. They’re coming closer, and so is that awful, horrible
sound, that seems to be taunting him.
It’s low, as if from the back of someone — or something’s — throat, and he
whimpers quietly.
“Please don’t,” is the whisper from his lips, “please d - don’t come any
closer.”
I’m going to hurt you, James, the shadows seem to rumble back, crawling ever
closer.
He scrambles back on the leaves, hands searching desperately for something
behind him, for anything he can grab. His fingers close around something that
feels warm and hard, thick in his grasp, and he jerks at it, trying to pull it
in front of him.
It doesn’t give. It seems to fight back, tugging at him instead, pulling him
away from the shadows, and all he can do is scream.
When his throat finally stops vibrating, too dry and too shrill to handle the
sound, the shadows seem to have only come closer, and the eyes are right in
front of him now.
They’re definitely eyes.
They blink at him, and he can see the yellow wrapped around black, the specks
of green that dance through, and the way they seem to twist and turn, like
something evil is watching him.
“Seb- Sebastian,” it shudders out from him like a prayer, and his eyes get so
wet that he can’t see anything, almost too blurry to catch more than a dizzied
glimpse of the eyes before it becomes too much for him and he has to squeeze
his own eyes shut.
The thing he had been holding him slips from his grasp, seeming to slither
around him, and he bites down on his lower lip. This isn’t happening, this
isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, he chants in his head, over and
over. This isn’t real, it’s just a dream.
It crawls up his arm, and it’s wet now, wet and cold and slimy, and it travels
up to his neck to wrap around his skin.
I am going to hurt you, the something tells him, and he nearly faints.
But then it’s not slimy anymore. It’s not wet, it’s warm, it’s soft, like skin,
and a paralysing scream slips from his lips, lasting only a second before a
finger slips across his mouth. “Shhh,” he hears purred in his ear. “It’s
alright, I promise.”
“Se - Seb?” he whimpers, and arms wrap around him, lifting him up into the air.
He wraps around whatever he can with his limbs, latching on weakly, burying his
face in the emanating warmth of the boy’s body.
“Yeah, it’s me,” is the reply, muffled through his hair. “You’re alright now,
kit. I’m gonna get you out of here. Just keep breathing. You can do that,
yeah?”
He can’t bring himself to open his eyes, for fear that he’s imagining this,
that Sebastian isn’t here, and that he’s still alone with the yellow, but he
nods. “I can - I can —”
“Orrr, I can talk!” Sebastian seems frightened almost, too, as he moves quickly
across the ground, leaves crunching and twigs snapping under his feet. There’s
no artistry in the way he darts away from where he found Jim, and Jim can tell
that even without having to look.
“Y’know, I’ve always liked the dark,” he sounds distracted, and Jim’s head is
jerked around, making him cling tighter to the boy’s body. “When the wind is
blowing in my hair, makin’ me feel all - All dizzy and drunk. Have you ever
felt that way, Jim?”
He’s moving faster now, nearly running as he dodges things Jim can’t see, and
his knee gets scraped by what he can only assume is the bark of a tree. He’s
too afraid to admit that it felt like something different, like something that
was alive.
“N - no?”
A shaky hand comes up to ruffle his hair, and he flinches. It’s still cold, and
all he wants to do is go home, go somewhere safe, where he’s not scared
anymore.
“It’s like a spark of life in my bones,” Sebastian continues, and his voice is
lower now, like he’s afraid of being heard. Jim has to strain his ears to
listen. “It flows out, coursing through the streams of blood in my veins, hot
and warm and utterly exhilarating.”
Jim whimpers.
“It’s in moments like that, moments that seem to last a lifetime, shaking
through me, that I truly know what it’s like to feel alive.”
He tries to close his fingers around Sebastian’s neck, tugging himself tighter,
but his hand closes around air and he lets it drop. It’s like Sebastian isn’t
there. But he wants so badly for him to be, he wants to be safe, wants
Sebastian to protect him.
“It’s like a shot of —”
“You’re here,” he cries, interrupting, “please, please tell me you’re here.
Sebastian! Tell me you’re here!”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” they’re slowing down now, and he can feel Sebastian’s
head against his, turning to look at something. “I’m here, little dove. I’m
here, I swear it.”
He opens his mouth to say something more, but the sounds dry up on his tongue.
“It’s like a shot of adrenaline, straight to my heart,” the words are warm in
his ear when Sebastian finally finishes what he was saying before, and they’re
spoken slower as he shudders. The wind hasn’t stopped blowing through his hair,
but he feels protected like this, and he can he let the words wash over him
comfortingly, even though he’s barely tracking what they mean anymore.
“It’s like a sharp bolt of some unseen drug that’s being forced into my brain.”
They stop. He hears sounds, like someone moving about behind him, and he
squeezes his eyes shut tighter. It’s all right. He doesn’t have to look. Not
with Sebastian here.
When they start to move again, it feels like they’re on wood, like Sebastian is
walking across a great length of wood panels, the dull thud of his boots fully
audible. A door creaks, shutting quietly with a click.
“I am real.” Sebastian pronounces, and with his strength, he hugs Jim closer to
him. “I exist.”
A hand slides up to his face, pulling him from Sebastian’s neck, and he can
feel the boy’s hot breath on his cheeks. “I am alive.”
He opens his eyes.
***** if i've killed one man, i've killed two *****
There is something to be said about the point of absolute sleeplessness. Of
that place to which his mind seems to go, when there’s nothing else for him
there on that state of actual, full consciousness.
It isn’t falling asleep. It isn’t sleepwalking or even something simple like
hallucinations. It’s more a level in between, that layer of awareness where the
eyes grow heavier and heavier, but not to the point of actually fully drooping.
Where the head feels simultaneously full of cotton swabs and bars of gold. It’s
blinking back tears of awakeness, not even realising that the mind might have
nodded awake, even if just for the faintest glimmer of a second.
The limbs seem to turn until they’re nearly leaden, dragging across the ground;
though when the focus moves onto them, the sensation instantly drifts to one
more tolerable, one less painful. From out of weakness comes a forced strength,
that drifts up from the subconscious mind and there alone.
The longer he goes without sleep, the longer the periods of losing himself
last. Even when they’re nothing resembling dropping off for a second long Z,
they have that awful habit of leaving the taste of sleep in his mouth. They
threaten with it, they cajole, dragging him like a victim under before he
realises it’s happening. And then he’s out of it again, too quick to understand
that something’s occurred, gasping for air into the night.
And suddenly as they come upon him in spurts, then they’re gone, blinked away,
a heavy drag that’s hard to remember was even there. Save but for those lost
minutes upon the hands of his clock.
It’s wrecks him to lose sleep for hours. Leaves him halfway destroyed, like
mayhem on his mind, dragging him away from full coherency for days that both
isn’t the worst he’s ever experienced, nor its equal opposite.
When he opens his eyes, after having had them closed for god only knows how
long — may it be minutes or hours, and they all feel the same now — he feels
the same as he did when he’d first allowed them to be pulled shut, by some
unseen force.
He had not slept, had not dreamt, and had barely stirred as he’d lain there. It
wasn’t a conscious decision, because it wasn’t even easier that way, to lie
still as opposed to actually accomplishing something or another.
The pull of his muscles as he lifted an arm to his face is almost enough to
make him give up on the effort before it had scarcely began, but he pushed
forward anyway, letting fingers drop onto his face.
His lips had chapped somehow in the darkness, which is far from a certain
surprise. They’ve been drying out, worn thin from biting and the distinct lack
of necessary liquids. He can almost feel the blood threatening to burst through
the surface, wanting to leak down to his chin, and he’s tempted to tear
through, to release it.
It would be so simple.
It’s easy to forget that Sebastian was ever here, on the days when he’s gone.
He leaves no trace of himself. The only signs are marks upon Jim’s chest,
scratches on his back, the deep bruising from teeth and lips across his neck
and on the inside of his knees. But those are all things other people could
have done.
If he closes his eyes and imagines really hard that Sebastian doesn’t exist,
then he stops being real.
There’s no teapot on the stove he’d left there. He doesn’t leave dirty dishes
anywhere, sink or otherwise, and the bed is always pressed perfectly after he’s
come to end the day and rest.
The majority of the clothes he wears can be fit tightly pressed into a shoulder
bag, dragged from one location to another, and they’re almost never in the flat
all at once.
One change of clothes in the car, perhaps a white t-shirt in Jim’s pile of
laundry, and the rest is scattered in places only Sebastian himself seems to
know. Surprisingly enough, this doesn’t make him smell bad. He uses Jim’s
soaps, he shaves with his razor, and on the few occasions he’s sprayed on
cologne, it hadn’t been anything he’d actually bothered to buy.
When Sebastian leaves, he struggles with sleep. It’s not a fact, or anything
near a solid truth — there have been plenty of exceptions to the rule — but it
feels like most of the time, it occurs conveniently around being left alone, to
shuffle about inside his own head.
He could toss and turn now, if he felt like it. He could spend hours stacked
upon each other, twisted up in bed sheets, his pillow crumpled underneath his
face as more and more sweat leaks from his skin to form a puddle along his
body. He could curse at the clock, the numbers that take forever to change, to
shift, and he could pray solemnly to gods that do not exist and that he doesn’t
believe are real, to please, save me from this torment.
Not that it would do him much good if they did belong to the world outside of
storybooks.
But no, he doesn’t. When he lays in bed, it’s reasonably still, his face tilted
up towards the ceiling, his eyelids softly closed, every next breath a sigh
across his lips.
The bed is cold around him, and he’s long accustomed to being utterly alone at
night; and somehow, in some way he can’t quite fathom, even just pretending to
sleep doesn’t help.
It should, making himself shut out as much of the world as he can, faking away
the fact that he’s been unable to get any rest. But it’s almost more tiring
than being awake would be.
His lips tear open as he pushes himself up from the mattress. The copper
breathes into his mouth, coating his lips, and it doesn’t quite serve to awaken
him enough to make him confident that he can actually function.
He could only cry, if he so wished it, and even that is too much, more than
he’s capable of anymore. The tears don’t come, even though he can almost feel
them stinging his eyes, bright red and burning like fire.
It’s understanding, a great understanding, more and more, welling up inside
him, and he hates it, hates this part of himself. This sleepless, terrible,
longing part of himself, that doesn’t know what it feels or what he knows.
It’s this overwhelming constant, that he can push away, run from, hide from,
but in the end, it’ll always be chasing after him. In a way, it’s a need for
redemption, a need for closure, for an ending that fits, that solves all the
rest around him. It’s a conclusion he needs, and it’s also a conclusion that he
dreads.
That feeling of emptiness that comes from the thought of dying. From knowing
you’re going to die, knowing that things will end, that no matter how strong
they are now, one day they will wither up and die. That’s all it is, he can
promise himself, over and over. Sebastian can say it, too. It’s all right, Jim.
It’ll pass. It always passes. Breathe.
Yet that doesn’t make it true, because it does pass. It passes over and over,
time after time again, and it will always come back. It will always haunt him
like this. A lead feeling in his gut, sick that won’t quite come up from his
stomach. It’s the acid that burns his eyes, and the metallic slither of his
tongue hanging heavy in his mouth. It’s the hot fire that starts in his chest,
and builds and builds until it’s too much, until it chokes at him.
Until he can only gasp for air, and beg it to go away again. But he has to
wonder, does it ever really leave? Will it ever truly disappear? Or will it
just be there, waiting, scheming, planning for when he’s weak and it can come
back? Plotting for that fateful day when he has to stop running, when he’s too
tired, too empty to fight it any longer?
In those moments, in their utter irony, they are also the ones in which he
feels the strongest need for it to end. To no longer draw out the suffering, to
just end it now. It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it? If it ended now. If
he didn’t have to wait, if he didn’t have to gag on his own drowning in this
poisonous existence.
He could be free of this. He could find peace. Couldn’t he? Couldn’t he save
himself, pull himself out from the grave he’s built around himself?
Isn’t there a rope, tied to a tree somewhere — tied to Sebastian? — that will
save him.
Does he scream? I want to get out of here now! I’m done with this! Let me
out! Does he beat at the walls of his own consciousness, shrieking and
demanding to be set free, for someone to listen and open up the door?
It doesn’t come. There is no rope or door. No salvation, not for a man so far
gone. Not for a man so greatly overcome and destroyed by his own mind.
Even if it would be better.
Even if it would be easier. Than a life continuing to run, pretending that it’s
not there, that there isn’t something in the dark that’s chasing him, that’s
growling his name. That thing in the dark, that can wait for decades, those
piercing yellow eyes.
Dying would mean he could face it. Dying would mean running after it, chasing
it head-on. Dying would mean he could conquer it, and not fear the inevitable
end quite as much.
After all, death is stronger than life; and living just to make it to the next
day isn’t so much life, when it comes down to it.
He could keep looking ahead. He could go on, refusing to see what’s behind him
— even though that will never leave, it will always breathe down his neck, a
reminder of who and what he really is — he could scream into the silence. You
will not take me.
It’s better than growing old. It’s better than letting it wear him down. It’s
better than everything else there is around him. It’s better than watching his
body fall apart, one piece at a time. It’s better than waiting for his mind —
the very thing that haunts him — to grow old and decay. It’s better than being
betrayed by what little is left of it.
Death, death, delicious death. Stealing away, like a thief in the night. Death,
to end it all.
Why can’t it be that easy?
 
===============================================================================
 
It sidles up to him wearing Sebastian’s body. It crawls up him, starting from
the foot of his bed, and he can feel the tickling sensation of skin passing
over his. It has Sebastian’s face, Sebastian’s eyes, it has the warmth
of Sebastian’s body, gently resting over his.
It has Sebastian’s lips, that kiss at his, that curl over his limbs. It
has Sebastian’s voice, whispering his name in his ear. It has Sebastian’s
breath, hot against his neck. It has the softness of Sebastian’s touch, his
fingers curling against Jim, caressing him with such great tenderness that he
nearly screams.
But it doesn’t speak, it doesn’t break the fantasy, it doesn’t break the dream
with words; and perhaps that’s it. Perhaps he’s gone too long without sleep,
too long pretending it’s really not that bad, and his mind is fetching up
horrible things.
It is Sebastian. Isn’t it?
Sebastian’s taste, his tongue, that shudder of delicious warmth. Hips slotted
together, just the right way, and he can close his eyes now. He can stop
thinking so hard about it. He can let it blur everything together. This is
Sebastian. This is real, as real as any other part of his day, any other part
of having Sebastian here.
He can let his hand come up, he can let his fingers twist through Sebastian’s
hair, pulling him down harder, tighter, pressing wetter, warmer kisses to his
lips, He can let his mouth fall open in a dry sob, let Sebastian lick the pain
from the corners of his mouth. He can dream that Sebastian is taking it all
away, robbing him of everything that torments him.
He can feel as Sebastian pulls tight on his body, as Sebastian hugs him closer
and closer, as he’s reminded of all the reasons why this is okay.
But it’s not.
It never is.
It’s only Sebastian.
Sebastian, as his hand curls around Jim’s throat. Sebastian, as he sucks the
air from Jim’s lungs.
Sebastian, as he covers up Jim’s nose, making it impossible to breathe. It’s
Sebastian, as he chokes Jim away, dragging him towards sweet relief.
It’s Sebastian, as Jim’s eyes fly open and he sees the horrifying yellow that’s
stopped pretending to be him, but still is. It’s those eyes, the eyes that have
never left, and they’re staring down at him the way Sebastian stares down at
him. They love him, he can see that, in the cold blankness. In that feeling of
unadulterated chill, where he can’t breath, can’t suck life back into his
lungs, because it’s being stolen from him.
But it’s not being stolen. He’s giving it, like a gift. He’s letting it go,
letting it free, because he can be. Can’t he?
His eyes are wet, a vicious sting, his lungs are on fire, a tremendous burning,
lit from the very depths of his belly and travelling ever upwards.
It’s Sebastian’s hand on his mouth, stealing those lips away, stealing away the
only part of him that was warm. It’s Sebastian, still sucking the life from
him. As his legs kick, as he flails, as his arms jerk but don’t go anywhere.
It’s Sebastian, bracing himself over, holding Jim down, staring down in
concern.
It’s Sebastian, saying, are you all right? over and over, until the words swim
through the air, and he can’t hear them anymore, too blurred out by the ringing
in his ears. It’s Sebastian’s lips moving soundlessly, in a chant, a prayer,
blackening out his sight.
It’s Sebastian, taking him from this life early, freeing him from everything.
But then it’s gone, and he chokes on the water that’s filled his lungs.
***** so black no sky could squeak through *****
He shouldn’t be surprised by the creaking sound of the old rusted door slowly
opening, but it makes him gasp, pushing his body back as far into his little
corner as he can manage without making a sound. He knows that no matter how
hard he tries, he most likely won’t be successful in hiding himself, and he’s
right.
Footsteps approach him as if they know exactly where to look, and he squeezes
his eyes tightly shut, using every shred of his mind to try and will the person
away. His knuckles ache from holding onto the metal too tightly, but he tries
to use that as a channel, focusing on it, using it to remind him why he has to
be alone.
“You’re running away already, Jimmy?” a voice asks once the feet come to a
stop, just meters away from the little darkened area in which he’s hiding.
“From me?”
The words take him by more surprise than they rightfully should, because he
knows exactly who it is without looking up. There’s no mistaking that voice,
that purr of his name, or the concern that seems to almost tangibly drift
through the air.
He doesn’t look because he doesn’t have to, nor does he want to, not as his
heart flutters and his pulse quickens. He bites down hard on his lower lip,
still trying to will Sebastian away from here.
It’s all wrong. All so totally and completely wrong, and he wants to scream.
Sebastian wasn’t supposed to know. He wasn’t supposed to show up, and it brings
tears to his eyes that burn their way down his cheeks. Sebastian was never
supposed to find out about him. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
He’d planned it all out for weeks, since he first made up his mind about what
he was going to use, down to the very last detail. He knew when he would sneak
away, what route he would use to get there without being spotted by anyone, and
how to make sure that absolutely no one would notice that something was wrong.
Not that there were many people that actually could. Just Sebastian and Uncle,
and out of those two, only Sebastian ever truly cared what happened to Jim.
He knew how to use it — the gun he brought with him, that he stole from Uncle’s
bedside table, and hasn’t stopped cradling in his lap. He knows where to point
it to absolutely guarantee that no one will be able to save him, even if
someone were to come up on him within minutes of him finally finishing things.
No one should have had any reason whatsoever to come out here for a long time,
at least a month, and he didn’t actually think for a second that he would be
interrupted. There was no way Sebastian could have known what he had been
planning to do.
It doesn’t make sense that he would have come here, unless he followed Jim from
the house; and that makes even less sense. He was supposed to be working today.
He’d been working nearly every day for a month, and Jim had only actually seen
him all of four times. All rushed encounters, usually involving Sebastian
pilfering food from the kitchen, and then ducking back out the window.
Half of Jim screams to just get it over with, before he has to actually talk to
Sebastian. Before Sebastian can try to make him change his mind, and he wants
to make Sebastian watch. But if he were to lift the gun up, there’s no doubt in
his mind that Sebastian would rush to him and try to wrench it away. He’d have
only a small chance of actually managing to hit anything vital of himself, and
a distressingly large one of shooting Sebastian by accident.
He opens his eyes finally, just as Sebastian moves and drops to the ground,
sitting cross legged just a couple of paces from him. “I —” he starts, before
his mouth closes again, swallowing back whatever words are on his tongue. He’s
at a loss for what to say. It hadn’t been part of the plan to say goodbye to
anyone, let alone to Sebastian, and it’s difficult just to look at the boy.
He hadn’t left a note. Sebastian was the only person who would have cared, and
he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Every time he tried, all he could scrawl
out had been ‘I love you’ and that was the last thing he’d ever say to the
other boy.
Across from him, Sebastian looks so very sad, and it breaks Jim’s heart just a
little. He feels the pang of defeated agony wrack its way through his chest,
and it’s the worst pain he can ever remember having felt inside him, instead of
just in the rest of his body. Physically, he’s been through worse. He’s been
hurt worse, even felt like he was going to die. But in his heart he’s never
felt this horrible.
Everything in him aches to throw himself across the ground and into Sebastian’s
arms, demand that Sebastian make everything okay, and hold him until the world
has forgotten them both.
But he can’t, and he doesn’t, and it hurts, as he forces his body to remain
still on its place at the edge of the room. The barrel of the gun feels heavy
and cold in his hands and he lifts it shakily, warning Sebastian to not try and
come closer.
“Hey, hey,” Sebastian says, before he can bring it all the way up to pointing
at his mouth. “Whoa, there,” he doesn’t move closer, but it’s clear that every
bone in his body is itching to scurry across the space to Jim. All he can do is
stretch out his arms, as if trying to grab Jim, and it makes him look stupid
sitting there like that. Or it should.
Jim sniffs, forcing his voice to remain as steady as possible. “What do you
want?” he demands as his eyes drop to Sebastian’s legs. Even to his own ears,
he sounds dead and flat, like a broken toy. One of the ones that talks, but has
been worn down from being thrown against a wall too much and has lost its
personality.
His eyes flutter shut, but he doesn’t lower the gun, and in a way, he’s
trusting Sebastian with this. With not rushing him when he’s not looking. He
reminds himself as calmly as he can to remain steady, and of all the reasons he
has to die today. Why he has to do this, and why he can’t let Sebastian talk
the gun out of his hands.
“You, Jimmyboy,” Sebastian tells him, and he can almost hear the boy edging
closer without standing up. He slides across the ground, and Jim returns the
favour by pressing himself just a little bit closer to the wall. “I want you.”
It makes him shudder, something in those words a cross between utterly
terrifying him and making him want to be held. He opens his eyes against his
will, staring uncomprehendingly at Sebastian, a stupid attempt to suss out what
the boy could possibly mean. “You - you —” his mouth feels dry, and he
swallows. “You want me?”
Daring him, Sebastian slides closer still, not a whole lot, not wanting to
tempt his luck, but if he moves just a little bit more, he’ll be able to throw
himself forward and grip Jim’s shoulders.
The only way Jim can react anymore is to slide down the wall, which doesn’t
leave him much space, not with the table where it is, and he can’t slide under
it either.
“Yeah, Jimmy,” Sebastian seems to breathe out his name, placating him with
hands in the air. All right, he seems to say. I won’t come closer. Trust me. He
appears almost painfully sad, laughing nearly hysterically as he stares at Jim.
The tears blur out his vision, and Jim has to blink them back, sniffing again.
Instead of asking why, which he longs to do so desperately, he turns his head
again, leaving Sebastian in the corner of his vision. He doesn’t want to look
at Sebastian’s eyes. Can’t look at his eyes. It hurts, more than he thought it
would, and more than it should. It was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to
stop the hurting, not cause more of it.
His heart thumps in his chest, and he thinks about taking Sebastian by
surprise, and just lifting the gun to his mouth without warning. That way he
won’t have to see the pain in Sebastian’s eyes.
It’s tempting, and he wants so very bad. But the part of him that doesn’t
worries that he’ll do it wrong, not hit the right parts of his brain, and
survive; and that Sebastian will never forgive him. He only has once chance at
this. That part is enough to keep him from it, for a few minutes at least. He
grits his teeth, unable to make sense why the rest of him is so reluctant all
of a sudden. Even if he can’t ask. “I —” he stops himself before he really
starts, the words escaping him.
“Jimmy —” and there it is again, the way he says Jim’s name. Calling him the
name that everyone uses, but only Sebastian has ever managed to make sound like
a nice thing. Sebastian is the only one to ever call him Jimmy but not make him
feel like a child being put down. He doesn’t feel like he’s being taunted and
kicked to the ground.
When Sebastian calls him Jimmy, he wants to smile, and fight every time that’s
ever tried to force him down. But Sebastian’s moving closer again, and he knows
that with every second that passes, the other boy has to be formulating a plan
to get the gun from out of Jim’s hands. And he can’t let that happen.
He squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can manage, hand shaking as he lifts
the gun to his lips. But when the body presses up closer to his, it doesn’t try
to pry the metal free. “Jimmy,” comes again in his ear, so incredibly soft this
time. “Please don’t do this, Jimmy,” Sebastian begs him, and he’s not stopping
him. He’s not keeping him from it. All he’s doing is asking Jim to not.
The warm air from his mouth tickles Jim’s skin, making him shudder, and the
taste of the metal is acrid on his tongue and lips, mouth wrapped around it the
way it’s been pressed in there before. Sebastian’s grip tightens and he wants
to drop the gun. He does. He does.
He’s ready for it, though, he’s ready to pull the trigger and feel it all go
away. Disappear into infinity, as his consciousness is sucked out of his body.
He’s ready for the sharp agony, the feeling of his head swelling up and
catching fire. He’s ready to cry and cease to exist. He can taste it.
“Why shouldn’t I?” he asks instead of doing it, the tears leaking down his
cheeks, and the gun slipping just enough from his mouth that he can speak
without mumbling. “Why shouldn’t I do it?”
He doesn’t have to see Sebastian’s hand come up, only feeling it, and he
flinches violently away from it at first. It’s enough of a sign that Sebastian
should stop, should pull away, and he does. Thank god that he does.
“Jimmy,” Sebastian whispers again, and he looks over at him, unwillingly
staring at his face. Their eyes meet and he flinches, not liking the look he
sees there. “I don’t wanna lose you, Jimmy. You know why that is?”
He shakes his head, unable to even glance away now. “Sorry, I dun - I dunno.
You - you’re Sebastian. You’re —” he swallows back the lump forming in his
throat, a tear slipping down his cheek as he contains his breathing. “You’re
big and grown up and you could leave if you wanted to. You could get out of
here.”
“You’re right —” he flinches, looking down, fingers tightening around the gun.
From above, he can see Sebastian sigh, lifting an apologetic hand. “I could.
Yeah. Yes, yes, I could. But I don’t want to. You know why?” No. “Because of
you, Jimmy.”
His breath catches, but he doesn’t let himself look up. Not right now. “That
day we first met,” Sebastian continues seamlessly. “Do you remember it?” He can
hear the boy’s sad smile in his voice, in the soft laugh that flutters from his
lips. “You were reading Lolita in a field. Little eleven year old you, lying
about your age because you were embarrassed. And you kept glaring at me. You
were so precious, and I - I swore to myself that I would never leave you.
“That I would always be there to protect you if you needed someone, if I could
manage it. No matter what. I swore that I would stay at your side, through
thick and thin.” His hand creeps up again, and this time Jim doesn’t flinch,
too bothered by the tears stinging even more roughly at his eyes. Fingers
caress his cheek, ever so gently, and he feels like he should jerk back from it
but he doesn’t. His heart won’t stop pounding so hard in his chest that it
feels as if it’s trying to escape.
The tears slide down his face quicker, the salt from them pooling around his
lips, and he gasps in a breath.
“Please, Jimmy,” instinctively, he has to look up now, the gun falling lower
but not all the way down, and he sees the tears mirrored in Sebastian’s eyes.
He looks so very broken and earnest, and Jim hates him for it. “Give me the
gun, Jimmy. Don’t do this,” he begs, his thumb rubbing away a tear from the
corner of Jim’s eyes. “Please.”
“I - I have to. Bastian, I’m —” it feels like he’s choking, like he can’t
breathe, and he shudders, closing his eyes again, desperately clinging to those
reasons.
He has to do this because it won’t ever end otherwise. He won’t ever escape,
won’t ever get away, and things are never going to get better. No matter how
far or fast he runs, no matter who he meets, or what happens to him, or all the
things he’ll see. None of it will matter, because all he’ll ever see when he
closes his eyes will always be how ruined he is. How utterly imperfect and
worthless everything that makes him up is. It’s too much, the way they scream
inside his head, the way they shout at him when he’s awake and can listen.
He can’t let them stay there. Can’t live like that, always running. It’s not
enough. Not with the knowledge that there is no escape from those hands that
come for him at night, and sometimes in the day. The way they circle around
him, taunt him, throw him back and forth between them. They hit him and scratch
at him, scratch and tear his skin away, leaving him nothing but a mass of
bloodied flesh and bones. They sneer at him for everything that he is and never
can be, and leave him to wallow in his nothingness, in what little of his soul
they’ve left in strips upon the ground.
There’s nothing for which he can live, and he knows that. He knows it so very,
very well; because even if Sebastian does say that he’ll stay forever now, he
won’t always be there. He won’t live his life to be there for and with Jim. He
leaves all the time. He leaves and doesn’t come back for stretches of times so
long that Jim will begin to fear that Sebastian won’t ever come back.
But he does. He comes back in the end, always seems to, but it’s never enough.
He’s not always there, and Jim knows that he will be less and less as he grows
older. And that frightens him.
It terrifies him to know that one day Sebastian won’t come back, and he won’t
be able to breathe; because Sebastian is the only thing that keeps him alive
some days. When it gets to be too much, when the screaming overwhelms him, when
the hands choke at his neck, and the people won’t leave him alone.
When Uncle forgets to feed him, or leaves the front door locked and he has to
climb up the wall and through his window just to hide inside his wardrobe. So
he won’t have to disturb him, and risk the man yelling at him, or throwing
things like he’s prone to do. Even when Sebastian can’t actually help, he makes
it easier for Jim to survive.
The tears fall so hard that it feels like he might drown them both in them, and
a gust of wind from the broken window hits his face, making his hair drag
across him, burning his cheeks. “Please, ‘Bas,” he begs with everything he has
left, trying to get his fingers to cooperate, trying to bring the gun up to
where he needs it. “Please! Just - just let me go!”
“No! God, Jimmy, no,” it sounds like Sebastian’s choking, too, “I won’t
fucking ‘just’ let you anything, Jimmy.” He still can’t see Sebastian, still
doesn’t want to see him through his eyelids, but he can feel Sebastian’s warm
breath in his ear as he shudders an exhale.
He just wants Sebastian to go, because it would be easier then. He could do it
if Sebastian weren’t here, if Sebastian weren’t making him freeze up. He just
needs to be free, and Sebastian is keeping him from that. He needs to fall,
escape the barb wire snare that has his body so completely trapped. Go to
whatever place there is beyond death, or the nothingness that replaces
existence.
At least it’ll be quiet there. Silent. He coughs, his voice cracking and
breaking.
“No,” Sebastian argues, cutting through the haze, and he shivers. “It’s not
quiet there. You know why?” His voice is biting and vicious, scaring Jim.
“Because it’s fucking worse! Have you ever thought about it? About why people
are so fucking scared of death? Because what comes after is worse, so very much
worse.
“Whatever is keeping you here and making you not pull the trigger right now.
Hang onto that! That’s why you have to stay. If it’s me, then stay because of
me. Because I want you on my side, I want you to grow up, and thrive, and be so
much better than all those people that thought you never could do it.” He stops
only to inhale, the sound making Jim feel like he’s being jerked around on the
back of some great beast, bounding across space. “I know you’re better than
this, Jim!”
“How could you know that?” is all he can say, “How could you possibly know?”
“I —” Sebastian chokes, and it hurts to hear, hurts to feel it against his
face. “Jimmy. Just - just give me a year. Promise me that. Promise me a year.
Let me fix it. Let me make it better here. Let me help you. Please. I’ll fix
it.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but not even air can shudder its way out from
between his lips. His hands hurt, from clenching so tightly, and he lets them
relax, his shoulders moving slowly up and down. No. What? Why? I —
His body grows slack as he breathes, and he drops the gun onto his lap. It
doesn’t make a sound, not even a faint thud, and he doesn’t say anything,
doesn’t open his eyes. Please, I’m sorry.
He shouldn’t want a hug right now, but he does, and it scares him, and he hurts
everywhere. It feels like a dream, and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know
how to do anything. I’m sorry. He wants to fall into Sebastian’s arms, but he
doesn’t know how, and he feels as if he’s been turned to ice.
“Please.”
The gun is lifted from his lap, and he barely notices, opening his eyes to
stare into Sebastian’s heartbreaking face. He opens his mouth again.
***** the vampire who said he was you *****
There was nothing but a flat, utterly blank space, and then the sounds.
They come from every direction, and they’re like the resonating thunder of a
thousand televisions all turned to different channels, flickering on at the
same time. They’re blaring obnoxiously loud, supplying an infinite amount of
information, all of it too much; and they’re moving too quickly to even make
the most dim amount of sense inside his head.
They fly incessantly past him, making his entire body shake like a leaf, and he
screams. It reminds him of the way she used to, the girl.
Every shred of him simultaneously wants to join in on the high pitched
shrieking, to throw itself into the nearest wall over and over and to dig
endlessly sharp things into every soft, fleshy portion of his body.
Something. Anything. Just to make it stop.
He can’t feel his hands. It doesn’t end, it can’t, it can only get louder,
until it’s all he can hear. Not even his own voice, not even a hundred he can
recognise. Place. Remember. No matter how he raises it, no matter how he
screams, it can’t penetrate the sounds.
It hurts, tens of times more than anything he’ll ever remember feeling, like
he’s being stretched from every angle, pins in his skin, pulling him farther
and farther apart, until there’s nothing left of him. His skin being pulled too
thin, his mind being beaten so hard it can’t even remember how to play catch
up.
Not even the most shrill of his screeches can be heard over the sound, as they
pass from his lips, convoluted, whitewashed and painful. He can feel them,
though, they make his throat quiver and ache. They make it rumble, his muscles
vibrating as it carries on as far as each gasp of air into his lungs will allow
him to take it.
Tears sting at his eyes, watery, acidic, bleeding out from his pores, and
they’re red like the damned, wide as a person who’s suddenly realising they’re
in the last moments before their death.
He screams again, over and over, until the only sound that’s left and able to
escape from his clenching and unclenching teeth is a broken whimper, mouth
closed, jaw finally tightened around itself and locked into place. Even that
leaves his voice too hoarse, and there’s nothing left, vocal chords feeling
destroyed.
It doesn’t help, nothing helps, none of it. Not even the hands that close
around his shoulders, attempting to shake him free, shake something out of
them, out of himself.
He doesn’t recognise the face, doesn’t see it, only blurred sensation, only a
haze of fuzzed out sound coating his eyes. He can barely feel the body holding
onto him, holding him up; he can’t hear the voice as it speaks to him in a
hurried tone. There’s urgency, and he can almost see that, almost feel it in
his skin, taste it on his tongue, but he can’t hear anything more than the
tone.
He parts his drying lips, trying to scream again, bloodcurdling as it wracks
the interior of his body, in the person’s face, but nothing comes out, not even
that rumble, and it only makes him shake. Shoulders pushed and pulled, jerked
back and forth for his troubles, tears streaming down from his eyes, and words
are spat like clumps of saliva onto his cheeks.
It makes him still — or even just feel like he’s still, the at first moment of
that perpetual feeling motion coming to a complete stop — unable to move
himself, to twitch, staring as the sounds blur out his vision, until hands
start to pull him away again; and his body is left to sway like a broken branch
in the wind.
The only thing he can think to do is to throw himself forward, at that mess of
black in his vision, at the person. Maybe he can’t help it, but he can’t tell,
can’t feel, and it’s worth a shot just to try and ground himself, as he digs
his claws into warm flesh. His legs move blindly to kick, and his teeth latch
onto and sink deep into a spot of tender skin.
It doesn’t help, but he can’t stop, can’t tear himself away, and it doesn’t
make it worse either. It’s only a distraction.
His body starts shaking again, and someone else screams, like words written and
jumping into his mind, and he doesn’t like that. It tries to shake him off like
he’s some sort of rabid dog. From its lips comes a shout of horror, he can
taste that, the horror in the skin, the thick taste of sweat that’s not his,
pooling onto the back of his tongue, splitting through haze after haze.
But he forgets it instantly, too taken up by the way it feels to tear and bite,
to dig through, spitting out wet chunks of something — but even those might
just be imagined — throwing kicks all the while, punches at an awful angle,
scratching at whatever tries to escape his grasp.
Their bodies hit the floor together, something he halfway starts to realise too
late, but it’s better leverage. It’s more room to dig inside, as if he’s trying
to make a hole large enough, deep enough, so that he can crawl into it, so he
can wrap himself in a different sort of skin, and bathe in the moisture of the
inside of someone’s body.
He delights in it, this surreal deliciousness, and he can’t speak, but he can
whimper, can crave it, crave more, until the body goes still underneath him. It
could be hours, could be seconds, or days, or even a hundred years of time that
pass, but the noises begin to fade. Hardly noticeable at first, and then
sudden, all at once, pulling back like a creature retracting and hiding in its
shell; and he’s being blotted out by the warmth of the blood coating his hands,
staining his clothes, and soaking his mouth and teeth as it drips down his
face.
It’s stopped struggling at all, stopped twitching, because there’s nothing
left. He’s sucked the life out of it; when, he doesn’t know, but he still can’t
stop. He has to keep clawing, has to keep biting, even if his attacks are
weakened now, until the sounds have faded completely, and his vision begins to
clear.
The face below him is impossible to distinguish, from the chunks of flesh torn
out, matting it, the hair ripped from its head in bloody pieces, body more a
mass of gore and ripped clothing and flesh than a man anymore.
He breathes in sharply, still tasting it on his tongue, but it’s not fear
anymore. It’s not horror in the back of his throat.
It’s acceptance, dull, thick, nearly gagging him as it comes to rest, and he
spits it out, lets it flow from his mouth; and then he sits back, still on the
chest, onto his haunches. He can smell it around him, still pervading the air,
and he spits on the face the way the face had spat upon him.
Condemnation, for not fighting him well enough. Repugnance, for being
unfathomably worthless.
Hands close around his back and shoulders, gently tugging at him. “Shhhh,” a
soft sound murmuring in his ear, and then he’s being lifted up, off the body.
With an ease he’s set back on his feet, hands in his hair, touching him. He
sways again, but into the touch, blinking in confusion at the face just in
front of his.
“‘Bastian,” he barely manages to , voice too damaged to come out in more than a
scraped whisper. Hands press against his throat, and he’s pulled forward, into
a hug. His face sinks into Sebastian’s neck, breathing in from his life, the
scent of him, fully surrounded by the man.
He should let Sebastian hold him more, like this, is all he can think, as he
collapses into the embrace.
“It’s okay,” is ground out into his hair, “it’s gone now. It’s all gone, and
you’re all right, yeah?”
He tries to open his mouth to speak, only a sigh on his lips, and he’s held
closer, his mouth unable to move, jaw still protesting. “No, shush, don’t
speak. Feel. Let yourself fall. It’s going to be okay.”
He falls.
 
===============================================================================
 
Sebastian’s arms are around him when he opens his eyes again. The sound is
gone, the pain with it, and it feels as if he’s walked into a dream. In place
of the heaviness from before, it feels as if his head has gained the power to
float, like a little balloon filled with helium, pulling his body up, up, up,
into the air.
He’s not naked, but he can feel the warmth from Sebastian’s fingers on his
belly, stroking his insides through the outer layer of his skin, and it nearly
tickles. He sighs. “Am I alive?”
Sebastian doesn’t respond in words, his thumb dragging a meaningless circle
around his belly button instead, and he almost closes his eyes again. “What
happened?”’
Lips brush against the back of his head, coating his scalp with the warmth of
Sebastian’s breath. “You blacked out again,” Sebastian whispers, his tone
echoing with concern and something else that Jim can’t quite identify. “And
when you woke up, you were screaming.”
Groaning, Jim shakes his head, pushing away Sebastian’s lips, and the man lets
him. His head falls back onto the pillow with a dull thud. It doesn’t feel as
warm anymore. The vents aren’t spewing hot air into the flat.
“I remember killing someone,” he declares after a moment. It doesn’t matter if
he has. He just wants to know. “Who?”
He can nearly hear the way Sebastian frowns. “No one. The man you were with
fled after you collapsed. I found him in the hallway freaking out.” He pauses,
swallowing. “You were alone until I found you.”
His gut churns, and he feels bilious. It was a hallucination, then. Tearing
Sebastian open was just part of a nightmare.
“What did you do with him?”
“Who?”
“The man.” He opens his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the bile
swirl around in his belly. “The man I was with before blacking out.”
“I let him go,” Sebastian says after a pause, breathing out heavily through his
nose. He’s trying to communicate to Jim how unhappy he still is about it. “Just
like you said.”
“And?”
“And what?” Sebastian growls, a frustrated hand hitting the mattress. Jim
doesn’t flinch. “He did exactly what you had said he would.”
“Which was?” He can’t remember. Was it part of the nightmare?
“He put in the call to Jack three hours ago.”
“Good.” With that, he rolls himself over until he’s at the edge of the bed,
head pointed over, and empties his traitorous stomach out onto the floor. It
looks green, and by the time he’s finished, his forehead has collected a layer
of sweat that bathes him.
Sebastian didn’t try to help, or say anything at all, which is good. Jim would
have pushed him away. He falls back onto the bed, closing his eyes. He’ll clean
it up later. Or Sebastian will do it. It hardly matters.
***** not god but a swastika *****
“The road now stretched across open country, and it occurred to me - not by way
of protest, not as a symbol, or anything like that, but merely as a novel
experience - that since I had disregarded all laws of humanity, I might as well
disregard the rules of traffic.
“So I crossed to the left side of the highway and checked the feeling, and the
feeling was good. It was a pleasant diaphragmal melting, with elements of
diffused tactility, all this enhanced by the thought that nothing could be
nearer to the elimination of basic physical laws than deliberately driving on
the wrong side of the road. In a way, it was a very spiritual itch. Gently,
dreamily —"
“Whatcha reading?”
The voice interrupts him mid recitation, making him not only freeze, but lose
his thought process entirely. “I —" he squints up at the boy still approaching
him on the grass, who looks more like a grown man than anything, and who’s
coming close which makes him attempt to hide the cover the book. But then, when
a person has taken pains to hide something — especially after someone older has
asked about them — they only manage to give themself away. He hesitates, still,
contemplating whether or not it’d be a bad idea to disclose the name of his
book.
“Nabokov,” he finally says, eyebrow arching in a way that’s supposed to be
challenging. On the face of an eleven year old, however, it comes out as more
precocious than anything, no matter how hard he might try. He flashes the cover
of the book, long enough to show off the title, but doesn’t take the effort to
verbalise it.
Before he can really register it, the boy moves to sit down directly next to
him on the grass; and he reaches out, making it clear that his claiming of the
book is not a request. “Hm,” he hums, glancing over the blurb written on the
back.
It’s the boy’s turn to squint now, looking more curious than anything. “You’re
what, eleven? twelve? What’re you doing reading a book like that?” he returns
it anyway, but his fingers have lost the spot.
“Twelve,” Jim declares, nostrils flaring just a little. He’s tempted to say
something to make the boy leave — he could do it easily, he knows he could —
but he doesn’t know him, and the repercussions of acting without the necessary
information are not something with which he wishes to trifle. “Who’re you? and
how old’re you?” he asks, practically cradling the book to his chest, looking
put out that someone else had touched it.
“Sebastian, and I’m sixteen.” The boy — Sebastian — smiles, offering his hand
to shake. He looks at it suspiciously, only taking it after confirming that
there aren’t any bugs concealed in the palm. Not that he doesn’t like bugs,
he’d just rather not get the shirt he’s wearing dirty. Dirty clothes mean
trouble, and he’s not really in the mood today.
“Jim,” he half-offers, gritting his teeth in an attempt to conceal a wince at
the strength of Sebastian’s handshake.
“Lovely to meet you, Jimmy.” Sebastian flashes him a vibrant smile, covering
Jim’s hand with his other, like he’s cradling it for some reason or another.
It’s not something that Jim particularly likes. Being touched by people is odd,
and he’s never considered it to be a terribly pleasant thing, regardless of the
circumstance in which it’s occurring.
His hand is finally released, after what feels more like ten minutes instead of
ten seconds of being held tightly in Sebastian’s grip.
“So you never answered my first question,” Sebastian chuckles, body shifting as
he jerks at his pockets, pulling out a couple of apples. “Apple?” he offers,
holding it out with one hand, the other busy shining the second one on the leg
of his trousers.
Warily, Jim accepts it, following suit as he cleans his off on his mostly clean
— at least appearance-wise — shirt. “It was on the bookshelf. I’d read
everything else.” It’s the truth, shockingly enough, but he doesn’t think this
boy will be daft enough to fall for his style of lying, and he’ll readily admit
that he’s not good enough yet to pull of better ones.
It’s difficult to practice a skill when one has no proper test subjects.
The most interesting person he’s ever met in this town — and by far the
smartest person that isn’t him — died before he got good enough at lying to
risk trying his skills with the man. It was unfortunate. Jim had spent time
planning just how much he could bounce off the man in order to learn, without
giving away his quest. He’d been forced to scrap things entirely once he
realised just how dumb everyone else around him was.
“Whose bookshelf and why the hell would anyone leave that kind of thing lying
around for a twelve year-old?” Sebastian looks almost scandalised now, which is
a funny look for him, and Jim would probably have laughed at it were not for
the apple he’s cramming in between his jaws. He takes a big bite, chewing
slowly to prolong the amount of time he has to answer the question.
Offering him a smile, Sebastian copies, only taking a considerably smaller bite
from his, and he chews it like he’s enjoying it wholeheartedly.
He doesn’t care to bring up the person with whom he lives, so he redirects the
question in the only way he knows how.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with my being twelve?” he demands, his tone
taking an extra air of offense, which he hopes doesn’t sound too unnatural. But
then, most people underestimate how manipulative kids his age are capable of
being. He scowls, not at the idiocy of people, but at the reminder that one’s
never good enough.
“Absolutely nothing,” Sebastian grins, making his face look funny, the lines
distorted to make room for his teeth which seem excessively enthused over
making an appearance. Not wanting to grant the boy the honour, Jim refuses to
shiver, but he thinks about it. “But then, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you
were lying about your age. You look like you could pass for ten,” he chuckles,
taking another bite, pausing to eat it sloppily, his eyes twinkling
continuously.
He continues before he swallows, and Jim’s stomach turns up a bit at the sight
of half-chewed apple bits threatening to spray from Sebastian’s mouth. “But you
don’t talk anything like it. Read too much Russian lit, I’d say.”
“No such thing!” he declares vehemently, mouth open to protest further.
“Russian literature is a lovely —"
“Oh, hush,” Sebastian interrupts him. The look on his face is a disturbing
mixture of the way adults look at children when they’re indulging them, and
genuine cheerfulness. “You don’t have to argue the merits of reading things
like that to me. Ever picked up a Solzhenitsyn?” he pauses dramatically, just
long enough for Jim to start to answer. “'An evil man,” he declares, smirking,
“threw tobacco in the macaque-rhesus eyes.’” He winks.
“Cancer Ward,” Jim frowns, offering tentatively in return. Wariness seems to
overtake him now, making him feel startlingly uncomfortable at the presence of
the stranger. He should, by all rights, be overjoyed at having met someone else
that appreciates his love for reading even just a little bit, but it’s off-
putting. More so than he’d ever expected it might be.
Had he not dreamt for as long as he could remember of one day meeting a boy who
didn’t mock him, or judge him, but would understand the way his mind worked and
make him feel safe?
He offers a small smile, twisting the paperback in his hands, apple abandoned
on the grass beside him, only missing two bites. “I think I hear my uncle
calling,” he mutters, turning to stare across the field at something that’s not
there. “I should - I should go.” He moves to stand, not wanting to seem like
he’s rushing to get away, overly conscious of the pace at which he moves. It
has to seem genuine. “Nice meeting you.”
“Oi! did I say you could go?” it makes him freeze, his back already to the boy,
body tensed.
“Uh,” is all he can think to say, not wanting to turn back, but needing cues
from the boy’s face in order to figure out what the right answer is to the
question. “No?” he asks hesitantly.
“You’re right, I didn’t. Sit your cute little arse back down, we’re not
finished talking.” Hands smack together, making him flinch, but Sebastian’s
voice remains unchanged; a pleasant melody, no doubt designed to sound
welcoming.
“I, uh, my uncle?”
“Nonsense, I would have heard if he had. Methinks you’re a bit of a flighty
one.” Jim winces and Sebastian laughs, at him, no doubt, and he turns back
around to glare.
“Whataya want from me?” he more demands than asks, crossing his arms over his
chest, looking defiant and frustrated.
“Some company, someone to share my apples with, discuss good books. Why?”
Sebastian returns, his chin tilted up, the fire in his eyes deliberately
matching Jim’s. “What do you want from me?”
“I want —" Jim freezes again. He can’t actually think of anything he wants, let
alone from the other boy. His eyes crunch together, eyebrows knitting
themselves into an intricate frown. “That’s a trick question.”
“That it were, Jimmy. That it were.” The smile transforms Sebastian’s face
again, and he drops himself back, until he’s laying flat across the grass, his
legs spread out comfortably. He tucks his arms behind his head, never taking
his eyes off Jim.
“Why the tricks if you just want company?” he’s tempted to lay down, too, but
he doesn’t want it to look like he’s copying the boy. It aggravates him
further, because laying like that is his favourite position when out here in
the field. It’s the most comfortable, even on the coldest or rainiest of days.
He half does it wishing to catch some horrible cold so he might perish in a
sick bed, but he knows that it’ll never happen. His luck isn’t that good, so he
settles for enjoying the rain when it comes, and living through the cold to
make it to better days. It sets his skin on fire in ways that nothing else
does, and after a while, he found himself unable to live without it.
As noiselessly as possible, he plops back down on the grass, cross legged. It’s
a bit premature, because he hasn’t received an answer yet, but he suspects the
boy won’t let him leave so easily. It’s a calming thing, in a way, because now
he understands a little better what’s wanted from him. It takes an edge off the
nervousness.
“You scared of me, Jimmyboy?”
It’s apparently the only thing Sebastian wants to know right now, and it, like
so many other things in the last few minutes, takes Jim off guard. Which is
probably why he answers honestly. “A bit, yeah.”
It must be the right answer, because it makes Sebastian laugh softly, his
pleasure written across the lines of his face. “I like you, Jimmyboy,” he says
softly, eyes alight.
“Yeah, well, I don’t like you,” Jim bites back on instinct, full of his usual
fire. His hands drift down to the grass, picking and tearing at it with his
fingers. “How long do I have to keep you company?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Sebastian pushes himself off the ground a little bit with his
elbows, so he can better stare at Jim, making the boy want to hide behind
something. “Until I get bored of you, I guess. How’s that sound?”
All Jim can do is stare.
***** and drank my blood for a year *****
Jim stands in front of the mirror much like he positions himself in front of an
opponent. He braces himself with his feet rested slightly separated, allowing
him to keep his balance utterly perfect. His back stays stiff, straightened up
perfectly, with his shoulders forced back just the right amount to perfect the
line of his body. Most importantly, he appears thoroughly unimpressed with
life, and the visage upon which he’s peering.
“We’re going back to Ireland, babe,” he says after standing there for quite
some time, the first noise in the room that echoes louder than the sound of his
breathing.
“Since when do you call me ‘babe’?” Sebastian snorts at him, because it most
definitely isn’t the most important part of that sentence, but it’s the only
one he actually wants to address.
The sound of Jim’s laugh is sharp, an abrupt biting sound that somehow manages
to come across as almost endearing. It’s incredibly sweet in its own way, like
too much sugar poured into the batter of a cake, polluting the rest of the
flavours and leaving them not good enough, with the sweetness the most
prevalent. It should be the man’s trademark, to sound like that.
When Sebastian turns from the window to face in Jim’s direction, he’s struck by
how the man appears, still facing the full length mirror that sometimes manages
to be in their room and sometimes isn’t for months at a time. When it’s not in
their room, it’s usually tucked away in the back of one of the unused areas of
the flat. And when it is, half the time it’s mostly covered by a long, white
sheet.
The way Jim stares at his reflection goes past intent, bordering on obsessive,
and that doesn’t exactly sit right with him. He pads across the floor, coming
up behind Jim, hands sliding down to fit around the man’s waist.
“You’re right.” Mirror Jim smirks at him, like he’s a particularly interesting
bug that he’s found on one of the drapes. “I don’t call you that. So what do
you think, tiger —” His voice slides naturally into a sleek sort of purr, but
it’s Mirror Jim that gives away the thing that he most likely doesn’t want
Sebastian to see.
It looks almost like fear.
“— About going back home?” he finishes smoothly, that emotion shuddering off
his face the second he realises that Sebastian had spotted it, and it
disappears without a trace.
“I think —” he closes his eyes, breathing into Jim’s hair, his fingers
tightening around the too tight expanse of skin. Jim’s in one of his off
periods. He most likely hasn’t eaten a proper meal in coming up on a week now,
maybe longer, and it wasn’t like he had any fat built up to keep his energy
levels going properly during any sort of fasting. “I think that it’s a horrible
idea.”
Lack of nourishment or not, Jim’s skin is warm under his touch, his body soft
as Sebastian presses closer. He aligns his front to the man’s back, not seeking
pressure against his lower regions, just the comforting tenderness of feeling
Jim fully in his arms for a few seconds. He can feel the clench of muscles
underneath the barriers of clothing and flesh, reminding him not to press too
hard. No matter what Jim might say, he’s breakable. Sebastian could fracture
him if he stopped being careful. He knows this.
“You thinking about going alone?” he asks, when Jim doesn’t respond to
reprimand him, and he opens his eyes as he presses a soft kiss to the side of
the man’s head, just because he thinks Jim will let him get away with it.
Still not deigning to respond, Jim brings a hand up to the collar of his shirt,
tugging it away to reveal the open, coloured skin of his neck. It’s mottled
with an array of purples, yellows, reds, and little traces of green, looking
swollen and nearly troubling. Sebastian hums at the sight, as Jim’s fingers
dance over the spots, playing lightly with the layer of skin.
It wasn’t all that easy to cover up, but he’d managed to keep it hidden from
Sebastian until now. Now that he’s allowing Sebastian to notice, giving him the
information. He’ll be unlikely to miss it again, even when the collar goes back
up, and the pattern ends up tucked away out of sight. His eyes are too in tune
to Jim to not automatically gravitate to the right spot now, as if it’s his own
neck that bears those marks. He can almost feel them, as if they truly are his.
Under closer inspection — namely him pressing his face down lower, sharp eyes
roving — Sebastian can see how the marks were obviously made by fingers from a
rather large man. The marring of the skin is almost deliberate, though from
farther away it would look a great deal different, leading to the implication
that the bruises might have been made by something far more like that of a rope
than fingers.
From a distance, it says that Jim might have tried to hang himself. This, in
this day and age, would appear far more probable than just someone else failing
to terminate his life.
Jim gasps softly when Sebastian’s hand comes up to push his out of the way,
fingers moving to trace over the colours. Something akin to agony flutters
through Mirror Jim’s eyes. He looks sad, somehow, and Sebastian hates that, the
look of the light that’s beginning to fade from Jim’s eyes.
He memorises the feel of every burst blood vessel, feeling the layers of
slightly raised flesh, and he can almost touch Jim’s lifeblood this way. The
bruises don’t seem to be causing the man any real pain — and perhaps they grant
him the smallest touch of pleasure — though he can see the flicker in Jim’s
eyes, the memory of how they happened, the anguish surrounding them. In a way,
he almost thinks that the man is reliving it.
In Mirror Jim’s eyes, he can almost see the hands that dig their way into the
Jim’s skin, that shake him. The force of some blow that sends him falling
backwards against a brick wall. Jim’s lips move, and he can almost hear the
growl, of words spat into his ear — as if it were Sebastian’s ear, as if it
were Sebastian who had experienced this instead — and the tempo remains low,
encouraging panic to bubble up within him.
Sebastian’s eyes flutter shut, and he noses Jim’s neck farther to the side, so
that he can press dry kisses to the marks. Jim doesn’t reach up to touch him,
but he can feel the change in the way the man’s body melts against him, in the
soft sound of air being inhaled through his nose, and he doesn’t let that stop
him.
It’s almost cute, really, the way marks work. The way people can leave
reminders on another person’s body like this. That, even after time has passed,
they can still be seen, those little faint traces of memories. As if they
themselves carry it, the bruises, the scars, all bodily memories that are ready
to be viewed at any time, over and over.
But aside from that, they really are just bruises; just little marks, and in a
way, they remind him of how alive Jim really is. In a way that feeling the
smaller body of this man doesn’t. It goes even beyond just holding him, feeling
his chest expanding with every breath, and hearing the blood that pumps through
his veins.
The way that Jim’s body can be marked is such a beautiful thing; as much as
Sebastian hates letting someone else do it, and as much as he hates having the
memory of another man pressed into Jim’s skin, he can’t help but cherish it.
Cherish the moments it gives him, kissing the skin, feeling the warmth that
emanates from him.
It’s almost like it could go on forever, a moment frozen in time and stretched
infinitely, when neither of them have any reason to hate each other, and
they’re both all right. As Sebastian rubs little circles through Jim’s shirt,
massaging his hips, he breathes in from the man, and lets himself pretend that
everything really is okay between them.
But like all good moments, it has to end, and eventually it does. Namely, as
Jim’s body retakes his stature from before, and he shifts in Sebastian’s arms,
turning around so that they’re facing each other, and Mirror Jim becomes just
the back view of him.
Absently, Sebastian can only note as he opens his eyes that even as Jim moves
the collar shut, the colours still pop out. They’re vibrant against the pale
white of his skin; and even somehow more now, as they’re just peeking in the
dim light, and no longer through his reflection. They look far more like an
illusion now — makeup, perhaps — but mostly just a trick that the mind has
chosen to play, and yet he somehow cannot seem to make himself forget that they
are there.
He raises a hand before Jim can stop him, pressing just a little bit too hard
into one of the finger marks, and he watches as the flinch of pain stings the
man’s eyes. He doesn’t stop him. “We’re going back to Ireland,” Jim repeats
quietly, his accent slipping further in the direction of his long abandoned,
natural slur.
“I heard you the first time,” and Sebastian has to wet his lips, his tongue
feeling wet and sticky as it swells in his mouth. “Am I going with you, then?”
Whatever had passed between them seems to have faded, even more so as Jim’s
eyes fill with the traces of a genuine sneer. “Don’t be stupid.”
With a small portion of a repentant smile, Sebastian shrugs. “Had to ask,
boss,” he licks his lips again, sighing out at how rough they feel. “When are
we going?”
Jim’s eyes drift shut, but the weight of his body doesn’t change, doesn’t shift
in the slightest. “In a few days,” he answers cryptically.
“’In a few days’ meaning —?”
“Sunday.”
He freezes. “That’s tomorrow, boss,” he reminds him, shoulders stiffening in
concern.
“Is it?” Jim opens his eyes again, but they’re heavily masked. He can’t tell
anything from the man, save the way his pulse quickens underneath the pad of
Sebastian’s finger.
“Yeah,” Sebastian swallows, telling himself not to be concerned. This happens.
It’s normal. It’s been like this with Jim for nearly three decades. He loses
time. He forgets. He has blackouts. It’s nothing new. He’s not in trouble. He’s
not dying. He’s fine.
His finger doesn’t stray from the mark, only pressing harder, trying to
distract himself with it.
Marks have never been something of which Jim has been terribly fond, he knows.
At least on his own body. He’s always found a special sort of delight in the
bruises and scratches he’s bound to leave. They are, after all, a delightful
thing. From what he can gather, even the marks that Sebastian leaves on him
unsettle something in the pit of his stomach.
Though he may enjoy them aesthetically to a certain extent — knowing and being
reminded that Sebastian is always there in his own way, always watching, always
protecting — there has always seemed to be an unpleasant tinge to the idea.
While he could, by all rights, begrudge Jim that, he can’t quite find it within
himself. At least Jim doesn’t find himself pleased with other little signs,
that people besides the two of them have left. They scream at the both of them
that someone else had seen those parts of his body, and that someone else had
been there. Someone else had touched him and bruised him. Someone else had hurt
him and fucked him, and tried to leave him for dead.
It’s not their place to hurt Jim like that, and he hates the man a little bit
for allowing it, even if just barely. Under his watch, Jim should never be able
to come to any harm, but no matter how hard he strives, there’s always
something that slips through his radar.
He also hates the fact that no matter how hard Jim may try, no matter how
viciously he digs into Sebastian’s skin, he’ll never bear those same marks.
They sit there, for perhaps a night, but by morning, they’ve always faded.
Within days, it isn’t even possible to tell that anything was ever there.
Sebastian has never bruised easily, not in the whole of his life, nor has he
ever had cause to keep a scar. It’s something about his skin, something he’s
never been able to understand. But his body remains nearly unblemished, and in
that, he knows that he’s not quite perfect to Jim
The only scars that he does have are from a time when Jim wasn’t there, when he
couldn’t see them made. They were created by hands that belonged to other
people, blades that slid along Sebastian’s skin that Jim didn’t direct. They
hurt him, and Jim hates them for that, for the way that they will always be a
part of Sebastian, in the only way in which he cannot.
They didn’t do it out of devotion, they didn’t mark him out of anything but
abstract cruelty, and he hates that he can trace every pained tattoo of skin
with his hands, but he can’t copy that with his own.
Yet all the same, he knows that Sebastian likes it, likes having him marked
instead. He likes being able to come up behind Jim, slide against his hips,
holding him place as he slicks tarnished skin with his tongue.
Jim’s hand comes up to caress his cheek somewhat roughly, and he turns to it,
kissing the man’s palm. It’s a silly thing to do, an unspoken vow of his
devotion, and Jim knows it exactly for what it is. Which is perhaps why he
allows it.
When he speaks again, his voice is gruffer, raspier, and Sebastian knows he
must feel quite silly standing here like this. With his hand on Jim’s neck, and
Jim’s on his face, all that they would need to complete the picture would be if
their foreheads were forced to meet halfway in the air.
“Then we leave tomorrow,” he says, and Sebastian nods. He doesn’t have anything
more to say, neither of them do. Sebastian doesn’t have to understand it,
because Jim doesn’t want him to know everything. He doesn’t have to like it,
either part of it, because his opinion doesn’t change anything about it. It’s
going to happen, and all Sebastian can do is hold his breath, count to ten, and
hope that it doesn’t end as badly as he knows it will.
The moment shatters without a sound, and unconsciously they both step apart,
until they’re no longer touching. The mirror is still uncovered, and he can see
himself in it now, and then — as Jim moves out of sight, and from the room — he
can only see himself.
He hates himself for the look in his eyes.
***** and get back, back, back to you *****
Jim doesn’t speak. That’s the odd part. He’s generally the first one to open
his mouth, and the one to decide when the conversation ends.
In and of itself, it’s not all that unusual. He’ll sometimes go days at a time
without as much as a guttural articulation. When that happens, he’ll just
stare, as if he’s seeing right through you. It’s as unsettling as peering into
a shell, something so empty and devoid of life that it can’t think or breathe.
But then he does, he moves, he exhales, something, anything, and you’re shaken
to the core.
It’s not something he does on purpose, he doesn’t even think about it, or isn’t
aware of it. He seems to just have absolutely nothing he wants to say, for any
length of time. Like his mind has shuttered itself away, filling the space with
a cool, calm blackness.
He’ll snap out of it like it never happened at all.
But when he’s like that, you can say any number of things, and he won’t even
flinch. The barest of reactions aren’t so much as hinted at on his face. He’ll
remember. He remembers everything people say to him, and you’ll pay for it
later, generally, mostly not realising it’s him that did it, or have proof of
it.
When he’s like that, you can tell the moment it comes on, just by looking at
his face. His dullard, half-witted, broken face. The face of a boy hiding
behind a shield so big that it’s covered the entire expanse of his soul,
locking him in; locking out the entire world around him.
To have Jim not speak when Sebastian walks into the room the week before his
birthday, not even looking up or reacting to his presence, but so clearly not
be in one of those states is unusual.
It means that something is wrong.
Not just wrong, though, because plenty of things go wrong for Jim, and he’ll
fight to his dying breath to pretend that nothing at all has happened.
For Jim to react visibly to something, it has to be near horrific.
It’s his eighteenth. He’s been ready for this day to happen for the entire
seven years Sebastian has been a part of his life, and probably before it as
well.
He’s spoken of his plans occasionally, of getting out from under his uncle’s
roof, finding a way to build a life as an adult.
He’s talked of finally not being the kid in the relationship he and Sebastian
have been building for so long. It’s his biggest insecurity, believing that
Sebastian looks at him like a child, instead of seeing him as an equal.
For him to not be excited means Sebastian should be worried about what events
have been set in motion, because they’re sure to change their future greatly
He almost says something to Jim as he walks across the room, almost announces
his presence with some wisecrack or another. He thinks better of it. Jim will
already know he’s there. No point in putting him on guard before he has a
chance to say his piece.
There’s a clear spot on the floor right next to Jim, the only spot that’s not
covered in layer after layer of newspaper clippings, photographs, and binders.
Which means Jim wants him to sit, whether this is a conscious decision or not.
One of his arms moves automatically around Jim’s shoulders, offering him a
light squeeze. Normally he’d pull away after a second, or turn it into a proper
embrace, but the way Jim tenses under his touch sends alarm bells ringing
through his head.
“Jimmy?”
“— Yes, Sebastian?” after the uttering of his name, Jim seems to make the
conscious decision to lean into Sebastian’s body, seeking an unusual level of
comfort from him.
“Talk to me?”
Jim hesitates. The air seems to still, drying out around them. “Is this all
there is?” he asks finally, letting the words hang for a few seconds before
continuing. “Is this the end?”
“Jeh - Jimmy?” Sebastian breathes, a shiver rising from his spine. “The end of
what?” The urge to tug Jim fully into his arms, wrap their bodies together, and
shield him from everything is strong. He resists.
Jim pulls away.
“Are we finished with all the things we never did, never had, never stopped to
say —” he speaks as if he hadn’t heard Sebastian’s words, his own falling flat
from his lips. They sound like the words of a dying man writing a shopping list
that will never be finished or used.
“Is this where we say goodbye? To the future. The future we might have had, to
the past we never loved, to the people we thought we might be? To the people
that we really never were or could - could have been?” His voice cracks,
betraying the emotion he feels, in the way his face didn’t seem able.
He swallows. “So many plans, a thousand and one dreams, of the futures we knew
we’d never be able to catch between our fingers. Indestructible, undefeatable,
and so very foolish. Is this the end?” he asks again, turning his head and
lifting his eyes, until their gazes connect. A spark seems to travel between
them, viciously electrocuting its way down their spines. “Of the promises we
made, to ourselves and to each other? Is this where we stop to say we're
sorry. We're sorry that we never took advantage of those opportunities, we're
sorry that we never even tried; we're sorry that our fear of failure kept us
from even moving in the right direction?”
He doesn’t look away — and Sebastian’s too frozen to so much as blink — but the
light in his eyes seems to die, in a way that’s never showed before. An echoing
blackness seems to overtake everything beyond the panes of his irises.
“Is this where we give up? What little we have left to show of the few mistakes
we made? Is this where our well dries out, all of our what-ifs and could-bes,
our one-days and tomorrows fading away until they're nothing but the words they
always were?”
Finally his face breaks, a single tear sliding down his cheek that Sebastian
wants to brush away. Something in Jim’s eyes tells him why it would be a bad
idea, and he finds himself unable to move enough to even reach for the boy’s
face.
“Is this where we stop pretending that we tried, that we almost made it, that
we were so close but so far? Where we stopped for a break, a drink, a bite to
eat, and never got back up again, only five minutes into our goals?”
His breathing starts to go ragged, like he’s having trouble forcing the air to
go into his lungs, and he licks his lips. “Is this where it all ends? Where it
closes off, fading into the dusk? All we have ever had was our words, and even
those are now gone, run out, run down too many times and —”
He smiles, still managing to shine; a broken flower floating without aim in the
wind. “— and with the last goodbye we'll ever say.”
“Jimmy, please,” Sebastian finally interrupts, finding his voice, a sound that
doesn’t seem natural. His lips don’t seem to move, but he can hear himself
speak, watching Jim flinch, still ignoring him long enough to finish. His last
words are bitter, spat out like a mouthful of grass, or a vile thought being
cast out of a mind.
“There's nothing left but to decay.”
“Why, Jimmy? Why does it have to be the end? It doesn’t have to end like this,
whatever this is!” It strikes him suddenly that he doesn’t know why Jim is
feeling like this. He doesn’t know what’s happened to make the boy react so
strongly, and he’s just been feeding off the pain swimming between them. He
deflates. “Tell me what happened.”
“I —" he seems to have run out of words, and his eyes fall from Sebastian’s,
going back to the floor. He points at one of the folders, gesturing for
Sebastian to take it and look inside.
Inside, Sebastian finds an odd collection of what appears to be police reports.
It takes a minute for it to sink in, and then his eyes widen, flying back up to
stare incredulously at Jim. “He - what - Jimmy?” now he can’t find the words
either.
Jim chuckles emptily, shoving himself off the floor. He doesn’t bother
navigating over the clutter, stepping on things as he makes his way to the
window to stare out and think about what he wants to say. “Been collecting
these for about a week. S’not hard to find things when everyone looks at you
like you’re not there.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shrugging in an
attempt to look self-deprecating.
“S’my uncle, if you haven’t figured it out yet. If the records are true — and
they damn well look like they are — he’s been —” he swallows, having to force
out the words, “He’s been abducting children since before I was born. His modus
operandi, as they say, is to steal them from their beds in the middle of the
night. That way it looks like they’ve just run away, long enough for him to do
what he likes, and dump them in the woods somewhere to be found. Without a
scratch. Usually three days later, somehow having no memories of their
disappearance.
“There was  —” he interrupts his own stream of words with a cough that shakes
his shoulders. “There was a detective that somehow got relocated here, too good
for a town like this, started putting together the pieces on his own on
weekends off work, apparently. Before that, it was actually assumed that
nothing was happening. His preference is boys between six and fourteen, by the
way. If you wanted to know. Though he nabbed three girls, one of whom was only
five. But that was before I came to live here.”
Sebastian can hardly process the words as they fly past his head, seemingly too
complicated and frightening to be real, or truth. But the evidence is
overwhelming, and he trusts Jim’s judgement. His eyes drift back down to the
folder, hand almost shaking as he goes back to looking through it.
“Do you —” Jim hesitates, afraid to ask, “Do you think that he would have...”
he can’t finish, but Sebastian seems to know anyway.
“You’re eighteen, Jimmy. Or almost there. Too old for him. You don’t even look
like a kid that much anymore, ‘especially not when you slick your hair back
like that.” He lifts a hand, gesturing pointlessly like he’s putting gel in his
own hair, before flinching, his hand dropping from the air.
“I —” Jim trails off, a sharp laugh on his lips. “Do you remember that day I
told you that I’d learnt that there was such a thing as truly bad people?”
Sebastian nods, even though he knows Jim can’t see him, even if just in the
reflection from the mirror. “Yeah,” he affirms, “four years ago, wasn’t it?”
“I’d just turned fourteen, yeah,” he chuckles again, thinking back to that day
for a few moments. “The night before, I’d heard someone - I heard someone
screaming. It woke me up, and I stumbled out into the kitchen. Got a glass of
water. Figured it’d been just a dream. My uncle came up from the basement, and
just sort of - he just stared at me. Didn’t say a word, but he watched me
drink, and I almost thought he was going to follow me back to my bedroom. I
don’t know why. I locked my door.” He stops again, arms going from his pockets
to around his chest, squeezing himself.
“I don’t know why, but when I woke up the next morning, I knew something was
wrong. S’why I started thinking about it. About bad people. I never forgot
about that night. It’s, uh, the third file. Oisin Brady, eleven years old; the
only one that didn’t make it. Found drowned in the creek.”
“Jim —"
“And there’s Annie, too, Annie Simmons. Always knew there was something wrong
with that girl. She just - people don’t turn out like that on their own.” The
words come out in a rush, like a wave of sound, and Sebastian flinches at the
onslaught. “She disappeared four days before her ninth birthday, came back on
it, and everyone was just so fucking happy that she was back that —"
“Jimmy!” he barks it louder now, moving up to stand behind him, his hands close
around the boy’s shoulders. It’s enough to still him, to make the words freeze
in his mouth. “Stop it.”
“Why should I, Sebastian?” Jim bites back at him, but he looks more tired than
anything at this point. He doesn’t look like he cares.
“Because you don’t care about them.”
“Oh? Don’t I?” he doesn’t sound like he believes Sebastian.
“Yeah,” Sebastian sighs, the noise somehow husky, and he nuzzles at the side of
the boy’s head. “I know you could recite every one of their names from the top
of your head. I know you memorised every one of their stories, Jim and —” he
brushes the hair away from Jim’s forehead, kissing the side of it, more than
aware of how the boy’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut. “You don’t care about
them, Jimmy.”
“I should, though. Shouldn’t I?”
Sebastian laughs softly, lacking in any trace of real mirth. “I s’pose.”
The boy’s body goes limper against him, until he’s actually consciously holding
both of them up. “Then what do I care about?”
His hands slide down to brace along Jim’s hips, and it’s not sexual, not this
time. He’s just holding the boy, reminding him that he’s not alone. “Me, I
guess.”
“Sebastian.”
He, too, closes his eyes. “I think you’re scared about what it means to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, listening for the sound of Jim’s chest shuddering up and
down again.
It comes, after a moment, with another whispered noise. “Why am I still scared
of things? Of him?”
“‘Cause —” he squeezes at the boy’s waist comfortingly, breathing and speaking
into his ear. “‘Because you know what’s out there, and you know how dangerous
it is.”
“Seb, we’re not - we’re not living in some god awful sci-fi snuff film.”
A laugh, a joke. Good, that’s good. Getting Jim to joke is a good thing,
because it means he’s lightening up, just enough that he’s not in danger
anymore. “Fine,” he tells Jim, instead of trying to make it better. “Your uncle
is a bad man. And you know that now, even if you’ve always suspected it. And
you know what?”
“Seb —"
It’s Jim’s turn to interrupt, and Sebastian’s to ignore it.
“People are shit, Jimmy. You know that, you’ve always known that, even if you
weren’t aware of it. Why else do you think you were so wary of me when we first
met? And guess what?” he doesn’t pause for breath, rushing to get it all out
before Jim tries to speak again. “People are always going to hurt you, in the
end. S’how it works.”
Jim’s body shudders against his, and he tugs him closer, lining them up
perfectly. It delays the words, by a few seconds.
“What about you?”
“You’re too much a part of me at this point.” It’s the most honest he can think
to be, or even can.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he seems angry now, and he has every
right to be. Every right to lash out and verbally strike Sebastian. Or even
physically; but he doesn’t move to hurt him, and it’s just his body that seems
to be fighting his mind.
“It means that you’re a part of me, and I love you with every fiber of me
that’s me.” He swallows. “It means that I could sooner drive a knife through my
own heart than let any harm come to you that I could’ve stopped.”
He knows Jim doesn’t believe it. The boy doesn’t even have to say it for him to
know. Jim will never believe those words, but they still need to be said, and
he can’t let himself regret any time he tells the boy.
But Jim doesn’t fight him on it. One of his hands slides up and it pushes
around until it’s on Sebastian’s cheek, touching him lightly. “Okay,” he says,
and it’s just a dead word, but he caresses the skin of Sebastian’s face, and
whether or not things will change doesn’t seem to matter now.
“I love you, too, Sebastian,” he tells him, breathing out shakily, and
Sebastian smiles. He holds the boy tightly, so close to him that it's almost
difficult to tell where he ends and Jim begins. But then, it's always been that
way, hasn't it?
***** seven years, if you want to know *****
The ceiling overhead looks a bit of a rose petal pink, and he blinks, unable to
clear the illusion, not even sure if it is one or not. “I shut my eyes and all
the world drops dead,” he whispers, feeling the same old shudder run down his
shoulders as every time he’s heard those words before. “I lift my lids and all
is born again. I think I made you up inside my head.”
His eyes drift shut after a moment, the pink hue still visible through the
barely there breaks between his eyelids, “I dreamt that you bewitched me into
bed. Sung me moon struck, kissed me quite insane.” He can’t quite help but
smile, even through the silly little aching in his chest, letting an arm
stretch out and flop to his left, feeling the weight of Sebastian’s chest
rising and falling with every breath.
The man doesn’t wake up, doesn’t so much as twitch in his sleep, and Jim pulls
himself to his side, so he can face the man supine body on the bed, his arm
curling away and underneath his head instead of staying on Sebastian’s
chest. “I fancied you’d return the way you said, but I grow old and forget your
name,” he finishes there, having no more need for someone else’s words.
“Do you ever feel like you might have died, Sebastian?” he asks softly, just
loud enough to hear his words, and watch them as they settle miraculously in
the air between them. “Only, your mind has forgotten to catch up with the rest
of your body, so you just keep on living, in the space between each breath.
“You forget to leave the house,” his tone stays the same, not a single word
rising or falling in depth or volume, a steady beat of thoughts, “No one comes
to see you. You don’t eat for days, and water doesn’t seem important or
necessary, so you don’t think about trying to drink something. And you just -
you continually find yourself dragged out of this perpetual, suffocatingly
restless sleep.”
Reaching out again, he presses his free hand lightly to Sebastian’s cheek, the
bone of his wrist resting gently in the curve of the man’s neck. He can feel
every breath coming in and out; feel the way Sebastian’s blood beats past his
pulse, almost speaking to the blood within him instead of Sebastian himself.
 “And every time you open your eyes, it feels like you’ve forgotten something.
This big, huge something, that’s horrible, and you never should have let slip
from out of your grasp.
“But it’s not there. You did let it slip away, and now it’s never coming back.
You’ll never remember that one thing. It doesn’t exist anymore, except as a
memory of a memory. So you breathe; you take those steps forward, and you
forget if you’re really there. Or if the world around you is all continuing
forward, one tiny little step at a time and you just managed to get left
behind.
“You’re stuck in limbo, Sebastian. You were left behind. You missed your train,
and it went on without you, the last train of the evening. And all you have now
is the need to catch up with yourself, so you can either move on, or cease to
exist entirely.”
Still feeling the comforting presence of Sebastian’s heartbeat, he pauses,
stealing a breath of his own from the air around him. “That’s what I feel like
today,” he picks up, a touch quieter than before, like this part is more of a
secret than the rest. “Like I’ve died. And I just don’t know it for certain
yet. Because no one has taken the time to tell me. Because no one knows quite
yet.
“No one’s found the body, and I’m still rotting away in the tub. That bathroom,
the one I never use, because the smell is abhorrent to my nose. Is it my body
that I smell? Yours? That single trace of reality, leaking through the cracks
of the fantasy that my mind has so eagerly built up around me. That delicious
delusion, that’s keeping me trapped, that’s been there for longer than I could
possibly ever know, inside the cage of my own psyche.”
His heart beats perfectly in time with Sebastian’s. “I think that I would like
to wake up now,” he concludes, tasting the words on his tongue, before finally
finishing with, “or just go back to sleep.”
Sebastian still doesn’t wake up, even as he traces the lines of his face, from
the bend of his nose to the harsh break away from his jaw into his neck. Idly,
he wonders if Sebastian is just an illusion right now, if he’s really dead, and
Jim is still asleep enough to not connect the pieces, filling in the space
where his heartbeat should be.
He leans over to kiss him on the cheek, the surface cold, and Sebastian doesn’t
stir; so he curls closer, content with that for now. He moves after a moment,
letting his hand trail lower, fitting over the curve of Sebastian’s hip,
petting him softly there.
“I hate you,” he whispers, trying out the words, not for the first time, and
certainly not for the last. “Did you know that? I loathe you more than I could
ever loathe anyone else in all the world.”
“I know,” Sebastian finally whispers back, and Jim hadn’t heard or felt him
wake up. He doesn’t open his eyes or say anything more, but a hand comes out,
sliding down Jim’s head, tangling through the strands of his hair.
“And I love you,” he says after a moment, nothing but quiet finality in his
throat. “More than anyone else in the world could ever imagine.”
The proclamation doesn’t make him smile, not the way it used to when he was
younger. Still, it’s hardly a surprise, as he closes his eyes. “Go back to
sleep,” he breathes into Sebastian’s air. “Shh.”
The fingers in his hair tighten, tugging ever so tenderly at his scalp. “But
you’re awake.”
“I’ll sleep soon.
“Do you promise?”
“Never,” and Sebastian laughs softly, unsurprised, the movements of his chest
evening out ever so subtly, falling back to sleep in less time than the span of
a single breath.
He could get up now. He could touch Sebastian’s face regretfully, kiss his
forehead, and drag himself out from the warm confines of the hotel’s bed. But
Sebastian’s hand never left his head, even though it’s unmoving now, entwined
within his hair as if it was built to do that, and he lets himself fall into
the lull of Sebastian’s invisible gravitational pull.
“Lolita, light of my life,” he breathes into the air, “fire of my loins. My
sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta, the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps
down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”
Why that particular passage settled so perfectly in his memory, he can’t quite
pinpoint. It wasn’t his favourite set of lines in the whole book, nor was it
the most beautiful, but something about it was unsettling in its strangeness.
So honest and naive in that impurity, at least to him when he had last read it.
The day his uncle had caught him with it — reading it for perhaps the third
time — was one that he had never completely forgotten, when he was thirteen.
The man had gotten an odd sort of look on his face, eyes going wide, the vein
in his forehead quivering ever so unsettlingly. He hadn’t said a word, or
threatened to take the book away, only staring at Jim for seconds that seemed
to drag out for the span of a hundred years. The only sound that passed between
them had been the exhaling of their chests moving gradually further and further
into sync.
He’d wanted to ask why his uncle even had the book, why the copy was so old and
so worn; but there was a part of him that hadn’t really wanted to know, didn’t
want to even speak of it, so he hadn’t ever tried. He’d cradled it to his
chest, fingers smushed between where he was, waiting wordlessly to be excused,
or have it taken from him. But that moment didn’t come, and the rest of the
night had been quiet, with him sent off to bed immediately after his dinner.
He’d fallen asleep easily for once, resting through the whole night, which was
unusual. But only in that he hadn’t heard from Sebastian in weeks, and had
begun to wonder if the boy was gone for good, or if he might come back one day.
But he wasn’t, he did come back, the next morning, and Jim had been overjoyed.
Nothing else had seemed to matter, and he’d forgotten about the book, not
thinking of it again for a great many years.
Certain passages, however, were ones that he never could quiet shake himself
from remembering, and he would catch himself murmuring them into the dark. The
last paragraph that he’d read before his uncle had pulled his attention
away, All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonisingly in love
with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because the frenzy of mutual
possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and
assimilating every particle of each other’s soul and flesh.
It makes him smile softly, pained and remembering.
Even with Sebastian still caught up in the bed sheets beside him, a part of him
feels like the bed is empty save for his own body. He knows the man is there;
he can smell him, feel him, hear his breath, and practically taste him on his
tongue. But it isn’t quite enough to be real, and the same thing wrestling to
tear him from out of the bed keeps fighting to say that it’s just him, and that
there’s nothing to leave.
If Sebastian were real right now, more than just a fevered dream, he could wrap
himself up in the other man, using him like a safety blanket, curling their
bodies so tightly together that they would have no choice but to share every
breath. He could sink into the same space in which Sebastian is lying, stealing
his warmth, stealing the heat from his bones, breathing in from his skin.
But part of him can’t, and, “it’s just the dark,” he reminds himself
blindly. “It’s just the overwhelming feeling of absence,” because that’s all
that it is. Nothing more and nothing less.
He wants it, longs for it, as he presses just close enough to get his lips to
catch along the skin of Sebastian’s shoulder, ignoring every truth he’s ever
known for this single, disgusting moment, the warmth of Sebastian’s life
emanating out from his skin.
Maybe it is just his nerves playing with him, telling him what he feels, but it
feels so utterly, distressingly real, and that’s enough. Tonight, it’s more
than enough to just have this, to fall into this.
As his fingers twitch, tasting sweat on his tongue, and craving a cigarette to
fill the gap. A need so powerful that he can actually taste it in his throat,
along his teeth, the way it stings across his lips making them lightly burn
once he’s had too many, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.
He can almost smell the smoke pooling around his head, unable to escape in from
the stillness in the air, only shaken with every inhale, until it has seeped
into his skin, his clothes, into his brain; somehow, in some way, clearing away
the darkening of his mind. So he can think, so he can let himself be swallowed
up by a different sort of haze, one where existing isn’t as hard, where being
alive feels more real and more full.
To be transported to the place where things make sense, where he can breathe,
and be alive, and feel without being weighed down by pillars chained to his
ankles. Where he’s no longer consumed by the feeling of being perpetually stuck
fading in and out of consciousness, unable to know the speed of time or
completely understanding what’s happening around him.
With every drag he wants to be reminded of his death, closing off his lungs and
screaming at him just how mortal he really is. That reminder that a slow and
steady death is coming for him, regardless of whether or not a quicker, more
painful one comes first.
He wants to smoke because it’s easier. Easier than being alive, easier than
breathing free and fresh air; easier than the constantly being consumed by his
thoughts, his hatred, and that rebellion that festers on a never ending loop
inside his soul.
It can make the music inside his head fade, brush it away to make room for
other things; replaced by things that are okay, that don’t hurt, that don’t
drive him to throw himself to the floor and curl up as tight as he can,
mimicking the feeling of having someone else’s arms wrapped around him.
He can taste the after, but sleep doesn’t come for him. Tomorrow is too
important; especially if tonight is the last night he’ll have with Sebastian by
his side.
***** but no less a devil for that, no not *****
“I used to believe that all people were good. Did you know that?” Eyes shut,
his body is relaxed, comfortably curled up on Sebastian’s chest. The older boy
hums in encouragement, and he smiles, reaching blindly up to trace a finger
along the curve of Sebastian’s face.
“I thought that there wasn’t any such thing as bad people.” He continues, a
heaviness in his voice. “Just bad decisions — mistakes — that led to bad things
for other people. I thought - I thought that no one could truly be all that
bad, because being bad meant that you didn’t care about other people. I didn’t
get how anyone could not care what happened to the people around them.”
Reciprocating, Sebastian’s hand moves to cover Jim’s head, gently carding his
fingers through the boy’s hair. “What made that change, Jimmy?” he asks
quietly, content to listen instead of turning this into any sort of debate.
There’s a long pause, Jim chewing on his lip as he tries to find the right
words. “I’m not really sure,” he finally settles, shifting to get a little bit
more comfortable. It’s warm in the room, but surprisingly enough, the press of
their naked bodies together doesn’t make it worse. They’re still slightly
sticky with sweat from their previous exertions, though neither of them can
feel it any longer. It’s too easy to get swept up in the afterglow, the gentle
comfort of lying entwined with another tender body.
“I kinda —” he bites down on his lip harder this time, until he can taste a
coppery hint of blood, and it makes him frown. “It wasn’t really any one thing.
I didn’t wake up one morning or have something happen, and realise that
everything I’d thought about life — about people — was wrong. If that —" he
hesitates, opening his eyes and staring up into the boy’s eyes, seeking
confirmation. “If that makes any sense?”
“Yeah, Jimmy,” Sebastian chuckles, craning his neck to press a fond kiss to
Jim’s forehead. His lips don’t pull away immediately, letting the touch sink in
for a few moments. “It makes sense,” he murmurs into warm skin.
“And —" Jim picks right back up, almost as if there hadn’t been a pause, only
acknowledging the kiss in the way a sigh falls from his lips as it ends. "— I
don’t even know why I ever thought that. It doesn’t make any actual sense.
Because there’re bad people out there. I’ve met ‘em, you’ve met ‘em, they’re
everywhere! There’s no denying it. So why should I?”
The only sound that comes from Sebastian is another humming noise, all the
encouragement that he knows Jim needs at this point. There’s not much into
things he can put that’ll help further the boy’s train of thought. It helps
that he doesn’t want to interrupt, enjoying instead a quiet moment with Jim’s
voice murmuring his ideas into his ear. It’s better than other days, when
they’re constantly rushing about, full of half-finished thoughts and schemes
that’ll never be mentioned again.
His fingers never falter in their movements, knowing that stopping would be too
much of a distraction at this point. It would make Jim pause long enough to
fall off the trail he’s on, and that would just agitate him.
“It would be nice to believe,” Jim sighs, his hand falling away from
Sebastian’s face, curling behind his neck in an unconscious, definitely
possessive gesture. “In a world where people change for the better, try to fix
things when they see that something’s broken. Wouldn’t it?” it’s not actually a
question, and he doesn’t pause long enough for that mistake to be made.
The atmosphere in the room seems to have shifted, moving from the comfort of
quiet warmth to a slightly unsettling chill, a serious dread almost filling up
the air. A reflection of how Jim must be feeling, and it makes Sebastian’s
chest shudder slightly, reaching as unobtrusively as possibly down below their
bodies to tug up the sheet, until it settles around Jim’s shoulders.
“But it couldn’t possibly exist! Think about it, Seb. Humans make mistakes, and
more mistakes to fix those mistakes, and it never ends. Until one day they come
home, and they don’t care anymore about those mistakes. Do they stop? No, they
don’t. They keep at it, not feeling guilty anymore about who they’re hurting,
no longer trying to fix things for other people, but for themselves instead.
“And I just —" he growls under his breath, making Sebastian worry for a tiny
second that teeth might dig into his neck and tear viciously at his skin. But a
bite doesn’t come, nor does any comforting nuzzle of nose against his Adam’s
apple. “Are we supposed to fix it? That’s what they say, isn’t it? If you don’t
like the way something is, you find a way to change it? Make it better? But why
should we have to? Why should we have to fix things for people when people
don’t care enough to fix them for anyone else?
“Why should we make the world a better place for people who don’t care either
way, who’ll just fuck it up again within a few years?” He stops only to take a
few breaths, the vehemence behind his words making him pant in a way that sex
never does, something that never ceases to amuse Sebastian.
“We don’t,” he mumbles to Jim’s head, his words superfluous, but he felt like
contributing just a little bit.
“I know,” Jim agrees. “We don’t.” They both fall dead silent now, the only
noise from their lips as they breathe in and exhale, heavy but not necessarily
uncomfortably loud for the room.
“So where does that leave us?” he finally asks, voice almost a whisper. “A
broken world, people too fucked up to fix it and…” he swallows, and for a
minute, it’s almost as if he’s drifted off to sleep. He picks up again,
sounding more contemplative than ever before. “The world’s too broken for the
people and the people are too broken for the world. So what’s left to be done?”
Sebastian’s lips part, an answer he doesn’t know ready on his lips. He’s saved
from embarrassment when Jim shushes him, moving his hand with disturbing
accuracy to press his forefinger to Sebastian’s mouth.
“Do you start over with a new world, or try to pick up with a new people? New
world’s obviously out of it,” he laughs, still sounding serious about it. “Are
people out of it, too?”
He pulls away now, from Sebastian’s body, opting to sit cross legged just next
to him on the bed, arms curled around his upper body. He stares beseechingly
into Sebastian’s eyes, as if the older boy carries all the answers he’ll ever
need in life.
To Jim’s eyes, he does. Sebastian’s always been the one to give him answers. If
he can’t, he finds them, and brings them back to Jim, a grin on his face at
being able to do something for the boy. It makes Jim’s stomach feel warm every
time, having to hide a smile at the way Sebastian glows.
Sighing, Sebastian reaches out a hand to Jim’s face, ignoring the instinctual
flinch in favour of caressing the side of his face. “I love you, Jimmy,” he
whispers, swallowing the lump in his throat. They’re not the only words he
wants to say. If he let himself, he’d ramble for hours at how beautiful the boy
is to him, how lovely his every feature is. He’d whisper his adoration over and
over into Jim’s ear, holding his little body close. He would try and express
absolutely everything he feels, every shred of protectiveness, every little bit
of his need to keep Jim safe.
But he can’t. It wouldn’t feel right, it wouldn’t be right, so he packs it all
into those three little words, hoping and praying that Jim will understand.
That Jim will get it.
They don’t say it often to each other. Only a handful of times since the first,
somehow making it feel like the first time every time. It brings a fear to
Jim’s heart, for the future, for the thought of not always having Sebastian at
his side, protecting him, holding him close. He doesn’t want that, but every
time the boy says ‘I love you’ to him, it reminds him of how easy it would be
to lose him.
“I —" Jim laughs shrilly, the sound cracking from his throat. “I know.” Red
rises to his cheeks visibly, making his skin glow in the light. He looks away,
disguising the pain he feels, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth to chew
on it. “I love you, too,” he breathes out, not having anything else to say. The
words are the truest he’s ever spoken, in a way, and he suspects they’re the
most honest he’ll ever be in the entirety of his life.
“Good.” Sebastian laughs, pushing himself off from the pillows. He covers Jim’s
face in his hands, practically dwarfing the boy’s head entirely, and leans to
claim his lips in a hard kiss. He doesn’t push for more, only meaning to press
a reminder to Jim’s body that he belongs to someone.
He pulls away, dropping a second, lighter kiss to the top of Jim’s head, making
the boy sigh regretfully.
“D’ya hafta leave so soon?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“Afraid so, love. I’m an adult,” Sebastian laughs, ruffling Jim’s hair. He
claims his jeans off the floor, pulling them on with the boxers, only casting a
half look at the boy. “I’ve gotta work for a living, remember?”
“Yeah, I know,” swallowing the lump in his throat, Jim shrugs, watching
Sebastian as the boy searches for his shirt. Childishly, he refuses to help
him, knowing already that the shirt was kicked under the bed.
After a minute of looking, Sebastian freezes, turning on his heel to stare back
at Jim. “You know where it is, don’t you?” he accuses, pointing his finger
almost aggressively.
“Wha —" Jim freezes, eyes going wide. He stammers, but Sebastian stops him.
“You’re not that good a liar yet, Jimmyboy. Where’s my bloody shirt?”
A glare rising, Jim growls under his breath, kicking one of the blankets up
with his foot to reveal the missing piece of clothing.
“Good boy,” Sebastian murmurs, moving to his knees on the floor to retrieve it.
He pulls it over his head before getting up, pausing to press a kiss to the
side of Jim’s knee, making the boy shiver. “You’ll be okay without me, I
promise.” He stands with a sigh, looking over Jim’s body regretfully, wishing
he had time please him, but he has to leave now if he wants to be on time.
“Just you wait,” is grumbled at him as he stumbles out the door. “When I’m
grown up, you’ll have to work for me, and you’ll hafta listen when I tell you
to skip out for a day.”
His laughter carries through the house, only fading once the front door slams
behind him on his way off the porch.
The house falls dead silent after he leaves, and Jim drops back on the bed
sheets, body curling around one of the pillows, his nose pressed into it trying
to find Sebastian’s scent.
His eyes falls shut before he does, losing his focus. He just wants the boy to
come back to him, wrap his arms around him and never, ever let go. It’s not
just his love for the boy, but the feeling that just having him in the room
most of the time brings. He feels safe with Sebastian, in a way that no one has
ever made him, that leaves him terrified the rest of the time, of how
vulnerable he is.
Without Sebastian, he’s scared. Scared that the boy might never come back to
him, scared that someone might take him away before Sebastian can return;
scared that Sebastian will meet someone else, that someone will come and hurt
him. Without the boy there to tell him it’s going to be all right, he doesn’t
honestly believe that it possibly could be.
It should frighten him more than that. That Sebastian has brought him to that
place of dependency, but it really doesn’t. He was this terrified before it
all, before Sebastian walked into his life, and it’s only now that he has him
that he thinks he can survive long enough to get away.
But then Sebastian leaves for a while. Sometimes he doesn’t come back for so
long that when he finally does return, it’s to Jim curled up and scared in the
back of his wardrobe, fearing what might be coming for him.
He doesn’t want to be that way with Sebastian, and he promises himself that
when he grows up, he’ll grow out of it. But it’s not enough to fix
things. He’s not enough to fix things.
He falls asleep, and he dreams, of a world where Sebastian doesn’t exist, isn’t
there to chase away the monsters that haunt him; and wakes up in a cold sweat,
with no one there to whisper soothingly in his ear, and the sound of the front
door slamming as his uncle leaves for his shift.
***** daddy, you can lie back now *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
What wakes him are the sounds. They draw him from his sleep with a start, the
mixture of voices yelling and quick spurts of gunfire all almost
incomprehensible. They’re slightly muffled, dulled out as they pass through the
walls, and all of it together makes his ears ring and his head spin.
In the first few moments, the shock to his body overcomes his brain’s ability
to recover, and the sudden absence of the peaceful silence from his dreams is
like a shattered panel of glass. He can’t move, can’t make sense of anything
around him, and it all seems too unnatural to cope.
The way he ordinarily wakes up is quickly, brain only lagging for the briefest
of moments, before it’s fully online, and he’s moving about, functioning at
nearly full potential. But in these first seconds, they seem to last forever;
his eyes are too blurry, his body regretting every tensing of his muscles as
his mind and his bones struggle to find a way to meet in the middle. He’s
disoriented, and he almost forgets about what’s outside.
The shouting and the sound of bullets lodging themselves into metal walls spins
through his head, nestling comfortably in the back of his mind, that little
section labeled ‘not currently relevant’ and he has to fight that.
He’s always had to fight his own mind, but something about today makes it more
painful than it usually is.
It comes back fully eventually, and he’s able to acclimatise himself to his
surroundings, but at least a good half minute filled with noises has passed.
Once it does, he’s up, crouching on his haunches on the cold floor.
Beside him is his jacket, strewn out across a dirty patch as a shoddy,
makeshift bed, on which he’d clearly been laying his head. He stares blankly at
it, losing more seconds without realising it, trying desperately to remember
how he got here, and what happened the night before.
He can only barely see the wall behind it, and he blinks at it, eyes unseeing,
too dense and thoughtless for another lagging moment, and once again, he must
pull himself almost physically out from the deep trenches of his remaining
stupor.
Another wave of yelling reaches through to him, and he groans, the last traces
of his dream rubbed cruelly from his eyes, and he catches sight of the mismatch
of shelves and tools, littered between large empty spaces along the walls.
Some are left forgotten and out of place on the floor, hammers and a couple of
rusted old saws scattered nonsensically. They’re as if someone, a very long
time ago, had swept through the place, taking what they wanted; and had dropped
the things that they didn’t steal on the floor, never returning to put them
back into place.
It would make sense, in some odd way, with the stillness in the air, the way
the dust seems to be layered just right. There are spots heavier than others,
patches that look like they’ve been brushed over, but ultimately, it appears as
if the building itself has been left untouched for a great many years.
Not as long as he’s been gone, he knows, even though he can hardly remember
this place at this point, because people have been here. They’ve taken more
than just from the walls, having ravaged the place, stealing tables, metal
chairs, and what useful things they did find. It’s too disturbed, too obvious
that the visitor wasn’t meant to be here.
From what he can remember of this place, it’s nearly the spitting image of the
way he had left it, all those years ago, save for the handful of things missing
from either the place or the gaps in his memory. The last time he was here was
only days before he’d left Ireland for the first time, running away to make
some other place his home. It’s been closer to three decades since he first
found it with a specific plan for it in mind.
He can’t even pinpoint exactly all of what’s missing, which might be the most
distressing part of it. What thoughts he can muster together for it feel like
they’re not actually his own, like he’s plucked them out of someone else’s head
while they weren’t looking. As such, they all succeed in barreling together,
smashing open on the rocks of his mind, nearly threatening to give him a
headache.
It’s easy to push away, though, to make himself reach blindly beside the
jacket, to feel around with his hands in the still mostly darkened room. His
fingers find the thing for which they’re looking, closing confidently around
the cool barrel of the pistol he can vaguely recall bringing with him. It’s the
engraved CZ- 75 that Sebastian purchased for him years and years ago, his
initials carved carefully into the inside of the grip.
He’s always loved this gun.
His fingers slide along it instinctively, picking at it, checking the clip, and
the safety. It’s full, and he — or someone else — has cleaned it recently. If
it was him, he can’t remember, be it the last time he took it out of its case,
or the last time he had used it outside of practice.
It’s still in perfect condition, catching onto what little light there is and
gleaming in the room. He runs his left thumb along the edge, tracing down the
barrel, and along the trigger, inside to feel the letters there. They’re still
clear, the curve easy to follow, and he can’t help his smile.
When it comes down to it, this gun has always been intended more to be a
memory. His memory. His holding onto an item that means something, one of the
few he’s always made certain to keep, so that he’ll never be allowed to forget.
He doesn’t use it, because it’s too valuable for that, and it would be foolish
of him to squander it so carelessly.
What lies within his mind is too important for that as well. But he takes it
out, when he thinks of it, and his fingers slide along it lovingly. He’ll clean
it, stripping it down to make sure the parts are greased and held together
perfectly, and then he’ll hold it in his hands for hours. It’s almost always
loaded, even though that’s far from practical, but he can’t help it. It doesn’t
feel right unless the weight is familiar in his hands, pressed into the palms
of his hands, and he can’t love it when it’s not complete.
The gun reminds him of everything that Sebastian is. His mind always darts
towards the other man, and maybe he’ll just wonder where he might be, what he
might be doing, and that helps, too. It keeps him grounded, in the way only
Sebastian has ever known how to do.
Now, like always, the tiny little doubt begins to nag at that back of his mind,
wearing through the walls, and he has to think about why Sebastian isn’t here
right now. While the man is incredibly prone to disappearing at the most random
of times, and then showing up hours or days later just in the nick of time and
as useful as can be, Jim can’t honestly get away with saying that it’s not a
tiny bit frustrating.
It’s not fair, the freedom he gives the man, at least sometimes; and he hates
him for it.
Sebastian should have shown up the night before, but he’s not here, and Jim is
alone, with nothing to protect him from the people outside. It’s not that he
actually needs someone to take care of him, not anymore, but out of everything,
it doesn’t sit right when he’s alone. Since he met the man, Sebastian has
always tried to be there to keep him safe, to help him.
He has to push the thoughts out to a distant crevice of his mind, where they’ve
always belonged, and he watches them as the worry slowly dissipates in the air.
The little pieces break apart, mist splitting through his mind, and he makes
his way to the front of the building; to the door.
It’s not hard to recall which one leads to the little field out front, that he
must have used as a makeshift parking lot, and farther than that, it opens to a
road that parts the trees. The door to the back only offers an incredibly dense
patch of forest, that goes on farther than the eye can see. Both of which
aren’t the best of options, only good for a young boy on foot, who’s searching
for solitude, or something more than that.
In a car, it’s not as easy to get here, but getting out is even more difficult.
The trees seem to go on forever, long grown over and forgotten, and unless you
know where you’re going, you’re likely to get lost within minutes.
About the back, the direct line of trees, he knows two things. The first is
that there is a town in that direction, somewhere, a great distance through, to
which he’s never been, nor as he ever spoken to someone who’s mentioned it in
more than just passing. The second is that it’s so far in that he’d be unlikely
to reach it before night begins to fall again, even if his best shot included
actually still knowing the area, and where to go.
With the storm that’s been brewing, and growing perpetually worse for the last
couple of days, it’s more or less a fact that he’ll meet some sort of demise
before then. Be it because of some injury — perhaps accidental, or even a stray
bullet wound — and the inability to clean and dress it, or from starvation.
It was stupid for him to have come here, after so long.
From the front, he has only about a fifty percent likelihood of absolute
survival. It’s the better option, when it comes down to it, even if he does end
up wounded or dead. It’s better to die now than to die later, after all, and
once he ventures out beyond, he’ll be entirely on his own.
He still has a gun, still has ammunition, and he still has working hands. Even
if he does go down, it will be in that ridiculous blaze of bullets that
Sebastian used to tease him about, years ago. He’d always said that it would be
how Jim would meet his end. One final shot at being almost like a hero, he’d
chuckled, dodging the subsequent book thrown in the direction of his head.
To say that dying young had been any sort of goal of his would be false. Though
he’s been known to gamble with a variety of things in his time — his life not
even the most of all — it hasn’t been his prerogative in a very long time.
Being the gambling sort of man, however, means that he’s aware of how good odds
fifty/fifty really are, and it really doesn’t seem as problematic as it
probably should. It is just one life, after all.
Once he makes it to the old door, to the crack where the handle used to be, he
can see just how great his chances are. It’s five men, armed mostly with 9mms,
and a couple of p90s; and the car that’s obviously not theirs is ransacked.
From the look of the outside, it’s most likely inoperable by now, and if he
wants to drive away after this, he’ll have to get his hands on one of the cars
they brought with them.
There are two of them, new model Audis, and though looks can be deceiving, it’s
more than obvious that they’re outfitted more than the average floor model
tends to be. It would probably be difficult to hotwire one, especially under
fire, so his best bet is to either find a set of keys, or just by some stroke
of luck, take them all out, and buy himself enough time to get away clean.
It’s really as good odds as he could possibly hope to get. Which leaves the
back, since they’re still waiting for him; for some reason they’ve gone silent,
huddled together in a little pile between the three cars.
A miniature ambush from the side it is, he concludes silently, as he slips back
from the door. Anyone could come in here, could have the entire time he was
sleeping, but something must have kept them out; and the only thing he can
decide is that they must have thought that he might have rigged the place to
blow.
It would explain why they’ve been keeping their distance, and why none of their
shots have been well enough aimed to pierce through any windows.
That does give him a slight step up, enough to shake the odds up a tiny bit,
even if things will never truly go in his favour. But on the most base of all
terms, he really has been in worse scrapes before, nearly all of which he’d
walked out with nary a scratch on his perfectly pressed suits.
The goal is to kill one of the ones with keys — which could be easier, seeing
as the ones with the automatic weapons appear to be not only the most trigger
happy, but the ones more likely to be licensed to drive — and get to one of the
cars. Either car will do. His secondary goal is to sustain as few injuries as
possible.
Easy, right?
And now he remembers why he came here, what happened last night. He was
supposed to meet him, that man from the Americas. He didn’t show, and Jim had
opted to sleep here instead of risking trying to find his way back to the hotel
in the dark.
Nonsensically, he moves back to the door, pressing his mouth to the round hole.
“Hello, boys!” he finds himself shouting, “I don’t suppose you would be here to
file a complaint about the unjust decision to cut down this delicious forest?”
It’s stupid, but enough of a distraction, enough to draw their attention to a
single place, and he’s already moving onto a next.
He zigzags across the floor, moving with his body in a near crouch, the pistol
still in his hand. The first bullet shoots past his ear, making him quicken his
pace somewhat, pushing faster to get across to the other side before a call
comes closer. It’s not exactly an enjoyable thing, but it certainly shoots a
certain and definitely heady pulse of adrenalin through his veins, and he can
hear it pounding through his head.
It brings a sigh to his lips.
How dirty the floor is doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. More an unpleasant
reality that he’d rather not, because the dust seems the type that adores
flying at him, latching onto the fabric of his trousers. It’s not something he
can help, or even avoid in the least, and on any other day, he’d find a way
around it. But on a day like this, he can’t, no matter how much he’d prefer to
die in a suit that’s as near stainless as he can manage.
Aside from that, getting dirty isn’t a problem. Especially not seeing as the
first dozen or so years of his life were spent crawling around in the little
secret corridors of abandoned houses, scaling trees, running and tripping
through great muddy patches of earth to get away from bullies, and just
generally getting as messy as he possibly could manage without risking
incurring the wrath of his uncle.
The suit will be ruined, even if he doesn’t bleed all over it. It’s
unfortunate, but he must remind himself, as always, that in bad times,
sacrifices must always be made.
The warehouse — which is the only thing he can think to call it now — turns out
to be a great deal smaller than he had ever remembered it being. On this, he
automatically blames the difference in size to how he was then and how he is
now. As a child, he had been a skinny little runt of a thing, and now, though
still slight, he’s quite a lot taller; and with a greater grasp and perspective
of the world around him.
It’s just a few seconds that he’s across to the other end, prying open the
door. It, too, no longer has its handle, and it’s old, most likely having never
been properly oiled, and the hinges make a troublingly loud squeaking sound as
they’re forced into submission and opened up.
He winces at the sound; and then hurries to push it back shut again. “Well,” he
sighs, “there goes my silent escape, eh, ‘Basher?”
Sebastian may not be with him, but it’s comforting to pretend that he is.
It’s only once the door is shut again that he’s hit by how powerful the light
from the sky really is right now. It’s unusually bright, sun shining defiantly
through the grey cloud cover, piercing the edges of Jim’s vision. It’s almost
beautiful, in a dark and disgusting sort of way.
It freezes him, blinding his sight for a moment or two, before he blinks it
back.
This place really shouldn’t be this bright, and that’s somehow the only thing
of this that really makes sense. It’s never been this light before in the past,
even when the tree problem wasn’t so great, and he knows it hasn’t been so long
since he’s been in the country that things have changed that much.
It’s just too shiny.
There’s another quick spurt of gunfire — quieter now that he’s put a building
between him and them — and he groans. That’s something he can pinpoint without
any need for thought, knowing instantly what’s wrong with it. One of the p90s
is being used, and rather well, from the sound of the bullets impacting with
metal. It lessens his survival chances by at least ten percent.
His mental inventory pieces itself together, coming together instinctively and
agonisingly. Nearly impossible to get to a car without getting shot? Check.
Quite improbable that I will manage to get keys off his person? Check.
Inability to sneak around to the other side of the building without being shot
in the back? Check. Smashed phone with pieces digging into abdomen? Check.
It’s delightful, is all he can think. It really is; and it leaves him with
direct confrontation.
Perhaps intimidate them into trying to take me alive for... Hm.
It’s a long shot — always was and is — but it’s worked enough times that it
does raise his chances minutely, if he can be persuasive and terrifying enough
for it. While, granted, they’re the type that’s probably in the know of not
only his line of work, but the value of his name, it also means that they’re
just as likely to have orders to bring him in dead. It could be twisted into
some complicated revenge scheme, that would buy him time; or he might even go
willingly, allow them to drag him back alive, buying enough time for Sebastian
to show.
It is, once again, not something on which he’ll ever stake anything of any real
value. The man might choose today of all days to leave Jim completely and
entirely on his own — something that on any other day, he might be inclined to
cherish.
It’s with a prevalent sigh fluttered across the bitten, cherry red of his lips
that he pushes himself up against the wall of the building. The hinges of the
door threaten to catch along the white of his shirt, no longer pure and clean,
but stained with dirt and mess and tears, and he sidles along it, accumulating
more grit.
He’s rather proud — and Sebastian would be, too — to admit that his fingers
don’t shake for a second, wrapped around the gun that’s pressed flat to his
chest, holding it there. It’s safer that way, his hair caught in flat gust of
wind, and he reaches the final patch before the corner. “Howdy, gentlemen,” he
can’t help but taunt again, swallowing back the heaviness in his throat. “Is
there any particular reason you’re actually trying to kill me? Or did I incense
dear old Jack so much that he simply cannot wait to watch me burnt to ash?”
Not a trace of his body can be seen around the wall, and his voice carries, but
it gives away his position just as easily as walking out the front door would
have. It feels ironic, somehow.
A single shot rings out, the noise sharp, shattering through the chilly air,
and it’s a reward in itself.
“Aww,” he continues, smiling forcefully, for no reason other than his own
desperate need to remind himself that this is good, this is the way things are
supposed to be. “I don’t suppose he said anything about whether or not I get a
last meal? Or a phone call?”
One of the P-90s is fired, a quick burst of sound, and he winces, the smile
sliding from off his lips. There’s always someone wanting to get things done in
a more timely fashion than I would like, he sighs to himself, and where the
fuck does ‘Bastian think he gets to be when I actually need him?
He closes his eyes, only for a few gracious seconds, stretching his neck out to
crack the bones. It doesn’t make him groan — not quite — but the pain is sharp,
an aching reminder of how he had slept, and it almost serves to wake him up
afresh.
“Looking for me, James?”
The voice shatters his thoughts, cutting through the brief, spiteful haze, and
he turns to see Sebastian sliding up next to him. A lit cigarette is pressed
between two of his fingers, barely smoked, with just a touch of ash accumulated
at the end, and a smirk is etched near perpetually across the man’s lips. “Jes’
couldn’t survive long without me for long, eh?”
Even an idiot could recognise the sigh on his lips for that of relief, but he
rolls his eyes anyway, shushing the man with a wave of his hand. “Were you
planning to actually help?” he sneers, “or just get smoke in my face?”
As if to prove his point, Sebastian takes a long drag from the fag, breathing
it out straight against Jim’s face, and he coughs pointedly. The look in his
eyes demands that the man put it out, dispose of it somehow, or even swallow
it, but the twinkle in Sebastian’s denies him. He flicks at the end instead,
ash dusting into the air, and brings it back to his lips.
“Better?” the man asks after he breathes out again, directing his exhale away
from Jim this time.
“There’s no need to be snarky, darling,” he snaps, “I’d much rather, you know,
not die simply because you happen to be far too disgustingly distracted by your
smoking habits to catch that something was amiss and  —"
He’s interrupted with a heady snort, the muscles in Sebastian’s cheeks
twitching good-naturedly.
“Oh, get your arse out,” he smiles despite himself, “and start shooting
things,” and with that, he jerks his head in the direction of the front, the
stony and annoyed look from before threatening at his features.
“As you wish, my love,” Sebastian mocks him with a flourish, bowing devilishly
low, an arm spread out in front of him, the hand twirling mid-air. He looks
like a bloody ponce, for the flash of moments, before he’s attacking Jim with a
quick, unwanted kiss, and skipping back up, disappearing out around the
building with the cigarette still caught between his teeth.
Jim knows that he must have a gun somewhere on his person — most likely two,
not to mention a few knives — and he’s not concerned that the man will forget
to bring them out when he actually needs them. Not much, that is. He spits on
the ground, trying to get the taste of smoke from off his lips.
He could probably pay more attention than he is, but he switches his focus
seamlessly back to himself, automatically going to check the magazine once
more, before he cocks the gun, pushing a bullet into the chamber. Nothing seems
to be a problem, and it’s unlikely that it will jam when he needs it to work;
and he sighs again.
It’s time to finish this, once and for all.
“Honey, I’m home!” it flutters through his mind that he’s been shouting an
awful lot lately, at people that don’t really want to hear his voice, and he
gets a sick, stupid thrill from that. It makes him giggle, and he, too, passes
in the direction of the front, a giggle still fresh on his lips, that borders
on manic and more than a bit suicidal. His gun is pointed ahead of him now, and
just as Sebastian had not, he makes no decent attempt to hide or avoid getting
shot.
That would be just the sort of thing men like this will have grown to expect.
It certainly makes it easier, focusing on what’s in front of him primarily, and
he can pick off the first two with a single shot to the head each. Even if he
weren’t a surprisingly good gunman, it they wouldn’t be the most difficult
shots to make, both of them being close enough to him that he hardly has to aim
before each shot goes off with their sounds.
Perhaps it’s Sebastian, though, that took off one of them, wounding him first,
and it really doesn’t matter. It’s ever so difficult to tell on some days.
Once they’re down, he drops, too, to the ground with a heavy thud, and his
shoulders crunch up against the wall. A bullet comes just shy of clipping his
shoulder, missing him by a second as he moves.
By rights, man number four should be just as easy to take out as the first two
— unfortunately he did choose the less armed targets first; though he would be
surprised if the ones left know how to play this game, and even moderately
well.
There isn’t a single sound at first, nothing but dead silence for a long
moment, before the startlingly loud sound of footsteps padding across ground
rouses him to where someone is.
It’s a trap. Of course it is; but who is he to deny someone that?
The bursts of fire come quicker, less evenly spaced, and he can’t see the man
who’s shooting, but after a second, he hears him go down. The man doesn’t
scream, or moan in pain, and from the sound of it, he falls down flat on his
face.
It has Jim peeking out from the wall again, edging close. It’s not the best of
his ideas, but it’s the best — not to mention only — way to see right now.
All he can spot is Sebastian, and the man is crouched by the wheel of Jim’s
SUV, beckoning to him.
He blinks.
 
===============================================================================
 
“What was it that happened to your parents, Jimmy? How’d you end up with your
Uncle?
Without even thinking about it, his fingers curl up, and his hands clench into
tight fists.
“I don - I don’t know,” he whispers softly, “I never... He never told me. We
never talked about them, and  —" his voice cracks, just a tiny bit, and it
almost sounds like his eyes might be filling with a tiny trace of water. “No
one in town ever knew them. It was always just him and me.”
“So you didn’t  —"
“No.” He forces out the word, quick, biting, and he turns his back on
Sebastian, so that he’s facing the window, looking out into the bleary
countryside. “I never knew their names, I never knew their story. Fuck, for all
I knew, he wasn’t even my uncle.”
“But didn’t you try to  —"
“I tried everything,” he insists, growling, “I dug into every file I could
find, I threw myself into every database.”
“And?”
“He didn’t exist.”
“Oh.”
He barks out a laugh, and it hurts in his chest, like it’s cracking open his
heart. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’”
I’m sorry, Sebastian wants to say. If I could fix things, I would.
“Don’t even go there.” The air Jim breathes in sounds like a loud sniffle,
sucked in too quickly from his nose, and he laughs  hollowly. “I looked you up,
too.”
 
===============================================================================
 
His fingers begin to shake, trying to push away the memory from the last time
he was here.
The man waves his hand again, the motion more jerky, demanding, and Jim can
only furrow his eyebrows together and stare in confusion. How could he possibly
think this is a good idea?
Just thinking about trying to make the run sends his heart beating quicker, and
he scowls, glancing back behind him again to look at the woods. It barely
misses his eyes.
Sebastian signals again. Fuck! Fine.
As much as he hates this idea, he can see the value in it, and the reasoning
behind it as well, which leaves him with no real choice but to make the sprint
towards Sebastian. A quick look around — conscious of the tightness in his
chest — twisting to see everything he can.
Even if it seems to be what Sebastian wants of him right now, it would be
monumentally stupid to make a break without knowing the location of the last of
the gunmen.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it, a flash of light reflected off
something akin to a mirror, and he knows instantly. It gives away the position
better than anything else could have — better than any accident could — and
he’s even blessed with knowing where the barrel of the gun is pointed.
It’s aimed directly for him.
He tenses instinctually, prepared for another shot against the wall, and just
as the man will be ready to pull down on the trigger, he sprints forward.
He was stupid, he really was, realising much too late what was wrong with the
idea that had been in his head. The gun wasn’t aimed at him.
For only a second, he can appreciate the twin looks of triumph in the man’s
eyes, and the horror in Sebastian’s own, before he hears the shot ring out a
final time and the ringing blankets over his ears.
It’s in dismay that he watches, Sebastian’s eyes widening in understanding,
looking suitably dramatic, and he moves just enough to dodge the first. The
bullet hits the door of the car, imbedded deeply, and the second is only sent
after just moments of warning.
It hits him in the shoulder, buried well within the confines of his muscles.
His shock is what moves him reflexively forward, sprinting the rest of the way;
and he’s launches himself at Sebastian, without a single thought in his mind
for his own protection. The only thing about which he can think is his need to
get to Sebastian, to be at his side, to keep him safe.
It’s so stupid of him.
The third bullet is the one that gives absolutely no warning, the sound too
buried, and it catches him in the middle of his ribcage. He can practically
feel every twitch of it as its path is sliced through his skin, through the
thick layers of tissue, shredding past the side of one of his ribs as it
continues. He can feel every line of objective pain, every drop of blood that
will spill because of it.
But does that make him a masochist for delighting in it.
It doesn’t hurt, though.
It should, it really should, but though he knows it’s there, he can’t quite
feel it, on more than the most abstract of levels. But he can’t. There’s
nothing but that horrifying disconnect that keeps him from the reality of it.
He knows it’s there, before he even has to look, to touch the tips of his
fingers reverently to just the right spot. His hand does move, as if on
instinct as his eyes drop to stare at his own chest. There’s a slowly moving,
morphing shape of darkening red, that’s seeping out to broaden the range of
mess. The blood coats his shirt and his hands when they come close enough.
It’s warm, so incredibly warm between his fingers, and it’s nothing but a
thrill. The pressure increases, his palm coming down harder, only to give him
more blood, more of the feeling of being coated in the thing that keeps him
alive.
It’s a sigh on his lips.
Blindly, his other hand moves up, the gun already ready to be fired, and he
does. It doesn’t even take thinking to use it, blinking at the shock of empty
sound, and he almost doesn’t catch the ensuing thump of a body as it lands on
the ground. It doesn’t matter, in some way that he can’t fathom.
Maybe that’s the end, maybe that’s all there was; and he can’t actually
remember, how many men there were, and how many have gone down. But in that
same empty space, it doesn’t seem to have any real meaning.
He falls to his knees, and thinks, well, isn’t this ironic and dramatic? and he
stares at Sebastian, the same words ghosting over his lips.
“Isn’t it  —" he starts to say, cut off by something in his own eye, caught
there while he wasn’t paying attention. “But —” he swallows, his throat feeling
lined with lead, “I’m sorry.”
Sebastian moves to him, the way he had moved first, and he holds Jim up
reverently, pressed to the boot of the car. “Boss  —"
Blood dribbles out from between Jim’s lips when he parts them again to speak,
and it’s so very distracting. He offers a faint smile instead, no words right
enough to say, just a single nod. His hand doesn’t leave his chest, and
Sebastian doesn’t even venture near the wound, like he knows it won’t help to
touch it or look at it. Instead, the man reaches out to him, as they slump
lower onto the ground, and he brushes blood from the curve of Jim’s mouth, a
sigh on his own. “Boss, I...”
“Shush,” he silences Sebastian without the customary wave of his hand, without
the motions that normally convey so much. The sharpness in his eyes is plenty
for it. “What’s done is done,” he murmurs, and it’s the kind of thing that he
says a lot. It’s the type of thing that he knows can never go over all that
well, and has no value even here. But in some small way, it feels like they are
the right words.
“Yeah, but  —" the growl from Sebastian’s lips is frustrated, agonised, and he
doesn’t quite make a full dent when he smashes his fist into the metal of the
car. “James, I  —" a sob is heavy in his throat, choked back only barely, his
eyes defeated. “Why can’t we  —"
“Shhh,” he quiets the man again, a barely there hiss of sound. “Not right now.
It’s not the time to be angry.”
“Then when will be the right time?” Sebastian shouts back, the noise deafening.
“When will it be all right that I failed you? When will you be ready to let me
make it up to you, James? Tomorrow? Next week? In three months? Tell me!”
He could respond to that, muster up enough anger to nearly match Sebastian’s,
and yet it still wouldn’t be enough. He shoots another glare in replacement. “I
wish —” he knows he doesn’t have all that much time. Sebastian won’t be able to
get him help, and he’s stranded out here all alone, with no way of anyone
finding them. It’s only a matter of time before he bleeds out entirely. “I wish
you could have been  —" he interrupts himself with a cough, the blood
sprinkling from his lips, “I wish you  —"
It doesn’t make sense, the way the anger melts from Sebastian’s body now,
shushing him in the same way. “Shh,” his eyes have closed, his breathing
careful, slow, and his fingers splay out to stroke the side of Jim’s face, in
the most loving of touches. It feels for a second almost as if they’re in bed
again, and all that has happened is sex; it’s just the after touches one gives
a lover.
“Don’t say it, James,” he’s softened, his limbs loose, and his body looks like
it’s going to fall apart at any moment, resigned to its fate. “Please don’t say
it.” Neither of them want to hear the words, or say them really, not if they
can help it. “Can’t we just pretend?” he near begs, “just one more time?”
“We never got to do it on - on my terms!” Jim bites back, “and now? Now that
I’m - now that I’m dying, you want to - to what? To give in and play it with
me?” His chest heaves with the motion it takes to force out each word,
straining past his lips. “Or is this just - just your idea of a  —" he sucks in
a sudden, sharp breath, “of a going away pr - present?”
The way he laughs at this is gasping and bitter, the sound almost too strong
for his lungs, and he can see how much Sebastian hates him for it right now.
The anger in his eyes is back, warped, and so much more pained than before.
“Stop it, James,” he demands. “Do you really think that this isn’t as hard on
me as it is on you?” his lips have grown pale, and they look bloodless, like
it’s all being drained to different regions of his body, leaving none for his
face. His eyes are nearly black with something Jim can’t quite define, and all
he can think is that it looks like Sebastian is dying with him.
There’s a speck of Jim’s blood on his nose, some on his cheeks, and he seems
exhausted. “Do you think it’s not hurting me, too?” he asks wearily, as if it’s
breaking his heart to say.
“Oh, oh, yes! I’m ever so sorry!” he sucks in another bit of air before he
licks his lips so carefully, the blood nearly congealed as he plays across it
with his tongue, tasting the copper tint. His mouth twists into a vicious
grin. “Forgive me, ‘Bastian!” he spits, “for forgetting your feelings. Dah -
darling!”
“I love you, James. Just as much as you have always loved me.”
Those words are disgusting, and he tries not to flinch, to recoil from the way
they spring at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, you sent - sentimental fool!” his
eyes have filled with a fire, and they meet Sebastian’s watery ones. “You could
- couldn’t love me. It’s not physically possible! Nor do I - do I love you.”
“And when’s that ever stopped us from doing anything?” a tear trickles down
from the corner of Sebastian’s eye, red like blood, instead of the clear of an
ordinary cry. “All of it, all of our lives, the one we built together.
Everything we did. None of it should’ve been possible.” He sounds so
persuasive, so convincing and determined as he insists with his words, no
matter how light the line of begging is in the back. “We did it anyway! What
does that say about us, James?”
“It says I’m a - a narcissistic bastard. Which is obvious, yeah?” it’s getting
easier to speak, and he’s not sure why. Whether it be because he’s getting
closer to dying, and there’s nothing holding him back from using all his
strength, or because he’s simply losing track of how hard it should be. But he
groans, heady, dropping his head back against metal with a dull thud. “It says
I was a fucked up little boy that  —"
Sebastian’s hand closes over his mouth, fingers digging into his
chin. “Don’t,” he tells Jim, “don’t do it, James. Please,” he implores, eyes
wide and desperate, “don’t say it. Don’t go there and ruin it.”
“I am not going to die like this, Sebastian,” Jim hisses, “I am not going to
die pretending, with your name still on my lips. I refuse! It doesn’t work that
way!”
“Then don’t. Easy, yeah? Just don’t die. Not here, not like this, and not now.”
“I love it!” he barks out a self-deprecating laugh, “you’re all the stupid in
me, then? Or is this just a latent fear of death that’s now making itself known
in my subconscious?” He doesn’t mean it, not really, and as if to prove that,
he reaches up with a shaky hand to bring Sebastian’s other hand up to his face,
to his lips. He kisses them softly, a weak cough bubbling up from his throat.
“I’m not.”
Sebastian isn’t ready to give up this fight yet, and even though they’ve never
truly had it before, it feels like they’ve hashed this out an infinite number
of times.
“Not anymore. I mean, I was.” There’s another tear in his eye, redder and
darker than the first, and it catches by his nose. “Two decades should’ve been
enough, yeah? Enough time for me to break off. To become my own man. Yeah?”
He strokes his thumb across Jim’s lips, eyes so desperately sad. “I’m not you
anymore. You’ve got to say it. You’ve got to admit it! I’m Sebastian Moran. I’m
your man. I may not have been at first; I may have just been you. But - but I’m
someone else now! Please.”
“Fuck you.” A laugh sounds out between them, even though Jim’s eyes are pained,
and a tear of his own escapes, clear and glistening down his face. He doesn’t
want to hear this, doesn’t want to die in these memories, even though something
tells him that it was always going to end like this. “Just... Fuck you,
Sebastian. I shouldn’t have let you stay.” He sneers, bitterness collecting.
“James...”
“No! I won’t!”
“Won’t what?” Sebastian’s voice has gone so quiet, and he almost doesn’t hear
the question.
“It means I’m still the same little boy I was then,” he mumbles back, caught
between contradicting emotions. “It means that - that I have to die as him. The
kid I was when you first happened to me. I don’t  —" his eyes squeeze shut. “I
don’t want to be him anymore, ‘Bastian.”
His eyes are welling up with even more tears, that he doesn’t want to shed, but
can’t bring himself to sniff back. “I don’t want to be scared anymore. But I
am.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m scared and it hurts.”
“James —” the name is like a kiss on his eyelids, with Sebastian’s lips
devastatingly soft. “No, no, you don’t have to be scared,” and he sounds like
he’s crying, too. “Sweetheart, you don’t. Believe in - believe in me, yeah?
It’ll all be okay. I promise.”
There’s always been something so perfect and tempting about the way Sebastian
speaks to him when he’s scared, when he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.
He’s always known just what to say, to sneak into Jim’s mind, and make him want
things. After all, it always was easier this way, to pretend. Everything is so
much better when you’re pretending, and Jim can almost see that again. It’s
less painful, less likely to get you hurt.
It’s worked so many times for him in the past; and it’s who Sebastian is,
really, ultimately. He’s Jim’s need to pretend.
But he can’t, can he? Not anymore. He can’t keep playing this game; and as much
as it hurts, as much as he doesn’t want to lose himself and Sebastian with him,
he has to do it. He has to give in for once, and embrace the truth of all those
years he’s spent running.
“How can I believe in something like you?” he whispers, as light as the kiss,
and his eyes flutter open. “How can I believe in someone that’s nothing more
than just - just physical manifestations of my subconscious?” The words are
flowing even more quickly now, ignoring the pain, ignoring the way they pound
through his chest to the very core of his being. He takes a deep breath and
continues.
“You’re not real. I dreamt you up one night when I was scared, and cold, and
alone in the dark. I made you real to me. You were a comforting dream, and you
never left. Not even after - after I figured you out.”
“No!”
Sebastian recoils, hissing like burning hot water, and he glares down at Jim,
his hands pulled away so they can clench into fists. They leave Jim feeling
bereft and empty inside his soul.
“Yes, yes,” he tilts his head up to stare at the sky, breathing the words out
like a prayer, a whispered benediction for his departure. "Yes, Sebastian.
“This is my end,” he thinks aloud, “this is where I give you everything. Where
I put aside everything that made me the man I am today, everything that you
are, and I die honest and broken. The way I was always meant to.”
He can’t look down, can’t look at Sebastian.
“You are not real,” he murmurs upwards, “and I’m not going to die believing
that you are. Don’t try and make me.” A smile plays at his lips, the softest
he’s ever felt in a while. “I may have fallen in love with myself,” he tells
the clouds above his head, “but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”
“Please, James. Don’t do this to us. To me.”
He doesn’t look back down, but he reaches out blindly, his hand moving to pet
along Sebastian’s cheek. “Go on now, love. I don’t need you anymore. It’s time
for you to leave me.”
The words feel right, so very right, like nothing he’s ever said before. Every
time he’s ever spoken, it’s been things meant for other people; and these words
are for him. The only thing he’s ever truly needed to say. It’s a fitting
conclusion.
He doesn’t have to look to hear the wet sob on which Sebastian chokes, or see
the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut in solidarity. “I - I’m sorry, James. I
really - I really did love you.”
I don’t want to go now, James, are the unspoken words. Please don’t make me go.
Please don’t make me leave you like this. But he can’t even find the ability to
beg anymore, and the words are leaving, fading from his grasp. All he can do is
cry tears of blood and say that he’s sorry; sorry for everything. “I’m so
sorry, James.”
“I know,” is whispered back. “I fell in love with me, and you with you.”
Jim’s eyes close as well, laughing. “Aren’t we fucked up?”
“A bit.”
“Now go,” he urges Sebastian, “let me die alone, in peace, without you.”
They’re soft words, more kisses, quiet and pleading, as his childish demands
play in his ears.
Promise me you’ll never leave me! Promise me that, ‘Bastian!
He can hear Sebastian swallowing, feel him nodding, and then the lingering kiss
is planted on the top of Jim’s sweat-slicked hair. “Okay. I - I’ll go.”
I’m never gonna leave you, Jimmy. Not now, not ever. I promise.
Jim nods, too, stilling at the phantom pressure atop his head, his eyes still
tightly covered, and his hand drops to the ground. After a moment, when it’s
all disappeared, feeling nothing but wind around him, he opens his eyes.
Sebastian is gone, and he flinches, because he’s all alone again.
He licks his lips, taking one last shallow breath.
It’s all right, the boy in the back of his head tells him
soothingly, everything’s gonna be okay, little Jimmy.
It fills him with comfort, a reassurance, drowning his fear and his thoughts,
breathing that tiny speck of life back into him.
“Sebastian,” he whispers back, to the boy, his eyes fluttering closed, and his
limbs growing weaker with every movement of his chest as it slows down, and
stops.
From off his lips dances the last touch of air from his lungs, his last prayer
to Sebastian dying with him.
 

                                    The End
Chapter End Notes
     There's also a, uh, I guess you could call it a CODA. If, you know,
     you don't actually want me dead, and want to know more of what
     actually happened. c:
     (Still not apologising for this shit fest.)
     And I'm love you forever if you give me feedback.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!