puddle bleed into his own chest from... he didn’t know where it came from. He just felt it liquefy there with a singular and instant yearning. He wanted this man, wanted him suddenly more than anything or anyone he had ever wanted in his life.
He reached out slowly and touched Dustin’s hand, caressing his fingers as he wove his own across their hard pattern. He didn’t ask if this was Dustin’s first time; didn’t inquire what had given Dustin the courage to finally come out of his seclusion. Maybe the alcohol had played a part in it, maybe not. There was more in Dustin’s eyes than the mist of spirits; more than the texture of desire. This was need and want and hurt and longing. It was the gentlest part of an unspoken embrace; the heat of a lost touch; the echo of a depth of yearning that Stephen had never encountered before, not even within himself, and despite the fact that he thought he knew loneliness quite well.
He led Dustin into the flat slowly, making sure that their eyes never left one another; that their touch was never more than the weight of a feather. Dustin became pliable in his hands, tender; the faintest whiff of innocence as Stephen led him to the bedroom and moved around his body with his mouth and his hands and his penis.
He did not let Dustin go even for a second. He didn’t make love to Dustin, he stepped into him; reached down and caressed that lost, untouchable part of his own empty being, which he saw so plainly visible in Dustin, and gave it to him as an offering.
He thought he recognized the ache in Dustin’s eyes; thought he felt it as he moved across Dustin’s body. But he had mistaken that taste and texture as something outside himself, and instead felt the reflection of his own desire. He did not know a hunger like Dustin’s.
He had known desperate loneliness in his thirty-six years; known the torments of a cramped heart; known the sharp bite of solitude. But this was different, deeper and much more complex. Had he looked beyond Dustin’s passive acceptance; past his greedy taking, he would have noticed that there was something that Dustin held back, something he did not allow Stephen to see. It was that same something that Stephen sensed under the confines of their skin as they moved; something dark and secret and chilling. Something flavored and spicy that tantalized him without respite.
Dustin said nothing when Stephen began moving across his body. He was silent the entire night and only stopped Stephen’s hands once when he tried to remove his t-shirt. He absorbed every grace Stephen laid upon his body; shivered and moved with Stephen as if they had been lovers for decades instead of mere minutes. He was still drunk, but his passion burned; burned like a white hot sun that sucked Stephen into a realm of ardor which he did not know existed.
Stephen found Dustin’s sober face staring at him in the morning; a face frozen by fear, a face whose eyes were electrified with anger and rage and shame.
Stephen understood too well that passion wasn’t love; he had learned long ago that it was simply a paper flower among damp gravestones. But Dustin hammered him with a flurry of accusations about feeling molested and abused; he pulled Stephen’s tenderness out and wove it into a noose to be used to hang them both with in his own haunted guilt.
He crushed Stephen under that weight; broke him with vile accusations that tore through his chest and made him slip on the blood of his own heart.
That was the face that Stephen would watch for; the face he was worried about each time they came together afterward.
Chapter 10
The Diner
Robbie looked at Stephen silently. Blinked once, twice, and then... “He liked balloons,” Robbie said. “Always did. Said they were free to go wherever they wanted to and only had to ride the wind to get there.”
“The wind isn’t always kind,” Stephen answered him sharply, much harsher than he’d meant
He reached out slowly and touched Dustin’s hand, caressing his fingers as he wove his own across their hard pattern. He didn’t ask if this was Dustin’s first time; didn’t inquire what had given Dustin the courage to finally come out of his seclusion. Maybe the alcohol had played a part in it, maybe not. There was more in Dustin’s eyes than the mist of spirits; more than the texture of desire. This was need and want and hurt and longing. It was the gentlest part of an unspoken embrace; the heat of a lost touch; the echo of a depth of yearning that Stephen had never encountered before, not even within himself, and despite the fact that he thought he knew loneliness quite well.
He led Dustin into the flat slowly, making sure that their eyes never left one another; that their touch was never more than the weight of a feather. Dustin became pliable in his hands, tender; the faintest whiff of innocence as Stephen led him to the bedroom and moved around his body with his mouth and his hands and his penis.
He did not let Dustin go even for a second. He didn’t make love to Dustin, he stepped into him; reached down and caressed that lost, untouchable part of his own empty being, which he saw so plainly visible in Dustin, and gave it to him as an offering.
He thought he recognized the ache in Dustin’s eyes; thought he felt it as he moved across Dustin’s body. But he had mistaken that taste and texture as something outside himself, and instead felt the reflection of his own desire. He did not know a hunger like Dustin’s.
He had known desperate loneliness in his thirty-six years; known the torments of a cramped heart; known the sharp bite of solitude. But this was different, deeper and much more complex. Had he looked beyond Dustin’s passive acceptance; past his greedy taking, he would have noticed that there was something that Dustin held back, something he did not allow Stephen to see. It was that same something that Stephen sensed under the confines of their skin as they moved; something dark and secret and chilling. Something flavored and spicy that tantalized him without respite.
Dustin said nothing when Stephen began moving across his body. He was silent the entire night and only stopped Stephen’s hands once when he tried to remove his t-shirt. He absorbed every grace Stephen laid upon his body; shivered and moved with Stephen as if they had been lovers for decades instead of mere minutes. He was still drunk, but his passion burned; burned like a white hot sun that sucked Stephen into a realm of ardor which he did not know existed.
Stephen found Dustin’s sober face staring at him in the morning; a face frozen by fear, a face whose eyes were electrified with anger and rage and shame.
Stephen understood too well that passion wasn’t love; he had learned long ago that it was simply a paper flower among damp gravestones. But Dustin hammered him with a flurry of accusations about feeling molested and abused; he pulled Stephen’s tenderness out and wove it into a noose to be used to hang them both with in his own haunted guilt.
He crushed Stephen under that weight; broke him with vile accusations that tore through his chest and made him slip on the blood of his own heart.
That was the face that Stephen would watch for; the face he was worried about each time they came together afterward.
Chapter 10
The Diner
Robbie looked at Stephen silently. Blinked once, twice, and then... “He liked balloons,” Robbie said. “Always did. Said they were free to go wherever they wanted to and only had to ride the wind to get there.”
“The wind isn’t always kind,” Stephen answered him sharply, much harsher than he’d meant
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