“Alright. How deep do you want to cut?”
“Not deep, but enough to raise a little blood. And a lot of scratches, too. It might leave some permanent scars.”
That’s new. “But you don’t usually leave scars.”
“Not usually.”
Ben has a diminutive, shiny white mark on his shoulder from where Xander bit him early on in their relationship, too pale to even call a scar really, and currently a long, raw scratch curving around his ass that he’s pretty sure will fade to nothing eventually. Aside from that, he has no permanent marks from Xander, unless you count the sharpie initials on his butt, which Ben does not, because it’s not permanent, and they only do that when Xander is away.
“Okay,” Ben had said, wide awake by then. “Is there anything else you think I should know?” And he’d listened and nodded, and agreed, and asked when, and Xander had told him to be patient.
“You could cut me tonight,” Ben dares to suggest now.
“Sorry, baby, not when you’re full of fluoro-drinks. What was even in those?”
Ben groans. “Nothing good,” he says. But Xander is right. The alcohol is still working through him, making him dizzy as he leans back under Xander, stretching out on the couch. Or maybe that’s just having Xander so close. It’s hard to tell. “When?” he asks. “Please tell me?”
Xander kisses him, trailing his lips from Ben’s mouth to his cheeks to his eyelids.
“Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not this week,” he says at last. “I want what happened tonight to be much further away from us. So next week, Benjamin, on Saturday. Let’s do it then.”
“It’s a date,” Ben whispers, and feels a thrill run through him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The knife is luminous, glossy black gleaming against the white pillowcase, reminding Ben of Xander’s hair against his skin. And like Xander, too, the sharp part of the knife lies hidden inside, shining and lustrous, snug and waiting. But Ben has seen Xander flicking the knife open and shut for the past few days, and polishing it carefully with soft cloths. So he knows what the blade looks like, the quiet sheen of it. The sight of it is seared into his brain.
And Xander likes to watch Ben watching the knife, and so there it is, inches away from his nose on the other pillow, while Xander gives him a slow back and shoulder massage and Ben tries to keep his heartbeat steady.
But nothing’s happened yet. Just a massage, and the knife on a pillow.
“I still think it’s beautiful,” Ben says now, half into the pillow.
“And you still sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I’m not. That’s what I think.”
“Maybe. But finding it pretty doesn’t make you any more relaxed.” Xander grinds the heel of his hand into Ben’s shoulder, and Ben moans.
“God, that feels good.”
“Glad to hear it. Because soon…” The rest of the sentence remains unspoken, but it makes Ben’s tendons tighten up again. “Come on, baby, relax,” Xander says, and Ben might not be able to see his face, but knows he has that satisfied grin he gets when Ben shows any kind of trepidation.
“I am relaxed.”
“All this is just my imagination?” Xander gives another hard push into stiff muscle and Ben thinks he might start drooling into the pillow soon. It’s hard going, but damn it’s good. Xander’s Magic Hands used for good instead of evil, for a change. And then Ben looks at the knife again and his stomach clenches up.
Things started exactly the same as usual. Xander stood near the doorway and watched Ben undress.
“You keep looking at the door,” Xander said, when Ben was struggling with socks. His fingers weren’t quite cooperating, but he managed to get them off by balancing with his other hand on the bed.
“Do I?”
“Are you planning to run for it?”
Ben gave a nervous laugh. “Uh. Last time we used the knife…Last time I wanted to, yeah.”
“Last time was last time.”
Last time with the knife Xander scared the complete fuck out of him, but Ben figured this time he’d at least be ready for the fear. Still, he was on edge, jumpy, but Xander started with kisses this time instead of insults. Pointy, sharp, teeth-involved kisses, but kisses nonetheless. After a while, he shoved Ben backwards until he hit the bed and collapsed on to it and—Now. It’ll start now, Ben thought, his adrenaline starting to surge.
But Xander had just arranged Ben to his liking on the bed and so far, no fear and no cutting.
Ben is face-down on top of old sheets with Xander straddling him for the massage. No lotion to lubricate his fingers, because Xander wants his canvas dry, and Ben is sure his skin is reddened, hot.
The sheet’s pattern has faded beyond recognition and it’s pilled all over like it’s been washed a hundred times more than it was ever meant to be. But it gives Ben something to concentrate on, or try to, anyway—he tries to figure out the pattern, tries to count the tiny bumps of cotton wadded up on themselves, tries to stop anticipating when Xander is going to start terrorizing him. Tries to put the knife out of his mind even though it’s right there on the other pillow in his line of sight.
What he does, he does to show me that he cares, he’d told Elijah. Ben believes that, he really truly does, but sometimes it’s harder to remember than others. The anticipation and apprehension trickling down his spine are making this one of the harder times.
“I’m going to cut you now.”
“Okay.” Ben tries to sound tranquil, beyond it all, but Xander gives a little snort.
“Okay, Benjamin.”
Ben slits open his eyes to see Xander’s elegant fingers close on the knife and bring it closer to his face. Xander is leaning down over him, holding his shoulders firmly into the bed with one forearm across them, and when Xander speaks, his breath is warm against the back of Ben’s ear.
“What are your words?”
“Odyssey. Too drastic.”
“Is it still beautiful, Benjamin?” He flicks the knife open and Ben goes stiff all over.
He gives a small whine and closes his eyes. Xander kisses his temple, and Ben realizes that he’s broken out in sweat across his brow.
“I know you’re afraid, and I love that, God do I love that. But this time you don’t have to be frightened,” Xander says, soothing. “Not this time. This time it’s just about the art.”
“Just about the art,” Ben repeats. Last time, Xander scared the hell out of him for a while before throwing him on the bed and cutting into him like he was conducting an autopsy. He shudders at the memory.
“I just want to help you fly.” This time, Xander’s voice is full of kindness, and it makes Ben want to please him. “You can go flying, Benjamin, while I do this.”
Last time he wasn’t allowed to fly, not until after the cutting. He’s not sure if it’s an act of charity or if Xander has something else in mind, but Xander is not being dark tonight.
Xander is being kind and nice and making Ben feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter.
He licks Ben’s earlobe and says, “I want to taste it,” and that’s the last thing Ben is fully aware of for a while, because the idea of Xander savoring his blood? Is hot and scary and sickening and dangerous all at the same time. It’s too much for Ben to process, so he just lets go.
Ben hasn’t flown this high for a while, but the stars are all still there, just like he remembers them. Sometimes it’s canyons, sometimes it’s oceans; tonight it’s the stars, and they’re his favorite. He can still feel it, of course: the point of the knife trailing over his back in broad, slow strokes that could be brushwork if it weren’t for the itch and the tiny fire that follows each track. In the jumble of his thoughts each stroke is the tail of a falling star, racing across a sky as obsidian as the handle of the knife. He tries to wish on each one, but his wishes get tangled up in each other, in sentiments of wellbeing and gratitude and awe until all he’s left with are disjointed words: keep doing that and f
eels good and Xander.
It’s a clenched hand in his hair that brings him back, the dull pain alien after the flutters of the knife. But even that doesn’t hurt like it should, like it would if he were firmly back in his body again. Xander is lying on top of him, pressed close, enveloping him and twisting his head back to kiss his mouth.
Ben feels the sting of Xander’s sweat rubbing into the cuts on his back, can taste blood on his lips, and for a second he pulls away. But Xander murmurs reassuring things and although his words don’t make much sense to Ben right now—I love you right down to your hemoglobin—the tone does. So he moves slightly, twists his head so that Xander can kiss him, tastes metal and Xander’s familiar breath.
“Not scary,” Ben says, puzzled.
“Not tonight,” Xander confirms, and then moves to kiss down Ben’s back again. Ben can feel his tongue tracing over cuts and scratches, and there are vibrations of sound through his chest when Xander says things, tells him how good he is and how lovely he looks. Ben sinks back into himself more gently and more slowly than he ever has before, lulled back from the ether like a kite drawn in on its string.
Xander pulls him gently onto his side, pressed up behind him and waits until Ben stretches.
“Sex now?” Ben asks. He feels unbelievably good.
“Um,” Xander says. “We kind of already…”
Ben pats the bed, finds a wet patch under where his crotch was. Weird. He twists around in Xander’s arms to look at him, wincing at the pain in his back. Xander seems peaceful, but he’s grubby, dirty with something rust-colored. It takes a moment for Ben to comprehend it, that his blood is smeared over his boyfriend’s face and chest, and then another moment to decide how to feel about it.
“You made a mess,” he says with a smile. “All over your face.”
“I’ll go wash up,” Xander says immediately, but Ben pulls him down.
“Not yet.”
He feels alive, his nerves singing and his mind jumping from point to point, but somehow it only takes a few minutes for him to fall into a deep sleep. Xander wakes him later to bandage him, but Ben is still half-asleep through the whole process. He does notice that Xander has cleaned his face by then.
The next morning, Ben feels fine. Better than fine. He’s so used to being mummified in bandages that it barely registers. Xander brings back breakfast and a paper, and Ben reads it in bed, while Xander steals the crossword section before Ben can really get started on it. There’s coffee, and a fresh croissant for Ben and a cookie thing for Xander, and sweet berries for both of them.
Ben rarely feels this indulgent, lolling around until it hits eleven o’clock and Xander has finished the crossword and Ben is tired of the news.
“Come on,” he says to Xander eventually. “Don’t you want to have a look at your handiwork? I want to see the picture.”
It takes forever for Xander to un-bandage him in the bathroom, because he stops after every wind of the gauze to kiss the appearing flesh. Ben’s skin is tender, and the press of Xander’s lips makes him ache, a sweet soreness. Once the bandages are gone, Xander cleans him carefully again with a warm, wet wash cloth, and then holds up a mirror for Ben to look into, to see his back reflected in the bigger mirror above the sink.
It’s very pink, his upper back, and it takes a moment for Ben to discern the markings, but when he does, he catches his breath. It’s not at all what he expected.
Stylized wings, arching across his shoulders and down his back. The outside lines are shallow cuts, and stand out in angry crimsons. But for the inside the lines, Xander has taken his time scratching in feathers, delicate detailed work that must have taken hours. The wings extend down his spine and out across his shoulder blades. His skin looks puffy, but there’s barely any bruising, just the different red and pink shades of the scratches and the cuts.
“Wow…”
“You like it?”
“You gave me wings.”
Ben cranes his neck, trying to see without the second mirror. It hurts slightly, but itches more, like scratches usually do. Ben thinks about asking Elijah cheekily if he had any advice for healing up scratches, and laughs. He turns back and pulls Xander’s arms around his waist. “You really have changed.”
“What do you mean?” Xander nuzzles into his neck but Ben can tell he’s peeking at his artwork in the mirror. Xander’s fingers splay over his back and press gently into the cuts, making him gasp.
“I can’t imagine you being so nice to Byron or Landry before all your therapy. You’re more patient now. Well, usually.”
“I suppose I must have mellowed. Does that hurt?”
“A little. Yes.”
“I want to dress you today. May I?”
“Interesting. Yes. And Xander—did you mean what you said about swapping roles again?”
“Sure. It’s been a long time. I’m up for it, if you are.”
“I think I’d like to give it another shot some time.” It’s a relief to know he can ask for it when he needs it. “Also…is this dressing me thing a sign you want to try a total power exchange again soon?”
“Maybe. But I have a grander design for these wings. You’ll see,” Xander adds, as Ben opens his mouth to ask another question. “You really do ask a lot of questions, baby. Come on, let’s shower.”
After the shower, and the hand jobs, and the drying, and the re-bandaging, and the insistent questions about how much it hurts and does Ben want some pain relief, Xander makes him stand in the bedroom and dresses him like he’s an enormous Ken doll. Briefs and dress pants and a formal shirt—“What is all this? We’re not going out anywhere, are we?”
“No.” Xander rummages for one last addition to the outfit.
“I’m not wearing that,” Ben says immediately, when Xander holds up an antiquated-looking contraption. “What is it?”
“They are braces,” Xander says. Ben gives him a blank look. “Suspenders. For your pants. Oh, come on,” he wheedles as Ben shakes his head. “You said you would let me dress you.”
“Xander,” Ben whines, “I’ll look like a hipster!”
“Totally stylish. Besides, like you said, we’re not going out anywhere. This is purely for my pleasure when I look at you.”
“Oh, my God. I can’t believe you sometimes. Why are you even…”
He grumbles as Xander rigs him up, but Xander’s motivations become apparent very quickly. The elasticized straps rub across the cuts on Ben’s shoulder blades, making him twinge even under the soft cotton bandages, making him hurt, making him entirely aware of what lies beneath his shirt, hidden to the world but still there.
Still real: his wings.
Ben likes it, although he keeps up the scowl. “Good thing I’m not seeing Elijah today with these stupid suspenders on. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from snapping them.”
Xander smiles, and snaps them himself.
“Ow!”
But Xander kisses him, and then murmurs in his ear, “You know, I think there’s one last addition this outfit needs.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mm. Stay here for a second. Close your eyes.”
Ben does as he’s told, even holding his hands behind his back out of habit. He doesn’t even peek through cracked eyelids, although he listens hard. Xander goes back around the bed and opens what Ben bets must be the nightstand drawer, and then comes back. Xander draws Ben’s hands apart and back around in front of him, and then Ben feels something square placed into them.
“You can look now,” Xander tells him, and Ben’s eyes fly open.
In his hands lies a dove-gray velvet box with a satin band around it. The box is about two inches high, but wide enough that it fills his hands. He glances up at Xander.
“Open it,” Xander says, and he smiles, but it’s a tentative smile. Ben slides the ribbon off and looks at the symbol on the top of the box: a figure eight?
No.
An infinity symbol.
“What…” he starts, and then op
ens the lid of the box. Inside is a necklace, a solid, thick, chain necklace that looks utterly masculine, sitting flush in the molding of the interior. Coiled in an inner circle is a matching bracelet of the same silver-white metal.
It’s a lovely set, but Ben isn’t really the kind of guy who wears jewelry, so for a second he doesn’t really get it.
And then he does, when he notices the clasp on the necklace, because it’s not a clasp.
It’s some sort of lock, with a tiny screw, and there’s a delicate stainless steel Allen key nestled in the box, too.
He snaps his head back up to stare at Xander.
“I got these a while ago,” Xander says ruefully. “Quite a while. I’ve been waiting for the right time. I’ve been waiting for a significant anniversary or birthday or something, but we kept getting interrupted by—things. But then I realized that I didn’t need to wait for a special day, because you are the special thing. You are the most precious thing in this whole world to me, Benjamin, and that’s why I wanted to give this to you.”
“Is this a collar?” Ben demands.
Xander gives an anxious nod. “But this collar isn’t intended as a mark of—of slavery. Or ownership. Or anything like that. It’s meant as a symbol of my respect and my love for you.”
As Ben stays silent, Xander goes on nervously: “I know you said you don’t need any symbols to know I’m committed to you. And given everything that’s happened recently, I’ll understand if—”
“Put it on me. Right fucking now.” Ben can’t stop the huge grin spreading over his face.
Xander gives an answering smile of relief, and takes the necklace—the collar—out of the box. “Well, I’m glad you like it, because it was very expensive,” he says, underplaying how very worried he’s been about it. But Ben can tell.
He knows his Xander too well now to ever be fooled by that bravado.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Ben says honestly.
“But Benjamin—once I put it on, it’s on,” Xander warns. “You can’t take it off without the key.”
Flying Free (Rough Love Book 8) Page 19