Ah! je suis tellement délaissé que j'offre à n'importe quelle divine image des élans vers la perfection.
You're my perfection.
—B
The quote was from Une Saison en Enfer, a few lines after the "To whom shall I hire myself out" bit I'd recited that first night. A vague and crappy translation would be, "Ah! I'm so all alone that I offer to any divine image at all a striving for perfection."
*~*~*
To say I was a basket case would have been an understatement. To attempt to demonstrate the kind of wild mood swings and endless chasing of my mental tail that would illustrate the true depth and breadth of my incipient madness would be tedious. There is nothing so awful as being unable to help someone you care about—unless it's knowing the one way you might help them could potentially make things worse, if it were to go awry.
But Susanne wasn't just a cop or an overprotective big sister—she was my best friend. The few days we hadn't spoken felt like a lifetime, considering what I'd seen. When I heard her voice again, I spilled. His birthday, the names of his cousin and uncle. I omitted only what had happened with them and what I suspected, and of course mentioned nothing about the whole awakened complication. Bad enough that she knew I was scared.
For about an hour after I'd given her the information, I regretted the creepiness of it all. Felt like I'd violated his trust unforgivably.
A few hours after that, I decided that was bullshit. I wasn't just some guy he wanted to fuck. Even if he didn't care about me—and I knew he did, beyond a doubt—Mal had a point. I was a part of it if someone made me. And he had.
I wasn't about to sit on my ass waiting for information that might never come. I had to do what I could. Creepy, yes, indisputably. But I was beyond caring.
She called me before the sun went down again, not much more than twenty-four hours after I'd scraped him up off the pavement, cold and gray and icy.
I greeted her with "What did you find?"
"Brady Owen Claremont," she said. I swallowed hard. "Of Richmond, Virginia. Has a record that goes back to juvenile—and you don't want to know the kinds of strings I pulled to get that. First conviction of many at thirteen. Almost all of them are for theft or attempted theft. He was booked for assault once, but…"
"Whatever you're about to say, it can't possibly be worse than the scenarios I've been inventing all afternoon."
"There's not much info. Judge ruled in his favor, but his own father was the plaintiff. Said father's record is…" She paused. "Something else. Died in a car accident five years ago, apparently."
Our father wore sweater-vests at Christmas and called me to ask for book recommendations once a week. I couldn't even imagine. "Jesus, Susanne."
"Yeah. The cousin, Malory Claremont, he makes Brady look like a choirboy. He's either a lot more active or gets caught a lot more. Same for the uncle, James. The whole thing is…"
I rubbed my face as my vision went bleary again. "Yeah. Guess so."
"This guy is seriously damaged."
"That, at least, is not news."
"I'm sorry."
"I think I'm in love with him." Saying it made my eyes burn. I squeezed them shut.
She sighed. "Yeah. That's why I'm sorry. This can't end well, kid. Not in any possible world."
Only my cold sense of despair kept me from cracking a Voltaire-and-Leibniz joke. "Any convictions on Brady recently?"
"Not for…about five years, looks like."
"He's out of it."
She didn't reply, but I sensed her trepidation. I would've felt the same in her position, and I'm nowhere near as paranoid. No one is that paranoid, this side of the CIA.
Just when I was about to thank her and hang up, she asked, "Why'd you tell me his birthday finally? What's going on?"
"I don't know. I'll call you if I find out."
"Etienne, please. Forget him. Maybe it's not his fault, and that's a goddamn tragedy. He seems like he wants to be a good guy. But he's poison."
My throat nearly closed up, but I managed to choke out, "At least I'll go out happy. Thanks, Suse. I love you."
"I love you too. Promise me that you'll call if anything happens."
"I will."
"Promise."
"I promise."
*~*~*
I'd tried to go in to work and had promptly been sent home for looking like hell. I hadn't slept well, true, but I could've used the distraction. My other favorite spots around town had Brady all over them now, and I didn't feel like braving afternoon traffic to go downtown. So I ended up at home pretending to read.
Voltaire, since I'd been recently reminded of him. The day Candide doesn't make me laugh is the day I should end it. Oddly enough, it was even funnier in my state of extreme anxiety.
Of all my repetitive, torturous thoughts, the most common one was: I should've gone to bed with him.
But I'd been too selfish, too scared to open myself up like that. And now he was gone, and all I wanted was to put my arms around him, make him feel like someone gave a shit about what happened to him. Let him know I loved him, no matter where he was from or what he did—or maybe even because of where he was from and what he did.
And if he disappeared for good, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.
When the phone rang, I almost jumped out of my skin. All the caller ID said was Virginia.
I picked it up and said, "Brady."
"Yeah. Got a phone. Told you you were sexy."
I was unable to respond, strangled by relief.
He said, "I know you probably don't want to talk to me right—"
"No, I'm glad you called. Really glad."
"You and your bad habits."
I smiled. "Can I ask where you are?"
He made a sound, sort of like a laugh. "I'm at home still. I remembered it being shitty. Just not how shitty, exactly."
I swallowed a huge lump in my throat, then asked, "You coming back?"
No hesitation. "Soon, but just for the day. I have to, uh, get some shit together."
"Then?"
"I'll come back for good. Soon as I can. Just—I gotta take care of this first. You understand, right?"
"Are you going to do something stupid?"
"Always." A pause. When I didn't reply, he said, "I should go. I don't want these bastards to know I'm talking to you. I just wondered if you'd see me. Didn't want to show up and expect—"
I interrupted. "You're lucky I miss you."
"Uh, yeah?"
"Yeah. It means I'm going to try not to be offended that you had to ask me that."
"Okay. Sorry."
"Shut up, Brady."
A real laugh then. "I'll buy you a drink."
"Yeah. You better."
*~*~*
Two days later, I was sick with nervousness. I got a text from the same number that morning. All it said was, Incoming. By the evening, I was ready to pop.
I didn't know what I'd do when I saw him. It had only been a few days—about the same amount of time that usually passed between dates—but I knew I wouldn't be able to pretend it was the same. I swung wildly still, but now between regret and resolve.
Why hadn't I at least kissed him that night? Why had I given him some stupid cliché about worshipping him when what I'd meant was—
Whatever he was up to, whatever stupid thing he'd let them convince him to do, I was coming along. I couldn't wait for him; he knew that. And I'd helped him with Mal once…
Pointless thoughts, round and round, until I was practically in fits.
He didn't come to the door. He called.
I said, "Where are you?"
"Downstairs. I wanted to make sure—"
"Come up."
He hesitated. "I thought…I was buying you a drink."
"Would you rather?"
"Fuck, no. I thought you might—"
"Please, Brady. Come up."
As he hung up, I went to the door. By the time I got it open, his old black Chucks were already
on my doormat, and he looked up at me from under his bangs like a guilty little kid.
Heart in my throat, blood raging in my ears—Jesus, I'd forgotten how bright his eyes were, his arms in those T-shirts, his tight jeans and his eyeliner and his—
Everything.
I stepped aside to let him in.
I closed the door behind him once he'd entered. He began to turn around, saying, "I'm really—"
But the second I flipped the lock, I gave in to impulse. I backed him against the door and kissed him. His lips were cold—fall cold, not Brady cold—and he tasted like cigarettes and gum and him. As if his knees had given out, he put his arms around my neck and held on tight, pulling himself up and nibbling at my bottom lip, then sucking on it.
I closed in on him, pinned him hard against the door, lifting him slightly. Slipped my thigh between his legs and my hands beneath his shirt. Felt his soft, cool skin. Like the first time, just like the first time, except now I was the one who was desperate.
He closed off the kiss and said, "I'm sorr—"
I rested my forehead against his, molding myself into him, my chest, my hips, my legs, my cock filling out behind my fly. "Unless you're going to tell me to stop, please shut up."
"Shutting up." This time he crushed into me hard, an almost bruising kiss that came with a little whimpering sound, the one that used to scare me. He sucked at my tongue when I licked the roof of his mouth, sighing as he rolled his hips against me.
My breath came in rough pants; it felt so good, so right, but it hurt too. "I should've slept with you the other night."
"No, you did right. You always do right, Et. You know."
I kissed his face, his neck, his ear, then said into it, "It's not just that I want to fuck you. It's that I need you."
He placed his hands on my chest and pushed; I let him drive me back a step and looked him in the eye.
He licked his lips and said, "About goddamn time."
We left a trail of his clothes behind us through the living room. He grabbed the handcuffs off the bookshelf on the way and led me directly to bed. He stretched out on his stomach, bare, beautiful ass to the ceiling, and snaked to allow for his swollen cock under his belly.
I ran my fingers up the taut muscle at the back of his thigh, pausing where it met his ass to tickle him. I kissed the small of his back, his right shoulder blade, his nape. Tasted his skin, mouth watering.
He rolled his hips, sighing happily at each stop along the way.
I wanted him to promise me he wouldn't leave, to tell him he could lie to me, if he wanted. That I didn't give a fuck.
But the smile on his face, as if he'd forgotten everything else, as if he'd never been so content in his life, stopped me. I wouldn't ruin the moment. Whatever was out there, he'd left it behind when he'd come through my door. He'd tried to tell me once how it felt different, good, in here with me. Sometimes life tried to creep in on him, and sometimes he had to disappear to escape it. But now I had defined what he'd left behind, I'd do my best to hold it at bay for a while and keep that look on his face.
I kissed his neck, ran my hand over the curve of his backside, then traced the split of it from the small of his back, down, down. He gave a little "ah" and parted his legs. I curled up by his side to press my hot cock into him.
He arched. I cupped his ass, admiring the play of tight muscle and soft, cool skin as he burrowed into the mattress and gave a little growl of anticipation and pleasure.
I kissed his shoulder, the mad black nouveau sleeve. My finger traced a line up to the small of his back and tickled him there.
He laughed and grabbed for the handcuffs on the nightstand. They clanked as he passed them over. I picked them up, felt the cold of the metal—Brady cold, this time—and let the weight of them settle into my hand.
He smirked. "Come on. It'll be fun. I promise."
I knew goddamn well by then that there was more to it than a need for something new, something slightly kinky. If anything, this was even more intense than the last time, when he'd actually explained his panic. Explained how this was a solution, a kind of bass-ackwards safety for him.
And yet I wasn't as disturbed as I thought I ought to be. It was just…
Brady. And, God, I loved him. I loved him, and I loved his fucked-up moments of freaking out and his need to be adored and his need to give it all up, just sometimes, sometimes, and—
And I had to admit I loved that he wanted to give it to me. Because the truth was, I'd given it all up to him without even realizing it. There was nothing quite like knowing that he felt me, understood me. Trusted me enough to do the same.
We had different ways of showing it, yeah. But he was right anyhow. His was pretty fun.
I snapped the cuff around his left wrist. "One hand okay?"
He smiled so sweetly, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. "You always take care of me, Et. Anything you want."
"Was about to say the same thing to you."
He smirked and arched his back, stretching snakelike again and pulling the chain tight in an experimental way. This both raised his ass from the mattress and told me, in case I'd somehow managed to forget, exactly what it was he wanted.
He tugged at the cuffs again, this time deliberately. Impatiently.
In case I was wondering when, exactly, he wanted it.
I ate him out for as long as we could stand it, his ass in the air and my face buried in it. My tongue circled his hole, and my hand rubbed spit all over, toying with him until he was wet and panting, tugging at the cuffs so they clinked out loud against the metal bar of the headboard. He was beyond belief, so hot and unashamed and happy that I was dripping simply from rimming him.
Eventually he began to rock his hips, demanding more. I responded by sitting up, dragging the back of my arm over my mouth, then pressing two fingers into the split of his ass. I traced downward, like I had done before, but applying more pressure. Not tickling. Taunting.
His legs trembled. The cuffs clattered noisily. The entire headboard creaked. He laughed—he actually laughed—sticking his ass up high in the air and begging for it. When I reached his hole, he rocked back, and I pushed inward slightly, rubbing all that spit up into him. He arched his back wildly and gave a muffled groan that sounded something like, "That's good, ah, fucking good." It was difficult to tell with his face in the pillow, though.
I penetrated him with sticky-wet fingertips. I'd been inside Brady before but not with quite the same intention—not knowing that my fingers were the start of the show, just a tease. My cock pounded along with my heart, hot and impatient between my legs. Feeling that warm, tight spot inside him made it swell again; it was already so hard after licking him so long, black spots flashed in my vision. I pushed up inside him slowly, gently, feeling him out.
He rocked back again, fucking himself on me. "Ah, mm, fuuuuck," he seemed to be saying. His unbound hand clutched at the sheets.
I pulled out, then pushed in again, searching. He groaned when I discovered the right spot. I ran my fingers up the inside of his straining thigh, stroked his balls—
The headboard gave an almighty creak; the cuffs renewed their jangling complaints. He turned his head to the side so I could hear him say, "Jesus Christ, Et, I'm gonna come before you even get in."
I grinned. "Better not."
When he laughed again, it was wicked.
That was enough, for the tease. I pulled out and went to the nightstand for the necessary effects. "Don't move; I got you where I want you."
"Mm, now you're talking. Oh—oh fuck, that's beautiful."
I could only assume he referred to my cock, to which I was applying a handy Trojan. Maybe he wasn't, but I wasn't in a state to decipher code just then. I rolled the condom down and slicked it with a palmful of lube, seeing spots again.
He'd lowered his ass a little by then, watching with his lips parted. When I climbed back on top, I steered his hips down to the bed. He made a quick, rolling adjustment while I massaged the re
st of the lube into his ass. He parted his legs wide, so wide I could see his balls tight against him, arched his back. That gorgeous, round little ass, so hot in those pants of his, so much hotter naked and split wide open like that. I touched the head of my cock to his hole and stroked it once, almost disbelieving. He opened up more, angled even harder, looking over his shoulder and breathing heavily.
It was almost over before it started. Stars started popping behind my eyes before I even had the head into him. The headboard groaned in his white-knuckled grip. "Mm, goddamn" was intelligible before he buried his mouth in the pillow again.
Deep breath, refocus, and I fought down the explosion already building low and hot in my vitals. I pushed up inside him slowly, every inch increasing the heat, the friction around my eager cock. My arms shook, but I fitted the curve of my hips to his ass, bending over him until I could kiss the back of his neck. In and in, his tight ass taking me almost entirely. I stopped, inhaled deeply, kissed him again, the corkscrews of pain, of burning pleasure, coiling up and down inside me.
He turned his head, wrenched at the headboard again, and arched under me, forcing me deeper into him. He closed his eyes, moaned so, so sweetly, and breathed the magic words, "Don't stop."
I began thrusting slowly, gasping into his ear, kissing his neck. Little sounds of encouragement came from Brady now and then, his hold on the bar viselike, his cuffed hand now relaxed, now clutching at the chain. It started to feel almost comfortable, the pain and heat in constant, building waves, and his hips moved under mine—faster now as he rubbed himself off against the mattress. Faster, and my arms began to shake again, more from the giddy, ecstatic spiral building at the point of connection, at the feeling of him tight around me, than exertion. Faster, as his jerking became erratic, throwing off the rhythm we'd built and sending a shocking counterwave of heat all through me.
He rocked hard, pushing upward with his thighs, slamming down into the bed. He groaned, pulling on the cuffs so the skin at his wrist went white as his knuckles, and said it again, "Don't stop. Ah, yeah! Don't—mm, fuck…"
It dissolved into a moan, and he rocked hard, burying his face in the pillow, then thrust violently into the mattress. His back bowed, angling his ass up sharply as he went rigid from the inside out. His ass, his legs, his back, his shoulders—all tightened up. The headboard shivered with the strain. I did as I was told and kept it up, never interrupting my pace. I felt him against my sac, pulled up tight as it slapped against his backside, wriggling, grinding down on me with the prolonged pleasure of his orgasm.
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