Rating : NC17 (overall) This chapter: NC17.
Pairing : Adam Lazzara/Jesse Lacey
Summary : You are 20 years old and live and study in NYC, you are an insomniac and you have a crush the size of Texas for a sharp tongued DJ. Your name is Adam Lazzara and you are about to meet the larger than life Jesse Lacey.
And your life will never be the same.
Dedication : to badaddiction because I had promised her a fic LONG time ago and to lestat_manson for being such an AMAZING writer and to cloaked_lace, forever my Adam.
Beta Credit and my eternal gratitude to schlaegt_links and convex_concave who nit picked, gave suggestions, corrected my atrocious grammar and made this chapter readable.
Disclaimer :This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of TBS/BN, their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
This is the last chapter, the end of a long, much loved story.
I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
All your words, support and constant encouragement meant the world to me.
Tell me what you think.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8
The diner is half full and outside it’s quiet and dark and cold and I’m still holding onto his hand.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, his eyes are fixed on mine and they are electric and sharp and ragged over an indecision that is stifled by the sinewy quality of his body standing up. He throws some bills on the table and we walk out.
Edna regards us with a reproachful look and mouths something like be careful, but I am well past that stage. This is a freefall into something that is going to break every last fucking piece of my heart, and I don’t care. Right now… right now I just want to travel across this city, run across the cracks of this doomed last night and be with him.
Maybe it’s really not love. But it hurts just like it. And, for once in my life, I want it all.
We walk toward his car and the only sound is the metronome tick-tock of his (expensive) Italian leather shoes. I follow him quietly, shivering in my tiny jacket, more from anticipation than from the actual cold. He unlocks the doors when we are a few feet from the car and the mechanical beep makes me jump in my skin. He goes to open the door for me, and I look up, knowing that this is wrong, dangerous and stupid. I know it. And for a minute I am almost tempted to just walk away from the car and go back to Conor and our alcoholic daze of post-adolescent tragedy.
But I don’t.
He raises a hand to cup my cheek and I curse my complete lack of control, because I can hear myself emitting this pathetic little whimper and I am filled by a raging tide of fear and desire.
I shiver violently and fall back against the car, yelping loudly at the cold metal digging into my back.
His hand is scorching hot on my face and my body can’t decide whether or not it’s shivering because of the cold or the heat. I lean on his hand, against any better judgment and nuzzle the fleshy palm.
God, I missed his touch.
He still has yet to say a single word, but I don’t mind, I am sick of words and all the consequences attached to them, all the responsibilities that fall upon a single statement. I will accept this right now, just this.
His touch, his willingness and mine, this shared instant.
He stops touching my face and I am immediately bereft, but he ushers me inside the car and his hand brushes the small of my back while I lean inside and I am not sure I know how to swallow anymore.
I turn around and I do it. Like that first time, so many months ago.
I kiss him, firmly pressing my lips upon his mouth and leaning my whole body against his.
A burst of heat and I open my mouth wantonly, sucking on his tongue and feeling his heartbeat against my own chest.
He still tastes exactly the way I remembered, like coffee and cigarettes and something honeyed and viscous and I kiss him until we are both breathless and his bottom lip is deliciously swollen. When we move apart our breaths paint the air with little wisps of white condensation and if I weren’t feeling so damn desperate, I would joke about hot we are.
We are still looking into each other eyes (and please, please God fucking give me this. Give it to me. This… him. Please.) when we hear footsteps and the high-pitched voice of a young woman. His face turns stony and he pushes me inside the car. He climbs beside me and revs the engine so harshly that even the reliability of his fine piece of machinery, protests.
We drive out of the parking lot so quickly that I am pretty sure he has left a good portion of his tires on the ground.
I buckle up and curl into my seat, and I cannot bear to look at him and all of a sudden I am assailed by the sharp reality that I am fucking up again, that I am, willingly, seeking out more pain. I look out at the streets passing me by and at the people asleep in doorways, I bite my lips not to talk, but I can feel the words hanging in between up with the murderous reality that is going to seal my fate.
This is not the night that will bring us together.
This is the night that will finally tear us apart.
“That was the producer of my show…”
I almost jump at the sound of his voice, but I don’t turn around. I count the eighth half-frozen tramp of the night and my words are completely noncommittal, to act as another piece of evidence that he is so fucking ashamed of who he is and who I am, has not hurt me at all.
“Whatever. I don’t care. We’re not getting married. I don’t need to meet your friends.”
And there is a touch of exasperation in his voice, but I’m not going to question it, not going to say anything else. This is my fault. Being here, being with him, being in love with him, trying to make him love me enough not to fucking hurt so bad anymore.
It’s my fault.
“Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t be a drama queen. Not again.”
I seethe but I don’t say another word, what would the use be? Nothing. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. We’re just gonna go back to my ratty apartment, fuck and then he’ll leave to go back to his life and the façade of perfection that he’s so good at maintaining. I am just a well-hidden stain that occurred in a moment of distraction.
He drives through the city and I am so absorbed in my morbid musing (because I just have to tear it apart and gnaw at it, like a relentless dog searching for the last scrap of meat off a well polished bone) that I don’t immediately realize that he wasn’t driving to my place.
At first I’m not concerned, thinking he took a wrong turn and that we are going to just sidetrack a bit and then go back, but then he drives through the Battery Park underpass and I see the Brooklyn Bridge exit and it’s then that I start to get worried.
I mean, it’s not that I am scared that he is going to dump me off the fucking bridge, but where the fuck are we going?
“I’m driving back to Long Island.”
I finally turn to look at him and my eyes must be wide with surprise and a good dose of apprehension. The guy wouldn’t even be seen with me by his boss and now he is driving me home? His home? It doesn’t make sense.
“Because, despite its charm, I prefer my place to your rat infested neighborhood?”
I going to fucking jump out of this car, I swear. How can he be so impossibly irritating all the time? And how is it that I am here with my fucking heart splintered by another colossal bad decision and he acts as if nothing has ever happened to make this entire situation a fucking mess?
Do I really mean fucking nothing to him? No, don’t answer, that was purely a rhetorical question. I fucking know I mean nothing to him and it hurts so much you wouldn’t believe.
“Fuck you, Lacey. My apartment is not rat infested and it has never stopped you from fucking me silly before, so what’s the problem this time?”
He doesn’t reply and I don’t ask again, I know that he has no good answer for me. We’re going to his place because that’s what he wants, nothing more. No other soap opera scenarios Adam.
We start crossing the bridge and I can feel my stomach knotting with fear. I don’t like being suspended in midair like this; I don’t like the idea that we could fall into a tomb of cold, cold water.
He looks at me with his fathomless eyes and takes my hand without saying a word. Part of me is elated by his gesture, but part of me would like him to put both of his hands on the goddamn steering wheel so we can (dramatically) reduce the possibility of driving off this metal trap. It’s like he can read my mind and moves his hand back to the steering wheel, but he doesn’t let go of mine and my hand rests pressed between the buttery leather and his warm palm.
“What are you doing?”
Of course. I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut, can I? I mean, god forbid that I just shut up and enjoy these moments for what they are: just disjointed occasion of quiet bliss in between the few hours I have left with him and the beginning of a life without.
And how much of a fucking fag am I?
“Driving. I thought it was quite clear.”
“Very funny. My hand. What are you doing with my hand?”
He cocks his eyebrow and I have to restrain myself not to punch him (or kiss him again).
“I will never learn how your mind works, Lazzara. You looked a bit green and I thought it would calm you down. That’s all.”
I turn my palm around and entwine my fingers with his, not a very safe thing to do, I am aware of it, but I don’t care. He can feel the shiver running through my body and I let his voice roll my name alongside my spine like a warm, sensual caress. He is about to say something else, but for the first time ever, I stop him.
“Just drive Jesse…drive and try not to kill us both.”
The rest of the journey is made in complete silence and he lets go of my hand only when he needs to change gears, his fingers flawlessly finding mine again and again. And just this could be enough for making me cry, but I don’t. Not now anyway. Not in front of him.
At one point I start to notice how the houses outside the window are getting bigger and more elegant, he drives through a clearly wealthy neighborhood and finally parks in front of this three story house that could be a perfect setting for one of Edith Wharton’s novels.
There is a brick walkway that leads to the front door and we walk silently. There is no trace of sludge and the snow on the lawn looks meticulously arranged to form the most perfect picture of wealthy suburban aristocracy.
“You’ve got one big house, Jess.”
“This is my grandparents’ wedding present.”
His voice is frayed at the edges with some sort of badly disguised resentment. I stop in my tracks at the mention of the word wedding and I want to kick myself for it. As if I can have any say in the matter of him getting married. And this awareness makes me even madder.
He closes the door behind us and I pin him against it. I dig my pointy knee in between his legs and he spreads them for me, letting me basically dry hump him.
“So, tell me…what is this? Your bachelor party? Only instead of a stripper, you’re gonna fuck the stupid emo boy that used to jack off at the sound of your voice?”
My mouth is hovering dangerously close to his and I can feel the warm puff of air when he exhales. His eyes are a dark shade of indigo and I can see a flash of pure desire running behind them and I wonder if he ever looks at her the same way.
“You asked me to come home with you, remember?”
“And you drove me to your house. Why? And don’t give me the bullshit of my crappy neighborhood again. Did you want to shove your life up in my face? Did you want to remind me that I am just a piece of ass on the side until your wedding? So? Which one of those applies? All of them?”
I rub my body over his, tantalizingly grinding my own erection over his quickly stirring groin. I’ve been hard since I kissed him in the parking lot. He tries to speak but I sneak a hand in between our bodies and cup his erection through his pants and he groans loudly, the sound hitting me like a slap and I rub harder, my own mouth open, panting lightly at the view in front of me.
“You are so beautiful like this… “
My mouth runs along his jaw and his breath is coming out in little, quick puffs against the side of my neck, tickling the soft hair there and making me shiver in reply.
God, I know his body so well…but I know absolutely nothing of the man inside.
“Just fucking tell me why you’re marrying her… “
“Adam…no…leave it…just aaah…fucking leave it.”
I bite hard at his neck and I can feel him tense. (Try to explain why you have a fucking hickey to your lovely wife-to-be.) I bite relentlessly and his voice is tinted with pain, but still urging me further. It’s like I’ve never stopped touching him, all these months have never occurred, it’s like the fucking first time and it’s impossible and fucking unfair and it’s a mess. A bloody mess.
“Yeah. It’s me, you fucking bastard…me. I’m here humping you against the door where you’re going to receive all your guests and kiss your lovely wife goodbye…”
I am still groping him through his trousers and my mouth is leaving purple blotches all over his elegant collarbone. His hands are folded in my hair and his long fingers are playing with my long, tangled strands and I am ready to mewl with pleasure.
“Jesus Christ Adam… “
“No time for religion, Jesse boy…I’m just a little fag remember? We fags have very little to do with God according to the Church.”
“What the fuck are you going on about?”
I stop tormenting his neck and leave my hand on the bulge inside his trousers (and I have the satisfaction to see him squirm). I plant my eyes on his watercolor ones and look at him, really look at him and there is fear underneath his beauty. There is fear and desire and confusion.
I guess we aren’t that different after all.
“I’m talking about the sanctity of matrimony, darling. How you are going to explain your priest that you fucked this boy just days before your wedding? Gonna lie to him?”
“Adam…if you wanted to fight, there was no need to fucking asking me to go home with you.”
His glacial tone has returned and his whole body tenses, retreating against the door, his shoulder straighten and he tries to fix his stupid silk shirt.
I laugh at him and hook a leg around his knee, effectively pressing my erection over his own. I moan over his mouth and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively in his throat.
“Say you want me.”
“Adam…Christ…you fucking idiot. Stop with these fucking games.”
I run my tongue on his bottom lip and he opens his mouth to kiss me, but I don’t let him. I have his wrists in my hands and I can feel the hot silkiness of his veins under my fingertips.
He could easily escape me and reverse the situation, but he doesn’t. He lets me hold him, he lets me have free reign over his body, relinquishing all his control and, somehow, this breaks my heart a little more.
Maybe…maybe we could have been really good for each other.
“Say it, Jesse…say it.”
I tug at his earlobe and he shivers a little, hips still moving against mine and we are grinding against each other, slowly, with a lethargy that makes my body burn and tremble at the same time.
“I want you…”
And his voice booms inside my head and expands inside my body, filling every nook and niche, painting the walls inside my heart with his words. I let go of his wrists and move away (reluctantly) from his body. I look at him and his pupils are dilated with lust, the blue irises almost swallowed by black.
“Then fuck me.”
This is it.
This is the end of the road and we both know it. But my heart is putting up a fierce battle and I am wondering how badly wounded I will be left after tonight. How badly wounded he will be left.
He starts walking upstairs and my dirty chucks are making a stupid squeaking noise over the polished cherry wood on the floor, I stop and slip them off, leaving them on the top of the stairs, following him inside his huge bedroom.
There is a four-poster, king-sized bed at the far end of the room (as big as my flat) and it looks like some sort of antique. There are complicated carvings on the posts and a fluttering of white gauze hangs on top of it.
This is some girl’s dream bed.
This is going to be his marital bed and he wants to fuck me here?
“She bought it in an auction at Sotheby’s in London. They shipped it from England. It costs half as much as the fucking house.”
I turn around to look at him standing behind me and his eyes scan the bed with, this time, clear hatred.
“I’m guessing you don’t like this restoration of the “princess and the pea” bed, huh? Or maybe you just don’t like the bloody princess?”
The question will remain unanswered, I know that already. I know it, as well as I know that no matter what is about to happen he will never leave her to be with me. That’s just not how it goes.
He shakes his head and I move closer to him. My hands start unbuttoning his shirt and I make sure not to look at him in the eyes, because right now I feel like I could easily cry and I don’t know what is it that I feel the most for him. Is it love or is it hate? And if it’s love how can I possibly feel it for a man that is going to get married and uses me as a spiteful mean to taint his future’s wife bed? And in spite of who? Me? Her? Himself?
And if it’s hate, how can I hate the same man that sometimes looks at me like I am the only thing on this planet, touches me like he was born for the sole purpose to do so and makes me feel as if I can do absolutely anything?
He lets me undress him and I kiss his chest with papery lips, running my tongue over the darkening bruises left by my teeth over his collarbone. He tries to lift my chin and maybe make me look at him or maybe just kiss him, but I won’t let him. I take one of his nipples in my mouth and he exhales noisily, something in between a curse and my name escaping his lips. I continue to gnaw at the tender flesh and now the curses are clearer, a string of muttered profanities and his hands in my hair.
He twists and twirls my hair with his fingers and I am lost in the pure pleasure of touching him, feeling the texture of his skin under my lips, on the tip of my tongue.
I am drunk and high at the same time, I am completely lost inside this desire and it’s a powerful, scary thing, this tenacious, continuous need that I have for him. It’s sexual (that is rather obvious), but it’s also more and I am not sure what it is, if I can give it a name.
But truth is, no matter what I’m feeling or even what he is feeling, this is all we’ve ever going to have. This night, this sick revenge against a fate he isn’t going to fight, against a reality that he is accepting because he doesn’t want to face anything else, maybe because he doesn’t know how.
We’re both losing.
I am losing the man I, reluctantly and madly, have fallen in love with and he is losing himself.
I wonder who’s going to suffer more.
I finally find the courage to lift my face and look at him and there is an open vulnerability in his eyes, something incredibly tender and I lean over and kiss his beautiful mouth, my eyes opening to steal that expression and keep it with me for as long as I can.
I tug at his belt and we move toward the bed and stand in front this huge monument to something that he doesn’t want, but is going to do anyway.
I know I should feel bad at wrecking some girl’s dream and tainting her perfect little castle in the sky, but I don’t. Call me a cunt; call me selfish, I don’t care. I thought I fucking hated her for being in his life instead of me, but now I pity her, because I am about to sleep in her bed, with her fiancé and he wants me to be the first one on this bed. Me. Not her.
“Are you sure that she wouldn’t mind you fucking me on this bed, darling?”
I am being a fantastic, bitchy queen and I know it. But I wanted the fairy tale…I wanted the happily ever after, I wanted the house and the fucking picket fence and the days to come back and be secure in the knowledge that someone loved me. I wanted it and she is getting it out of a fucking lie, at least allow me to be angry at it. At least that.
He takes off my shirt and undoes my trousers but he doesn’t answer, helping me getting naked, his big hands tracing the lines over my flat chest and dipping into the hollow of my narrow hipbones.
“You’re so skinny…”
God, Jesse…no, don’t get all sugary on me, don’t fuck with my head anymore, it’s already difficult enough as it is. It almost looks like you care about me and I know you don’t. You cannot. I silence him with my finger on his lips and slip under the covers.
“Just fuck me okay? Let’s make it good...one last time.”
My last words are pathetic and needy and I hate myself for them, but I cannot take them back and now they hang here, between my body and the distance that separates me from him. A sentence with the degree of my longing and how much I am going to miss him.
He gets rid of his pants and his boxers and I look at him with wide eyes, slowly raking my gaze over the long parallel lines of his legs and the white, taut skin, which stretches from his belly, up to his chest and along the column of his strong neck. My throat is constricted around words that cannot be pronounced and I just murmur how beautiful he really is.
He throws the fluffy duvet across the bed and I lie naked, sprawled over this luxuriously decadent bed, his body slowly moving toward mine.
“Let me look at you.”
Another one of those things that he shouldn’t be doing…he shouldn’t look at me like that, leaving an entire vocabulary of longing hanging in between his glances and the way his mouth moves across my stomach with a secured grace.
He shouldn’t put his hands on my hip and let his fingers trace the perimeter of my torso and memorize how my breath is stolen from lungs when his mouth closes over my pierced nipple.
He shouldn’t put his weight over my pelvis and let our erections touch with a hot jolt of pleasure and a sucking of both our breaths.
He shouldn’t kiss me like this, with his tongue searching my mouth, slow and sensual and greedy, his warm spit mingling with mine.
“Jesse…stop it…stop it…just get on with it, okay? Just do it and let it be over with.”
“Quite the romantic, eh?”
I don’t want to get angry; being this desperate already takes a lot out of me. I don’t want to add another destructive emotion to what I already have to deal with, but it’s almost impossible not to with him. Even if, by some sort of miracle, we had ended up together, I think it would have been an endless bitching contest and (to reiterate my utter stupidity), no matter what, the knowledge that we are never going to have it, still hurts.
“Jesse if you wanted romantic you should have waited for your wedding night with your virginal wife, in this fucking mausoleum of a bed! You shouldn’t have taken me! I’m the dim-witted, little emo fuck that likes to suck your cock, remember? Just that. I am not romantic, I am not flowers and candy and I am not a promise of tomorrow. I am just now. This. Here. My ass and your dick. That’s what it is. You were the one to make that crystal clear.”
Instead of replying (because we both know there is nothing to be said, there is nothing to be added to this bleak reality) he takes my face in his hands and his thumbs rest on my cheekbones, the soft pressure making the blood surge to the surface. He holds my face and looks at me for the longest time and then kisses my eyes closed, tiny butterfly kisses that make my skin tingle and my heart ache.
He is such a fucking bastard.
Why? Why does it have to be so sweet all of a sudden? Why does he have to make me hope again? Why is it that I can’t stop hoping? Am I really that fucking stupid? No, don’t answer. I know.
Because I can feel this knot in my throat and I can feel myself choking back tears and I am not going to fucking cry. I’m not. Not over him. Not again. Not for this last mistake.
I keep my eyes shut and he makes my body shiver with his hands in my hair, threading long fingers in between strands, combing it straight, fanning it on the downy pillow.
“Look at me…”
He nuzzles my neck and his mouth is wet and soft over my pulsing jugular and I hate him as much as I love him. His body is warm and supple over my bony one; I dig my fingers in his soft sides and press them into his flesh, grabbing at it, pushing his hips over my groin, hard. He groans against my skin and starts grinding his cock over mine with a steady motion, making me gasp a little and bite my bottom lip at the burning friction that sparks pleasure inside my stomach and makes my balls tingle and my breath itch.
“Open your legs.”
I spread them open, like the cheap whore that I am, but I keep my eyes shut, I’m not going to look at him, I won’t. He slides down my body and bites around the small crater of my navel, his hair tickling my skin and my stomach muscles ripple underneath his mouth. He is still rubbing his body all over mine and I can feel his erection pressing his hard ridge against my thigh.
My hands finally relinquish their grip on the sheets and slowly make their way to his shoulders and they move under my fingers with a smooth fluidity, the tendons, nerves, muscles all flexing and relaxing under the pressure of my hands.
He bites my hip and I arch from the bed, my nails digging into his skin with a savage glee. I want to mark him. I want him to remember me. Even if it’s for the few days in which he will have to avoid fucking her, in order to hide the marks.
He moans in pleasure and I urge him forward, my whole body humming with this pained desire to have him again. He kisses the fleshy inside of my thigh and I squirm, the pressure building within my stomach growing steadily. I raise my knee and grab at his hair to guide him on my cock, I need him to make me stop thinking, I need him to obliterate all these fucking thoughts about what could have been and what it’s never going to be.
I don’t even care about the pleading tone of my voice. I mean, at this stage it would be a bit stupid to worry about that right? Considering that, after he left me, after I discovered he is getting married, I still asked him to take me home and fuck me senseless. Right now, talking about pride is pretty pointless. He finally wraps his mouth around my dick and I scream. I grab his hair and pull hard on the curly softness and he makes everything seem unimportant, he turns everything into something hot and wet and burning and I can let go completely, his name tumbling from my lips in a furious, blasphemous litany.
He keeps a steady sucking motion, his soft lips making short work of my defenses and I am mewling, panting hard and pleading for more, faster, more, more, more…
He brings me to the edge time and time again, but doesn’t let me cum and I am about to cry out in frustration when he moves away and makes his way back to my mouth, pressing kisses all over my stomach and chest.
“What the fuck are you doing? Go back there now!”
He kisses my mouth and he tastes bitter and salty, soft and overwhelmingly Jesse-like and I shut my eyes even tighter.
“Open your eyes, Adam.”
“Just fucking suck me off, Jesse.”
“Open your eyes…”
And his tone is pleading. His voice is soft and broken and I am a fucking loser. I give in again. I give in into my stupid broken heart and look back at him and I swear, I fucking swear, his eyes are the most beautiful, beautiful things. His eyes will kill me one day. His eyes have already killed me a million times over.
I am shaking from pent up desire and my cock hurts and I cannot stand to look at him.
I want to never stop looking at him.
We kiss for the longest time and he is so hot, his skin burns over my body and I am sweating, trembling and moaning in his mouth. My whole body strains to get closer to him, to crawl under his skin and be buried there. He takes one of my legs and hooks it at his waist, he presses down on me and my body is traversed by a current of pure electricity. I am hyperaware of every single cell in my body and his body. The air shimmers around us and I fall harder and harder into this poisonous love.
“You have such…such perfect skin…”
His hand caresses my calf and his mouth is licking at the hollow of my throat and he can feel my convulsed swallowing. He can feel my heartbeat thrumming in my jugular with a feverish rush of fear and lust and love.
“S-stop with the lyrical shit, Jesse. You don’t have to convince me to sleep with you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
I can’t let him say those things; I can’t accept them (no matter how much I want him to say them and mean them). I am willingly doing something that is extremely bad for me, and I won’t let him sugar coat it. It’s not like it was last year. Now I know that those words are not a prelude for more; for him they are just the icing on top of a great fuck. But for me? For me they are fucking steak knives embedded in my flesh and I am not that much of a masochist to let him do this to me. Again.
“Oh my…has my kitten turned into a callous tiger?”
“I am not your kitten, Jesse. Don’t use terms of endearment with me. I’m not your fiancée, darling. I am not that stupid boy you met last year. Not anymore.”
This is so insane. We are here, on a bed, naked and sweaty, our bodies rubbing against each other’s, our hearts beating with a maddening tempo and we still manage to bicker. I want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it all. I want to laugh, but it hurts. Can you believe it? It still hurts so much. So fucking much.
“No, you aren’t. You’re right.”
And there is no sarcasm or triumph in his tone; just some sort of wistful tenderness and I grab his hair, pulling hard. I grit my teeth and I want to kill him right now, because he really cannot be doing this to me. Not again. Not now, not when I finally (almost) accepted he wasn’t ever going to be mine.
“Jesse, I hate you. I fucking hate you.”
He silences my rant with a kiss and I swallow my tears with his spit and it tastes bitter and painful and definitive. I let him kiss me breathless and then I kiss him some more, because if we don’t speak, if we don’t say another word, maybe I can believe for a second longer that this is not going to finish the minute we both realize that the night has passed.
I push him on his back and fan my hands on his chest, his skin is incredibly warm and smooth, and there are no imperfections, no blemishes, nothing. Just a canvas of pure, tender skin. I look down at him and he just stares back, unwavering eyes, swirling with so many shades of blue and some indescribable kind of emotion.
I skim my hand over his stomach and he shivers, just barely, but his skin ripples under the weight of my caress and I tread my hand lower, circling his erection and starting to pump slowly, reveling in the sight in front of me. Feeling my stomach lurch forward at the sounds he makes whenever I thumb the head of his cock. I keep jerking him off relentlessly and he moans deep within his chest, one of his hands tangled in his own hair, the other looking out for any part of my body to hold on to.
“There are some in the bathroom cabinet…”
He starts to move, but I am quicker, I jump out of the bed and walk into the adjacent bathroom (that again, is as big as my flat). I rummage around and find more signs that this woman, this girl I have never met (and still hate with a vengeance), does exist and is part of his life. Will be part of his life until divorce does them apart. There are already tubs of creams, a pink toothbrush (and I’m thinking to use it in a very inappropriate way, but I contain myself), a razor and a tub of a very expensive hand crème.
I look at all those items, holding a bright pink condom in my hand and I feel like throwing up. Because I will never share a fucking bathroom cabinet with him, I will never stand by the sink brushing my teeth while looking at him shaving. I am never going to be in his life and all that we will ever have is this -- this empty space between sex and loneliness.
I am still standing in front of the cabinet, hands at the marble sink with a white knuckled grip, when he comes in to see why is taking me so long.
I can feel the heat radiating from his skin and I slip my eyes shut again, bowing my head and letting the curtain of my hair hide my face from his prying eyes.
“What’s her name?”
“What’s her name, Jesse? You’re about to stick your dick up my ass. Telling me her name is but a small price to pay.”
I don’t know why I am doing this, (stopped questioning my idiocy the moment I suggested him to take me home) I don’t know why all of a sudden her name is so important, but I want to know it. Even if it’s just to curse her from here back to hell. Fuck, I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Sarah, she’s called Sarah. One of the most common names you can think of.
And Sarah is going be his wife.
Sarah is going to sleep with him in that bed.
Sarah is going to wake up with him and fall asleep with him.
I fucking hate Sarah.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me around, pushing me against his chest, holding me there with those fucking strong arms and I am such a fag I swear. I am the epitome of every possible gay cliché.
He is stroking my back and I don’t want this, I don’t want his pity, I don’t want this to turn into another soap opera’s style confession.
I’ll take what I can get tonight. And it’s going to be mine. Not Sarah’s. MINE.
I push him away and grab the fucking $60 tub of hand crème (I used to live with Gina, I know how to recognize some fucking overpriced beauty product) before walking back to the bedroom and lying back on the bed. It’s time to fucking finish this.
“Come ‘ere Jesse… just come here and fuck me. Fuck me.”
He lays back beside me and we move closer, our limbs tangling again, rubbing and sliding, heated flesh against heated flesh and the spark of desire, which seems to always be burning when he is around, flares up again.
And my heart beats harder and faster and he is kissing me again, slick fingers tracing the soft skin around my asshole, making me shiver in anticipation, making me claw at his shoulders and dig my nails in his skin.
He fucks me with his fingers and he is so fucking gentle and delicate, always making sure not to hurt me (except when he drives a spear through my heart of course), always stretching me with some sort zealous accuracy and that… it’s all wrong. Because if he doesn’t love me, if I am nothing to him, why does he treat me like this, with this infinite care?
I push against his fingers and mewl loudly, breathing hard through my nose, urging him to hurry. He opens the condom’s wrapper and quickly puts it on, he plants his elbows on either side of my head and I hold on his biceps, the muscle solid and hard under my fingers, he aligns himself with my ass and then is inside me. And I am lost.
I arch my back to accommodate him and I clamp my eyes shut at the sheer pain/pleasure surging from the base of my spine to every nerve ending inside my body and throughout my brain.
He is perfect. He feels so perfect, so fucking warm and strong and beautiful and I hate him…I hate him because he shouldn’t feel like this, he should not be this perfect for me and then leave me and go around marrying girls named Sarah. He shouldn’t.
He keeps pushing against me and the rhythm is effortless, natural as if we had never stopped fucking, if we had not spent these last nine months apart, if we had not parted in the worst way. As if this was more than one last fuck. As if this were love and not just some sort of twisted desire.
He buries his head in the crook of my neck and I can hear him exhale harshly with every thrust, every push. His mouth is planting suckling kisses on my shoulder and the tender skin that slopes down my arm and I can feel him like a second heartbeat inside of me and I want to keep him there forever.
I want this tormented grace to be mine, to be ours. I want him more than I ever wanted anything and anyone in my life; I want this man with a fucking, rabid desperation and all my fucking love (as misplaced as it is).
He raises his head and puts a hand under the small of my back, pulling me even closer, making our bodies collide with an almost painful strength. His eyes search my face and I cannot breathe properly, I can only feel, I can only smell him, I can only move against him, faster, closer…faster.
He moves his lips over mine and the kiss is sloppy and wet and brutal, words mixed with his spit and my lips burn under his mouth.
“…so beautiful…so…s-so beautiful…”
I growl at his words, clamping my inner muscles around his cock and he gasps, stilling over me as I look into his eyes, into those beautiful eyes and I can feel my fucking heart shatter and shatter some more. Until there is only space left for pain across this expanse of pure bliss.
“I fucking hate you Jesse…fucking hate you hate you hate you hate you…I hate you…”
He cups my face in between his hands and I am still cursing at him, trying to get over the fact that I am losing him and trying to obliterate this pain. He keeps his large hands on my cheeks and then he speaks, soft words threaded across the tender skin of my swollen lips.
“I hate you too.”
My eyes go wide and I can feel my whole body surrendering once more, letting him take me, over and over, his words aching in my head, with a rush of blood and his body level over mine. A graceful bundle of muscle and flesh and blood, perfect and deadly.
He bites and licks at my lips and I seek out his mouth as he pumps inside of me few times more. I dig my nails into the bedpost and I can feel the glossy lacquer giving out, leaving five clear dents into the wood and then I scream his fucking name, loud and pained. One last time.
He lays on top of me, smooth and sweaty and I can feel my cum slowly drying between our skin.
I came without him touching me.
He looks up at me and you have no idea how beautiful he can be, how fucking gorgeous and how much I fucking hate him right now.
He slips out of me and it’s over.
It’s over, we’re over. Whatever we’ve been, whatever we’ve ever had, it has to go. It’s already gone.
He stands up and walks to the bathroom and I know what comes next, but I don’t give him the time. I wipe myself with a corner of the sheets and start getting dressed. When he comes back I already have my trousers on and looking for my shoes.
“Adam, what are you doing?”
“I’m leaving. Now.”
I flip my hair off my face and turn around to face him. He stands there two feet away from me and I know that he won’t cross that distance to be with me. He never will.
“What. What? I got to go. And you fucking know it. Did you think your words were going to change anything? They don’t. They make me hate you more, if it’s possible. Words are fucking empty unless you really mean them, Jesse. Unless you act upon them, unless you move away from here, stop the wedding and accept who we are!”
I am shaking and all the fucking strength I tried to collect to get out of this with dignity is quickly disappearing under the sheer pain I can feel in my chest.
He clasps the soft terrycloth in his hands and I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, his eyes darkening with emotion and I can finally see what lay behind them.
Fear. He is scared, terrified by what he feels and what I feel for him. And yes, I love him, no matter how wrong it is, I do love him, but I won’t live a fucking lie. I promised myself that when I was fourteen and I’m not going to go back on it, not even for him.
He doesn’t speak and I know that he’s made his choice; both of us had no doubts about it. I walk out of the room and pick up my shoes, they’re dry now and I meticulously tie my laces in a way to avoid breaking down on this polished floor.
I turn around and I can only see his silhouette, the soft light coming from the bathroom highlighting the perfect structure of his body.
“Take me home, Jesse.”
“You can stay here. We don’t have to go…”
I laugh bitterly at his last minute indecision and I grab my jacket, staring straight into his eyes.
“There is no we Jesse. Have you forgotten? There is no us, there is nothing else. There was just sex and now that’s over and done with. Don’t make it fucking more difficult than it is, okay?”
“Adam, for fuck’s sake!”
He has no fucking right to get angry. No fucking right at all! I want to fucking punch him and scream and cry and tell him to think it over and choose me. I don’t do anything. Maybe I’m really growing up, or maybe I’m just too tired to fight anymore.
“Take me home Jesse or I’ll walk to the train station.”
I can see his shoulders sag and then he walks back inside the room. The only sound is the rustling of clothes and then we are walking down the stairs, the combined noises of our shoes filling the space between his silence and the knot in my throat.
Outside it’s half past six on a Saturday morning on the twelfth of December, it’s snowing slightly and the light is grey and powdery surrounding the shiny black BMW with a suffused embrace.
He drives me back to the city and I never look at him. Not once. I don’t really need to. I have his face etched inside my fucking blood, like a tattooed memory in my skull.
I am numb, completely numb. I can feel him all over my body. With every fucking breath I take, his smell assails my senses, but I am sitting still as a statue, ignoring it all. Rehearsing for what is going to be the rest of my life without him (I am a drama queen. Fuck you all.).
When he pulls in front of my apartment building I don’t linger, I don’t ask for one last kiss, I don’t beg. He opens the door and follows me to the door and I stop him there, my hand on his chest.
It’s easy really. It’s just one word. And it’s the only one I can say right now.
I push the door open, climb my three flights of stairs and open the door at the fifth attempt (my hands shake a bit). Conor is sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee and eating the chocolate angels behind our advent calendar. I sit beside him, shaking and he puts his head in my lap.
“Promise you’ll never love me.”
He chews slowly on half of an angel, handing me the other one.