by Trisky
Considering the fact that I ingested enough varying poisons of unidentifiable origins to kill a small herd of animals, I feel remarkably numb and coherent. I must have gotten most of it out of my system, last night. Maybe that's the key to not having a hangover the next morning, tossing it all out before it has a chance to settle into your bloodstream. I don't usually do that, no matter what or how much I've taken. It was just this distinct feeling, that if I didn't do it at that moment, I was going to choke. It felt like someone had stuck a fist down my esophagus and physically ripped my insides out and left them to rest at the back of my throat. I just desperately needed air.
He's starting to get restless, I'll let him wake up on his own. He's much easier to deal with, that way, instead of our usual push and shove. The sun never bothers him, he could sleep in it all day, head buried in the pillow, not even noticing how the yellow beams cross his body and cast shadows. I'm surprised his skin can even pick up sunrays, you would think it would just blend right in. I wonder if he even realizes where he is? Who he's with, or rather, who he's not with? That's probably why he looks like so relaxed, more than he has in weeks, he probably thinks he's somewhere else.
I kind of wish he was because I don't want to do this. I don't want to wake up and see him next to me and think it's just another morning, like the morning before and the morning we'll have tomorrow. I especially don't want to hear him pry me with a thousand questions and wind up with a thousand disappointed faces when he doesn't get the answer he wants, and I really don't want to think about the fact that he's more than likely going to regret this, regret me and wake up feeling guilty for somehow betraying his ... whatever he is. Well fuck him, fuck both of them, I'm the one who should be angry. And I really don't want to take that out on him right now, because I don't have the energy.
I feel the rustle of the sheets underneath me, and feet pulling away from where I sit at the end of the bed, and I don't look back, because I feel that same choking sensation and it's all I can do to keep the flow of air from suffocating me, so I stab my cigarette butt out, just punch it into the ashtray until it's nothing but shreds, but it doesn't help, the smoke still burns my lungs, and it physically hurts to just swallow the oxygen around me. I want to spit it out, just spit out all the shit I've been holding down. I want him to know what it feels like to be totally fucking helpless, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity, while you keep getting kicked in the gut over and over again, and all you can do is roll yourself into a ball and shut everything out, to try and protect yourself. Then I want him to know what it feels like when you can't help yourself, and it all comes spewing out of you, because you're going to explode if it doesn't. And I want him to know what it feels like to just lay there and have to wait for someone to help you get back up, the person you most want to do it and the person it stabs you the most to have do it.
But he does know, doesn't he?
I chance a casual look in his direction, and he meets my gaze, and I wait for the inevitable onslaught. His face is so set, so determined, so brilliantly fucking bathed in yellow sun, but he doesn't blink his eyes, not once. He just stares, and I have to look away, the glare from the light burning my eyes.
Silence is unbearably loud when you're waiting for a sound. I can hear every rattle of the windows, and creak of the pipes and they're deafening, like listening to a faucet drip water, and no matter how many times you fix it, it just keeps leaking that slow drip drip sound until it drives you to madness. I hear a sharp intake of breath, but no exhale, and I realize, almost too late, that it's my own, I'm waiting for, and I can't take it anymore.
"What are you doing here?" I hold my stomach with one hand, my head with the other, trying to calm the whirring motions both are making.
"You don't remember anything." It's not even a question, it's a statement of fact.
"Should I?" He moves around, out of the bed, appearing in front of me, dick bobbing like it's just been sprung from a few years in solitary confinement.
"You were pretty out of it. I didn't expect you to remember much."
"Since we're both naked, I assume you took advantage of that fact."
He rolls his eyes and just sits right next to me cupping his package like he just remembered to be shy about it. He doesn't look at me, he doesn't need to. "You kind of scared me last night."
Good you should have been scared, last night, the first night I met you. You should just cower in fear and run in the other direction.
"Nothing I couldn't handle though." There it is, his false bravado, only it doesn't feel as false as I'd like it to, it feels real.
I pull away from him, and slide onto my back, the sheets warm to my touch, heated from the pool of sun they soak in. I prefer this position, I can prepare myself this way. I can see his every movement before he even takes it. "So what are you still doing here?" I watch his shoulders sag slightly, and I know it won't be long before he goes. I've just guaranteed that.
"Was I supposed to just leave you alone?"
Yes. Leave me laying here, the first morning, the next morning, every other fucking morning after that, especially this morning. "Don't you have some strings you need to go pluck?" I see his back rise and fall quickly and I know he's going to say something stupid. No wait, that's me, and I've already done it. Big shock.
"I'm sorry," he hesitates and lifts himself up in one swift motion, body erect and standing tall, "about your dad." He adds that quickly, retrieving underwear from his drawer and slipping them on, refusing to turn around and look at me.
I don't want to hear that, I don't ever want to hear him pity me. "Sorry, for what? He was a prick, he's dead, life goes on."
He just twists his head back and I'm caught and he knows it and he doesn't say a word, he just goes back to fitting himself into his underwear. "I'm just sorry that's all."
There's something changed in him, some way I've pushed him into being. Justin doesn't just clam up, he pushes things and aggravates me and shows me how immature he is everytime he doesn't get his way, well at least he did until the past few weeks. But this is a different silence, he's not scared to speak, he's too confident to be scared. He's just quiet like too many words would cost him too much, and he's not prepared to pay. Cost me too much. And I suddenly want to barter away whatever pride I have left and thank him, but I don't, and he doesn't expect me to and for the first time this morning, I feel like I can breathe.
"Well now that I know you're not dying, I can go. I'll take some more of my stuff, maybe I'll stop by later this week and get the rest of it." He's back to rambling, good, that's good.
"I don't care how long it stays there."
"I know, it's just that now that I have a more permanent situation, I don't need to store it here."
It feels strange to talk like we've having a normal conversation, like the thousands we've had that were forgotten as quickly as they'd come. I don't even remember the last time we did that. "I thought your room at your mother's was small?"
He stops rifling through drawers long enough to smile in my direction. "Actually I got a place of my own."
A studio on Liberty and St. Charles, nice view and you won't be tripping over yourself when you walk from the bed to the kitchen, even if it's about six feet away, max. And at least you have your own bathroom, unlike the floor below. "Really? How are you going to swing that?"
He falters, for my protection or his own, I'm not sure. "My dad is going to supplement my income."
I just tease him with a hint of a smile. "So he's finally come around and stopped being a deadbeat."
He clenches his teeth, his smile fading. "He's trying. He still won't pay my tuition, or see me."
Why does he let that bastard disappoint him, every single time? "Well you don't have to worry about your tuition. I said I'd pay it and I meant it."
"I don't want you to do that." I love when he gets stubborn. "I'll find some way to pay my own tuition next year and pay back what I owe you."
"I fully expect you to, you can't rescind a legally binding contract, but the payment doesn't have to start until you graduate and I don't have to stop paying until your four years are up, we've already been over this. And you can take the computer with you, while you're at it. I have no use for it." He gets a weird look on his face, and just laughs loudly, like he hasn't laughed in ages. I don't know what's funny, but I find myself laughing at him, and I know I didn't give him anything last night that he'd be coming down off of, well unless you count the regurgitated version of it, all over his pants. "What's so funny?"
"Do you know what we sound like?" Like two people having a conversation? Or are we not even capable of that anymore? I have absolutely no idea. "Like some old married couple splitting up their assets in a divorce." He laughs so hard and so absurdly, he has to take a seat and I want to slap him on the ass for that crack, but I don't, because he looks so rested, happy even, engulfed in the bright yellow sun, instead I just kick him gently as a warning.
"What assets are you splitting? You're taking me for all I'm worth here."
"It's a good thing we don't have kids, how would I ever support them," he jokes, grabbing my foot so quickly I don't even know where his hand comes from.
"You could always get their suddenly benevolent grandfather to help." I try to yank my foot back, but he just holds tighter, climbing on top of it and sitting, staking his claim and I laugh, I mean I really laugh and it just makes him laugh harder, and we both laugh until our throats are hoarse, and he falls prone, right next to my chest, and I think I like this feeling so much more than trying to choke back bile. "It's good, you know? All of this... for you, I mean. Your father and all that stuff." I mention awkwardly, my throat still aching. I reach over to grab a cigarette, stopped by his hand grasping my head and facing it towards him, and he's on me like he's never left, climbing all over my chest.
We never get this wrong, and I don't want to get it wrong now, so I'll let him take the lead, that way if we crash and burn, he'll be the one driving, but I don't want this to ever be wrong and I won't risk it, I pull his mouth off my neck and force him to look at me, and he does and silences whatever stupid thing was about to come out of my mouth, with his own, absorbing it like it never existed by itself, like it can't exist now if it's not attached to him. He just sucks and breathes, sucks and breathes, shoving his tongue in as far as it can go and I find a place for it, on the roof of my mouth, licking the underside with my own tongue, pinning him to me, and I'm not even sure you can call what we're doing kissing anymore, I just know I don't want him to stop, never want him to stop, and from the way he's not even struggling, just plunging deeper, I know he doesn't want that either.
I feel fingertips grasping my skin, my hair, his arms just cradling my head, holding on for position, holding on to be steady, holding on to be sure, I'm not going anywhere and I'm not, never will. His fingers work their way down to my collarbone, his mouth following, and I feel empty, want it to be filled with something, with him. He nips angrily at the thin layer of skin on the nape of my neck wanting to leave his mark, but soothes it with his tongue in apology, and I don't care if he bites so hard he draws blood, at this point, I just don't want him to stop.
He looks up at me, looks for me to tell him whether this is right or wrong and I won't give him that answer, he needs to make his choice. He looks at the bowl of condoms and back at me and reaches over for one and I know before he even opens it, that it's not for me, that he needs to do this and that just makes me harder, because I know he's not going to be pleasant about this. He's angry, he's happy, he's sad and tired and he's nineteen and he's hard and he can't talk to me any other way right now, because I won't let him, but I'll let him say whatever he needs to, warm sheets baking my face, but he'll cover me from the sun on my back, lay across me and absorb it all. I feel the first thrust, it's hard and it's quick, but it's not messy or unsure, not like the first time or the few times we've done it since then, it's certain, and it sends a pulse to the tip of my cock. He uses my shoulder as leverage gripping it with hand and I can feel his eyes concentrated on some imaginary bullseye on the back of my neck and he just keeps pounding steadily, totally focused and totally sure of himself.
His dick fills me up and his other hand works to empty me, stroking firmly, his tongue bathing the space between my shoulders, and I realize I'm doing absolutely nothing but laying here and letting him do all the work, and seems to have made all the difference because I haven't been this turned on in ages and he's never been better. I can't even lift my head up, too heavy with prickly sensation. He just keeps hitting his target over and over and the vein in my cock responds in his hand, throbbing and quickening, tells him to keep going, keep pushing, keep hammering it into me. I hear every word, I feel every fucking thing Justin. And all you hear is me breathing, in scattered breaths, choking on a moan, I can't even make that intelligible. But you understand and I feel you open up, just unfurl yourself, feel you stiffen and squeeze, dig your hand into my shoulder and I grip you, because I don't want you to ever leave and it only makes it worse, makes you explode and you spill out and you don't even realize how hard you're fist is grasping me, or maybe you do, but the feeling overwhelms me and I burst. I just rip right through your hand and hold you tightly inside me, quivering or maybe it's me and you collapse on my back, and we both just lay there in the belly of the sun, listening to each other's breathing.
And I realize, I've been listening for this silence all along.