Rattling Chains

by T. Strange

  Charles answered with a soft chuckle of his own. “Well, I’m glad to hear from you.”

  Harlan took a deep, steadying breath. He could do this. He’d already done the hard part and called Charles. Now he just had to complete the next step in his plan. “I was wondering if you might like to…” Fuck. He’d practiced what he wanted to say over and over in his head, but now it felt like that practice was only making it more difficult to actually speak. “If you’d like to go for coffee?” he finally managed, turning a slight squeak at the end of the question into a cough.

  “I’d like that. Well, maybe not coffee. I spend enough of my time shut away in a dark dungeon—literally—that I’d rather do something outside. And I think you could probably use some sunlight and fresh air, too.”

  “Oh, o-okay…” Harlan scrambled to come up with something else. Shit. That threw all his ideas out of the window. He wasn’t really one to come up with outdoor activities. The outdoors couldn’t be ghost-warded.

  His eyes widened. With Charles, they could be. This opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

  “Sure. Yeah, I’d like that!” he bubbled. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas,” Charles said, a playful growl. “But if you’re asking me on a date…”

  “I am,” Harlan confirmed, almost confidently, glad Charles wasn’t there to see him blush. God, that sound just went straight to his groin!

  “How about a picnic?”

  The little pessimistic voice that lived in Harlan immediately chimed in with, Ants. Ghosts. Ghost ants, but he pushed it aside. “That sounds lovely.”

  “I keep bringing you food, but nothing I’ve actually made myself. I’m told I’m a pretty good cook.”

  Shit. That probably meant that he expected… “Do you want me to bring anything?” Harlan asked reluctantly, mentally already searching, How do I pretend I made something store bought?

  “Just you.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Great. How does Monday or Tuesday sound? Those are my days off.”

  Harlan bit his lip. “Lunch or dinner?”

  “Whichever you prefer. Dinner Monday or lunch Tuesday are slightly better for me, so I can sleep in Monday, but I’m happy either way.”

  Shit again. It wasn’t out of the question that he’d still be working at dinnertime, and they didn’t often take a formal lunch break. Hamilton brought something from home and ate on the go, and Harlan usually just skipped the meal entirely. “Dinner Monday,” he said, decisively.

  “Great. It’s a date. I’ll pick you up? I know a great park—ducks, a pond, the whole shebang.”

  Harlan couldn’t help grinning. “That sounds perfect.” He actually held the phone to his chest for a moment after they’d said goodbye.

  During the remainder of the week, Harlan mentally practiced telling Hamilton that he needed to be done by five on Monday, especially after a recalcitrant ghost kept them until almost ten at night on Friday, but Hamilton had called Monday morning and told him they didn’t have any cases that day.

  That meant Harlan had the whole day to get ready, but it also meant that he had the whole day to get ready. He was briefly tempted to call Charles and suggest meeting for lunch instead, but Charles had said he’d be sleeping in Monday morning, and Harlan didn’t want to wake him.

  He got out of bed with a groan and took an extra-long shower. Looking at the alarm clock when he got back to the bedroom, he groaned again—barely half an hour had passed.

  He laid every single one of his shirts—the ones that had been purchased for him—out on the bed. There wasn’t a lot of variety. Most of them were plain, without a logo or picture or anything, in colours he could grudgingly admit suited him. Shopping for new clothes would eat up some of his extra time, but would also involve…well, shopping for new clothes, so that was out of the question. But maybe…

  His old phone was getting so laggy that even researching what new phone he should get was a chore, and that convinced him. He considered ordering a phone online and having it delivered, but he wanted it now, even if it meant having to interact with people.

  He’d never had a contract—or a new phone—before, and he was surprised to discover he liked the feeling. It made him feel…solid. Grounded. Like maybe, just maybe, he belonged out here in the real world, not shut away in the Centre his whole life.

  Plus, getting the phone had eaten almost two hours.

  He spent most of the rest of the day fiddling around on his phone. He set up Pokémon Go, but quickly realized he’d need to ‘Pokémon Leave’ the apartment if he wanted to actually play. He read some Cracked articles and fell into weird Wikipedia rabbit holes and tried not to glance at the clock every five seconds. It didn’t help that the clock was directly above anything he did on his phone.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity or twelve, a text from Charles—

  On my way. Ready?

  Feeling a crippling sense of mingled excitement and anxiety, Harlan forced himself to simply reply—

  Yes.

  New phone?

  Charles replied immediately, prompting Harlan to hope he wasn’t texting while driving. He didn’t seem like the type to do something like that.

  Harlan didn’t answer, just went downstairs and waited outside for Charles. He waved when he saw Charles’ now-familiar car pull up in front of the building, hurrying over and getting into the front seat. Glancing in the back, he saw an honest-to-God wicker picnic basket sitting on top of a neatly folded checkered blanket. He wasn’t at all surprised.

  “Have you been to High Park before?” Charles asked.

  Harlan shook his head. “I haven’t really…been many places.”

  “Right. You grew up in the Centre, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Harlan sank lower in his seat, his shoulders hunched.

  “Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if it’s painful.”

  “No, I’ll have to… I should tell you eventually.” Harlan shrugged. “My parents left me there when I was a kid, and it’s…pretty much all I’ve known until a few months ago. It wasn’t a bad place to grow up,” he added, “and I don’t miss my parents.”

  “Fair enough.” Charles reached over and gave Harlan’s leg a brief squeeze, glancing away from the road just long enough to smile at him and have it acknowledged before focusing again.

  Harlan slowly straightened in his seat again.

  “Here we are.” Charles parked and grabbed the picnic basket and blanket. Harlan followed him on a short walk to an open, grassy area with a few scattered picnic tables. Glancing between the clusters of families with small children and Harlan’s feeble attempt at not looking uncomfortable at the prospect of being around so many other people, Charles led the way to the far side of the field and laid out the blanket far away from anyone else. Harlan appreciated that he just did it, without calling attention to Harlan’s discomfort, never mind teasing him about it. His silent act of caring meant a lot.

  “So,” Charles announced, opening the basket with a flourish, pulling out a stack of thick sandwiches wrapped in plastic, “I know I’ve brought you sandwiches before, but these sandwiches are different because I made them myself rather than buying them pre-made. The only real difference is that I put the meat and cheese and veggies on them rather than someone else, but…” He shook his head, grinning wryly. “Sorry. I swear I actually am a good cook, and I had good intentions. The day just sorta got away from me. But!” He held up a hand, rummaging in the basket again. “I did bake brownies, and I brought extra so you can take some home.” He laid them on the blanket like a poker player displaying a winning hand.

  Harlan couldn’t help grinning back at him, taking a sandwich from the stack and unwrapping it. He took a bite, only exaggerating his blissful reaction a little, playfully. “It’s delicious,” he assured Charles, “much better than the store-bought. Besides, I haven’t really cooked anything as complicated as this”—he waved the sand
wich—“and I don’t think this actually counts as cooking.”

  Charles shrugged one shoulder, selecting a sandwich of his own. “You have other talents.”

  Not sure which ‘talents’ Charles was referring to and unwilling to ask for clarification, Harlan blushed. Fortunately, he could think of plenty of other things to talk about—maybe being outside wasn’t so bad. “It’s beautiful here.”

  His mouth full, Charles nodded in agreement. After he’d swallowed, he pointed. “In the spring, there are cherry blossoms over there. There’s also a small zoo, but I thought you might like the…quieter parts of the park, at least on the first visit.”

  Harlan nodded gratefully, reaching out to brush Charles’ free hand with his own, trailing his fingers along the man’s knuckles. Charles caught it and gave it a little squeeze before releasing. Charles’ words triggered a tiny fraction of a memory. Maybe he had been here before, as a child. He didn’t mention it to Charles. He was probably wrong.

  He didn’t have to feign any delight at the brownies. He took a bite and closed his eyes, tipping his head back. “Oh my God. This is…mmm!” He gobbled it down, then the second one Charles offered.

  “I’ll definitely have to cook a proper meal for you sometime,” Charles promised. “I’m glad I made extra for you. I like the thought of you eating them and thinking about me when you’re all alone in your apartment.”

  “Me too.”

  “I brought some chopped lettuce,” Charles told him, after putting the considerably lighter picnic basket back in his car. He led Harlan past where they’d eaten to a pond.

  “Okay.” Harlan thought they’d eaten everything. He was pleasantly full, and he didn’t really want to finish off his meal with plain raw lettuce. He wasn’t overly fond of it tucked into salad and disguised with plenty of dressing, never mind on its own.

  Charles laughed fondly at Harlan’s expression. “To feed the ducks,” he clarified.

  “Oh! I thought you were supposed to feed them bread?”

  “Bread isn’t great for ducks, actually. Lettuce is much better.” He glanced across the pond to where a mother was encouraging her young son to throw bits of bread crust into the water, where they were immediately devoured. “Obviously they’re still getting plenty of bread, but I do what I can.”

  Harlan was skeptical that they’d be able to attract any ducks with the lettuce when bread was on offer, but a few paddled over and started snapping it out of the water. An especially bold duck waddled to shore, staring at Charles demandingly. Charles threw a few scraps of lettuce on the ground and the duck eagerly devoured them. He held a piece between two fingers and offered it. The two men shared a grin when the duck stretched out its neck to its full length to grab the snack before retreating a few steps to swallow.

  When it came back for more, Charles offered Harlan some lettuce. “Want to try?”

  Ducks don’t have teeth, do they? Harlan wasn’t sure, but the bird seemed friendly enough…for a small dinosaur. He had very little experience with animals, and none with wild—or wild-ish—ones, but he was determined to try. He was pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want to date someone too scared to feed a duck.

  Squatting the way Charles had, he held out the lettuce with his arm fully extended, closing his eyes as the duck approached. He felt a slight pinch on one fingertip, then felt the lettuce tugged from his grasp and heard the plop-plop-plop of webbed feet walking away.

  They continued until Charles stood and brushed his hands together with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, guys. We’re all out of lettuce.” Of course, the ducks didn’t understand his words or the gesture, and they continued quacking until they’d left the pond. The intrepid duck followed them for a few meters before turning back with a sound Harlan couldn’t help thinking conveyed disgust.

  Charles and Harlan sat on a bench, their fingers loosely intertwined as they watched joggers and parents with children pass on the nearby path.

  “It’s starting to get dark,” Charles pointed out at last, breaking the comfortable silence.

  Harlan realized he hadn’t seen any children for a while, and he nodded.

  “You ready to go?”

  He nodded again, a little reluctantly, and followed Charles to the car. He didn’t really want to go, but he was getting chilly now that Charles had pointed out how late it was getting. He’d dressed for a sunny afternoon, not evening.

  “I had a really great time today,” Harlan told him when they arrived at his apartment, a little surprised to realize that, unlike most situations when he’d said something like that, he genuinely meant it.

  “Me too.” Charles leaned across the emergency brake to give him a kiss, which Harlan happily returned.

  “Would you, uh, like to come upstairs…?” he asked, a little surprised by his own boldness.

  Charles gave Harlan’s hand a squeeze. “Sorry. I’d love to, but I just got a text from my cleaner that one of the toilets is backed up and I have to go see if I can fix it or if I need to call a plumber.” He shook his head wryly. “‘Start your own business!’ they said. “‘It’ll be fun!’ they said.” He squeezed Harlan’s hand again, waiting until he had his attention. “But…soon? And maybe we could try adding a little more, if you’re still, ah, interested.”

  Not trusting his voice, Harlan just nodded. He hopped out of the car—keeping his back to Charles—before he tried to persuade him that the toilet could wait.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I—I’m not sure what to do,” Harlan admitted. He was starting to feel a little foolish, standing there naked in front of Charles, and he had to resist the urge to cover himself with his hands.

  “Would you like me to tell you?” Charles asked, softly.

  Not sure how else to proceed, Harlan nodded.

  “Kneel on the bed, bracing yourself with your forearms,” Charles said, his voice still soothing rather than commanding.

  Harlan nodded. He could do that.

  “Relax.” Charles’ hands stroked his raised buttocks, drawing back when Harlan tensed. “I’ll let you know before I start, okay?”

  Swallowing hard, Harlan nodded again.

  Ignoring his backside for the time being, Charles petted and lightly massaged Harlan’s outer thighs, his hips, as far up Harlan’s back as he could reach.

  Gradually, fibre by fibre, Harlan eased into the touch, no longer expecting a blow every time Charles lifted his hands.

  “I just want to say, once more, that we don’t have to do this. I’m happy to keep things the way they are for as long as you want.”

  Harlan shook his head, trying to keep his jaw from tightening. “I want this. I want to try.”

  A warm, comforting hand on his side… “This isn’t something you have to prove to me—to anyone. It’s not a rite of passage or something. It’s just supposed to be fun.”

  “I know!” Harlan snapped, instantly regretting his tone. He forced himself to take several deep breaths, relieved that Charles hadn’t pulled away. “Sorry. I am a little nervous, but I trust you, and I’ve been thinking about this since the first time I met you.”

  “Me too. Well, maybe not the first time. That was more like, ‘Fuck, my club is haunted!’ But for a while now.” Slowly, so slowly, Charles traced his way down to cup Harlan’s cheeks. “Remember your safewords?”

  “Yellow if I want to change something, red if I want to stop.”

  “Good. Ready?”

  Harlan nodded.

  Keeping one hand on Harlan’s side, Charles lifted the other and brought it down. Not hard, at least Harlan didn’t think so, but he didn’t have anything to compare it to.

  “Still good?”

  Harlan nodded, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth tight. He felt hot and restless, but he didn’t want to use a safeword after only one smack. No matter what Charles had said, that would just be pathetic.

  A second stinging blow, and Harlan squirmed forward to get away.

  “Too much?”

  “I—m
aybe? Sorry… Sorry, I didn’t mean to move. I just…”

  Charles sat on the end of the bed, lightly stroking Harlan’s calf. “This isn’t for everybody, you know. It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

  “I want to like it!”

  “I know.” Charles laughed. “I want to like opera, but I don’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy art. Maybe you’re not into impact play, but there’s so much more than that.”

  Harlan nodded. That made sense. Something about this just felt wrong, like the ingredients were there, but not in the right order. His eyes widened, and he rolled over so he could look up at Charles. “Do you ever…?” He sighed. He knew it was important, but it was so difficult having to actually use his words. “I mean, do you like…being spanked, sometimes?”

  “I do, and I think I see where you’re going with this. I’d be happy to try.”

  “Really? Just like that? I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m not about to hand you a bullwhip and say, ‘Have at ’er,’ but it’s pretty hard to mess up spanking—just slap my butt. I’ll tell you if it’s too much or if I need to stop.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  Charles grabbed one of Harlan’s hands, kissing the knuckles. “I am. I want to feel this”—another kiss—“here.” He guided Harlan’s hand beneath him.

  If he’d been as hard now as when they’d started, Harlan would have come on the spot, but the interlude of talking had softened him a little. “Get on all fours,” Harlan commanded, a little shocked by how forceful his voice sounded, how easily the order came.

  Grinning, Charles rolled over, offering himself.

  “So just…like this?” Shifting so he could reach, Harlan swatted Charles.

  “That’s a good start,” Charles encouraged.

  Once, twice more and Harlan was beginning to enjoy the way his palm stung, the way his handprints appeared on Charles’ ass—first white, then pink when the displaced blood rushed back in. He tried to make a pattern, a sunflower with his palms in the centre, fingertips radiating outward like petals. Hitting harder, he could make the mark go from pink to red. He was breathing fast, hard, rocking his hips forward with each strike. He could hear Charles beneath him, making low, pleasured sounds.