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Erich ripped himself from his unusually heavy slumber with some reluctance, blinking away the last traces of sleep with a hard shudder. He drew himself up against the headboard and winced.
It was more surprise than pain, a slight stinging that ran up and down where his back met the polished wood. The brush of the covers above his bare thighs elicited the same sensation; An irritation over raw, red flesh. He rubbed his neck, finding it, too, strangely sensitive. Finally, his head throbbed, punctuating the whole mystery with evidence of an apparent hangover.
As he began to replay the events of the previous night, the sheets next to him began to shift, tossing to the side and taking the lion's share of the down comforter with it. Erich stilled and held his breath. He allowed himself to move once again when he was absolutely certain that the man in his bed remained soundly asleep.
Von Stalhein carefully slipped out of the bed, folding up his legs and rising to his feet with a tenuous cat-like grace. The muscles in his thighs were stiff from exertion, but acclimated quickly to support him. He stifled a groan as he bent down to collect his clothes – which had apparently been cast off in some haste – from the floor.
He never stayed after these kinds of nights. They were over quickly in a flurry of passion and need, tongues and teeth and someone being pinned down. During this particular encounter, they'd gone together like animals, a furious clash of frustration and lust, shoving and muscling and claiming until the deed felt, rather appropriately, like a fight. It had to be, Erich had decided when he met that first rough kiss with a rougher shove of Bigglesworth against the wall of his hotel room. They were soldiers then, the harshness was second nature.
He wanted to forget everything that wasn't the intoxicating heat of the man's nails streaking down his back, his flanks, the back of his thighs. For a fleeting moment there was just the pain and the disorientation of it all, the world briefly dissolving into a gentle swirling static before they spent and shot back down to earth. Then the world would return, the half-hearted guilt manifested, and Erich settled himself back in the mire of his eternal shame.
It was a terrible idea. It was an outlet. In a world of constant threats and all the raw, frayed-ended desperation, it made sense to them. This impulsivity was a relic from their youth, wantonly sucking down the marrow of life before it could be ripped away by a bullet in a muddy trench. They could die, they would die, but not without indulging to excess in all the short-lived, maddening, irresistible pleasure they could for as long as they had it.
He caught his eyes wandering to the moonlit bundle of sheets, and tried not to imagine Bigglesworth’s face and tousled hair as he slept. Von Stalhein finished dressing and slid out the door, closing it silently behind him.
Truly, it was a terrible idea, but not one von Stalhein could seem to stop making. He had long since given up the hope that he could.
*
Time passed, wars and work came and went, and they went for a brief spell without seeing each other.
Then there was Jamaica. The submarine. Von Stalhein's quarry at the bottom of the ocean along with what remained of his ever diminishing reputation. Zorotov had blamed him, of course, and made all manner of threats in his rage – some more probable than others, none of which he really believed would be acted upon. Erich went on disbelieving them until the appearance of the gun, the barrel against his temple and a bullet, miraculously, barely grazing his head. More shots rang out afterwards, following him into the night.
He had escaped this time with his life, operating with the same cold, mechanical precision that had saved him countless times. His mind had snapped into a series of tasks: dodge, run, weave, back alley, staircase, dark street, and so on, one after the other, decisions made on hard-trained instinct. There was nothing in his mind but the breakneck logic of an animal, hunted, concerned only with its own survival.
He made his way back to Kingston, something more manic in him than usual. It was not so much the betrayal, the latest of many brushes with death, or the adrenaline that had put him in his current state; that much, at least, had grown to be familiar. The world had spun around him before. Alliances now had a way of turning sour, keeping him moving from job to job and increasingly bitter, narrow exits.
But he was alive. Pulse racing, fire in his lungs, the faint tinge of blood deep down in the back of his throat. Alive. Yes. Alive.
He was keeled over and heaving, but alive. Not quite safe -- never safe, but no longer staring down the sleek black barrel of a Makarov pistol. The crack of gunfire was gone, replaced by himself, his mind, and his thoughts returning with a vengeance.
It had dawned on him then, and only then, all at once, in its complete enormity the fact that he had failed. Again. Utterly. Pathetically. He had failed the job with such spectacular incompetence it made his survival seem less like a miracle and more like a grand cosmic joke. It writhed under his skin, ringing in his ears like a bomb had gone off next to his head, steadily shrieking without end.
He walked aimlessly, wandering the dimly lit streets. The humid air felt suffocating, every breath thick like smog as he choked it down and tore through the oppressive weight of the atmosphere. All the while he seethed, cold sweat chilling him under his clothing. He wanted to crawl out of his body. He wanted to stop his mind, more inhospitable than usual, from racing. Feeling like he had nothing more to lose – his ego or his sanity – he sought the only cure he knew.
“My God, von Stalhein, what are you doing here?” Von Stalhein looked blankly at him, then through the doorway at his hotel room. He thought of all the times before with a bitter kind of nostalgia. “It would seem I have been… how is it? Sacked.” He said humorlessly, bitterly sardonic. “As you can imagine, my employer was not satisfied with my latest performance. It would appear I am fending for myself at the moment.” Erich hid his hands in his pockets to conceal their shaking. Something glimmered in Biggles’ eye, softening his set jaw. Pity? No… no he couldn’t take pity. He wasn’t here for pity, far from it.
“You mistake me, Bigglesworth.” He said curtly. “It is not that I have never slept in a gutter, I am perfectly capable of doing so.”
“What do you want?” He asked, sharply composed in his way. Erich knew him well enough to detect his nervousness. He also noticed that Bigglesworth made no move to reach for his gun.
Von Stalhein smiled, just a curve in the lips, a shell of a gesture that could have been vaguely threatening were it not totally defeated. “It seems this is the place where the last vestiges of my pride go to die.”
Before Biggles could respond, he pushed past him, sauntering aimlessly into the lit room and not bothering to look back at him. With his back turned, he shrugged off his overcoat, divesting himself of the thing and letting it fall to the floor gracelessly. He lifted his sullen, hooded eyes back to Biggles, who made his way towards him. He had that careful way about him, as if he were talking down a wild beast, wary and tense with hands up at his sides, promising no harm as he inched closer. “Oh, I used to want many things, Bigglesworth, plenty. The world and more.” And you, somewhere, drifting in it all. He thought, neglected to say. “I needn't speak to you of my disillusionment.”
“Why are you here?”
“Call it, if you like, a concession to your welfare.”
Biggles pursed his lips, greater puzzlement and a growing concern brooding about his face. “That doesn't sound like you.”
And admittedly, it wasn't. He had no words for what he really wanted: He needed violence, the abandon, the freedom of it. Of them. Of not caring. He needed to drown out his frantic thoughts with a scream in every nerve. He wanted things as they were before, when they were younger and angrier, raving senseless between hunger and greed.
“I want you to touch me.” He said flatly. It took a moment for Biggles to realize he was serious, but he moved swiftly enough to close the door as von Stalhein began unbuttoning his shirt. Once in privacy, Bigglesworth came to him slowly, as if not to frighten him. He brought his hand to the side of Erich's hollow cheek, resting it like the ghost of a prayer against his skin. He may as well have branded him. “Not like that.” Erich almost shouted, though his voice was painfully hoarse. He shot up his hand to close around the delicate wrist, wrenching it down with a harsh jab against his own throat, the fingers resting along the jugular. He held it there, even as Biggles tried to maneuver it away. “I’m going to give you what you want.” Von Stalhein glared at him intently, hunching down to meet his eyes. “Revenge yourself.” Biggles tugged his hand away, now with more urgency. Finally, he broke his grasp, jerking and stumbling back.
“Why would you think I would want to-” he huffed, jailing both his hands in fists at his sides. “Damn you, Erich. I don't understand why you do this to yourself.”
Von Stalhein laughed, a pained, wheezing little sound that barely sounded human. “And what is it you think I'm doing?”
“You’re asking me to hurt you.” He said, voice hushed, as if the implication were some great unspeakable evil.
“Surely you’re familiar with the concept by now.”
“Not like this.”
“When we’ve been together,” Von Stalhein stressed, making no mistake as to what he was referring. “You have had no qualms about such things before. We have never been gentle with one another.”
Biggles paused, something unreadable in his eyes. “You've never asked me to be.” He said quietly. Von Stalhein swallowed stiffly, knowing he'd betrayed something in his tone.
“I have not.” He said coldly. “I would not expect as much from you.”
“But you expect me to do this?”
“For a start.”
Bigglesworth suppressed a grimace, his words became clipped, precise. “Out of the question.”
“It offends your honor, does it? Bravo, Bigglesworth, you're a saint among men.”
“One doesn't have to be a saint to not savor the idea of torturing a man for no good reason.”
He barked a dry laugh. “You have many years worth of reasons. Take your pick.”
“You've lost this game, von Stalhein, that's all. Zorotov lost his weapon.”
“I almost had you killed. Your men, killed.”
Biggles drew his brows together. “Put it behind you. I don't know why you want this from me, but I won't give it to you.”
“Why?”
“Frankly, you're in no state.”
Von Stalhein exhaled, hollowed out with desperation. “You don't understand.” He murmured, his eyes sliding to the floor. Biggles touched his shoulder.
“You're right, I don’t. I never could with you.” There was something wistful to that, but imperceptible enough to miss. The touch lingered, tightening assuredly, imploringly. “That doesn't mean I'm not willing to listen.”
The prospect of explaining the thing was about as pleasant as pulling out every tooth in his head, granted, of course, that he could even begin. He centered himself on the feeling – the ache – inside him, tormenting him. A want for pain should go against his every base and natural instinct. He shouldn't want to run to it. He shouldn't feel as if he were spiraling over the edge of insanity without it. And yet there it was, raw mania and loathing so intense he could die of it. He steeled himself.
“I am asking you to give me what I deserve.”
His words hung heavy and stagnant in the air between them.
Biggles considered him for a moment, his disheveled air, the once proud bow of his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and despair. He set a sure hand at the back of his neck. Erich tensed, preparing for the blow, for the wrenching of his head by his unkempt hair, for the blinding pain. Bigglesworth leaned close and kissed his forehead with a devastating gentleness.
“There. I'm revenged.”
Erich melted under him, the weariness and anticipation and the softness of the gesture crippling him. He chuckled madly, breaking down into soft, staccato whines, and he let his head fall against Biggles’ shoulder. “There's your virtue speaking. Saint James, ever the paragon.”
“Not a paragon, not a saint, and certainly not James.”
Von Stalhein turned towards his neck. “What are you, then?”
“Just someone who knows you well enough to see the things you can't.”
Von Stalhein huffed pathetically at that. He wondered how Bigglesworth could have lived this long, being so naive, so stubbornly idealistic. It was absurd. Wretched. A miracle. And his thoughts returned, as they often did, to the handsome young Lieutenant Brunow who refused to let a man die abandoned in the desert.
“Please let me help you.” Biggles cooed beside his ear. He kept him close, a hand at his nape stroking the soft dark hairs that brushed against his slim fingers. It placated him, somehow.
Erich set his brow back against the shorter man's shoulder, leaning the place between his eyes at the juncture of Biggles' neck and collarbone. “Ich muss vergess-” he started before correcting himself. With that slip, he really must be losing his mind. “I need to forget.” He formed the words thoughtfully, quietly annunciating every sound in them.
"Was musst du vergessen?” Biggles picked up after him, courteously, in German.
Alles. Everything. All of it. He thought. Erich sighed, breathing out the last of his will. He gave himself over to mortifying honesty. “I want to stop thinking. I need you to fuck me until I stop thinking.” He whispered, barely audible, into the fabric of his collar. Through the rough cotton, he could almost feel the change in Biggles' pulse. His breath came a touch more labored as it trembled into his lungs. Mistaking his shocked silence for disinterest, or worse, discomfort, von Stalhein was the first to break away. Biggles, still stunned dumb, didn't resist the pull of his body detaching from his.
“I'm sorry.” Erich began, at this point more empty than embarrassed. He turned to collect his coat from the floor.
He had barely lowered himself an inch when Biggles, face thoroughly flushed, took hold of his arm. It was a gentle touch, but firm enough to demand his full attention. A hand curving a line across his finely muscled back was the last thing von Stalhein registered before the world stopped.
Biggles' mouth was smaller, the lips fuller than his own as they moved against his. The kiss was achingly soft, making his senses tingle with a giddy intensity, a desperate want that left him chasing the heat of his skin as Bigglesworth withdrew. Erich pursued him, grabbing and pulling him back, savoring the vibration of a hum deep in Biggles’s throat. For the first time that night, von Stalhein felt his mind begin to go quiet, and he pursued the feeling with a frantic hunger. Erich began to incline himself down, lavishing attention on the man’s neck, lowering himself to his knees in front of him. His bad leg nearly crumbled, causing his body to hitch and Biggles to catch him by his sides. “Are you alright?” He asked, supporting the better part of his weight with the same deceptive strength he remembered. Von Stalhein recovered himself quickly and gave a quick, soldierly nod, hoping it would satisfy Biggles' concern. The illusion failed when he winced rather obviously, and the pilot’s hands tightened on his sides to steady him. “No, I don’t think you are.”
“It doesn't matter.” He murmured, leaning again for his lips before being firmly stopped.
Biggles’ hazel eyes had a new sharpness to them that held von Stalhein’s gaze like a vice. “It does.” He said it with a sureness that sobered him. “Listen to me. It does.”
Still holding him most of the way upright, he kissed the corner of von Stalhein’s elegantly sculpted mouth. There was that insistent touch of benevolence again, quiet and overwhelming, whispering promises of all the things he forgot he was allowed to want. All of a sudden the world became dim, a vignette closing on everything but the steady feel of him.
Biggles surveyed him, stepping back. He eased his hands from his sides to his shoulders. He pushed him with an exceeding lightness and walked him backwards, encouraging him in the direction he wanted. After a few moments, von Stalhein felt the bed touch the back of his knees and Biggles pressed him down gently onto it. Von Stalhein sat upright on his hands, looking up at him with hazy curiosity.
“There’s much better.” Biggles decided. Erich was about to begin working on the fastenings of the man’s trousers when, suddenly, Biggles caught his hands and returned them carefully to rest on the soft sheets.
Biggles leaned him back a touch, giving himself greater access to Erich's chest. With glacial slowness and infinite care, he slid the first of his shirt buttons undone, teasing his fingers across his newly bare skin as he went. His anticipation grew exponentially with every calculated movement, making his head spin and cock twitch with keen interest. Biggles waited until the shirt was completely undone before gliding it down his shoulders reverently, exposing him. His breath hitched as he saw him, his eyes glittering and lips parting with irrepressible attraction. Tentatively, he traced over his old scars and ghosted over new bruises, cataloguing each pale raised mark and shallow indentation. Erich shivered, wondering if anyone had ever touched him like that. Biggles bent to place a kiss against the center of his chest and sunk down to kneel on the floor between his legs. Gazing at him softly, he splayed his hands over the sharp points of his knees, he kissed the seam where they met and eased them apart to a comfortable distance. Erich tensed and breathed shakily, and he stopped. Biggles' eyes went round and vigilant as they searched for any sign he was uncomfortable with the arrangement. When it became clear he was waiting for some kind of confirmation, Erich gave a faint, grateful nod. Biggles smiled warmly, admiringly, and if von Stalhein had ever been the recipient of such a kind look, he couldn’t remember.
With care, he undid his trousers as delicately as he had the shirt. He was very deliberate as he moved, maintaining a cautiousness that was beginning to grow maddening for the both of them.
Biggles slid off his trousers and undergarments in a fluid motion, lifting himself up on his knees for more leverage and to press his mouth to a patch of tender skin above his hip. Erich shuttered and felt his hands curl in the bedsheets.
Lightly, Biggles ran his slightly parted lips to the top of his naked thigh, then to the inside of it, grazing it with his tongue. Biggles' hands reappeared, settled on his lower back and caressed their way to the back of his knees, his cool fingertips pressing in just firm enough to earn him a startled gasp. It went on like that, Biggles finding his most sensitive places and applying a sure gentleness to them that made his head reel. All the while Erich's heart went on racing, his prone body reacting to every new and shockingly intimate sensation.
Biggles' hand found the base of his cock and he tensed, air whistling in through his teeth. He stroked him steadily, very lightly kissing the tip and running his tongue along the bottom of it. Von Stalhein tightened his grip on the sheets, keeling part of the way over with a low groan.
Biggles looked up at him again, but didn't stop. “Are you alright?”
He nodded, his eyes falling closed. “You're trembling.”
“Hard not to when you're- ah, ach- Gott- ah-”
Instinctively, his legs drew together, spasming into him. Biggles gripped his hips and pressed him firmly into the mattress, pinning him backwards and swallowing the length of him as he went. Erich let out a strangled cry so obscene it made both of them blush. He allowed himself to go pliant under the firm touch. His mind clung to the feeling of it, letting the world file down to the wonderful strength of his fingers. He wanted him. He wanted him there. Everything else receded, leaving him alone with the soft, wet warmth of his mouth on him. Erich let a softer moan fall from his lips, much to the encouragement of Biggles, who had begun to work rhythmic circles into his hips with his thumbs.
Seemingly remembering he had to breathe, he withdrew, panting hot against his glistening dick, letting it rest on the pallet of his tongue. After a moment he resumed his feather light kisses, slowly peppering around his abdomen and thighs while he pumped him delicately.
“I'd like you to lie down for me.” He murmured to the base of his ribs. He ran a hand along Erich's spine, hooked his fingers over his left shoulder and pulled him down by it, guiding him on his back and turning him to lay flat with his head on the luxurious silk pillowcase. He climbed over top of him, careful not to rest his weight somewhere that would hurt him. Kneeling above him, he began to remove his own clothing. Although he undid his buttons with more haste, every moment they spent not touching stretched to hours between their frantic heartbeats. He flung off his shirt and trousers as fast as he could. Erich, emboldened by his desperation, reached for Biggles' newly bare flanks. Biggles jumped slightly, and Erich apologized, letting them fall back to the bed. Biggles shook his head, retrieving them and placing them where they had touched him. “They're cold, that's all.” He assured him, and held one of the beautiful hands thoughtfully. Then, with a certain spark in his eye, he took one of Erich's fingers gently in his mouth, enveloping it in the velvet heat of his tongue. He took another in after it, applying the same attention to them as he had with his cock a minute ago. With yet another kiss, he let them go, and spanned over him to retrieve something from the bedside desk.
Poised on his haunches, he spread lubricant on Erich's drying fingers and set them under his own entrance, guiding one carefully in and out of himself. It didn't take him long to adjust before he slid the second in, sinking down with a small grunt of discomfort as he took them as far as he could manage.
With Erich's fingers inside of him, he returned one of his hands to Erich's cock, stroking and slicking it with lubricant as well. It was Erich's turn to watch him beginning to come apart at his seams as he tentatively moved himself on his fingers, rocking slowly. After a few moments, Erich spread them apart experimentally and pushed them further inside him, Biggles’ breath caught and came heavy as he tried to bare down again on them. “Yes, thats…” Biggles broke off into a languid moan when the long fingers felt against a sensitive place. Erich could feel him twitch and flutter around him and he sought it again.
Alight with eagerness, Biggles came off Erich's fingers and almost immediately went to hover himself over his cock, setting it against his opening. He set his hands on Erich's shoulders, applying that blessed pressure that made him want to go weak. He sank down on him slowly, breathing through the slight pain until it subsided. He worked himself lower, finding a pleasurable balance between progression and rest and subtle movement until he was completely buried in him. Erich felt like he was floating, everything hazy and golden in the warmth of their shifting bodies – Biggles looking at him, choosing to look at him, choosing to set a hand on his flushed cheek and brush the locks of too-long hair from his eyes. He kissed him slow and deep and lingering and it dawned on Erich suddenly that he did so because he wanted to. The realization ran through his mind, skipping in circles, wearing through his jaded disbelief. He wanted this. He wanted it. He wanted him.
Biggles rolled his hips against him, biting down small cries when Erich stroked his painfully hard cock. As their pace became more even he found a rhythm in time with the canting of his hips, listening for the motions that drew the highest moans and exploited them. This kind of cooperation, unfamiliar as it was between them, came naturally, now that they had both the time and the trust to learn what the other wanted, to receive it in return. It felt like a kind of destruction. They dissolved into each other, breaking down and reassimilating as they both became empathetically attuned to all the little signs and noises of the other. It felt like a point to cling to, the heavenly overwhelm of all his senses locking him into the experience of his body and nothing else. It was the softness of it that still surprised him, crystalized in the sweet shock of tenderness in Biggles’ adoring touches, tracing and mapping over all his hard edges.
They moved languorously, a hand entwining with his, gentle thrusts helping the other to a fast approaching climax. It felt, by all external shows, loving. For a moment, as foolish as it seemed, they could have been mistaken for ordinary people; And Erich wondered, thoroughly drunk off his sex-fuled delirium, if, in another life, they could have been.
The careful tempo devolved into entropy soon enough. Their bodies shifted and rutted blindly against each other, chasing relief. They let themselves fall to it, their fingers digging in deeper, their needful whines growing loud and increasingly shameless. Von Stalhein spent, bucking up uselessly into him, his spine arched against the yielding mattress.
Biggles crashed into him gently, moaning his release against his ear. He stayed like that for a moment, curled on top of him, puffs of hot breath warming his skin. Erich heaved, his diaphragm fighting the pleasant weight of him on his chest. He ran a soothing hand up his back, feeling him shiver deliciously from the sensitivity. With a noticeable effort, Biggles rolled off of him and sank into one of the pillows with a shuttering, satisfied hum.
A potent euphoria flooded Erich as he unfurled, the tension easing from his clenched thighs. His hands fell boneless at his sides, his craned neck returning, blissfully, to center. His limbs were pleasantly heavy against the bed and he let them rest, luxuriously, however they willed. The room settled back around them, his senses returning. Erich’s eyes focused mindlessly on the texture of the ceiling while he let himself come down from his orgasm with no particular urgency.
At this point, he would usually begin to think logically again. After scraping himself back to lucidity, he would count the minutes, approximating how long it would take for his prolonged company to become tedious. He would rise, still dizzy and unsteady on his feet, and dress himself with an air of dignity he, in no way, felt. Sometimes he smoked, on the rare occasion he felt bold enough to linger. But that was a privilege only rarely to be indulged. He took it upon himself to initiate the tricky post-coital goodbyes, which is to say, he let the slam of the door speak for them both.
Now, with uncharacteristic selfishness, he made no moves of his own accord. Instead, he lay comfortably still, waiting for Bigglesworth to ask him to leave. He waited. And he waited.
Erich turned on his side, facing him, and he waited. Erich tucked his hands to his chest, and he waited. He looked into the man's eyes – still open, awake, if bleary – and waited. He felt Biggles reach for him, and waited. Biggles drew him close, their bare chests together, he waited. The fair head tucked itself under his chin, his slight limbs wound around him, clinging to him. Still, he waited. They breathed together, gradually slowing as they remembered how. Erich felt his eyes grow heavy, his mind slipping away. He could wait, he thought to himself, for a while longer.