Brutus & Sexual Frustration
With het forbidden, most kids in the Centre have a gay phase. Brutus tries, but some people just ain't cut out for it.
(Warnings for weird consent -- he agrees but he doesn't like it, and he's not very nice about it -- and for later mentions of blood lust/sexy lust conflations.)
He's -- fine. Really. Brutus made it through his first kill, and then his second, and he didn't throw up or cry or piss himself and he even ate the next day and didn't choke it up, though it did kind of taste like sand mixed with sword oil. They threw him in a lake the winter before his kill test and he got himself back up through the ice all on his own and it wasn't all that cold. He's forgetting what his parents' faces look like unless he pictures them still and posed like a photograph.
He's fine.
He sure ain't -- isn't, not supposed to say ain't no more (any more) -- he sure isn't losing it like the other boys in his year, all hopping around and jumping on each other like it's a -- like it's -- well, Brutus don't know what it's like, but he knows it's not decent. It would never hold in the quarries, that's for sure, where good girls and boys wait until they find the person they fall in love with and the hasty ones get pregnant or get other people pregnant, though that's not going to happen here because both would be cut in a minute. That's kind of the point; no girls allowed, no touching no kissing not even looking, most days, and the other boys have gone plumb crazy.
Brutus don't (doesn't) hold for that sort of thing. If that's what you like, well, he knows his pa and his mama worked for a man named Silas who married a man named Jim, and Dad said there ain't nothing (isn't -- oh, fuck this) wrong with it, not if you love each other. But there's love and then there's this, running all over the place and kissing in corners and turning wrestling matches into exhibitions that nobody in their right mind would like to see, just because they can't have a girl to do it with.
It's not respectable, that's all, and that's what the Program is all about, being good, honest citizens training to do their duty. Not being able to kiss the girls in case you one day have to -- well in case one day you regret it, anyway -- that's just plain sense. It doesn't mean you should go barking mad and turn into a pile of hormones, which is a word that people use that Dad used to say meant 'bad excuse'.
Brutus is above all that, he is. He is. He's the biggest in his year, except for Daniel, but Daniel is dumb as a box of rocks and probably won't pass the next round of agility eliminations, and Brutus is smart, even if he ain't (isn't, Games-dammit-fuck) book smart and still talks like he's from the sticks even though he's trying not to. Brutus is top of his class in everything except speed, but he'll be faster once he stops growing all weird, shooting up and his hands and feet being so big and his legs not sure what they're doing, so he gets tripped up if he goes too fast. Once this settles and he stops itching inside his own skin he can work back up to speed. For now he's steady and sure and that's more important.
He doesn't need to go pawing at some boy just because girls have started to smell real good. Just because they paired him with a girl last week and gave her a knife and him his bare hands and told her she'd get a whole cupcake to herself if she got him to bleed, and she had soft skin and soft hair and soft -- uh, everything. He didn't mean to get handsy but they're wrestling, and she was quick as a snake, and, well, that weren't her shoulder he grabbed that one time, it's not his fault. And see Dad he's not turning into a bad person because the killing didn't bother him but that accidental grope stuck under his nails for three days. Anyway, before he knew it, she went and got the knife right across his ribs, and she got herself that cupcake and Brutus got a scolding and a bandage on his side and a talk from the nurse about how he might want to find somebody to channel his urges because it probably wouldn't be hard, he's awful pretty for a boy so big.
Brutus asked her if she could pour bleach in his ears and scrub out the inside of his brains instead, and she laughed and said quarry boys sure are provincial and sent him back out.
He's not considering it, that would be -- well, he's not. Brutus is just doing an exercise, skimming the boys at training and trying to decide which of them he hates the least and which ones at least bathe so they don't smell so much like Games-damned boy all the time, and there's no correlation there. None.
Trevor notices, damn him to the Arena and back again, and he sidles over with that smartass grin that makes Brutus want to shake him until his teeth falls out. He's not a city boy, which is something, his family ran a little farm out west, chickens or something like that so he kind of understands hard work (except -- chickens vs rocks, come now son) but it's just, he likes to needle Brutus and that's annoying. Except that Dad used to say some boys can't tell the difference between wanting to kiss a girl and wanting to make her angry, which is part of the reason that young boys are so blind-ass stupid, and Mom said -- it doesn't matter, he's not supposed to think about that, anyway. The point is that Trevor's face is dumb.
"You looking for anybody special?" Trevor asks, flipping a knife around in his fingers in a lazy gesture. "You look awfully intent over here."
"Nope." Brutus folds his arms. "Wouldn't look to you if I were."
"You sure about that?" Trevor grins wider, and he's pretty, kind of, if boys can be pretty, which don't seem -- doesn't seem -- like much of a good thing normally but for now is, well, he doesn't smell, even if he is irritating, and oh hell's bells Brutus hates his life. He hates everything. "We could try a little hand to hand if you want."
Brutus grabs Trevor by the throat and slams him against the wall so hard his skull knocks, but the idiot just keeps grinning. "I'll say yes if you don't say another fucking word," Brutus growls, and Trevor mimes sewing his mouth shut. "But one more shitty innuendo joke and the deal is fucking off."
"No jokes," Trevor promises, and Brutus stalks off in the direction of his room, because unlike Aspen and Kyle over there making out in the corner like nobody has to eat dinner later or anything, he has standards of propriety. He almost hopes Trevor doesn't follow, but no, there his footsteps are, light and quick, and looks like this is happening and it better be worth it or Brutus will be ripping off someone's head the next time he's allowed to kill.
Trevor, at least, is not Brock or Mitch or Grant, who have a running tally of who has scored the most boys like it's some kind of contest. He kept himself one boy until Nolan got cut, and then he got weird and mopey for awhile before the trainers threatened him and he got aggressively smiley instead. Maybe it won't be too terrible, just as soon as Brutus figures out what he's supposed to do, and how.
"You might want to close the door," Trevor points out, and Brutus snarls and slams it shut. "It's okay if you're nervous."
Brutus draws himself up and clenches his fists. "I'm not nervous!"
"I'm just saying, it's your first time, so it's natural --"
Brutus really, really wants him to stop talking, but he can't punch him until he shuts up, so he does the other thing instead.
It's -- pretty terrible.
Trevor might be pretty for a boy but there's nothing soft about him (the worst part is Brutus hears the joke in his head even though Trevor didn't say anything), he's all angles and hard lines and their chins are scratchy and he didn't brush his teeth after breakfast this morning and nobody told Brutus kissing could be this awful. He pulls back pretty quick and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and Trevor holds out his hands.
"Okay, okay, we don't have to do that," Trevor says, and at least he's not laughing, which is one geode in a knee-deep pile of shit. "Look, forget the making out, that can be weird for anybody, just let me try something."
Brutus steps back into range, muscles tense and wary, only to leap back when Trevor goes for the front of his pants. "What the fuck are you doing?" Brutus demands, his cheeks on fire. "I could fucking do that myself if I wanted!"
For the first time Trevor actually looks exasperated. "And that's working real well for you, huh?" he challenges, and Brutus snaps his mouth shut. "Look, I'm trying to help you, but you're making me wonder if I should even bother. What do you want?"
"I don't know!" Brutus bursts out. "Just not -- maybe if I don't have to look at you."
That's probably rude, but he's not trying to win points in charm exercises right now, so.
"Okay." Trevor narrows his eyes, then nods. "Okay, look, I'm going to try something, but you're gonna have to trust me." Brutus shoots him a look, and he grins, sharp and dangerous. "Ha, okay, point, I wouldn't trust me either and I sure as hell don't trust you. But just, for the next five minutes, close your eyes and think of a pretty girl okay, and it'll work fine."
Well that's something else, because when Brutus was twelve or so Dad sat him down and said he shouldn't think about people without their permission, but Brutus is learning how to measure two evils and choose the better one. And so he gives up, claps a hand over his eyes and grits his teeth while he tries to pretend it's not weird to feel a sudden breeze where ain't no breeze should ever be.
"Remember, make her pretty," Trevor says, his voice floating up from way too low, and -- well, all right fair enough, Brutus could no way do that himself.
It's less terrible than the kissing was, at least, and it's new and strange enough to keep Brutus' mind occupied away from who's doing it for a little bit at a time. Except he can't really picture a girl without her starting to slide into one of the ones he sees at training, and that definitely ain't right or proper and won't help him tomorrow. The problem there is that it usually happens right when he starts to forget and his breath goes ragged, and then he's jarred out of it so hard he has to fist his hands in his hair and yank to stop himself from shoving Trevor away.
He finally manages to get it down to small flashes of images (the curve of bare shoulder half hidden by a curtain of soft hair; the touch of soft, smooth hands on his skin) so that it doesn't throw him out, and finally -- finally it starts in his toes and in his middle and oh fuck oh fuck --
Brutus opens his eyes by accident, and it's not a pretty girl with a smile like a razor and hair like silk, it's a boy on his knees and it's all wrong, all of this is so, so wrong --
And just like that, it's never going to happen.
"Shit," Trevor says, his hands (all wrong) against Brutus' thighs. "So close. You want me to try again?"
"I want you to get out," Brutus says, and he's not even pissed anymore, just exhausted. He yanks up his pants and opens the door. "And if you tell anyone about this, I will pull your spine out through your stomach and shove it down your throat, do you understand?"
"Hey, it's your loss, not mine," Trevor says, all casual, and he stands up and wipes his mouth and Brutus is not going to think about why and is he going to wash his hands before he touches things (do the other boys wash their hands before they touch things, probably not, what the hell has Brutus been third-hand touching). He flips Brutus a salute and heads out, kicking the door shut behind him.
The next day Brutus sucks it up and asks one of the older trainers what he should do. "I've just -- it won't go away," Brutus rasps out, head in his hands. "What do I do?"
"What do you think?" the trainer says with a frown. "What you're here to do."
Brutus lets out a sigh of relief; for the first time, someone said something that makes sense. The next time the urge creeps up again, Brutus breaks his sparring partner's wrist. The trainers praise him, he wins the bout, and the feeling turns into satisfaction and release instead of frustration and distraction. From then on, Brutus takes the urge for touch turns it into violence until, during his mock Arena Field Exam, he snaps the woman's neck as the final test and stands over her body in a confused mix of bloodlust and the deep, gut-curling need for sex. There's no more one without the other, but it doesn't matter.
Trevor fails his Field Exam like two-thirds of their class, but even before that, none of the other boys try to hit on Brutus again. Brutus doesn't even notice, because he knows what to do now.
(Warnings for weird consent -- he agrees but he doesn't like it, and he's not very nice about it -- and for later mentions of blood lust/sexy lust conflations.)
He's -- fine. Really. Brutus made it through his first kill, and then his second, and he didn't throw up or cry or piss himself and he even ate the next day and didn't choke it up, though it did kind of taste like sand mixed with sword oil. They threw him in a lake the winter before his kill test and he got himself back up through the ice all on his own and it wasn't all that cold. He's forgetting what his parents' faces look like unless he pictures them still and posed like a photograph.
He's fine.
He sure ain't -- isn't, not supposed to say ain't no more (any more) -- he sure isn't losing it like the other boys in his year, all hopping around and jumping on each other like it's a -- like it's -- well, Brutus don't know what it's like, but he knows it's not decent. It would never hold in the quarries, that's for sure, where good girls and boys wait until they find the person they fall in love with and the hasty ones get pregnant or get other people pregnant, though that's not going to happen here because both would be cut in a minute. That's kind of the point; no girls allowed, no touching no kissing not even looking, most days, and the other boys have gone plumb crazy.
Brutus don't (doesn't) hold for that sort of thing. If that's what you like, well, he knows his pa and his mama worked for a man named Silas who married a man named Jim, and Dad said there ain't nothing (isn't -- oh, fuck this) wrong with it, not if you love each other. But there's love and then there's this, running all over the place and kissing in corners and turning wrestling matches into exhibitions that nobody in their right mind would like to see, just because they can't have a girl to do it with.
It's not respectable, that's all, and that's what the Program is all about, being good, honest citizens training to do their duty. Not being able to kiss the girls in case you one day have to -- well in case one day you regret it, anyway -- that's just plain sense. It doesn't mean you should go barking mad and turn into a pile of hormones, which is a word that people use that Dad used to say meant 'bad excuse'.
Brutus is above all that, he is. He is. He's the biggest in his year, except for Daniel, but Daniel is dumb as a box of rocks and probably won't pass the next round of agility eliminations, and Brutus is smart, even if he ain't (isn't, Games-dammit-fuck) book smart and still talks like he's from the sticks even though he's trying not to. Brutus is top of his class in everything except speed, but he'll be faster once he stops growing all weird, shooting up and his hands and feet being so big and his legs not sure what they're doing, so he gets tripped up if he goes too fast. Once this settles and he stops itching inside his own skin he can work back up to speed. For now he's steady and sure and that's more important.
He doesn't need to go pawing at some boy just because girls have started to smell real good. Just because they paired him with a girl last week and gave her a knife and him his bare hands and told her she'd get a whole cupcake to herself if she got him to bleed, and she had soft skin and soft hair and soft -- uh, everything. He didn't mean to get handsy but they're wrestling, and she was quick as a snake, and, well, that weren't her shoulder he grabbed that one time, it's not his fault. And see Dad he's not turning into a bad person because the killing didn't bother him but that accidental grope stuck under his nails for three days. Anyway, before he knew it, she went and got the knife right across his ribs, and she got herself that cupcake and Brutus got a scolding and a bandage on his side and a talk from the nurse about how he might want to find somebody to channel his urges because it probably wouldn't be hard, he's awful pretty for a boy so big.
Brutus asked her if she could pour bleach in his ears and scrub out the inside of his brains instead, and she laughed and said quarry boys sure are provincial and sent him back out.
He's not considering it, that would be -- well, he's not. Brutus is just doing an exercise, skimming the boys at training and trying to decide which of them he hates the least and which ones at least bathe so they don't smell so much like Games-damned boy all the time, and there's no correlation there. None.
Trevor notices, damn him to the Arena and back again, and he sidles over with that smartass grin that makes Brutus want to shake him until his teeth falls out. He's not a city boy, which is something, his family ran a little farm out west, chickens or something like that so he kind of understands hard work (except -- chickens vs rocks, come now son) but it's just, he likes to needle Brutus and that's annoying. Except that Dad used to say some boys can't tell the difference between wanting to kiss a girl and wanting to make her angry, which is part of the reason that young boys are so blind-ass stupid, and Mom said -- it doesn't matter, he's not supposed to think about that, anyway. The point is that Trevor's face is dumb.
"You looking for anybody special?" Trevor asks, flipping a knife around in his fingers in a lazy gesture. "You look awfully intent over here."
"Nope." Brutus folds his arms. "Wouldn't look to you if I were."
"You sure about that?" Trevor grins wider, and he's pretty, kind of, if boys can be pretty, which don't seem -- doesn't seem -- like much of a good thing normally but for now is, well, he doesn't smell, even if he is irritating, and oh hell's bells Brutus hates his life. He hates everything. "We could try a little hand to hand if you want."
Brutus grabs Trevor by the throat and slams him against the wall so hard his skull knocks, but the idiot just keeps grinning. "I'll say yes if you don't say another fucking word," Brutus growls, and Trevor mimes sewing his mouth shut. "But one more shitty innuendo joke and the deal is fucking off."
"No jokes," Trevor promises, and Brutus stalks off in the direction of his room, because unlike Aspen and Kyle over there making out in the corner like nobody has to eat dinner later or anything, he has standards of propriety. He almost hopes Trevor doesn't follow, but no, there his footsteps are, light and quick, and looks like this is happening and it better be worth it or Brutus will be ripping off someone's head the next time he's allowed to kill.
Trevor, at least, is not Brock or Mitch or Grant, who have a running tally of who has scored the most boys like it's some kind of contest. He kept himself one boy until Nolan got cut, and then he got weird and mopey for awhile before the trainers threatened him and he got aggressively smiley instead. Maybe it won't be too terrible, just as soon as Brutus figures out what he's supposed to do, and how.
"You might want to close the door," Trevor points out, and Brutus snarls and slams it shut. "It's okay if you're nervous."
Brutus draws himself up and clenches his fists. "I'm not nervous!"
"I'm just saying, it's your first time, so it's natural --"
Brutus really, really wants him to stop talking, but he can't punch him until he shuts up, so he does the other thing instead.
It's -- pretty terrible.
Trevor might be pretty for a boy but there's nothing soft about him (the worst part is Brutus hears the joke in his head even though Trevor didn't say anything), he's all angles and hard lines and their chins are scratchy and he didn't brush his teeth after breakfast this morning and nobody told Brutus kissing could be this awful. He pulls back pretty quick and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and Trevor holds out his hands.
"Okay, okay, we don't have to do that," Trevor says, and at least he's not laughing, which is one geode in a knee-deep pile of shit. "Look, forget the making out, that can be weird for anybody, just let me try something."
Brutus steps back into range, muscles tense and wary, only to leap back when Trevor goes for the front of his pants. "What the fuck are you doing?" Brutus demands, his cheeks on fire. "I could fucking do that myself if I wanted!"
For the first time Trevor actually looks exasperated. "And that's working real well for you, huh?" he challenges, and Brutus snaps his mouth shut. "Look, I'm trying to help you, but you're making me wonder if I should even bother. What do you want?"
"I don't know!" Brutus bursts out. "Just not -- maybe if I don't have to look at you."
That's probably rude, but he's not trying to win points in charm exercises right now, so.
"Okay." Trevor narrows his eyes, then nods. "Okay, look, I'm going to try something, but you're gonna have to trust me." Brutus shoots him a look, and he grins, sharp and dangerous. "Ha, okay, point, I wouldn't trust me either and I sure as hell don't trust you. But just, for the next five minutes, close your eyes and think of a pretty girl okay, and it'll work fine."
Well that's something else, because when Brutus was twelve or so Dad sat him down and said he shouldn't think about people without their permission, but Brutus is learning how to measure two evils and choose the better one. And so he gives up, claps a hand over his eyes and grits his teeth while he tries to pretend it's not weird to feel a sudden breeze where ain't no breeze should ever be.
"Remember, make her pretty," Trevor says, his voice floating up from way too low, and -- well, all right fair enough, Brutus could no way do that himself.
It's less terrible than the kissing was, at least, and it's new and strange enough to keep Brutus' mind occupied away from who's doing it for a little bit at a time. Except he can't really picture a girl without her starting to slide into one of the ones he sees at training, and that definitely ain't right or proper and won't help him tomorrow. The problem there is that it usually happens right when he starts to forget and his breath goes ragged, and then he's jarred out of it so hard he has to fist his hands in his hair and yank to stop himself from shoving Trevor away.
He finally manages to get it down to small flashes of images (the curve of bare shoulder half hidden by a curtain of soft hair; the touch of soft, smooth hands on his skin) so that it doesn't throw him out, and finally -- finally it starts in his toes and in his middle and oh fuck oh fuck --
Brutus opens his eyes by accident, and it's not a pretty girl with a smile like a razor and hair like silk, it's a boy on his knees and it's all wrong, all of this is so, so wrong --
And just like that, it's never going to happen.
"Shit," Trevor says, his hands (all wrong) against Brutus' thighs. "So close. You want me to try again?"
"I want you to get out," Brutus says, and he's not even pissed anymore, just exhausted. He yanks up his pants and opens the door. "And if you tell anyone about this, I will pull your spine out through your stomach and shove it down your throat, do you understand?"
"Hey, it's your loss, not mine," Trevor says, all casual, and he stands up and wipes his mouth and Brutus is not going to think about why and is he going to wash his hands before he touches things (do the other boys wash their hands before they touch things, probably not, what the hell has Brutus been third-hand touching). He flips Brutus a salute and heads out, kicking the door shut behind him.
The next day Brutus sucks it up and asks one of the older trainers what he should do. "I've just -- it won't go away," Brutus rasps out, head in his hands. "What do I do?"
"What do you think?" the trainer says with a frown. "What you're here to do."
Brutus lets out a sigh of relief; for the first time, someone said something that makes sense. The next time the urge creeps up again, Brutus breaks his sparring partner's wrist. The trainers praise him, he wins the bout, and the feeling turns into satisfaction and release instead of frustration and distraction. From then on, Brutus takes the urge for touch turns it into violence until, during his mock Arena Field Exam, he snaps the woman's neck as the final test and stands over her body in a confused mix of bloodlust and the deep, gut-curling need for sex. There's no more one without the other, but it doesn't matter.
Trevor fails his Field Exam like two-thirds of their class, but even before that, none of the other boys try to hit on Brutus again. Brutus doesn't even notice, because he knows what to do now.