[Fic] Always
Title: Always
Author: fairielore
Pairing: Browning/Robert, Browning/Maurice (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2, 783
Summary: Robert tells Browning about his plan to dissemble Fischer-Morrow and he is met with resistance.
Author's Note: For this prompt at
He’s always the first to know.
He’s the first to know of the blueprints of his plans and the insecurities that tear him apart inside, his inner demons that all men struggle with. Uncle Peter is always there to help him through it, a shoulder to lean on in times when his father would meet him with sharp words and a scalding glance. His father hates any inclination of dependence his son shows, snarling that it is only weak men who need someone else.
But Uncle Peter understands.
And so when Robert comes back he’s the first one he tells, calling him into his office for a private conversation; his confidant. But for all the support he expects he gets not even a fraction of it. There is outrage and there is defiance and there is yelling that his father would be outraged. There is silence as he stares out at Robert, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes like he’s so utterly disappointed. At the end he begs him to reconsider and come to his senses and then leaves the room, and Robert buries his head in his hands.
Peter doesn’t come to work the next day and he tries his best not to get too worked up about it, letting business continue as usual. Everyone else in this office seems to act that way and he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t as well. He trudges through the day at a snail’s pace and his mind can take skimming only so many documents before he picks up the phone and calls Browning’s house. He listen only long enough to hear the answering machine before he slams down the receiver hard enough that everything on his desk shakes.
He is in an emotional limbo for the rest of the day, unsure of what to do anymore. Robert had been confident with the idea, that it was the only right thing to do at this point. He needed to make something of himself, he needed to become independent. And he knows that wallowing away like this because of Peter is the exact opposite of his intentions, but he can’t bear to think of losing him. Robert doesn’t sleep that night as if somehow he’s afraid to dream, afraid of what conclusions he might come to.
He was scared of the dark once, a long time ago when he had been a child. He though it would engulf him whole, like some carnivorous monster. And Peter had been there to reassure him that as long as there was someone out there believing in you, fighting for you by your side then he would be fine. Robert isn’t sure that Peter believes in him anymore. He isn’t sure if he ever truly believed in himself to begin with.
Robert is in an awful state the next day because he feels like he hadn’t slept a wink and he certainly looks the part. He nearly falls asleep in a board meeting but instead manages to stay awake long enough to nod whenever he thinks it appropriate. He returns to his office and locks himself away like a hermit, shut away from a reality that had never done him any favours. For the remainder of the day he drowns in numbers and skips stones with letters until he’s lulled into a deep slumber, not awaking until the working day is long over and a blanket of darkness has rolled over the sky. He groggily stands up and walks out of his office in a haze, standing at the door way for a moment before he hears a clatter in another room. Is there a thief in the building, trying to steal company secrets? He rushes to the room and opens the door, not even harming himself in his haste. It doesn’t matter - maybe he’s got half a death wish by now.
Instead of a thief there’s Peter pacing about the room with a bottle of scotch in his hand, his face flush with anger. He’s all too quick to address the figure interrupting, shaking the bottle at him violently before realizing it’s Robert. But that doesn’t help his disposition all too much.
“What do you want? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in bed by now?” He growls, standing his ground defensively.
“Peter, look…” He begins, as if he’s got a plan, because truly he should, as any successful businessman would know.
“Who do you think you are, tearing down what your father and I have created? Oh yes, I have just as much a claim to the prosperity of this company as he does!” He yells, stepping forward towards him.
Who does he think he is? Shouldn’t he know? Shouldn’t he know what kind of a man he is? He just stands there with his mouth agape. But Peter continues, as if he’d never wanted an answer to begin with.
“How dare you think of splitting up Fischer-Morrow. And for what? So that you can say you’ve started from the bottom of the ladder? You’re already there Robert, you’re already there.” He sneers, taking one more step and he can clearly smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Peter…” He chokes out lightly, his voice no where to be found.
“Uncle Peter to you. You’re still just a child no matter how many years you can attest to living. You’re still just a child.” The gap has closed between them and Robert means to say something, anything to refute the claims but he’s silenced by rough lips meetings his and a hand grasping his shoulder. He’s so taken aback for a moment and it shows, letting it linger for a moment longer then a heterosexual man would. He tastes the alcohol on his lips and he’s already forgotten to thrash about as he probably should.
But this is an accident, he tells himself, an innocent accident and Peter is drunk and angry so how can he blame him?
Peter has retracted and half of him looks glazed over and the other half seems to be in disbelief. But there doesn’t seem to be any shame that shows on his face, instead it seems like he’s laughing at something, at someone. At him? “I looked that same way when your father kissed me.” He says and he finally does laugh, taking a step back and downing another swig of his scotch.
Robert is frozen in time for just a moment, staring out wordlessly because he doesn’t understand what he’s hearing. His father, the man who had never shown affection to anyone, not even him? It simply wasn’t possible. “When?” He says, finding his voice finally, and he’s practically demanding an answer.
“When your mother died. It tore him up inside but he didn’t show it. And I was just starting out then and I was young and naïve, hanging onto your father’s every word. I worshipped him with every fiber of my being.” He’s still laughing and he’s still drinking as if he’s in a different world altogether. “I was just so eager to please him, to just make him happy. Oh, I certainly made him happy.” Peter has made it to a chair and he’s sitting down, lounging back.
Robert had always thought that the only thing he had more than his father was a better relationship with Peter. As much as they might have been partners, he thought that he knew Peter and confided in better more than his father. Evidently it seemed in every aspect in life his father had trumped him. But he’d vowed, he’d vowed that he would surpass his father and it starts tonight. It starts with Peter, it always does.
Robert makes his way to the man, straightening out his suit for some arbitrary reason, like he’s preparing himself for a meeting. Soon he’s leaning over and kissing the man and it feels so bittersweet because he knows his father has kissed those lips already but he vows he will be better.
He has to be.
But a strong hand is pushing him away and he’s shaking his head, putting the bottle on the desk. “Run along Robert, go play with kids your own age.” Peter says with a light chuckle, shooing him away.
“My father was good enough for you. I’m better than he is.” Robert protests, his expression like stone as he looks at Peter. He’s not going to get passed over for his father, not this time. He can be better, he is better. And he believes it, and he can make Peter believe it to.
“Your father always had a plan, he was always prepared. You don’t know what you’re doing, Robert.” He replies, ever intent to show him that he’s simply not in the same league as Maurice Fischer. No one is.
But Robert won’t have it, not this time. “I have a plan.” He says, meeting Robert’s gaze which he hadn’t yet the courage to face. He has a plan or so he tells himself, because that’s the only way he can persevere from here.
Peter gives a hearty chuckle. “Then show me what you got, kid.”
Robert is leaning over once more and he’s meeting the man once again and it feels so mortifying to be doing this but he perseveres nonetheless, grasping the man’s suit and moving to sit on his lap. He’s kissing him, probing his tongue into the man’s mouth, so desperate to best a man who is buried in earth and so very dead while he’s alive, feeling like he’s waging war. His grip tightens on the fabric of the man’s suit and soon Peter is making quick work of his clothes, the tie skilfully undone and tossed to the floor, then following with the buttons.
Robert feels cold as his dress shirt comes up and his skin is bare and vulnerable. He feels a chill go down his spine as Peter attacks his neck with fervour, and he can swear his heartbeat has sped up as his neck accumulates marks. But he’s not satisfied with just this, just kissing and knowing that his father must have gone farther because he wouldn’t just be satisfied with something so simple. His father needs to have it all, and so does he.
Robert is struggling with the other man’s clothes, and Peter is regarding him with a curious look and it looks like he’s trying to find his father in him. It makes him nervous and he’s accidentally pulled a button off the man’s dress shirt in the process. Peter snaps out of whatever he’s thinking about and swats the man’s hands away and works on the rest of the buttons, smiling with amusement. “Your father had a habit of ruining my shirts, too.”
For a moment, he feels like he could still choose to simply just bolt out of the office and believe that this was all a bad dream and in some fashion he sincerely hopes this is. Robert stands up for a moment, undoing his belt and taking a deep breath as he stares out the city and its many lights, a sign that there’s someone else out there struggling through the night just as he is. By the time he’s turned back to Peter they’re both nude and he can see how the years have worn him down. All the lines, all the pounds, there’s a sign of experience but also of weariness. He wonders what Peter had looked liked in the flesh when he was younger, whether if he’d had a more toned body or whether that had never mattered to his father. At the very least it doesn’t matter to him.
Robert turns and lowers himself onto Peter’s knee, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that, but this time it feels so different. This time, he’s not a child. This time, he’s not unsure of his place in the world. He feels a hand running down his spine, comforting him, and he relaxes his muscles. “I’m not going to hurt you, Robert.” Peter says soothingly, and soon a pudgy finger has eased itself into him and he tries to keep himself from tensing. Uncle Peter won’t hurt him, he knows he won’t. There are many people in this world who wish ill of him, but never Peter.
Once Robert stops putting up resistance another finger goes in and a soft noise escapes his lips, something akin to a whimper from some poor, sad creature. “As I told your father, it gets better. It always gets better.” He murmurs gently.
The fingers move around inside of him and his cheeks flush crimson. They probe deeper and deeper and he chews on the inside of his lip to prevent himself from saying anymore. He needs to keep control of himself as his father did, never allowing himself to show weakness. The two fingers retract slowly and a silence lingers between them, and Robert’s fixation is on the amber liquid on the bottle. He’s realizes hardly ever seen Peter drink, never more hen two glasses of red wine at dinner. But there the bottle is, half empty and still, the calm before the storm.
Robert slides down the man’s knee and eases himself onto his hard cock. It enters him, slowly and relatively painlessly. He places his hands at the edge of the oaken desk and closes his eyes as the man begins thrusting roughly inside of him, sparing him no pleasantries. For a moment his eyes well up with tears and Peter caresses his back once more. Soon the pain is replaced with pleasure and uncontrollable sounds escape his lips.
“You like this, don’t you? Your father liked it rough, like to feel me deep inside of him. He always said I knew what he wanted.”
The world seem like a blur in his numb haze and he knows he’s something in return, saying yes but he can’t hear his acceptance that this is what he wants, what he needs right now. He’s gripping the desk tightly and his already pale hands have gone white, and he feels like he’s staring down at a ghost rather then a man, a hollow shell rather then a person.
He’s moaning with every thrust and the floods of pain remind him of how wrong this is, as if sin is intent to shame him, to mortify him. He shouldn’t be saying in between breaths that he wants more and that he loves this. In the back of his mind he’s thinking of all times that Peter has comforted him as a child, all the times he was at the Fischer Mansion and him and his father had meetings in another room. Did it happen while he was
“Your father begged and pleaded, you know. He loved it; he loved how I made him feel. You do too.” Peter says hoarsely, his own breathing shallow and in short bursts. Even he can’t control himself any more.
The thrusts have quickened and Robert can feel every one with perfect clarity as if it is impaling his soul. Tears have began to stream down his cheek anew as he feels himself coming close and he knows Peter is as well, and he struggles to keep himself in check. He can’t come first, he just can’t. He’s better then this, he’s better then letting himself admit that he needs something…
“Robert, I…”
The warm tingling sensation inside of him is building and he feels like he’s going to get explode and tenses himself for a moment, tightening around the man’s cock and he can feel him fill him with his love, with his insecurities, with his sin. A feeling of desolation comes over him and for a moment he can’t understand why, he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel fulfilled. Peter squirms for a moment, his fingers tracing down along his spine.
“My father is dead.”
The finger stops and he can feel Peter slump, as if he’s shattered the man’s bones with a single sentence. There is a deafening silence that lingers in the air before the man finally puts his arms around him and they just sit there in ecstasy, in mourning. Strong arms hold him as they had once before but they are not as strong as he remembers, but that’s alright. Empty tears continue to roll down his cheek.
Finally, they can stop chasing a ghost, a glimmer of the past that will never come back. They can stop believing in dreams that will never come true and try and compete against the versions of themselves they will never be.
Now, he can always be there for Peter.
Author: fairielore
Pairing: Browning/Robert, Browning/Maurice (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2, 783
Summary: Robert tells Browning about his plan to dissemble Fischer-Morrow and he is met with resistance.
Author's Note: For this prompt at
He’s always the first to know.
He’s the first to know of the blueprints of his plans and the insecurities that tear him apart inside, his inner demons that all men struggle with. Uncle Peter is always there to help him through it, a shoulder to lean on in times when his father would meet him with sharp words and a scalding glance. His father hates any inclination of dependence his son shows, snarling that it is only weak men who need someone else.
But Uncle Peter understands.
And so when Robert comes back he’s the first one he tells, calling him into his office for a private conversation; his confidant. But for all the support he expects he gets not even a fraction of it. There is outrage and there is defiance and there is yelling that his father would be outraged. There is silence as he stares out at Robert, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes like he’s so utterly disappointed. At the end he begs him to reconsider and come to his senses and then leaves the room, and Robert buries his head in his hands.
Peter doesn’t come to work the next day and he tries his best not to get too worked up about it, letting business continue as usual. Everyone else in this office seems to act that way and he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t as well. He trudges through the day at a snail’s pace and his mind can take skimming only so many documents before he picks up the phone and calls Browning’s house. He listen only long enough to hear the answering machine before he slams down the receiver hard enough that everything on his desk shakes.
He is in an emotional limbo for the rest of the day, unsure of what to do anymore. Robert had been confident with the idea, that it was the only right thing to do at this point. He needed to make something of himself, he needed to become independent. And he knows that wallowing away like this because of Peter is the exact opposite of his intentions, but he can’t bear to think of losing him. Robert doesn’t sleep that night as if somehow he’s afraid to dream, afraid of what conclusions he might come to.
He was scared of the dark once, a long time ago when he had been a child. He though it would engulf him whole, like some carnivorous monster. And Peter had been there to reassure him that as long as there was someone out there believing in you, fighting for you by your side then he would be fine. Robert isn’t sure that Peter believes in him anymore. He isn’t sure if he ever truly believed in himself to begin with.
Robert is in an awful state the next day because he feels like he hadn’t slept a wink and he certainly looks the part. He nearly falls asleep in a board meeting but instead manages to stay awake long enough to nod whenever he thinks it appropriate. He returns to his office and locks himself away like a hermit, shut away from a reality that had never done him any favours. For the remainder of the day he drowns in numbers and skips stones with letters until he’s lulled into a deep slumber, not awaking until the working day is long over and a blanket of darkness has rolled over the sky. He groggily stands up and walks out of his office in a haze, standing at the door way for a moment before he hears a clatter in another room. Is there a thief in the building, trying to steal company secrets? He rushes to the room and opens the door, not even harming himself in his haste. It doesn’t matter - maybe he’s got half a death wish by now.
Instead of a thief there’s Peter pacing about the room with a bottle of scotch in his hand, his face flush with anger. He’s all too quick to address the figure interrupting, shaking the bottle at him violently before realizing it’s Robert. But that doesn’t help his disposition all too much.
“What do you want? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in bed by now?” He growls, standing his ground defensively.
“Peter, look…” He begins, as if he’s got a plan, because truly he should, as any successful businessman would know.
“Who do you think you are, tearing down what your father and I have created? Oh yes, I have just as much a claim to the prosperity of this company as he does!” He yells, stepping forward towards him.
Who does he think he is? Shouldn’t he know? Shouldn’t he know what kind of a man he is? He just stands there with his mouth agape. But Peter continues, as if he’d never wanted an answer to begin with.
“How dare you think of splitting up Fischer-Morrow. And for what? So that you can say you’ve started from the bottom of the ladder? You’re already there Robert, you’re already there.” He sneers, taking one more step and he can clearly smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Peter…” He chokes out lightly, his voice no where to be found.
“Uncle Peter to you. You’re still just a child no matter how many years you can attest to living. You’re still just a child.” The gap has closed between them and Robert means to say something, anything to refute the claims but he’s silenced by rough lips meetings his and a hand grasping his shoulder. He’s so taken aback for a moment and it shows, letting it linger for a moment longer then a heterosexual man would. He tastes the alcohol on his lips and he’s already forgotten to thrash about as he probably should.
But this is an accident, he tells himself, an innocent accident and Peter is drunk and angry so how can he blame him?
Peter has retracted and half of him looks glazed over and the other half seems to be in disbelief. But there doesn’t seem to be any shame that shows on his face, instead it seems like he’s laughing at something, at someone. At him? “I looked that same way when your father kissed me.” He says and he finally does laugh, taking a step back and downing another swig of his scotch.
Robert is frozen in time for just a moment, staring out wordlessly because he doesn’t understand what he’s hearing. His father, the man who had never shown affection to anyone, not even him? It simply wasn’t possible. “When?” He says, finding his voice finally, and he’s practically demanding an answer.
“When your mother died. It tore him up inside but he didn’t show it. And I was just starting out then and I was young and naïve, hanging onto your father’s every word. I worshipped him with every fiber of my being.” He’s still laughing and he’s still drinking as if he’s in a different world altogether. “I was just so eager to please him, to just make him happy. Oh, I certainly made him happy.” Peter has made it to a chair and he’s sitting down, lounging back.
Robert had always thought that the only thing he had more than his father was a better relationship with Peter. As much as they might have been partners, he thought that he knew Peter and confided in better more than his father. Evidently it seemed in every aspect in life his father had trumped him. But he’d vowed, he’d vowed that he would surpass his father and it starts tonight. It starts with Peter, it always does.
Robert makes his way to the man, straightening out his suit for some arbitrary reason, like he’s preparing himself for a meeting. Soon he’s leaning over and kissing the man and it feels so bittersweet because he knows his father has kissed those lips already but he vows he will be better.
He has to be.
But a strong hand is pushing him away and he’s shaking his head, putting the bottle on the desk. “Run along Robert, go play with kids your own age.” Peter says with a light chuckle, shooing him away.
“My father was good enough for you. I’m better than he is.” Robert protests, his expression like stone as he looks at Peter. He’s not going to get passed over for his father, not this time. He can be better, he is better. And he believes it, and he can make Peter believe it to.
“Your father always had a plan, he was always prepared. You don’t know what you’re doing, Robert.” He replies, ever intent to show him that he’s simply not in the same league as Maurice Fischer. No one is.
But Robert won’t have it, not this time. “I have a plan.” He says, meeting Robert’s gaze which he hadn’t yet the courage to face. He has a plan or so he tells himself, because that’s the only way he can persevere from here.
Peter gives a hearty chuckle. “Then show me what you got, kid.”
Robert is leaning over once more and he’s meeting the man once again and it feels so mortifying to be doing this but he perseveres nonetheless, grasping the man’s suit and moving to sit on his lap. He’s kissing him, probing his tongue into the man’s mouth, so desperate to best a man who is buried in earth and so very dead while he’s alive, feeling like he’s waging war. His grip tightens on the fabric of the man’s suit and soon Peter is making quick work of his clothes, the tie skilfully undone and tossed to the floor, then following with the buttons.
Robert feels cold as his dress shirt comes up and his skin is bare and vulnerable. He feels a chill go down his spine as Peter attacks his neck with fervour, and he can swear his heartbeat has sped up as his neck accumulates marks. But he’s not satisfied with just this, just kissing and knowing that his father must have gone farther because he wouldn’t just be satisfied with something so simple. His father needs to have it all, and so does he.
Robert is struggling with the other man’s clothes, and Peter is regarding him with a curious look and it looks like he’s trying to find his father in him. It makes him nervous and he’s accidentally pulled a button off the man’s dress shirt in the process. Peter snaps out of whatever he’s thinking about and swats the man’s hands away and works on the rest of the buttons, smiling with amusement. “Your father had a habit of ruining my shirts, too.”
For a moment, he feels like he could still choose to simply just bolt out of the office and believe that this was all a bad dream and in some fashion he sincerely hopes this is. Robert stands up for a moment, undoing his belt and taking a deep breath as he stares out the city and its many lights, a sign that there’s someone else out there struggling through the night just as he is. By the time he’s turned back to Peter they’re both nude and he can see how the years have worn him down. All the lines, all the pounds, there’s a sign of experience but also of weariness. He wonders what Peter had looked liked in the flesh when he was younger, whether if he’d had a more toned body or whether that had never mattered to his father. At the very least it doesn’t matter to him.
Robert turns and lowers himself onto Peter’s knee, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that, but this time it feels so different. This time, he’s not a child. This time, he’s not unsure of his place in the world. He feels a hand running down his spine, comforting him, and he relaxes his muscles. “I’m not going to hurt you, Robert.” Peter says soothingly, and soon a pudgy finger has eased itself into him and he tries to keep himself from tensing. Uncle Peter won’t hurt him, he knows he won’t. There are many people in this world who wish ill of him, but never Peter.
Once Robert stops putting up resistance another finger goes in and a soft noise escapes his lips, something akin to a whimper from some poor, sad creature. “As I told your father, it gets better. It always gets better.” He murmurs gently.
The fingers move around inside of him and his cheeks flush crimson. They probe deeper and deeper and he chews on the inside of his lip to prevent himself from saying anymore. He needs to keep control of himself as his father did, never allowing himself to show weakness. The two fingers retract slowly and a silence lingers between them, and Robert’s fixation is on the amber liquid on the bottle. He’s realizes hardly ever seen Peter drink, never more hen two glasses of red wine at dinner. But there the bottle is, half empty and still, the calm before the storm.
Robert slides down the man’s knee and eases himself onto his hard cock. It enters him, slowly and relatively painlessly. He places his hands at the edge of the oaken desk and closes his eyes as the man begins thrusting roughly inside of him, sparing him no pleasantries. For a moment his eyes well up with tears and Peter caresses his back once more. Soon the pain is replaced with pleasure and uncontrollable sounds escape his lips.
“You like this, don’t you? Your father liked it rough, like to feel me deep inside of him. He always said I knew what he wanted.”
The world seem like a blur in his numb haze and he knows he’s something in return, saying yes but he can’t hear his acceptance that this is what he wants, what he needs right now. He’s gripping the desk tightly and his already pale hands have gone white, and he feels like he’s staring down at a ghost rather then a man, a hollow shell rather then a person.
He’s moaning with every thrust and the floods of pain remind him of how wrong this is, as if sin is intent to shame him, to mortify him. He shouldn’t be saying in between breaths that he wants more and that he loves this. In the back of his mind he’s thinking of all times that Peter has comforted him as a child, all the times he was at the Fischer Mansion and him and his father had meetings in another room. Did it happen while he was
“Your father begged and pleaded, you know. He loved it; he loved how I made him feel. You do too.” Peter says hoarsely, his own breathing shallow and in short bursts. Even he can’t control himself any more.
The thrusts have quickened and Robert can feel every one with perfect clarity as if it is impaling his soul. Tears have began to stream down his cheek anew as he feels himself coming close and he knows Peter is as well, and he struggles to keep himself in check. He can’t come first, he just can’t. He’s better then this, he’s better then letting himself admit that he needs something…
“Robert, I…”
The warm tingling sensation inside of him is building and he feels like he’s going to get explode and tenses himself for a moment, tightening around the man’s cock and he can feel him fill him with his love, with his insecurities, with his sin. A feeling of desolation comes over him and for a moment he can’t understand why, he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel fulfilled. Peter squirms for a moment, his fingers tracing down along his spine.
“My father is dead.”
The finger stops and he can feel Peter slump, as if he’s shattered the man’s bones with a single sentence. There is a deafening silence that lingers in the air before the man finally puts his arms around him and they just sit there in ecstasy, in mourning. Strong arms hold him as they had once before but they are not as strong as he remembers, but that’s alright. Empty tears continue to roll down his cheek.
Finally, they can stop chasing a ghost, a glimmer of the past that will never come back. They can stop believing in dreams that will never come true and try and compete against the versions of themselves they will never be.
Now, he can always be there for Peter.