Original Slash: Limited (repost)
This was originally written for and published in the Gay Flash Fiction online zine, now reposted here as their copyright has ran out.
Title: Limited
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Original slash fic
Pairing/Category: m/m, experimental
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 444
Summary: There is no number four
Author notes: Thank you to moth2fic and razorxrosary for looking over the story and for alexhogan from the GFF team for a more thorough edit.
Limited
First
I’m high again; higher than a drag queen’s heels, higher than the neon lights, higher than the sky that opens up, the rain plastering the t-shirt to my chest.
I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t mean not to either, so what does that mean? Try saying that ten times fast.
My face hurts from grinning and I can feel drops of water clinging to my lips as I duck inside the club, the bouncer waving a lazy hello. I’m a good customer, yes siree.
I have my own section of wall to lean on, hips cocked in invitation.
I’m on display.
I’m a one-man show.
I’m yours for the taking.
Second
You don’t come here for relationships, you don’t even come for the good times.
You come to see and to be seen. You come for the music that makes your bones reverberate, for the blue drinks and the little pink pills and for the you wanna? and for the yeah, fuck yeah.
You come for the sex, and, ha, if you’re smart about it, you come inside a rubber.
Yeah, yeah, the joke’s on you; doesn’t mean you don’t find it funny. You’re gasping from laughter, folded in two like a fifty pound note.
And of course that’s when you see him.
Third
He walks over, swagger and sweat and a smile full of teeth. He’s after that one thing and yeah, fuck yeah, he’s going to get it.
His hands are rough and calloused, a working man’s hands on a working man’s body, and man, he sure is working it.
He gets pulled into an empty stall, the walls gritty with dirt, but it doesn’t matter because the skin under his hands is smooth and whiter than the tiles have ever been.
It’s messy in the best of ways, sharp open-mouthed desperation and he hikes his legs higher, spreads them wider, and he loves it like this, he does, he does, he does, he-
-can’t remember the colour of his eyes, only that they were closed the whole time.
There is no number four
We will not leave together. We will not wake up in the same bed and argue over the morning paper while the coffee goes black and bitter from neglect.
Our breaths will not mingle under the covers, our socks will not get mixed in the laundry pile, our Christmas cards will not say and.
We will not learn from our mistakes and we will not share our hurts.
We think this is as much as we dare to ask for. We take no chances, we make no promises, we sing no foreign songs from the heart.
Fin.