Chapter Text
———
The concrete under Paul’s worn sneakers is damp with a suspiciously dark substance. The longer he waits, the more sweat will gather under his pits. It is not a cool night and Paul has been idling here too long already. He casts one last glance over his shoulder, across the sea of hulking motorcycles, at the dark convenience store. Reflexively, his fingers reach for his neck, fingers tangling with the familiar gold chain, before he pushes at the heavy wood door in front of him.
Inside, the smoke hangs thick like fog. The heavy air stinks of sweat and cigarettes, the noise of shouting and music loud and cacophonous in the crowded space. Paul keeps his head down, sensing a few bodies shift to look at him as he walks towards the bartop, eyes catching almost immediately on his target. Gently, he touches the man’s elbow, heart sinking when Stilgar swings his head around, bloodshot eyes meeting Paul’s with vague recognition.
“Sir, we need to close the store,” he says, modulating his voice to be heard above a carousing cheer. There is someone at his back, their breathing labored, a beer bottle clacking down close to his arm on the sticky bartop.
Stilgar blinks at him slowly, taking a pull from a tumbler filled with whiskey.
“You want one?” He asks. His voice is careful, but Paul can hear the slight slip anyway. He shakes his head, feeling someone brush by them, elbow carelessly knocking into his back.
Stilgar sighs, heavy lids drooping.
“You’re a good kid, Paul.”
He’s heard the sentiment before. Paul purses his lips into an approximation of a smile. Pretending his heart isn’t thumping against his rib cage. Abruptly, the beefy man behind the bar holds out a beer towards Paul. He startles, fingers clutching at Stilgar’s elbow before a thick hand shoots over his shoulder and grabs the sweating glass. The body under his fingers shifts and Paul refocuses on Stilgar, watching as he slides from the stool, grabbing at the edge of the bar to steady himself.
“Gotta piss,” he mumbles.
Paul swallows his unease, following the other man and then stopping abruptly as he realizes what he’s doing. He stutters to a halt, feet shuffling, feeling suddenly like the heavy lamp hanging from the ceiling is a spotlight. Paul stands stupidly next to a crowded booth. He can feel eyes crawling on him like a physical touch. He risks a glance and wishes he hadn’t. A monstrously fat man is watching him with heavy lidded interest.
“You lost, sweetheart?”
Paul’s eyes snap to a bald man, leaning on the back of the booth. His words are sluggish with alcohol, sweat covering his pale head.
“Don’t be rude, Rabban,” the fat man rasps. “Feyd, get our guest something to drink.”
The man’s thick fingers slip to grip at the neck of a younger man slumped against him in the booth, who starts to slide away at his words. Paul pulls in a slow breath, refusing to drop his gaze, even as he feels the awareness of a few bodies at his back, crowding closer. Boxing him in.
After a few moments, a beer appears under his nose and he jolts in surprise, head swinging. The ugly bruise adorning the skin around Feyd’s eye contrasts sharply with the almost sweetness of his features. He’s not small, but his body lacks the heft of many of the men at the bar. And for a brief flash, Paul notes the shape of his mouth and feels a pulse of sympathy. It’s gone in the blink of an eye.
“No,” he says, proud of how steady his voice is.
Feyd’s hands are big. He pushes the beer closer and Paul shoves it back sharply, watching in distant horror as it splashes the dirty looking sleeveless jacket the other man is wearing. Jeering laughter like a clap of thunder fills his ears as he turns abruptly, shoving through the wall of bodies that had crowded behind him. His heart is racing, sick to his stomach as he lurches away.
Relief washes over him as he watches Stilgar stumble from the hallway. He slips his arm around the other man’s waist, helping to steady him, as they make their way through the thick crowd of heaving bodies. Panic is scrambling at Paul’s throat, and he’s afraid that any minute a hand will wrap around his arm to pull him back–
The night air outside the bar is almost cool in comparison to the stifling atmosphere of the bar. Every step across the deserted street towards the store helps calm his frantic heart. Back inside feels like a reprieve. Stilgar slumps against the counter, elbow scattering the careful display of cigarettes Paul had arranged earlier. He wipes at the clammy skin of his forehead, watching the other man breathe heavily.
“You’re a good kid, Paul,” he says again, eyes slipping closed.
“Want me to call you a cab, sir?”
Stilgar shakes his head.
“You go home, son. I’ll close up. See you in the morning.”
Paul nods, taking his jacket from behind the counter and moving to the door. When he steps out onto the sidewalk, he pulls up short. There is one solitary figure sitting astride the hulking shape of his motorcycle, the flickering street lamp illuminating his young face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, wide eyes fixed unmistakably on Paul. Instantly, his hand shoots to worry at the outline of the crucifix beneath his shirt.
Purposefully, he drops his eyes and turns to walk. Only a few seconds pass before he hears the steady thunk of boots behind him on the asphalt. They are approaching the alley that leads behind the store. Paul stops abruptly, heart in his throat as he turns, twisting his face into a sharp frown, hands clenched at his side.
“What?” He asks loudly, watching Feyd stop a few feet away. Paul notes the thick muscles of his arms, the few inches of height he has on him. A pulse of fear shoots through Paul, but he widens his feet resolutely. I’m not going down without a fight.
They stand, staring at each other for a few moments before Feyd drops his cigarette, crushing it under the heel of one boot.
“I can give you a ride home,” Feyd says, his voice is like the crunch of gravel, so reminiscent of the man in the booth.
Paul blinks, mind stuttering. What?
“No thank you,” Paul replies carefully when it becomes clear that Feyd is not going to reiterate or retract his statement.
“Why?” Feyd asks, like he’s actually curious.
Before he can reply, the door to the bar bursts open and Rabban and a few other men stumble onto the street. Almost immediately, they spot the two of them, slurred shouts filling the late night air. Paul’s eyes dart to Feyd, realizing he has to make a decision quickly.
“Let’s go,” he says, walking swiftly towards Feyd’s motorcycle, hearing the other man hurry to catch up.
Hot breath hits the back of his neck as he comes to a stop in front of the large bike. A heavy hand shakes his arm, as Feyd easily straddles the seat. Paul pushes the grabbing fingers away, scrambling the best he can behind Feyd. Trying to put as much distance as he can between the two of them, clutching convulsively as his own knees.
“Finally found yourself a pretty girl, little brother?” Rabban laughs loudly, face flushed and damp as he shoves Feyd’s shoulder.
Paul tenses, trying to choke down the terror threatening to rise like bile. He can see the shoulders in front of him tensing.
“I don’t know if our uncle will be pleased–”
There’s a sharp snap and– Paul blinks, staring open mouthed at Feyd’s hand, bending back his brother’s pointer finger at a grotesque angle. Reflexively, he repeats a prayer for what feels like the hundredth time tonight as he listens to Rabban scream in pain, stumbling back from the bike as Feyd lifts his body and slams his foot down, the engine roaring to life like a mythical beast. Numbly, Paul clutches at Feyd’s waist as they turn away from the howling man and speed down the street.
His tight grip on the other man must be painful, but he doesn’t shake him off as they rush through the empty roads. Paul points out directions until they come to a halt in front of his dark house. Shakily, he slides from the bike, starting to move as soon as his feet hit the ground. Again, the sound of boots follow him.
“What?” He asks again, afraid that he definitely sounds hysterical this time as he turns to spit at the other man.
Feyd fumbles in his pocket, seemingly unphased both by the violence he just inflicted and Paul’s shouting. He places a new cigarette between his lips. Paul watches him blow a steady stream of smoke to the night sky.
“Can I come in?” He asks finally.
“No you can’t come in,” Paul snaps.
Does he think I’m a—
“Why do you want to come inside?”
There’s a pause where Feyd seems to consider this.
“I’m hungry,” he settles on.
Paul can feel that his mouth is open. Standing silently in the middle of his street. Their neighbors are probably watching this exchange. Probably woken up by the loud sound of the motorcycle.
“I’m not feeding you,” Paul says, voice too quiet now. Like all the fight has been drained from him. He’s suddenly so tired, he’s afraid he’s going to fall to the ground in a puddle of sweat.
“Go away,” he says, turning to stumble up the stairs to his front porch, fingers fumbling with his keys. There is no sound behind him. Paul slams the door, hastily locking the door behind him.
When Paul goes to sleep that night, clutching a dull kitchen knife to his chest desperately, he still hasn’t heard the roar of an engine.
———
“Paul,” his mother is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of coffee in the weak morning light. She’s still wearing her little white oxfords and neat starched dress. She looks desperately tired. Slender fingers pressing into the paper thin skin of her forehead like she has a headache.
It makes something in his stomach clench. You shouldn’t have to. We shouldn’t have to. It’s a well worn thought. Familiar and irritating.
“Hm?” Paul responds softly. He feels almost sick with weariness after his near sleepless night.
“When I got home from my shift this morning, there were a dozen or so cigarette butts on the porch.”
“What?” His heart thumps as he straightens in the uncomfortable spindly chair.
His hand flies to the weight of his crucifix where it sits cold and heavy against his chest. His eyes jump to the front door, like he could somehow see outside to the dirty stubs the other man left like a calling card. What does he want?
“A man,” he starts slowly, unsure how else to proceed. “Drove me home last night.”
His mother’s soft, tired eyes drag up from her mug to examine his face.
“Did he try to hurt you?” She ask, cheeks pale.
“No.”
I don’t know what he was trying to do.
His mother looks thoughtful, a little line between her carefully plucked brows.
“Please be careful, my darling.”
“I wasn’t trying to be reckless,” he hastens to say.
His eyes flicker reflexively to the meager adornments on the mantelpiece in the dingy living room. A picture of his father, smiling adoringly at his mother, is sitting haphazardly next to the blessed virgin over the fireplace. Precious little else decorates the small room. Hardly any other personal touches. Like two ghosts live here along with the memories borrowed from another time and place. Ghosts that pass each other in the morning with a smile and a kiss. Like a fairytale.
His mother nods at his words, standing slowly and moving towards him. Paul closes his eyes, leaning his head against the softness of her belly. She smells nice. Like herself. Like his father. Even under the clean antiseptic scent of the hospital. Paul’s hollow stomach contracts.
“I get paid today,” he mumbles.
His mother’s fingers soothe through his hair for a few moments before she pulls away to pick up the mug.
“I’ll clean up, mom.” Paul says. “You need to sleep.”
His mother presses an absent kiss to his cheek and then turns to walk up the stairs.
———
Paul blinks out at the hot blue sky through the dirty window. A few people are idling on the sidewalk outside, towing at a crushed can while they smoke. Inside the store, Stilgar is stocking the shelves slowly. Paul had offered, but the man had waved him away, insisting he stay at the register. Maybe as an apology for last night.
It’s even warmer today, the sun already hot as he walked to work this morning. Absently, he brushes his fingers over the book in his back pocket, thumbing the worn pages. He wants to pull it out. Wants to continue the story. Not rest his hands idly on the worn counter top. Not look out at the street, broken bottles and trash floating along the sluggish breeze.
Paul closes his eyes, blocking out the sight of the few motorcycles already at the bar despite the early hour. Or maybe they never left. Stilgar had informed him that Jamis would be returning to the late shift tonight and Paul would not be required to pull another double. Thank God.
With his eyes closed, he could be anywhere. Could he back home. Not the dilapidated house where his mother now sleeps fitfully. But the one filled with life and warmth and love. And my father. His radiant smile. His broad hands clapping Paul’s back as they fixed the fence on the border of the lane. His rough whiskered face, pressing a kiss to his mother’s smiling mouth. How quickly that smile had left her face, twisted instead in grief when—
The bell above the door tinkles innocently as someone enters. Paul hears a heavy footfall and his eyes snap open. Feyd is looking at him with that same fixed blue-eyed stare. Paul’s empty stomach lurches.
What?
His thick boots are loud on the cheap flooring as he approaches the counter. He looks sweaty already, the skin of his arms damp, hair disheveled and a little greasy. The knees of his white denim pants are dirty. His knuckles are split and red, the bruised eye is a mottled yellow and green color.
Get into another fight sometime between smoking a pack on my porch and right now?
Paul doesn’t open his mouth, returning the gaze like a challenge.
“What do you want?” From me. Are you insane?
He resists the urge to trace the line of his necklace under his shirt.
“Pack of Marlboros,” Feyd says, leaning his hands onto the counter. Intimidation perhaps? Paul can see the tendons on his arms flex as he rocks back and forth. Paul grabs the pack and tosses next to the other man’s large hand. The nails are raggedy and bitten down. The skin around them is raw and ripped.
“What do you want?” Paul repeats.
Feyd raises his light brows, eyes flickering, lashes brushing down. Like a schoolboy caught stealing.
Don’t pretend you don’t understand what I’m asking. Paul thinks sharply. His heart is in his throat.
Are you going to hurt me? Are you going to—
He doesn’t complete the thought.
“Want to take a smoke break with me?” Feyd settles on eventually.
Paul purses his lips.
“I don’t smoke.”
Feyd’s fingers are playing with the white packaging, mouth a little slack as he stares at Paul. A prayer circles his brain uselessly like a dog chasing its tail. Suddenly, Feyd turns on his heel, slinking out into the bright sunshine. Paul watches as he starts his bike, and drives off, a freshly lit cigarette between his lips, trailing smoke behind him.
Two hours later and he’s walking his route home, an envelope of cash carefully folded and tucked into his pocket. The street he’s on passes a bridge that leads out of town. The midday sun beats down on the back of his neck as he leans on the railings of the bridge. Considering it. Following the achingly familiar road with his eyes. Like if he looks hard enough, he can see the peace that once was. Not so very long ago.
Abruptly, the roar of a motorcycle cuts into his musings. Paul stiffens, turning to watch Feyd roll to a stop in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, the intention clear. Paul’s heart starts to flutter again, the palms of his hands sweaty. Feyd hasn’t cut the engine, raising his eyebrows in clear invitation.
What do you want from me? He thinks again, uselessly. The suspicion dark and a little terrifying in his thundering chest.
Paul takes a step off the sidewalk, aware of Feyd’s eyes following his movements as he tentatively grips the man’s waist and throws his leg over the rough leather seat. He sits stiffly, trying to minimize the places they touch as Feyd sets them hurtling forward. Paul opens his mouth to shout that he’s going the wrong way, but closes it as they start to rush across the bridge and out into the country.
Uncertainty pulses through his blood as he watches the scenery flash by, his hands gripping too tightly at the man in front of him. The wind is sharp and quick, pushing his hair away from his face and stealing the breath from his lungs. Is this it? Is this where it ends?
An indeterminate amount of time passes. Paul watches the fields pass, pretty and familiar. Feyd turns down a dirt road, pulling to a stop by a small thicket of trees. Paul feels numb and a little giddy as he slides immediately off the bike, stumbling to the meager shade, hearing the unmistakable sound of Feyd following him through the yellowing grass.
Paul turns at the edge of the trees, watching as Feyd comes to a stop as well. Feyd takes out a cigarette and slips it between his lips, lighting it without taking his eyes off of Paul.
Wildly, Paul thinks of school. Of careful distance on the playground. Of polite conversations with his teachers. Of the chatter he attempts to dish out to the customers at the store. Of false smiles and exchanges of sympathy at Sunday mass. Of the fog of almost sleepy disinterest that has been hanging thick and lethargic over his brain since watching his father be lowered into the ground.
There’s no fog now. It burned off somewhere last night in the bar. His eyes are clear and sharp as he stares unblinkingly at the man in front of him, something like fear but not quite simmering in his veins.
This may be it, but I’m going down fighting.
Feyd slides to the ground in a heap of limbs, smoke curling around his face and drifting into the humid air. He pulls something out of his pocket. It’s a wrinkled wrapper. Feyd peels it back and shoves the slightly melted chocolate into his mouth in between puffs of his cigarette. The chocolate is messy on his lips and his dirty fingers. He sucks the sugar from them inelegantly. Paul looks away, disgust or confusion or something sending a pulse through his body.
What is wrong with this man?
A few more minutes pass and Paul relents, folding himself onto the ground as well. Feyd is a few feet away, the chocolate now tucked back into his pants, a fresh cigarette between his lips. Slowly, Paul pulls the book from his back pocket, opening it to the dog eared page. He scans the words he last absorbed, running over them without turning any pages. Watching in his peripheral vision as Feyd inches forward minutely. Minutes pass in awkward silence as Paul stares resolutely at his book. Feyd is sitting almost right in front of Paul now, fumbling in the dirt for rocks.
Paul tenses, waiting for it. And he does throw them. But not at Paul. A squirrel chitters on the tree behind them. Paul starts, turning and watching the little rodent dart along a branch.
“Don’t do that,” he says sharply.
Feyd looks surprised, clear blue eyes wide.
“Take me home,” Paul says. Half expecting the man to refuse. To push him into the dirt. To—
Feyd stands, reaching out towards Paul to pull him upright. Paul jerks away, scrambling to his feet himself.
———
In the morning, there’s a half eaten chocolate bar on the porch. Paul hesitates a moment before stuffing it into the trash under the coffee grounds before his mother can see.
———
Paul settles onto the kneeler, hands folded, eyes closed. It’s blessedly cool inside the church.
The confessional is at his back. Waiting for him. What’s he to say? Everything. Nothing. It’s still a sin if it’s only taken place in my mind.
It feels like he’s clinging desperately to something. And every day it slips a little further through his fingers. He prays every day. All day. To deafening silence. Feeling like it’s more rote now than anything else. It hasn’t felt real since the hospital, rosary clasped desperately in his hands as he watched the life leak from his father’s pale, wasted cheeks.
For truly, I say to you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you, the priest says.
Paul presses his forehead hard against the pew in front of him, hand clutching his crucifix like a lifeline.
———
“Want to take a smoke break with me?”
Paul finishes tipping the trash into the dumpster before turning to face the man he knows will be framed in the mouth of the alley. Feyd is already smoking, the ubiquitous cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His bottom lip is fat and split, a drop of red smudging the filter. The bruise around his eye is starting to fade.
Paul sets the can on the ground, leaning back against the wall by the door, watching as Feyd approaches. He doesn’t mirror Paul. Instead, he presses one boot against the wall next to Paul’s hip, rocking a little like he can’t keep still.
“What happened?” Paul asks eventually, gesturing to his mouth.
Feyd shrugs.
“Business.”
Paul keeps his mouth closed.
“That man in the bar,” he says. He doesn’t need to specify who. Feyd stops his rocking.
“He’s my uncle,” he says. “He runs the club.”
“He rides a motorcycle?” Paul asks, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Feyd laughs. Wide and uninhibited. Teeth too prominent in his big mouth.
“No,” he says. “Just runs it.”
Paul nods, feeling the muscles of his face start to relax and match Feyd’s upturned mouth. Feeling his whole body start to relax. He turns quickly, reaching for the door into the alley. Feyd’s boot makes a scraping sound as it falls from the wall to the dirty ground. Paul opens his mouth, not looking over his shoulder. Not exactly knowing what he wants to say.
Feyd must know.
He’s waiting for Paul a few hours later. Parked by the bridge, a cigarette hanging from his lip. The blood clotted.
For now.
———
Paul looks approvingly down at the pasta in the pot. It’s much better than last week's attempt. Carefully, he ladles a serving into a chipped bowl. The floral apron tied around his waist remains clean as he finishes, turning to hand the food to his mother. She smiles, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before sitting down at the small table.
The sun is getting lower as she eats, thumbing through the mail, not finding what she’s been hoping for. He can tell. He watches the back of her elegant neck, hair curled into a sensible bun, white cap already pinned in place.
“Your freckles are more prominent,” his mother observes as he comes to sit down opposite her with his own bowl.
“The walk home from work is in the sun,” he says. “Sometimes I take longer. Just stay outdoors. Read.”
“I’m glad. You’re looking well. It’s been—”
She stops. Paul looks up.
“I’m glad you’re getting some sun,” his mother finishes, the heel of one hand pressed to her eye. Shoulders not moving, like she’s holding in her breath.
“Mom.”
Distantly, he hears how choked he sounds as rushes toward her, pulling her into his arms. He can feel how thin she is, her next breath coming out as a sob.
“I’m alright, darling,” she whispers as he kisses her temple.
After his mother leaves for the bus stop, Paul idles at the counter, trying to convince himself to do something. Anything. Beside biting at his lip, wiping angrily at the tears he can’t hold back anymore once she’s gone. Mechanically, he starts scrubbing at his mother’s dish. Perhaps too aggressively.
A knock at the door startles him, suds splashing onto the apron. Paul opens the door, mouth dropping open when he sees Feyd loitering on the porch.
“What are you doing here?”
Feyd’s eyes drop to his body. Paul feels the blood rushing hot and fast to his cheeks. He scrambles with the knot at his waist, tossing the apron onto the ground. Paul stands in the doorway, staring at the other man, suddenly aware that his eyes are puffy, nose runny. Self consciously he wipes at his face.
“I won’t smoke inside,” Feyd says finally. Like that’s the problem.
Too tired to examine his actions, Paul pulls back, allowing Feyd to come inside and follow him into the kitchen. His eyes light up as he sees the half eaten bowl of pasta at Paul’s place, grabbing up the fork quickly. Paul lightly slaps his hand, instantly shocked by his action. Feyd stops, mouth open. Staring at Paul.
“That’s my dinner,” he says meekly.
Feyd doesn’t say anything, hand still poised over the table.
“Sit down,” Paul says, watching as Feyd hurriedly sits in his mother’s spot.
He can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he moves to the stove, spooning the now lukewarm leftovers into a bowl and setting it in front of Feyd. He doesn’t touch it, looking up at Paul, eyes wide and oddly young. How old are you?
“Eat,” Paul says when it’s gone on far too long.
Immediately, Feyd starts shoveling food into his mouth. Messy. Chewing with his mouth open like a ravenous child.
The skin by his thumb nail is ripped and bleeding. Unclotted. Sighing, Paul wets a towel, reaching for his hand. Feyd jerks like he’s been shot, mouth hanging open. Half masticated food in his mouth. Slowly, Paul wipes at the blood, cheeks throbbing with another blush as he avoids looking at Feyd. Tense muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly when he hears him start to chew loudly again.
“Leave,” Paul says quietly when Feyd is using his fingers to wipe up the last of the sauce.
And Feyd does. Without question.
———
Carefully, he brushes the cigarette butts from the porch in the early morning light. His heart thumping an erratic rhythm, crucifix cold against his skin.
———
The days are starting to cool as October approaches. Time marching forward, memories still sharp and painful to the touch. But a little further off now. The distance stretching and making Paul equal parts resentful and relieved.
Feyd is sitting in one of his well worn spots, drawing a line up the trunk of a tree with his switchblade. Not writing anything. Just scratching at it until chunks fall off onto the ground. Paul turns a page, aware that Feyd is watching him. Probably waiting for a sharp reprimand about the tree.
It’s become a habit. He doesn’t know why. Yes you do. Sometimes he doesn’t see him for days. Sometime a week. But inevitably, Feyd will be waiting at the bridge, whisking Paul off to the quiet expanse of grass and trees.
Friends feels like too intimate of a term. His mother doesn’t know. Paul is sure that the members of his motorcycle club don’t know.
“Is that a new book?” Feyd rudely pokes at the page with his knife.
Paul pulls the book away, head snapping up to look at him.
“This belongs to the library,” he says.
Feyd shrinks back. He waits, body tense. Like he’s expecting something from Paul.
“It’s Plato’s Republic,” Paul relents finally. “So new is relative.”
Feyd stares at him, mouth open and brows furrowed in a now familiar expression. Paul can feel the muscles in his face shifting, lips pulling up without his permission.
“What does Plato say?” Feyd asks, flopping onto the ground beside Paul.
He’s switched the sleeveless jacket for a leather one, Harkonnen emblazoned on the back. Paul looks down at him, watching his eyes close, sandy lashes brushing the delicate skin under his eyes. He traces the light facial hair on his full upper lip and chin with his eyes. So different from— Paul swallows. Plato. Paul thinks of caves and darkness. Of light just out of reach.
“He says that everything in this world is just a shadow. Paraphrased at least.”
“I don’t like that,” Feyd says, moving onto his side, hair falling forward so it’s almost touching Paul’s hip. His fingers dig into the ground, pulling at the grass fitfully.
“Why?” Paul asks, resting his hand on the ground. If he moves forward just a little, his fingers would touch the tips of his hair.
“I don’t feel like a shadow,” Feyd says, tossing bits of grass onto Paul’s jeans. “Do you?”
Yes.
“Sometimes,” Paul admits.
A finger bumps into his leg. Paul’s breath catches. He doesn’t look down as he feels Feyd brush the dirt that he put there from his pants.
“Sounds like this Plato fucker was just looking for an excuse to be a coward.”
Paul blurts out a laugh, looking down at him, feeling like he’s as warm as the sun.
Feyd shifts, blinking up at Paul, mouth open, eyes hungrily catching on his expression. Fingers still latched lightly on Paul’s jeans.
Paul feels hot and dizzy as he pushes abruptly to his feet.
———
Love is patient, love is kind.
The priest says.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
And God is love?
That’s what the Bible says. God is love.
Is love a choice? Something God bestows on some and not others?
Paul looks up at the crucifix on the altar, tracing the one around his neck. Jesus stares down at him, face twisted in pain.
It feels like there’s a hole in his chest. Bottomless and unfillable.
Maybe all my love is in there? Sucked in like a black hole.
———
It happens eventually. He thought maybe it was only a fear of his and not a reality. But no.
———
Paul can hear the crickets chirping faintly in the trees behind them. The fireflies are starting to blink in and out of existence in the mellow twilight. His mother will be awake soon. He should be home right now, preparing dinner. But he’s not. His ass is slightly numb from how long they’ve been sitting. His heart is thumping loud and frantic in his chest as he tries to breathe steadily.
Paul can feel Feyd looking at him. Staring intently. Not speaking. The muscles in Paul’s shoulders feel tight, his body hot despite the coolness of the air.
Please.
Please what? Paul thinks bitterly, a panicked feeling sitting high in his throat as he—
Feyd’s fingers are rough on his cheek. Rough and warm. And he’s leaning in—
Paul jerks away sharply.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He says numbly. Scrambling to his feet. Finally looking at the other man’s face.
Feyd’s eyes are wide. But it’s not the usual expression he wears when looking at Paul. The softness gone. Replaced by something more animal. There shouldn’t be a usual expression. It’s wrong it’s— Feyd’s fists clench and Paul stumbles back, ready for he doesn’t know what.
Feyd’s arms raise quickly, curled fists hitting his own forehead sharply. Once. Twice.
“Stop,” Paul shouts, moving forward and gripping his big wrist. His own fingers look thin and insubstantial. Pale and shadowy against Feyd’s warm skin.
“Take me home,” he whispers. The familiar words fall from his mouth. It feels like a betrayal.
But it shouldn’t.
———
There’s a flower on the porch in the gray tinged morning light. It’s wilted and scraggly, dirt still clinging to the root.
Paul tosses it into the street.
———
Paul blinks up at the dark, water stained ceiling of his bedroom, drifting hazily from a barely there dream. It feels like he hasn’t slept in days. Trying to fill his mind with anything. Anything else.
There’s a sound at his windowsill. Paul jerks upright, panic scrambling in his chest. Someone is slipping into his room. Paul darts to his feet, arms raised before he recognizes the shape of him. His heart settles for a moment before he remembers. Feyd shifts, stepping into a wash of moonlight and the anger and fear leaves as abruptly as it came.
“Sit down,” he says, voice rough and unused with sleep.
Feyd crumbles to the floor like a marionette. Paul rushes to the bathroom, scrambling for the first aid kid he knows is there. When he comes back into his room, he flicks on the light. Feyd flinches at the brightness and Paul draws up short.
He hesitates only a moment before joining him on the ground, pressing small bandages above his eye, closing the gash. Carefully, he wraps his swollen fingers, wiping away the blood that covers his skin with a clean towel. Feyd pulls up his shirt, revealing an ugly bruise on his ribs. Paul nods, retrieving some ice from the kitchen and pressing it gently to the mark that resembles a boot too closely for it to be anything else.
“Business?” Paul asks softly, fingers still resting on the hot skin of Feyd’s side.
Feyd shrugs slowly, looking away, lashes thick as he closes his eyes. Paul swallows, feeling the ice inside the towel melting under the other man’s warm skin. He doesn’t want to ask again. Afraid of what he might say.
When his mother returns from her shift in the morning, she finds Paul, sitting up against his bed on the floor. Feyd curled up like a dog in front of him, a wet towel draped over his bruised side. Asleep.
———
“He’s a— friend,” Paul stutters over the word, the familiar terror bubbling up inside him as she kneels down beside them.
His mother nods silently, watching as Feyd jerks awake at the sound of his voice. His hands come up immediately, fear etched into every line of his face as he takes in the new person in the room.
“It’s okay,” Paul whispers, hand reaching out to press over his chest, darting away almost immediately when he sees his mother turn to look at him.
“Let’s go downstairs,” his mother says softly. “I’m a nurse. Let me check your injuries.”
They all stay frozen for a few moments before Feyd nods tiredly, wincing as he pushes to his feet. His mother works quietly as Paul starts the coffee. Feyd holds himself stiffly under her hands, eyes narrowed as he follows her every move. After a few minutes, she nods approvingly.
“You did well, Paul.”
She stands slowly, looking down at Feyd now.
“Please come back tomorrow so I can check that all is healing properly,” she says decisively before turning to Paul. “Darling, I’m very tired. Feed our guest. I’ll eat this evening.”
With that, she ascends the stairs again. Paul waits with bated breath until he hears the click of her bedroom door. He smooths his hands over the soft material of his pajamas, turning towards the refrigerator and taking out some eggs. It’s silent in the kitchen, the sleepy neighborhood starting to wake up as Paul cracks the eggs into a pan.
“Where’s your apron?” Feyd’s voice is a coarse croak.
Paul turns, looking sharply for any hint of meanness in the words. For irony. For a joke he knows he deserves. But Feyd’s bruised face is just tired, eyes soft and sleepy as he stares at Paul across the kitchen.
Paul can hear the eggs sizzling behind him. His heart is beating a little too quickly in his chest, a familiar warmth in his cheeks. Slowly, he takes the apron off the hook, tying it around his waist before turning around again without looking at Feyd’s expression. He knows the other man is watching him as he moves the eggs around with a wooden spoon. Knows his eyes are dragging up his body. Knows he’s thinking something he shouldn’t. Knows it, because Paul is thinking it too.
Paul places the plate of steaming eggs in front of Feyd, finally flickering his eyes to absorb his expression. Noting the wide blue eyes, pupils round and too large. His pink lips are parted as he blinks up at Paul docily. Not even reaching for his fork. Waiting.
Numbly, Paul crosses himself, bowing his head. Under the edge of his lashes, he sees Feyd close his eyes dutifully, injured hand following Paul’s movements in a heartbreakingly clumsy approximation.
Paul blesses the meal, voice soft in the little insulated kitchen.
“Eat,” Paul instructs.
Feyd obeys, shoveling the food into his mouth like it’s his last meal. He doesn’t comment when Feyd wraps his fingers around the edge of the apron. Just stands next to him, breath catching in his chest.
———
Feyd is in the alley behind the convenience store, a cigarette in his mouth as he walks towards Paul. Like how his father would approach a frightened horse. He looks much worse today. Like a piece of meat from the butcher shop.
Paul leans against the wall in the posture he usually takes when Feyd finds him here, waiting for Feyd to put his boot against the wall. He doesn’t. Just stands in front of Paul, looking at him through the fringe of his pretty lashes, shoulders hunched like he’s waiting for another punch. As still as Paul has ever seen him.
“Are you— queer?” Paul asks. So quiet it’s barely audible above the whistling of the wind that’s going to be ubiquitous soon.
Feyd shrugs carefully, a slight wince flashing across his face.
“At least half,” he mumbles.
“I’m not,” Paul says it fast and vehemently.
Feyd inches forward so his body is beside Paul, forehead resting against the dirty brick of the alley. He’s close. So close. He can smell the familiar scent of him. Cigarettes and sweat. His forehead slides a little, resting softly against Paul’s shoulder. His heart leaps in his chest as he feels the animal warmth of him through both their clothes. The leather of his jacket squeaks as he inches closer. And Paul’s fingers twitch, thinking about the feel of his skin, soft and hot under his hands last night. Thinks about his body, sturdy and strong, muscles shifting under Paul’s grip when they ride. Thinks about the desperate sticky pulse that hovers low in Paul’s own body when he thinks too much—
“I’m not.”
It sounds weak.
Paul goes back inside. Suddenly cold.
———
He tries to forget about it. The few times he did it. His parents gone. Him alone in their bedroom, a small tube of lipstick in his hand. The waxy feel of it on his lips. On his cheek. Looking in the mirror and not knowing what he was feeling. Just that it was wrong. That if they found him—
He doesn’t know why he’s doing it now. Locked in the bathroom, heart pounding. No. He scrubs at his face, washing with soap until his skin is pink and raw.
When Feyd joins them for dinner that night, it feels like he can still see it on him. Like everything about his face is incriminating. He can feel the weight of his mother’s eyes, but it doesn’t feel judgemental.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
The apron is hanging innocently on a peg. He sees Feyd’s eyes catch on the floral pattern a few times. But he doesn’t say anything. Not while Paul’s mother is checking the cut above his eyebrow. And not after when they are alone.
———
The wind is blowing sharply through the branches; the air is chilly. Paul snaps his book closed and scrambles deeper into the thicket of trees, hearing Feyd follow him. He feels restless. Like there’s something under his skin, waiting to burst out of his chest in a scream and get caught and buffeted away by the wind.
Surrounded by the trees is a little better. Insulated. The road is obscured from where he stands now. He pulls his sweater tighter around his body. Feyd watches for a moment before shrugging off his heavy jacket and draping it over Paul’s shoulders. He shoves it off, hearing it thunk to the ground.
“It’s cold,” Feyd says, eyes wary. His face has healed, though there will be a scar above his brow.
“I’m not a girl,” Paul says sharply.
Feyd squirms in front of him, shrinking a little away. Slowly, he lowers himself until he’s seated on the ground. Like he thinks Paul is afraid of him. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
I am afraid of you. But not in the way you think.
“I know,” Feyd whispers, looking up at him like he’s—
Paul wants to push him back. To pull him forward. To— Paul bends and picks up the jacket, hesitating only a moment before draping it over his shoulder once again. It’s too big for him, but it sits warm and heavy over his chilled body. The sickly hot feeling is back, curling low in his body as he watches Feyd staring at him with an open mouth, looking like he’s ravenous. Like he’s about to shovel Paul’s subpar cooking into his mouth, reaching for him with grubby hands.
Paul flickers his gaze downward, landing inescapably on his lap. He swallows hard, like there’s something in his throat. Something he can’t get rid of, hot saliva filling his mouth. There is a bulge in Feyd’s dirty jeans, big hand scratching at his thigh like he’s going to—
Blood is pounding in his ears and his body is tingling. But he doesn’t feel cold anymore. His legs are stiff. He watches in distant fascination as Feyd clutches at his leg, hips shifting slightly. Like he’s waiting. Waiting for Paul to tell him what to do. Paul’s mind flinches away from the thought, and how it makes his stomach twitch, sick arousal thick in his body.
Paul drags his gaze back to Feyd’s face, examining the dumb expression, mouth open and eyes pleading like a dogs. Both hands are rubbing his thighs now, a little pleading noise leaving his lips as he wordlessly begs.
“Okay,” Paul whispers, slightly dizzy.
It’s all the prompting he needs. Feyd fumbles for his zipper, frantically shoving his jeans and underwear down his thighs, thick cock springing free. Paul’s mouth falls open, watching as he wraps his big hand around himself. The tip is wet and shiny. Paul swallows. Feyd licks messily at his hand, moving quickly to start jerking his cock like he thinks he has to go fast. Or Paul might change his mind.
Paul feels his belly twitch, body throbbing as he watches the furtive movements of Feyd’s hand. Listening to the little faltering whimpers that fall from his full lips. His brows drawn together in something like pain. The sounds are uninhabited and rude just like his eating. Moaning as he looks at Paul like he’s a sacrament.
“You're really pretty,” Feyd whimpers, the sticky sounds of masturbation loud in their little quiet forest.
“Yeah?” Paul whispers back, hands wet with sweat as they hang uselessly by his side. Listening to Feyd whine out another ascent, hair flopping forward as he nods hastily.
Suddenly, Feyd stops, pink cock bobbing as he scoots closer. Paul freezes, watching as Feyd leans against his leg tentatively, forehead resting on his thigh. He doesn’t try to reach for Paul’s cock, just nuzzles against him, snuffling softly, hands scrambling at Paul’s hem. Paul doesn’t push him away, gasping slightly when he feels Feyd guiding his hot cock into the leg of his jeans. Paul’s mouth falls open as he feels him, warm and thick, drooling sticky fluid against the skin of his leg. Rubbing up and down, catching on his pushed down sock and the little prickly hairs on his leg.
“Pull up your shirt. I want to see your tits,” Feyd says, mouth practically slobbering on Paul’s stiff jeans, his cock rubbing up against his calf as he makes little thrusting motions.
“I don’t have tits,” Paul says automatically.
“Please,” he whines.
And Paul’s cock is hard against the zipper of his jeans. Harder than I’ve ever been, he thinks lightheadedly. Stiff and stupidly desperate. Sick to his stomach as he listens to Feyd huff and moan, hips stuttering and cock leaking against his skin as he fucks against him.
Numbly, he pulls his shirt up, tucking the cloth under his armpits, listening to Feyd moan like he’s being paid for it. Just from seeing Paul’s tiny nipples and skinny chest. Paul convulses a little, cock throbbing, goosebumps rising on his exposed skin. He touches one hard nipple, pressing against the puckered skin just to feel. He raises his hands to frame them.
“I want to suck on them,” Feyd blabbers.
“Too bad,” Paul says, not looking down at the mess of a man squirming at his feet. “You don’t get to. You don’t get to play with my— my tits,” Feyd groans, scrabbling at Paul’s hem, pulling his jeans tight around his cock as he ruts. “I’m a good Catholic girl—”
Feyd moans, teeth biting into Paul’s thigh as hot cum splashes up the inside of his pant leg, soaking into the material of his jeans and dribbling down to wet his sock.
He doesn’t know why he said it. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.
I can’t believe I just—
Feyd’s hand is sliding up his thigh hopefully. Paul moves away, ignoring the hiss as Feyd’s soft sticky cock slips from the leg of his jeans.
“Take me home,” he says desperately, breathing heavily, trying to will away the insistent throb of his cock. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t turn back towards Feyd. Just waits. Waits for the cool air and shame to work their magic.
Eventually, they get back on the motorcycle, Feyd driving him home just as Paul had asked, gazing at him hopefully as Paul mechanically ascends the front steps to the porch, not looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t hear the roar of the motorcycle as he flops onto his bed, staring at the water stained ceiling of his room, still not touching the front of his jeans.
In pale early morning light, Paul hides the incriminating jeans and sock deep in one drawer, tossing the rest of the clothes in the laundry pile. When he descends the stairs, his mother is home from work, eyes tired as she looks out the open front door, steam curling from the hot coffee mug in her hand. She passes it to him wordlessly as he approaches, eyeing the parked bike across the street. Paul takes a drink, hissing at the heat, watching Feyd, slumped against his bike. Mouth open like a baby bird, head pillowed on the seat, body kneeling on the asphalt. Like a penitent. Except Paul is the one that should be begging for forgiveness.
His mother takes back her coffee, sipping it thoughtfully. She doesn’t say a word as the door swings closed.
———