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“If you’re gonna try to kill yourself, I’m taking you back to the hospital, jackass.” Marty says from the doorway.
Rust jumps then scowls. He had thought Marty left for work before he got in the shower. In fact, Rust is certain he’d heard a hasty phone call and the sound of a car starting.
That was why he hadn’t bothered to shut the bathroom door. Just in case he couldn’t stand after the shower. The wheelchair hadn’t made it out of the hospital parking lot to begin with, but just two weeks after Marty had brought him here, Rust had abandoned any pretense of using the crutches Maggie had dropped off alongside groceries and pity.
“I’m not trying to kill myself.”
Marty hums, still watching, as Rust lathers soap onto his face.
“Right. You don’t have the ‘constitution for it’…” Marty drawls this like it’s a joke they share, but Rust just frowns. Had he said that once? Rust curses the fuzziness of his memory and that he can’t even definitively blame it on the pain medication he’s on right now.
“Be careful.” The warning is almost as appreciated as the suggestion that Marty remembers something he’s said when Rust doesn’t.
“Don’t you have work?” Rust sniffs. He doesn’t especially want to do this with an audience.
“Meeting got cancelled. My morning’s wide open.”
Rust decides to just ignore him. Marty can watch if that’s what he wants, but Rust has more pressing things to focus on. He slowly and carefully lifts his arm and doesn’t wince at the sharp twinge of pain that shoots through his abdomen.
His hand is shaking when he presses the razor to his cheek, and almost immediately, he cuts himself. Rust drops the razor and curses, and Marty is through the door in a second, tutting. “What did I say, Rust?”
Rust almost wants to cry. “Fuck off, Marty! I can do this by myself. I’m just—”
“You’re just what?”
“Tryin’ to shave.” Obviously.
“Oh yeah? Gonna pretend to be respectable again?” Marty teases.
Rust feels a familiar warm thrill in his stomach that he tries to ignore.
“Sit down,” Marty orders. Rust gives him a withering look. Marty smiles cheerfully. “C’mon. Lemme give you a hand, honey.”
Marty steers Rust onto the toilet before he can object further or process the “honey”. Marty grabs a tissue and holds it to the cut until the bleeding stops. Rust shifts from side to side, feeling boxed in.
“Sit still. Fuck’s sake,” Marty grumbles fondly as he tosses the tissue in the trash. Rust stills—not because Marty asked him to but because he’s as comfortable as he’ll ever be while sitting on the toilet, his skin full of staples and stitches, and Marty looming over him between his slightly trembling legs.
Marty retrieves the razor from where it fell in the sink, wipes it on the towel, and holds it up. He pauses. “You gonna keep pouting or d’you want me to get this off of you?”
Rust sighs, hoping he adequately conveys just how much he is not pouting and would absolutely kick Marty’s ass if he could get his foot more than a centimeter off the ground for suggesting otherwise. Then, he relaxes his face.
Humiliatingly, when Marty presses against his cheek—as gallingly gentle as he is—Rust begins to lose his balance. His hands automatically shoot up to Marty’s side, grabbing hold, before he can tip onto the floor.
“Woah. Steady?”
Marty brings his free hand to rest over Rust’s—the one that’s gripping Marty’s hip like it’s the only thing keeping him from flying off into space.
“Weak as a kitten, today, huh?” Marty chuckles, and Rust’s face burns as he feels himself stiffening in his pants.
“Shut it!”
“Okay, okay, Jesus!” Marty’s hand pulls away from his to hold Rust by the neck as he starts shaving, using unnecessarily slow, short strokes. Rust tries to ignore the arousal curling in his stomach.
It doesn't make sense. It almost feels like they have him on something that makes him more sensitive—one of the many pills he chokes down every morning after Marty lines them up for him like vitamins maybe.
What’s so strange is it's not just pain, although there's plenty of that to contend with because every part of his body hurts, but everything is more intense. Rust feels like a raw, exposed nerve.
Maybe it could be the alcohol.
Rust had been lucky to weather the worst of the withdrawal unconscious, and the new, sober Marty doesn't keep anything stronger than soda in the house. Not even cooking wine. (Rust had checked.)
And Rust hadn't been able to bring himself to ask, even though he thinks Marty probably would buy him beer at least.
On the one hand Rust didn't want to drink—less because he shouldn't, although he shouldn't with the pain meds, and more because he doesn't want to need it.
Recently, Rust is coming to terms with needing a lot of things. Marty, mainly.
Rust needs Marty to stagger out of bed in the morning and all but carry him the 20 feet to the couch before he leaves for work; to make what little food he can stomach; to change his bandages; and to—beyond all previous indication of his capacity for restraint—diplomatically ignore how hard Rust gets every time Marty so much as breathes in the same room as him.
Rust doesn't know what to do with that yet, so he's ignoring it too.
It’s not that he doesn’t know what he wants—just that none of it seems real. Not the desire, not Marty, not Rust. It all feels like a dream, but you don't usually shit blood in dreams.
So Rust is just being cautious. As much as a man like him can be after trying so hard to throw away his life for years.
But here Marty is, tilting Rust's chin up and lightly dragging the blade down against the grain of hair. It's a struggle not to duck away and hide. Or worse, beg.
Rust can feel himself breathing too hard, can hear a roaring in his ears. It's a strange type of panic he's not familiar with—somewhere between sweet anticipation and a waking nightmare where no one is acting like they should.
Its closest antecedent Rust can recall is how he felt watching Sophia learn to walk. Excitement tempered by the knowledge that one day she’d be able to up and walk away forever.
Although maybe Rust is projecting that onto a memory where it didn’t exist. Maybe it had been a simple pleasure to see her first steps.
His internal debate on if he had ever known uncomplicated joy dissipates expeditiously when Marty starts running his thumb softly up and down on the skin of Rust’s neck as he turns to wipe the blade on a towel again.
Rust hears himself make a noise like an injured animal caught in a trap—a high whine that seems to originate from exactly where Marty's fingers are pressing down. In a way he supposes it’s appropriate given an animal in pain is all he is and ever has been, but he's certainly never done anything like that before. To his memory. Which, to be fair, is somewhat compromised.
Marty just goes on shaving him, his smile maybe slightly bigger, but otherwise it’s like he hadn't heard it. Rust wonders if he imagined it somehow. It’s possible.
What Rust is definitely not imagining, unfortunately, is his erection, which even in the borrowed, too-loose pajamas he's wearing, must be painfully obvious to Marty as well. Rust tries not to dwell on it, but Marty has him surrounded. There’s nothing else to think about—only the source and the problem.
Marty likes taking care of him. Rust can’t quite work out the why yet. He wonders if it reminds Marty of his daughters in some kind of guilt-tinted nostalgia, but it seems more likely that he just likes seeing Rust struggle—see him be weak.
Not that it’s sinister. Because it’s Marty, but regardless, it makes Rust feel…hot inside. Ashamed if he were pushed to put a single word to it, but it’s more complicated than that. It’s warm and wet. It feels almost like crying does. Or bleeding. Or coming.
But only almost—Rust was definitely not actually coming. He hadn't since well before, although he keeps waking up rock hard from dreams he can’t remember. He knows they’re about Marty.
Anyway, when he had tried to take care of it himself, it hurt too much to see it through. He was starting to worry actually that maybe he'd never jerk off again because it had hurt so goddamn much. It felt just like getting stabbed had. Worse maybe.
Rust would really rather not think about the frustration born from a late life crisis of sexuality right now, while sitting on Marty's toilet with his hands clasped tightly in Marty's shirt while Marty chases the brush of the razor with his pinkie to double-check that he’s getting all the hair off Rust's cheek and smirks above him.
But it's very hard not to.
Rust is also beginning to suspect Marty likes the attention which is...something.
Not a good something necessarily because being flattered and being interested were two separate beasts. Though with Marty, at least historically, they were one and the same.
Rust smiles vaguely at the thought, and Marty practically coos at him.
Immediately, Rust is snarling at him. He wants to bite the cocky motherfucker for doing this to him and enjoying it. But when Rust tenses up through his chest and abdomen, it fucking hurts.
Then, he’s left trying not to whimper again while Marty snickers quietly. The bastard.
Rust continues to not pout as Marty laughs at him. Marty makes quick work of the remaining stubble on his face and then pauses.
“All of it,” Rust mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and flexing his fingers on Marty’s sides, almost dipping behind the edge of his belt.
He gets a sound of acknowledgment, and Marty sweeps the razor gently above his lip until the mustache falls away. He wipes off the remains of the shaving cream, and Rust can feel the air on his overheated skin for the first time in a long time. He looks up at Marty, waiting for something. A verdict, he guesses.
“Pretty as sin again, Rust,” Marty says with a smile.
“Shut up,” Rust hisses, blushing again. His dick throbs.
“You want a hand with that too?” Marty asks. Rust’s mouth goes dry.
“What so I can catch the crabs you got from your teenage prostitute girlfriend?” Rust shoots back after a beat too long.
“Jesus, that was ages ago!” Marty scoffs. “Besides, I meant your hair, dumbass.” Marty flicks against his forehead.
Oh. Rust sucks in a breath, feeling tripped up and hot. He fumbles for a comeback that doesn’t materialize.
“Dumb fucking cripple. You hit your head in the shower or something?” Marty asks fondly. He tousles Rust’s hair playfully and then steps away to rinse the razor in the sink. Rust’s arms fall limply to the side, and he feels twenty degrees colder without Marty touching him.
“I can book you a haircut if you want. I don’t have a barber anymore,” Marty continues, ruefully running a hand over his own head, “But there’s a place close to the office that takes walk ins. Unless you wanna keep it long...Kinda girly without the ‘stache, though.”
Rust makes a noncommittal noise. He’s not left the house yet. He doesn’t want to admit he probably can’t do it. He’s not sure he could even make it to the car without Marty’s help. The idea of anyone else seeing him like this makes his skin crawl.
“C’mon, up.” Marty grabs him by the armpits and lifts Rust to his feet. Rust tries to pretend this doesn’t make his cock twitch. The way the wind is knocked out of him definitely is pain, but the way his knees buckle…
“Where you wanna be today? Bed or couch?” Marty interrupts the thought—winding one arm behind Rust’s waist and taking him by the hand, almost like they’re about to dance across the floor.
“I can fucking walk,” Rust huffs, annoyed but unable to break free from his grasp.
“Mhm, sweetheart, I know, but indulge me, would ya?”
“Sweetheart?”
Marty laughs and steers him out of the room. “Guess you’re not always that sweet but…”
Marty pauses expectantly when they reach the hallway, and Rust remembers he’d asked him a question. Despite insisting that he could walk, Rust is finding it very difficult to do that, breathe, and hold a conversation at the same time. “Bed.”
Marty leads him down the hall but tugs him forward past the guest room where Rust has been staying.
“Marty, what?” Rust asks, feeling out of breath and frustrated.
“Hush. I thought you said you could walk just fine?” Marty guides Rust into his bedroom—to his own king-sized bed. Marty lets go of him to lift the covers, and rather than wait, Rust collapses heavily with a pained wheeze before Marty can put his hands back on him. He welcomes the pain and chooses to focus on it rather than the fact that he’s currently pitching a tent in Marty’s bed.
“Thought you might enjoy the space, and since you finally showered today, I don’t mind so much. Won’t stink it up. Can’t fucking smoke in here, though.” Marty says as he scoops Rust’s legs from the floor and drags him up to the pillows like he weighs nothing.
Rust can feel himself blushing again. Everything smells like Marty. The sheets, the arms tucking him in, the soap on his own skin.
He lets out a little noise—definitely not a whimper—as Marty smooths the blanket over his stomach.
Marty’s smirk softens at the sound, worry in his eyes. “You okay, honey?”
Rust nods jerkily, having no desire to explain that it wasn’t the stitches acting up but that even through the several layers of fabric Marty’s hand had slid across his cock and he’d felt precome spurt out of him. Like some fucking teenager.
Marty’s hand slides back up, thoughtfully, and the weight drags over the wet spot unintentionally. Rust’s hips jump upward.
“Ow, fuck!” It feels like he’s being ripped open, but he’s still so painfully hard that he almost wants to do it again.
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m sorry, honey. Lie still.” Rust makes a miserable noise.
Marty grins. “Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”
Rust glares at him. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, is that what’s on your mind, sweetheart? All hot and bothered for me? In my bed?”
Marty pins Rust’s hips to the bed with one hand and rubs evilly with the other. Rust moans brokenly.
“Marty…”
Rust knows he’s losing whatever game of pretend they’ve been playing, but he can’t find the strength to keep it up. He curls his hand around Marty’s wrist where it’s holding him down and swallows his pride.
“Please.”
“See sometimes you’re sweet.”
Rust mumbles a protest under his breath, but Marty is focused on grasping Rust’s cock through the blanket and kneading relentlessly.
“Hurts. Marty—” Rust whines. Even immobilized, the muscles in his stomach are clenching in excruciating ways that don’t seem right.
“I know, honey. I'm sorry.”
On some level, Rust knows Marty means it, but it rankles anyway. There’s just a hint of mockery in his voice, and it makes Rust feel small and weak, which unfortunately makes his cock leak more. He lets out a tortured moan.
“D'you want me to stop? Hurt too much?” Marty asks.
Rust tosses his head and tries to keep tears from coming, but it's fruitless. Marty pulls his hand away, and Rust wants to scream.
"No! No, don't!"
“Don't?” Marty sounds alarmed.
“Don't stop! Please, Marty, fuck!” Rust tries to thrust his hips up again with a sob.
“'Course. Aw, baby, of course,” Marty purrs. He shoves the comforter down and rubs Rust through his pants for a moment. “All wet for me?”
Rust clutches the sheets the same way he’d quite like to hold on to what's left of his dignity, but of course, they're Marty's sheets—might as well be Marty's dignity. Honestly, Rust ought to just hand over his cock permanently to the man who seems to have much more influence over it than he does, and the thought makes him let out another pitiful little sound—a sob, he realizes.
His hand stills as all the bite seems to go out of Marty at once. “Hey, hey, Rust.”
“Please,” Rust whispers, “Please I need you—”
“I’m here, honey. I got you.” He slides his hand into Rust’s pants and wraps his fingers around him finally.
Rust keens. For a second, everything goes white, and he thinks he’s coming. But he’s still hard, and Marty is tugging him gently, whispering quiet encouragements.
Their eyes meet, and Marty smiles so wide his eyes crinkle. Rust wants to tell himself that’s not what pushes him over the edge, but it’s pretty obvious.
For a tiny, blissful eternity, the pain is gone. There’s only Marty’s hand—warm and wet—and Marty’s smile—dipping nearer to press against Rust’s forehead.
“Go ahead and take a nap. I’ll be here when you wake up. Don’t have to leave ‘til 3.”
Rust says something, though he isn’t sure what, and Marty chuckles. “Sure, I can call out if that’s what you want, honey.”
Marty lets go of him and steps back—to unbuckles his belt and drop his pants. Rust realizes belatedly he’d asked Marty not to leave.
“Scoot over. You’re on my side,” Marty says.
Rust shuts his eyes and goes limp, unwilling to give up any more ground today, “Smells like you.”
Marty groans as he walks around to the other side of the bed. “Can’t say shit like that to a man, Rust. Gives him all kinds of complexes.”
Marty snuggles up against Rust’s side, and Rust can feel a promising stiffness. “Gonna fuck me?”
“Mm. I’d like to. But I think I’ll wait. Till you’re healed up enough that I can tear into you myself.”
Marty says it tenderly and follows it with a kiss to his cheek, and Rust tries not to melt.
They lie there in silence for a while, but neither of them falls asleep.
“You used to talk more,” Marty says out of nowhere.
Rust turns to look at him. “You hated it.”
“Maybe I didn’t much like what you had to say, nine times out of ten…” Marty trails off. Rust snorts. “But I miss hearing your voice. Knowing you’re not dead.”
Rust thinks about something he’s wanted to say for a while. An explanation for why he can’t stay here much longer. He squirms but fails to put any real distance between himself and Marty. He stares up at the ceiling, not quite wishing it would crash down on them before Rust can ruin this but not quite not wishing it either.
“You know black holes? In space?”
Marty snorts, “Yeah. What about ‘em?”
“Been thinking about the idea of an event horizon. The point at which anything or anyone approaching gets sucked in and destroyed—torn to pieces by the very gravity that drew them there to begin with.” Rust can’t tell if he sounds as edgy to Marty as he does to his own ears. He clears his throat and continues.
“Two years ago scientists measured one for the first time. They call it the point of no return. Build a strong enough telescope, and you can plot it out. Then, you know just how close you can get before…”
“Is that right?”
“The closer you get, and the heavier the black hole, the worse—”
“Mhm. I hear you.”
Rust isn’t so sure, but he doesn’t argue.
And then, Marty’s mouth is at his ear, “So, go right ahead. Suck me in, sweetheart.”
Marty makes a loud sucking sound. Rust can’t help the way he jolts away from it. He laughs even though it hurts.
“Fucking jackass!”
“Yeah, yeah. S’why you like me so much. Now, why don’t you shut the fuck up and go to sleep, honey?”
“You said you wanted me to talk,” Rust says irritably.
“Well, forgive me for thinking you might say something kinda sweet instead of the dumbest sci-fi shit imaginable after I got you all cleaned up, jerked you off, and let you sleep in my bed,” Marty mutters.
“Fuck you, Marty.”
“Fuck you, too, sweetheart.”