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“It’ll pass.”
Carlos gave him a look of disbelief, and slight reproach. Maybe he hadn’t seen the storms before--he’d made himself scarce during the argument, emerged slowly when the dust started to settle.
“Could be a couple of hours, a couple of days at most. But they always come back.”
“You’re not worried?” There was more reproach in that.
“Hmm.” Earl shrugged. Of course he was worried. He just wasn’t worried about whether or not Ce was going to come back.
The pendulum always swung back, always came through the other side, sweeping back and forth, occasionally even returning to center if they ate properly and got enough sleep and were careful with themself, if others were careful too. They would be back soon, melting into an apologetic puddle in his lap, or keeping their distance, waiting to see if he was going to explode, or to see if he would reach out, if he wanted them back at all.
The apology phase was often the longest part. Suddenly the dishes were always washed when you got home, and every other time you sat down you’d have a lapful of Cecil, pulling close to you like they want to be inside your skin, wrapped up under your ribcage. They’d stand tensely on the outskirts of any mood you have, half-waiting for permission to sit on their own couch, to sleep in their own bed. Endless questions (is everything okay? Did they do something wrong? Do you want them to leave? Are you angry with them? Are they annoying you--they’re annoying you, aren’t they?) in response to any change or none at all.
Earl had managed more emotional growth with Cecil than he had at any other point in his life. He learned to control his responses, explain his feelings in plain terms, learned ways to telegraph his love and sincerity, to accept when that was met with silent skepticism. And for that alone--all other things being equal--he was glad they were with him, grateful for who they were, that they had stuck with him through all the bumps, that he’d had the good sense to stay with them.
They thought they were inconsistent, ever shifting, and yet somehow Earl had learned so many of their tells, always the same. Maybe they just couldn’t see them.
Suppose there was a fight (not unlike this one just passed) where everything in their head went absolute, and everything he did and said was cruel, crafted specifically to hurt them. They would storm off somewhere, or lock themself in the room, or sometimes just ignore Earl altogether, go about their day as though he didn’t exist (they knew he hated being ignored, and saw it as revenge, as fair play, not a targeted attack).
And then they’d calm down, swing back towards center, see things clear for just a second before it was gone, careening off into a different circle of hell. They’d explained it once, head pillowed in his lap, talking to fill the silence of Earl’s inability to respond. How could they do that to him? How could they ever think he was cold, that he would hurt them? He must hate them--he was going to leave them--he was only staying because he felt guilty, he should leave, before this happens again. It isn’t fair. They’re so sorry. Can he ever forgive them? They don’t deserve his forgiveness but they’re selfish, they need it anyway, they need him more than anything, they couldn’t live without him, why doesn’t he just leave and get it over with--
Slowly things would become less fraught, swinging closer and closer to their shared baseline, the normal flow of their lives together. And the sex would be fantastic--they were vulnerable and desperate and needing so much, willing to accept what he offered, to be held and soothed after, to accept his love again, simplified and distilled to potency through the mechanics of their fucking.
The mechanics had needed some refining, though.
“They’re not answering,” Carlos said quietly. He turned the screen on his phone, turned it off again, then checked the buttons on the side. “They always answer. Even with just one word.”
“Probably turned their phone off,” Earl said mildly. He stuck a toothpick in the center of the brownies. The top was crusted but inside was still raw batter. “Don’t want me to call them and ask them to come home, or to start the whole thing up all over again. Right now they’re thinking it’s over, they don’t need this, they deserve better than this.” He picked up the stack of recipe cards, flipped through them to determine which to make next, to pass the time, to keep his hands busy.
“Do they?”
Earl eyed Carlos over the top of his glasses, setting down the recipe cards. Interesting how he only ever spoke up when it was about Cecil. A little irritating sometimes, but at least it seemed to be generated by love. “They’re not--current. They’re thinking now, but they’re feeling--they’re feeling the past, through an angry filter. So yeah, better than what they’re seeing. Better than what is?” Earl shrugged.
He didn’t want to get into it with Carlos, he didn’t want to explain, and he certainly wasn’t in a place to talk to Cecil about it. Anger gnawed at him if he stopped moving for more than five minutes, confusion was building up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t even totally sure what Cecil was angry about. He accepted this, he loved them through it, but it was exhausting.
The risk of accidental eruption was too great, and not something he wanted to subject Carlos to.
“That was--” Carlos swallowed visibly, looked just past Earl towards the far wall. “That was a pretty intense argument.”
“Yeah,” Earl said. The brownies were back in the oven. He shouldn’t check them again for at least ten minutes or he’d lower the oven temperature too much, they’d take even longer. Wait.
“Do you seriously think they’re just going to come back after that? After--”
“Yeah,” Earl said, somewhat more firmly. “I’m not concerned about that.” He opened the oven door and shook the pan. Too soon. “I’m thinking about what happens next.”
“Hurt me,” they’d say, and that meant sensation. To be hypnotized out of here and now with repetitive, even, steady thuds; the wake-up sting of a slap centering them back in their senses; sharp kisses with a fistful of their hair to keep them still, prove they could be contained. That was good, that was pleasurable on all sides; it was fun and it was sincere and theirs, together, things Cecil’s body needed, a body Earl knew so well that two words and a look were all he needed to find what they were seeking.
“Make it hurt,” they’d say, and that meant take it out of my hide, that meant punish me so I can let it go. It wasn’t even really about Earl, at that point, or about whatever fight they had been in or whatever passive-aggressive little thing Cecil had done. It was about them as a person, every mistake they had ever made, everything they disliked about themself. And it could get dangerous, because if they needed, Earl wanted to give; if they were distraught, Earl wanted to soothe, and that’s why it took him so long to realize what they meant, to see past the immediate need to what they were actually doing to themself.
But then they wanted his hands around their throat, and he could imagine it so clearly, their soft skin under his calloused fingers. They knew he wouldn’t squeeze, wouldn’t dare risk their safety like that, and their eyes were shining and their smile was thick and sweet and a little bitter, like molasses; they needed something and he itched to fill the need, to care for them. But the threat of it and the shape of that threat was suddenly clear: if you’re still angry you could just. Forget. Squeeze. As much or as little as you want. You could cross this line and I couldn’t stop you and I’d deserve that.
He sat back on his heels, hands up, empty, surrendering. “Red,” he said, stumbling as he stood up off the bed, pulling his weight off their body. “Red. I--no. Red.”
And they were confused, and he stared at the bob of their throat as they swallowed, suddenly afraid, and he kissed them hard, pushed the I’m sorry back into their mouth.
He handed Carlos the brownie without asking if he wanted one. Obviously he did. Look at him, anxious and fidgeting and watching the door. Whether he was aware of it or not, he needed a brownie, and Earl was not in a place to consider how much he needed Carlos to accept it. It’s not a symbol, it’s a fucking brownie, he thought. “Milk?” he said out loud.
“No thank you.” Carlos waved him off, picked at the little dark square without eating any.
The last communication was about fifteen minutes ago--Earl’s neat, careful you alright? was met with a curt little fuck off, so at least they reasonably safe, wherever they were. And hearing from them at all so soon meant they’d be home by dark, or a little after; Carlos might find them curled up at the foot of his bed like a puppy when he went home.
“So what is it?” Carlos asked finally. “What comes next?”
Earl shrugged, picked up his glass. Did he know? Should he tell him? What would Cecil think? It would either be nothing or everything, a devastating betrayal or a fiddly detail he had probably already heard anyway.
And anyway, it might not be anything they were comfortable with anymore. Their dependence had shifted, they didn’t need Earl like they had once, and his participation might not mean the same thing. He wondered if Carlos could provide that comfort, if he would even feel comfortable with it. If he would understand.
He could come to understand. And Cecil would have to find a different way to punish themself anyway; Carlos was a sub, so that at least was one less thing to worry about.
Sometimes Earl thought about who had come before him, and in between and around their ever-shifting relationship; who had not noticed, who had noticed and not cared, and felt so angry he couldn’t breathe.
“When they calm down,” he said, “we’ll decide where to go from there.”
“There needs to be structure,” Earl said. “We need to know why.”
Cecil’s doe eyes turned in his direction. Their cheek was resting against his knee and they’d wrapped their arms around his leg tight, close.
“If you need this, we can find a way to make it work,” he went on, authoritative tone, talking to fill the silence. “But it can’t be just--just because. I need a reason.”
He set his hand on the top of their head, pet their hair. They looked so small and sweet to him that he couldn’t imagine them ever needing to be punished for anything, much less seeking it out. But there was no point in questioning; it wasn’t his place, in this context, to demand answers. They had a need, and he could fill it this time, within reason--wrap it in context, satisfy the compulsion without validating its faulty logic.
“I need you to ask,” Earl said, “most of the time. Maybe--when we see how it works out, we can amend that, if it’s something you need. But to start, you have to ask for it. And a good reason.”
“I don’t always know what it is,” they said quietly. “Or if it’s good. They’re all good reasons, it’s always because I’m--”
“Shh.” Earl laid a finger against their lips. “None of that, precious. How about--you tell me, and I’ll decide if it warrants punishment. Will you trust me with that?”
They nodded against his knee, closed their eyes.
“Okay. Thank you.” He stroked their hair and thought. “No shaming,” he said, “no humiliation. Not with this. That’s--that’s a solid limit. I’m not reinforcing the idea that you’re something to be ashamed of just because you make mistakes. I think we should keep the same safewords, they’re familiar, do you agree with that?”
Another nod.
“You’re drifting,” Earl said with a little smile.
“Am not,” Cecil protests, and they look at him again, and it is obvious that they most certainly are.
“I’m not angry. I’m pleased--that you’re feeling calm enough. But then we should finish the planning later. Right now I think we should take a shower, and then maybe go to bed early.”
“One more thing,” he said, while they waited for the water to heat up. He caught their hand in his, kissed their palm, then pulled them close. “I said I’d take care of you, and I will. As long as you’ll have me, I’ll have you. But you have to let me. So no more--no more of the self-punishing stuff, okay? I’m taking this, it’s mine now, I will worry about it.”
“It’s not just--”
“I know, precious. I know. But that part--mine now. I’ll carry it.”
Perhaps Carlos was expecting another argument, because he was sitting on the kitchen floor with a look of cautious defiance when Earl came back in. Cecil was still visibly upset, but closer to mild annoyance. Their rage had cracked, logic was seeping in, and they clearly weren’t happy about it but were at least giving it some consideration.
“You’re gonna hurt tomorrow,” Earl said, and his tone was neutral, his face blank, while he tried to read them more closely. “Can’t sit on a hard floor like that for long.”
“I’m fine.” Cecil waved his concern off. “I’m--I’m sorry I overreacted,” they added primly, and they didn’t seem terribly sorry at the moment but that was fine, they were still coming back, swinging towards center.
Earl reached for their hand, and they let him squeeze it, once. “Call me later,” he said, “if you want to talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” they said.
“Yeah, but in case you do, though. ‘Night, Carlos. Ce, there’s brownies if you want them.”
Cecil was publicly shameless; they pulled up their long, pretty skirt towards the knees, stuck their leg out with a dainty point to the toe, raised the little stick, and whap! it went across their calf.
“No,” they said, with a little sigh. “Not that. It won’t--it wouldn’t bruise right.”
The rest of the customers, to their credit, weren’t staring at Cecil’s careful testing of their options. They’d decided on their own that whatever punishment structure was set up, it would require a small mark, somewhere discreet but visible. Proof, they said. That it had happened, that they had meant it. That it was over and they could try to let it go.
Earl had suggested finding something special, together, something just for that purpose. A dedicated toy, keeping the lines between play and this ritual solid, clear, understandable. They had moved on to common household objects, drifting from shop to shop downtown.
Dust Hut was useless; The Unnamed Kitchen Stuff Store had some wooden spoons Cecil thought were promising, but Earl had vetoed for his own reasons. Cecil did not ask; they just said “Want to get a quick coffee?”
After coffee (and watching the cute and distracted way Cecil cleaned the shiny red lip print off their cup after every sip) they found one of those odd little stores that just seemed to pop up every so often; they were usually promising as long as you carefully avoided anything mysteriously engraved with your name.
Cecil smiled and waved politely at the old woman behind the counter, and that seemed to do the trick. It was not a full minute before they found it: a small, rounded wooden hairbrush, smooth and lacquered.
“Want to try it?” Earl asked quietly.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Cecil said breezily, with a small and satisfied smile. Just a touch of fate and nothing more, barely signified anything.
It stayed at Cecil’s apartment, and later, when they more or less lived together it still stayed with their things; it was for them, their needs, their benefit.
Steer clear for a bit, ce and i are taking care of something.
He’d half-expect that Cecil would have gotten rid of it, somewhere along the line, especially given Carlos was their primary partner now. But they were sitting on the sofa with their knees pulled to their chest, pushing the bristles down with the flat of their palm, pointedly not looking at Earl.
“This is what you want?” He was trying to stay neutral, more or less, limit the instinctive command that slipped into his voice when Cecil looked this small and needing.
A shrug, and a little nod. They were still feeling out the edges of his mood, still saturated in guilt and fear. They didn’t want to make any demands of him right now, probably.
He crouched in front of them, on one knee, seeking eye contact. “Like it was before?”
“Yeah,” and it was just the smallest whisper. “I’m sorry--I shouldn’t have even--”
He tapped a finger against their nose. “Stop,” he said. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” He kissed their forehead, stood up over them, and held out his hand.
The little brush felt right in his hand, stable and solid and familiar. He had been a little worried, before he touched it, but it would come easy to him now, what they needed, and course you couldn’t go back, it wouldn’t ever be like it was before but it could be something again, and some things about Cecil, and him, about the two of them together, would not change. This is mine, he thought. I carry this.
He pulled the throw pillow out from behind them and tossed it on the floor, then sat in the comfortable chair, ankle over knee, relaxed. “Undress,” he said calmly, tapping the back of the brush lightly on the center of his hand. Not a threat. Just a beat.
Cecil complied, uncertainly at first, falling back into the rhythm by the time they were completely bare. This was not like play, not a scene, this was something else with its own flow and he was pleased to see it only took them a minute to find it again.
“Sit,” he said, and they slumped onto the cushion, bent double with their forehead pressed against his calf. “Sit up,” he clarified.
Still they curled forward, but at least they were vertical, not begging. Confessing. After a fashion.
He laced his fingers into the hair on the back of their neck and pulled, until their back bowed slightly, scruffing them like a kitten. They were to look up, face things head on, not collapse on themself under the weight of guilt and shame. That wasn’t what this was for.
“Tell me what happened.”
He watched them swallow, look away. “I was angry,” they said, “because you--I thought you were leaving and instead of talking to you I freaked out like a fucking--”
“Stop.” He tapped their nose again. “Again, without the judgements.”
“You said. You said you were passing me off. To Carlos. Remember? And I--” they swallowed again. “I thought you meant that you were leaving because I never--because I was. Thinking emotionally. And instead of asking you directly I acted like an asshole and you--”
Another tap. “Again.”
“I--I was unfair to you when I responded to--to thinking you were just giving me up. Even to Carlos. So I. Um. I was angry and I fucking--” they growled a little, squeezed their eyes shut.
“Breathe.” Tap.
Their lips parted and they inhaled, a shaky little breath, and the exhale was a little more stable. They opened their eyes. “I was angry and I. I took it out on you. I thought I could just--leave you first. If I was angry--it wouldn’t hurt so bad. So I picked a fight and I was not--I wasn’t thinking ahead, or considering your feelings.”
“Anything else?”
“And I frightened poor Carlos--he was so worried, I hate--” Their voice pinched tight and they stopped, teeth clenched, and breathed without being instructed, trying to calm themself without being told. “I shouldn’t have let being angry with you affect him that much. It wasn’t fair.”
“Hmm.” Earl rubbed their scalp just a bit, still pulling, keeping them upright. “That you have to settle with Carlos. I’m sure he’ll understand if you explain calmly. Apologize once, and only once. Let him think and trust his answer.”
“‘Kay,” they said, and their voice was very small again.
“What comes next, pet?” He rubbed again at their scalp; paired with the endearment, it meant we’re almost done, and everything is okay, and you are still loved.
They started to cry, stopped, made the frustrated little growling sound again. “I’m sorry,” they said, “I’m so, so s-sorry--”
Tap. “Once. Be specific.”
They cleared their throat, closed their eyes again. “I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you, and that I d-didn’t ask or let you explain before I lashed out. That wasn’t fair.”
He nodded, although they couldn’t see. “Three?”
“Five,” and their voice broke, fretful, insistent.
He pulled just a bit tighter, a reminder of the boundaries, of who was carrying what. “Three,” he said again, more firmly.
He knew well the territory on the inside of their thighs; over the years he had speckled every inch of this skin with kisses and love bites and scratches, but this experience was always different. He laid the back of the brush against their skin, so they would know where to anticipate the feeling. Three hard smacks, paired with three sharp little gasps. Their hands were shaking slightly, their jaw clenched tight.
The little red oval was warm to the touch, swelling slightly; it would be a bruise by morning.
“There,” he said, relaxing his grip, just petting their head. “It’s done, now. You can let it go. See? It’s right there. Shh, now, baby, it’s done, you’re okay. I know you always try your best, don’t you? You do. I know you do. You’re alright. It’s finished now.”
They turned, with a little sound of anguish, and pressed their face in his lap and cried wordlessly for a long moment. When it didn’t seem like it would be stopping, Earl pulled them up under the arms (“come here, precious”) and held them close.
“It’s so much,” they choked out finally, “it’s so, s-so much,” and it was, it was more than this moment of forgiveness, this comfort, this one argument; Earl could not say precisely what, but he understood.
“And it’s done now,” Earl said. “It was so much, but it’s done. It’s over. You can let go. See? Right there. It’s over.”