by J. A. Rock
Just be here.
Just here.
Patrick finished lacing the piercing, tying the ribbon just tightly enough that Ilia could feel a constant, soft tug on the rings. Patrick ran his fingers over the ribbon, like he was testing the strings of an instrument he didn’t know how to play.
“Perfect,” Patrick whispered.
This was the first time since Mikhail that the piercing had made Ilia feel beautiful. A treasure, not a freak. This was a way both to belong to Patrick and honor Mikhail.
He twisted the corner of the pillow as Patrick touched the lacing once more. You made me feel like me again. And I’m gonna learn how to do this for you too. Look after you.
“I want to...” Patrick shifted his weight off him. “Want to...” His fingers hooked over the elastic waistband of Ilia’s pajama pants. “Can I?”
Ilia wanted to laugh. How stupid, to ask for permission when they’d already fucked. But he was too breathless to speak. There was a line here, and Patrick knew it too. He nodded, and gave a moan of assent.
Patrick slid his pants down and off, and Ilia parted his legs. Squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to pretend that the hands stroking the insides of his thighs were Mikhail’s, until guilt got at him. It felt like a betrayal to try and imagine that. A betrayal to both Mikhail and Patrick.
He was allowed to want this.
“I’m not supposed to like anyone else. I have you.”
“You can have whatever you want, Ilie. You know this.”
Ilia got his hands and knees under him. Pushed up off the mattress.
“Ilia.” Patrick slid a finger down his crack, pressing against his hole. “Can I fuck you?”
“Yes.” Ilia tested the word. Waited for the crushing guilt. Waited for the collapsing universe. Saw Mikhail’s smile instead. He tried the word again. “Yes.”
V
“It may take some time,” the counselor at Georgetown had said last week, “before you want to have sex again. Before you feel able to live on your own. It’s okay to ask for help, whenever you need it.” He’d told her about Patrick, ready to fight if she acted like it was too soon for him to be having sex, or suggested that he only liked Patrick because of what they’d been through together. But she said she was happy for him. Happy that he had somebody.
It’s okay to ask for help.
That night, he’d gone to his parents’ room after waking from a nightmare. Stood in the doorway, cold and drenched in sweat, too embarrassed to call for either of them. But the nausea and the fear wouldn’t go away, and he started making an odd, hitching sound deep in his throat. Eventually his mother sat up and said, “Eli?”
He felt ridiculous, telling her he’d had a bad dream. But she immediately climbed out of bed and told him to come to the kitchen, that she’d make coffee.
Louis escorted Ilia downstairs. He put an arm around Ilia, letting Ilia lean on him. Paused on the staircase when Ilia suddenly couldn’t go any farther.
“Hammer,” Ilia murmured.
“What’s that?”
Ilia looked at his father without really seeing him. “Hammer,” he repeated. “Have to—to hold him down. Hurt him with it. Or he has to...” The images blurred in Ilia’s mind: Patrick. The man Nick had brought to the apartment. Blood on the kitchen floor. Patrick, on his knees. “I won’t hurt him!”
Louis sat on the stairs and guided Ilia down beside him, pulling him close. A strong hug, nothing uncertain or reluctant about it. Ilia didn’t know if it was love or pity. In the moment, he didn’t care. “You’re out of there now,” Louis whispered. “Okay?”
It may take some time.
VI
“You okay?” Patrick asked.
“Yes.” Ilia liked the word more each time he said it.
He didn’t want to worry about how much time it would take. To heal, to move forward, to figure things out. He just wanted what was happening to happen. He pushed back against Patrick’s hand. Patrick reached around with his other hand and stroked Ilia’s flagging cock. Ilia shifted and made a soft noise, trying to pump into the fist.
Patrick brushed Ilia’s hole again. Leaned over and kissed one of the rings on Ilia’s left side, then sucked it into his mouth and lapped at the spot where metal entered flesh until Ilia curved his back and sighed.
Ilia was breathing hard when Patrick stopped.
“If you don’t want to…” Patrick said.
“I do. Please, fucking do it.”
The mattress dipped then rose as Patrick got up and went to Ilia’s dresser. Ilia had bought condoms last week, though they hadn’t used them yet. Ilia had been tested at the hospital, but he barely remembered the conversation with the nurse. Hard to feel relieved about being clean when there were parts of his mind, his body, that would always feel filthy, ruined. Up until now, Ilia and Patrick had sucked each other off or used their hands. Ilia didn’t know why Patrick’s cock in his mouth didn’t scare him as much as the thought of Patrick’s cock in his ass. But looking up at Patrick while he sucked him, feeling Patrick’s hands in his hair, knowing Patrick would let him set the pace—that was manageable, most of the time.
That was good.
He heard Patrick rip open a packet. Wasn’t afraid, just tense. Patrick got on the bed again. Tugged lightly on Ilia’s ribbon. “Wanna roll over?”
Ilia stretched out on the mattress and got onto his back. Looked up at Patrick, who stared back at him like he was something truly wonderful. Ilia smiled and spread his legs.
His smile faltered as Patrick ran his nails gently down the V of his groin. He closed his eyes against the rush of anticipation.
Let it happen.
Love it.
Love him.
He opened his eyes and pushed his hips up. Patrick slid his hands around to cup his ass. Kneaded the hard muscles there until Ilia laughed. “You’re off duty,” Ilia told him. “Quit massaging me.”
Patrick gave an embarrassed laugh. “Can’t help myself.” He squeezed Ilia’s ass. “You’ve got such a good body.”
Ilia hooked his legs around Patrick. “Fuck me,” he said softly.
Patrick moved his hands up Ilia’s thighs. Ran his thumbs across the backs of his knees, then reached for his cock. Ilia sighed as Patrick pulled on his shaft. He licked his lips, then spit in his palm and took hold of Patrick. Guided him in. It did hurt—not bad; just took Ilia a couple of minutes to relax. He kept his gaze on Patrick and chafed his back against sheet, making the ribbon pull, the rings hurt. Panted as Patrick continued to work him. Pleasure spread slowly, made him clench around Patrick’s cock, and Patrick dropped his head forward and moaned.
Ilia smiled. That moment, that uninhibited reaction—bliss, gratitude, and desire all in that single sound—cut Ilia loose from the weight of his fear. He remembered how much he’d once wanted to strip Patrick of shame, make him need. He’d wanted that power, but more importantly, he’d wanted Patrick’s trust. He hadn’t known it then, but he did now.
I’ll look after you. I screwed up before, but this time I won’t.
He met Patrick’s thrusts, urging Patrick faster, deeper. Patrick’s hands hit the mattress on either side of Ilia’s head, and his lips collided with Ilia’s.
Ilia closed his eyes. Saw Mikhail’s smile again for just a second, then nothing. The room where Mikhail had waited was dark.
I’m not saying goodbye.
I’ll love you always. I want to see you, when I can. I want to remember.
But I need to love him too.
Somewhere in the dark, Mikhail answered: I know. Didn’t sound sad or bitter or angry. You can have anything you want, Ilie. You can have the world.
I don’t want the world.
Sticky wetness between his body and Patrick’s. Patrick, spent, gasping, sprawled on top of him. The damp sound of lips against skin.
I want this.
Patrick stroked Ilia’s shoulder, murmuring to him. Ilia touched Patrick’s face. Joy without fear or shame. Hope newly recognized, tho
ugh Ilia suspected the seed of it had been there all along. They wouldn’t have survived without it.
I want love.
“You’re okay?” Patrick asked again, easing himself off of Ilia.
Ilia nodded. “Yes.”
After a few minutes, Patrick’s breathing slowed, and he slept. Ilia drifted too, not quite asleep or awake. He lost track of his thoughts, snapping to when he heard a car door slam. His stomach felt hollow, his breathing rough. He couldn’t remember whether he’d been thinking or dreaming, or if he’d been nowhere at all.
Downstairs, Charlie barked.
Ilia glanced at Patrick, who was still sleeping, his brow furrowed, his lips parted slightly.
I want you.
Ilia shifted onto his side and placed his lips against Patrick’s neck. Patrick stirred, but he didn’t wake.
Some things were born so fragile-seeming Ilia wondered that they didn’t shatter with the first breath. But they lived and flourished, stronger than they looked, all the more beautiful for their masked courage. They grew in the shelter others provided and built their strength on the promise of what could be, and they survived long after death, scarred and storm-soaked, wise and unbreakable. They were worth keeping safe and not meant to be hidden.
Outside, Louis shouted, and another voice shouted back.
In Chechen.
A gunshot sounded. Someone screamed.
Ilia froze, eyes wide, lips still touching Patrick’s skin.
I want just a few things I can treasure.
Also by Lisa Henry
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The Island
Dark Space
King of Dublin, with Heidi Belleau
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Wacky Wednesday (Wacky Wednesday #1)
The Brat-tastic Jayk Parker (Wacky Wednesday #2)
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Also by Lisa Henry & J.A. Rock
The Good Boy (The Boy #1)
The Naughty Boy (The Boy #1.5)
The Boy Who Belonged (The Boy #2)
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About the Authors
J.A. Rock has worked as a dog groomer, knife seller, haunted house zombie, standardized patient, cashier, census taker, state fair quilt hanger, and, for one less-than-magical evening, a server—and would much rather be writing about those jobs than doing them. J.A. lives mostly in West Virginia, and always with a beloved dog, Professor Anne.
Website: www.jarockauthor.com
Blog: http://jarockauthor.blogspot.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jarockauthor
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ja.rock.39
Lisa Henry likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters.
Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn’t know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she’s too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape.
She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied History and English, neither of them very thoroughly.
She shares her house with too many cats, a dog, a green tree frog that swims in the toilet, and as many possums as can break in every night. This is not how she imagined life as a grown-up.
Website: www.lisahenryonline.com
Blog: http://lisahenryonline.blogspot.com.au
Twitter: https://twitter.com/LisaHenryOnline
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lisa.henry.1441