A house, a home for haldoor
Title: A house, a home
Author: fosfomifira
Recipient: haldoor
Pairing or Characters: Sawyer/Sayid.
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: none.
Prompt: 2. Sawyer/Sayid, Learning to live like the natives or when in Rome... Smut preferable, kink if possible, as AU as you like.
Summary: A house, they discover, is easy enough to make. Building a home, a constant challenge.
Author notes: my everlasting thanks to cmonkatiekatie for her support and beta skills.
Learning to live like the natives, as they say, it's much easier said than done, especially when you look like you don't belong anywhere, not the two of them together, not the two of them together like this.
When Sawyer thinks about it, which doesn't happen very often if he can help it, being treated like this doesn't come as a surprise. There is all kinds of shit he could say about it, but one way or another people have always given him a hard time. More often than not he's done something to deserve it. You don't get a rap sheet as long as Sawyer's by being nice to people. That aside, people do have a tendency to underestimate him. It's all good, it puts money in his pockets and it gets him laid if he's in the mood.
Sayid, he's seen this happen before, but not like this. You can't be who he is, come from where he's from and live the way he's lived without keeping your eyes open at all times, second guessing everyone's motives, anticipating their every move, their every word. It's self-defense, it's survival instinct, but he's never had to face this.
They were just walking together, side by side, not touching, not even remotely holding hands. They were just two guys, one tall and blond, the other shorter and Middle-Eastern, walking together having a quiet conversation. It was harmless, it should have been seen as harmless, but it was not, apparently, for the people around them. Not going by the looks they got, the way people around them muttered under their breath. This place, this city was the one they thought they could call home, but not anymore.
If it happened once, they agreed, and that'd be it. It was time to move on.
The next city, they decided, should be neutral. Somewhere they'd never been to, somewhere where they'd both stick out, equally foreign and alien. It's not bad, not at first. It's colder than either one is used to, but it might work. It just might.
Neither one of them has any real money to speak of. Sawyer never got a compensation from Oceanic, something about him not paying the plane ticket on account of being deported. His compensation, as it turned out, went back to the Government of Australia. Sayid did get some money, after months and months of trying to wrestle it back from the US government, whichever shady agency had paid for it. Their house is small, at the end of the street. It's dark, the front door gets stuck, but it's not bad, not bad at all.
Getting a job is harder than it should be. Sayid's qualified enough to work a number of jobs, but there aren't that many people keen on hiring a former member of the Republican Guard, not even in this city. Still, he's better off than Sawyer, who's got no qualifications, not even a high school diploma. There's the small matter of his daughter, not mentioned but somehow ever present, with the pitiful amounts of money he sends her way, the way he writes longs letters when he thinks Sayid's not around. Tomorrow, tomorrow they'll start again. It's the wrong sort of season to celebrate Christmas, not that they ever made a big deal out of it before. People here might not look or stare, but it doesn't feel like home, not yet.
*
A house, they discover, is easy enough to make. Building a home, on the other hand, it's a constant challenge.
The neighborhood they live in is nice enough. It's close enough to the city center that they don't need to drive around if they don't feel like it. There are old people and students and happy little families and unhappy ones, too. A number of locals live there, but so do a number of immigrants from near and far. Somehow, among all those people, they feel they might just fit in. No one looks quite like them, but no one ever did.
There is one room they keep working on, even after all this time. Sayid hasn't touched the walls, but Sawyer has painted them time and time again, all shades of off-white, pale yellows and blues. This month he has chosen some subtle shade of green. It's calm, it's peaceful and it doesn't look a thing like the world outside. The noises from the city make it impossible to even dream they're back on the island, but that's how they like it, strange and new and nothing at all like their pasts.
Sayid is on the small balcony, sitting amongst the potted plants, reading a book. The local language is still unfamiliar and his accent needs some improvement, but he's getting the hang of it. Sawyer, on the other hand - it's a miracle he gets things done most of the time, but then again, not that much of a surprise, not considering the power of that smile.
"Hey there, chief. Thought I'd find you here."
Sayid didn't hear the door opening, not with the noise of the children playing downstairs, the cars and horns from the nearby motorway. It should worry him that his instincts are failing him, but he can't help but feel a touch of relief at knowing that maybe, the better and most pure part of him, feels safe here.
"You still with me, Sayid?" Sawyer looks concerned, a small frown between his eyes.
"Of course. I was just thinking."
Sawyer leans against the balcony door. "Wanna tell me what you were thinkin' of? Fun thoughts? Dirty thoughts? Which color I'm gonna paint the bedroom next thoughts?"
Sayid laughs. "Nothing along those lines. I was just thinking about your accent."
"What's wrong with my accent?" Sawyer asks, Tennessee coming back with a vengeance, thousands and thousand of miles away.
"It's charming, it's always been."
"But?"
"But it never ceases to amaze me how people here understand what you're saying. It's fascinating."
"Never underestimate the power of a smile and simply pointin' with your finger to get what you want, Ali."
Sayid smiles, affectionate in this quiet afternoon. "I would never dream of doing such a thing."
"Get your ass inside. I couldn't find pie, but there's this thing they sell across the street that looks tasty. Don't ask me what's in it 'cause I've no idea."
The living slash dining room is spare. Spartan, however, would be a bad way to describe it; it's a work in progress, not a monk's cell. The table has chairs for four and there's not much in the way of decoration, nothing but boxes that will turn into shelves and a library some day. The couch, on the other hand, is long and wide, almost as pleasant as their bed.
"I was thinkin'," Sawyer says, his voice low, "'bout starting again. Some sort of correspondence course for my GDE. Not sure how that'd work with the exams and all, but we can figure it out later on."
"Of course we can."
*
They can figure it out. It's one of those things that can be easily solved, a stop and a step, not even a stone in their way. There are other things that weigh heavier over their heads.
This is one of those things. Her name was Nadia and Sayid has never talked to Sawyer about her. Once or twice, a mention or two as to why he was in Australia, what he did once he returned to the real world as one of the Oceanic Six, a brief mention of a funeral gone wrong in Iraq, but those are all facts that Sawyer could easily discover on his own. Who she was, who she is to Sayid, that he has never discussed with Sawyer.
The clues are everywhere, scattered all over their house. There are photographs hidden away in the few Arabic language books Sayid owns. There are letters stored next to his papers from the Republican Guard. Sawyer has found them all. He looks at the pictures and he sees that woman, that beautiful woman with her big eyes and the way she looks at Sayid in the rare pictures they're together. Sawyer is certain he's never looked at Sayid like that. Sayid, that much Sawyer is certain of, loved that attention, how in control of their relationship she was. That he can't offer, that he doesn't want to give.
This is another of those things. Her name is Cassidy Phillips, single mother to Clementine Ford Phillips, lately of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her pictures and letters Sawyer saves in a box, locked and stored inside a suitcase. The pick is more resistant than it should be, but there are certain tricks Sayid has picked up along the way. This Cassidy woman looks smart, with her clever eyes, her smile, the possessive and defiant look on her face. She doesn't seem to be Sawyer's type, but she writes her letters to James, and Sayid does not know who that man was. He's only known Sawyer, no matter how he's changed or what he's called himself. Sayid knows about Clementine, Sawyer has mentioned her once or twice. The little girl resembles her father, all blond good looks, but only time will tell if that is a burden or a blessing that fate has placed on her shoulders.
Here, just like everywhere else, people keep their secrets, hide them away where they can't see them, but everybody else can find them.
*
Their bed is big and comfortable, the one luxury they first allowed themselves while moving into this city, into this country. The sheets are always white, neatly so. It's part tradition, part indulging on visual pleasure. The sun in this city hits hard for most of the year despite the cold, keeping Sawyer's tan, never quite letting it fade away. No matter the time of the day or the season, Sawyer likes to sleep in late, more often than not naked, all that tanned and golden flesh on careful and conscious display for Sayid to see. It's a present Sayid doesn't mind taking.
He's taking it tonight, in a little while. It's almost dawn, the sky still ink-dark, but the birds are waking up, making noise. Sayid is quite familiar with their singing, he could tell you which bird is the noisiest, the species they belong to, if it's the one nesting across the street or on the tree on the backyard. He could tell you he rarely misses the early hours of the morning when the first city bus drives by, ready to take its sleepy passengers to their real lives. Sayid could tell you of all the reasons why, even here with so many people who look like him and with names like his, he doesn't feel safe. Sayid could tell you all these things, but instead he chooses to wait for dawn and sunlight and sunshine to hit across their room and onto their bed. When the skies clear up, a shade of blue not quite unlike the blue of the Pacific, never quite forgotten, he'll wake up Sawyer. He'll call him 'James', kiss him gently, softly, keep him lying on his stomach, clear his long hair away from the back of his neck, bite him gently there once, twice, then kiss him again until he wakes up. It's Sayid and he's got it all planned out.
Earlier today Sayid found a letter addressed to James. It was written in a little girl's handwriting, hesitant and loopy and careful. There's no need to read the signature or look for the postmark. There's no need at all to read the letter one more time to know what it says or who wrote it. This time around, he'll ask the questions he wants answers to, the questions he's sure Sawyer is ready to give. In the meantime, in the darkest of the night, Sayid waits.
Sayid waits and finds himself waiting some more. Morning can't come too soon and answers can't take long enough to stay away. They are fine, he tells himself. They are doing just fine and there are things about each other they don't need to tell, he tells himself. He doesn't need to get up and stand in front of a mirror to know he's got the look of a liar on his face.
Instead, Sayid remembers. He remembers meeting Sawyer, he remembers hating him, torturing him, avoidance and repentance and forgiveness and confusion and coming together, relief or redemption amounting to the same thing when they touched for the first time, fingers needy and bodies anxious to find each other, the taste of surrender never as pure as that night. He remembers meeting James and not finding him all that different from the Sawyer he'd come to known, despite everybody else's claims. It'd be far too easy to draw the line between good and bad, past and present, Sawyer and James. Sayid has seen enough and done enough to know that all lines are blurred, black and white never existing on their own in nature.
It's one of those things he needs to ask Sawyer, come morning. Why he agreed to this. What is he running away from, what else he hoped to find here, with Sayid. Sayid, who knows himself to be inflexible about a number of issues, who knows himself to be many things, but keeps surprising himself by falling asleep and waking up night after night, morning after morning right next to this man. Sawyer who seems to be untroubled by his criminal past, his time in prison not touching him, the bite of a mosquito when compared to what his own parents did, to how deeply he fears passing along that violence to his own flesh and blood.
Dawn isn't coming as fast as it should. Sawyer's body, naked and warm, rests easy and comfortable next to his, trusting in his sleep as he rarely is during daylight. He could take him right now, Sayid thinks to himself. A hand here, fingers there, and Sawyer would breathe no more until Sayid chose to give him that privilege. They have not played that game before, nor will they play it tomorrow. What enjoyment and pleasure they might find in pain, they don't find it in violence, much to Sayid's relief. The path toward redemption must be free of coincidence and willingly performed errors. There's nothing to be won by coercion. If he is to find out what Sawyer wants, those words must come out of his mouth by sheer will alone. Will and trust, and love.
It's time to wake Sawyer up. Slow kisses, hardness upon hardness and wrists restrained, all the weight of Sayid's body pressing Sawyer's into the mattress. This is how they liked it, back at the beginning, the first few times they touched, Sayid on top, controlling, Sawyer surrendering.The story was different, the reasons to like it not the same, but their bodies' response hasn't changed. It's one of the things that makes it them, makes it work. Sayid's mouth leaves a trail of kisses on Sawyer's neck, a steady line on that skin no one else sees, always covered by his long hair. There won't be any biting just yet. Marks, later on, perhaps, but not yet. For all that he enjoys roughness, Sawyer doesn't like to be waken up like that. That much Sayid has learned.
This is how he likes to be waken up, with Sayid's hands tracing a line across his chest, from one nipple to the other, the touch light and sharp when he digs in his nails, not hard enough to hurt, not just yet, just deep enough to make it real, impossible to ignore. Sayid can feel himself getting hard, his cock against the curve of Sawyer's ass, the heat of their bodies rising. It won't be long before dawn comes. It won't be long before Sawyer wakes up. A hand between Sawyer's legs and Sayid is jerking him off, the grip strong but light, just like they like it when there's no need to hurry, no urgency to come, to give in or give up. They're just waking up.
"Mornin', Sayid," Sawyer murmurs, his voice low and gritty, from sleep and sex. He rubs himself back against Sayid, his hands framing the pillow, fingers splayed on the sheets. He won't move, he won't fight back, not just yet.
"Good morning to the both of us."
Sawyer tries to roll over, possibly to lay on his back. This isn't how Sayid thought it'd go, but the idea of Sawyer's body open to him like that does have its appeal. There's nothing quite like sucking him off, take the edge off without allowing him to come. Sayid lets him, gives Sawyer the illusion that he's stronger than he actually is, but there won't be any wrestling this morning.
Now that Sawyer is on his back, Sayid makes sure that he doesn't move any further, holding his wrists above his head with one hand, with the other making sure he's hard, a finger on the head of Sawyer's cock teasing back and forth until he gets that first drop of precome. There won't be any more slowing down from this moment on.
From that moment on, every move has its purpose, a clear goal in sight. Sawyer spreads his legs, making room for Sayid, their bodies touching from head to toe, height difference denied. There's plenty ot time to look for and find toys, but Sayid doesn't need them, not this early in the morning, nor does Sawyer want them. Their bodies, this close, it's enough. The roll of their hips, the weight of their bodies, the kisses that turn messier by the second, that's it, that's all they need. They're ready, they're hard, and this could go any number of ways, but seeing that look in Sawyer's eyes, Sayid knows it's got to be simple.
It doesn't take him long to find the bottle of lube, a familiar brand with a name in a different language. They won't need much, not for this, just a little on Sayid's hands to warm it up, to rub it on their cocks as they rub against each other, Sayid's hand around their erections. They could spend hours doing this, moving slowly, taking their time to really feel each other. They could move fast, rub against each other frantically as if the world's about to end, as if they have no privacy available, but that's not the way it's going to go this morning. Instead, Sawyer spreads his legs even further, the request obvious even before he mutters the words on Sayid's ears. "Fuck me."
It's easy enough to go through the motions, the practised moves required. There's no need to delay, to tease. There's only one need between them and that's to be close, closer than two people can physically be. Sayid pushes in, slow and steady, fucking in and out in a rhythm that would drive them crazy any other time, but it's dawn and it's a new day and there's no need to move any faster. It's hard, hard enough to move the bed, hard enough to force Sawyer to bite his lips, but that's how he likes it, to wake up to that vague feeling of soreness, his body awake before his mind is. That's how he likes to fuck Sayid.
"C'mon, faster," Sawyer orders. He's keeping his eyes closed, but Sayid knows full well what the expression on his face would be like. Eyes blue and green, all that passion, all that intensity directed at him. The sweat on his face and his body, that glow that seems to come from within. They've done this so many times before, but it feels new, it feels urgent, and the pleasure building low in Sayid's spine is demanding release. There's no choice but to move faster and close his eyes, words and sounds and harsh breathing breaking free, his mouth open as he leans forward, his chest against Sawyer's, his hips thrusting, not even bothering to keep the right angle any longer because Sawyer's about to come any second now, his cock trapped between their stomachs. "Faster," Sawyer insists and Sayid's there, falling over that delicious edge, coming almost without warning, giving in to the silence of his orgasm, a lazy hand on Sawyer's cock helping him come, feeling him clench hard around him, grunts and groans and wetness on his hand and he's coming all over their hands on this early morning.
When Sayid wakes up, it's almost noon. He's clean, there's coffee on the night table and Sawyer's sitting by the foot of the bed, eyes focused on the letter Sayid discovered just a few days ago.
"Feelin' better, Sayid?" he asks.
"Much better, thank you."
"Good. Now, I'd ask what's wrong with you, but I'm not going to bother. I could tell you what this letter is about, but I ain't going to bother either, 'cause I'm pretty sure you've already read it," Sawyer adds, looking at Sayid from behind his reading glasses. "We gotta do something about it."
"About what," Sayid asks, his voice controlled and measured.
"All this bullshit about us pretending neither one of us has a past. There's only so much hiding you can do and I'm runnin' out of space to hide my shit."
"What do you suggest?"
Sawyer leans forward, sitting right by Sayid's side. "How about you asking me what you want to know and me doing the same? No hurries, no deadlines, just, you know," Sawyer shrugs, "what I'm guessin' normal people do."
"I think that's a plan I very much agree on," Sayid replies, a careful smile on his face.
Learning to live like the natives means pretending neither one of them knows how to kill, how to make a living out of lies and deceit. Learning to live like the natives means ignoring some problems, addressing others. Learning to live like the natives means that this isn’t just a house, it’s home.
Author: fosfomifira
Recipient: haldoor
Pairing or Characters: Sawyer/Sayid.
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: none.
Prompt: 2. Sawyer/Sayid, Learning to live like the natives or when in Rome... Smut preferable, kink if possible, as AU as you like.
Summary: A house, they discover, is easy enough to make. Building a home, a constant challenge.
Author notes: my everlasting thanks to cmonkatiekatie for her support and beta skills.
Learning to live like the natives, as they say, it's much easier said than done, especially when you look like you don't belong anywhere, not the two of them together, not the two of them together like this.
When Sawyer thinks about it, which doesn't happen very often if he can help it, being treated like this doesn't come as a surprise. There is all kinds of shit he could say about it, but one way or another people have always given him a hard time. More often than not he's done something to deserve it. You don't get a rap sheet as long as Sawyer's by being nice to people. That aside, people do have a tendency to underestimate him. It's all good, it puts money in his pockets and it gets him laid if he's in the mood.
Sayid, he's seen this happen before, but not like this. You can't be who he is, come from where he's from and live the way he's lived without keeping your eyes open at all times, second guessing everyone's motives, anticipating their every move, their every word. It's self-defense, it's survival instinct, but he's never had to face this.
They were just walking together, side by side, not touching, not even remotely holding hands. They were just two guys, one tall and blond, the other shorter and Middle-Eastern, walking together having a quiet conversation. It was harmless, it should have been seen as harmless, but it was not, apparently, for the people around them. Not going by the looks they got, the way people around them muttered under their breath. This place, this city was the one they thought they could call home, but not anymore.
If it happened once, they agreed, and that'd be it. It was time to move on.
The next city, they decided, should be neutral. Somewhere they'd never been to, somewhere where they'd both stick out, equally foreign and alien. It's not bad, not at first. It's colder than either one is used to, but it might work. It just might.
Neither one of them has any real money to speak of. Sawyer never got a compensation from Oceanic, something about him not paying the plane ticket on account of being deported. His compensation, as it turned out, went back to the Government of Australia. Sayid did get some money, after months and months of trying to wrestle it back from the US government, whichever shady agency had paid for it. Their house is small, at the end of the street. It's dark, the front door gets stuck, but it's not bad, not bad at all.
Getting a job is harder than it should be. Sayid's qualified enough to work a number of jobs, but there aren't that many people keen on hiring a former member of the Republican Guard, not even in this city. Still, he's better off than Sawyer, who's got no qualifications, not even a high school diploma. There's the small matter of his daughter, not mentioned but somehow ever present, with the pitiful amounts of money he sends her way, the way he writes longs letters when he thinks Sayid's not around. Tomorrow, tomorrow they'll start again. It's the wrong sort of season to celebrate Christmas, not that they ever made a big deal out of it before. People here might not look or stare, but it doesn't feel like home, not yet.
*
A house, they discover, is easy enough to make. Building a home, on the other hand, it's a constant challenge.
The neighborhood they live in is nice enough. It's close enough to the city center that they don't need to drive around if they don't feel like it. There are old people and students and happy little families and unhappy ones, too. A number of locals live there, but so do a number of immigrants from near and far. Somehow, among all those people, they feel they might just fit in. No one looks quite like them, but no one ever did.
There is one room they keep working on, even after all this time. Sayid hasn't touched the walls, but Sawyer has painted them time and time again, all shades of off-white, pale yellows and blues. This month he has chosen some subtle shade of green. It's calm, it's peaceful and it doesn't look a thing like the world outside. The noises from the city make it impossible to even dream they're back on the island, but that's how they like it, strange and new and nothing at all like their pasts.
Sayid is on the small balcony, sitting amongst the potted plants, reading a book. The local language is still unfamiliar and his accent needs some improvement, but he's getting the hang of it. Sawyer, on the other hand - it's a miracle he gets things done most of the time, but then again, not that much of a surprise, not considering the power of that smile.
"Hey there, chief. Thought I'd find you here."
Sayid didn't hear the door opening, not with the noise of the children playing downstairs, the cars and horns from the nearby motorway. It should worry him that his instincts are failing him, but he can't help but feel a touch of relief at knowing that maybe, the better and most pure part of him, feels safe here.
"You still with me, Sayid?" Sawyer looks concerned, a small frown between his eyes.
"Of course. I was just thinking."
Sawyer leans against the balcony door. "Wanna tell me what you were thinkin' of? Fun thoughts? Dirty thoughts? Which color I'm gonna paint the bedroom next thoughts?"
Sayid laughs. "Nothing along those lines. I was just thinking about your accent."
"What's wrong with my accent?" Sawyer asks, Tennessee coming back with a vengeance, thousands and thousand of miles away.
"It's charming, it's always been."
"But?"
"But it never ceases to amaze me how people here understand what you're saying. It's fascinating."
"Never underestimate the power of a smile and simply pointin' with your finger to get what you want, Ali."
Sayid smiles, affectionate in this quiet afternoon. "I would never dream of doing such a thing."
"Get your ass inside. I couldn't find pie, but there's this thing they sell across the street that looks tasty. Don't ask me what's in it 'cause I've no idea."
The living slash dining room is spare. Spartan, however, would be a bad way to describe it; it's a work in progress, not a monk's cell. The table has chairs for four and there's not much in the way of decoration, nothing but boxes that will turn into shelves and a library some day. The couch, on the other hand, is long and wide, almost as pleasant as their bed.
"I was thinkin'," Sawyer says, his voice low, "'bout starting again. Some sort of correspondence course for my GDE. Not sure how that'd work with the exams and all, but we can figure it out later on."
"Of course we can."
*
They can figure it out. It's one of those things that can be easily solved, a stop and a step, not even a stone in their way. There are other things that weigh heavier over their heads.
This is one of those things. Her name was Nadia and Sayid has never talked to Sawyer about her. Once or twice, a mention or two as to why he was in Australia, what he did once he returned to the real world as one of the Oceanic Six, a brief mention of a funeral gone wrong in Iraq, but those are all facts that Sawyer could easily discover on his own. Who she was, who she is to Sayid, that he has never discussed with Sawyer.
The clues are everywhere, scattered all over their house. There are photographs hidden away in the few Arabic language books Sayid owns. There are letters stored next to his papers from the Republican Guard. Sawyer has found them all. He looks at the pictures and he sees that woman, that beautiful woman with her big eyes and the way she looks at Sayid in the rare pictures they're together. Sawyer is certain he's never looked at Sayid like that. Sayid, that much Sawyer is certain of, loved that attention, how in control of their relationship she was. That he can't offer, that he doesn't want to give.
This is another of those things. Her name is Cassidy Phillips, single mother to Clementine Ford Phillips, lately of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her pictures and letters Sawyer saves in a box, locked and stored inside a suitcase. The pick is more resistant than it should be, but there are certain tricks Sayid has picked up along the way. This Cassidy woman looks smart, with her clever eyes, her smile, the possessive and defiant look on her face. She doesn't seem to be Sawyer's type, but she writes her letters to James, and Sayid does not know who that man was. He's only known Sawyer, no matter how he's changed or what he's called himself. Sayid knows about Clementine, Sawyer has mentioned her once or twice. The little girl resembles her father, all blond good looks, but only time will tell if that is a burden or a blessing that fate has placed on her shoulders.
Here, just like everywhere else, people keep their secrets, hide them away where they can't see them, but everybody else can find them.
*
Their bed is big and comfortable, the one luxury they first allowed themselves while moving into this city, into this country. The sheets are always white, neatly so. It's part tradition, part indulging on visual pleasure. The sun in this city hits hard for most of the year despite the cold, keeping Sawyer's tan, never quite letting it fade away. No matter the time of the day or the season, Sawyer likes to sleep in late, more often than not naked, all that tanned and golden flesh on careful and conscious display for Sayid to see. It's a present Sayid doesn't mind taking.
He's taking it tonight, in a little while. It's almost dawn, the sky still ink-dark, but the birds are waking up, making noise. Sayid is quite familiar with their singing, he could tell you which bird is the noisiest, the species they belong to, if it's the one nesting across the street or on the tree on the backyard. He could tell you he rarely misses the early hours of the morning when the first city bus drives by, ready to take its sleepy passengers to their real lives. Sayid could tell you of all the reasons why, even here with so many people who look like him and with names like his, he doesn't feel safe. Sayid could tell you all these things, but instead he chooses to wait for dawn and sunlight and sunshine to hit across their room and onto their bed. When the skies clear up, a shade of blue not quite unlike the blue of the Pacific, never quite forgotten, he'll wake up Sawyer. He'll call him 'James', kiss him gently, softly, keep him lying on his stomach, clear his long hair away from the back of his neck, bite him gently there once, twice, then kiss him again until he wakes up. It's Sayid and he's got it all planned out.
Earlier today Sayid found a letter addressed to James. It was written in a little girl's handwriting, hesitant and loopy and careful. There's no need to read the signature or look for the postmark. There's no need at all to read the letter one more time to know what it says or who wrote it. This time around, he'll ask the questions he wants answers to, the questions he's sure Sawyer is ready to give. In the meantime, in the darkest of the night, Sayid waits.
Sayid waits and finds himself waiting some more. Morning can't come too soon and answers can't take long enough to stay away. They are fine, he tells himself. They are doing just fine and there are things about each other they don't need to tell, he tells himself. He doesn't need to get up and stand in front of a mirror to know he's got the look of a liar on his face.
Instead, Sayid remembers. He remembers meeting Sawyer, he remembers hating him, torturing him, avoidance and repentance and forgiveness and confusion and coming together, relief or redemption amounting to the same thing when they touched for the first time, fingers needy and bodies anxious to find each other, the taste of surrender never as pure as that night. He remembers meeting James and not finding him all that different from the Sawyer he'd come to known, despite everybody else's claims. It'd be far too easy to draw the line between good and bad, past and present, Sawyer and James. Sayid has seen enough and done enough to know that all lines are blurred, black and white never existing on their own in nature.
It's one of those things he needs to ask Sawyer, come morning. Why he agreed to this. What is he running away from, what else he hoped to find here, with Sayid. Sayid, who knows himself to be inflexible about a number of issues, who knows himself to be many things, but keeps surprising himself by falling asleep and waking up night after night, morning after morning right next to this man. Sawyer who seems to be untroubled by his criminal past, his time in prison not touching him, the bite of a mosquito when compared to what his own parents did, to how deeply he fears passing along that violence to his own flesh and blood.
Dawn isn't coming as fast as it should. Sawyer's body, naked and warm, rests easy and comfortable next to his, trusting in his sleep as he rarely is during daylight. He could take him right now, Sayid thinks to himself. A hand here, fingers there, and Sawyer would breathe no more until Sayid chose to give him that privilege. They have not played that game before, nor will they play it tomorrow. What enjoyment and pleasure they might find in pain, they don't find it in violence, much to Sayid's relief. The path toward redemption must be free of coincidence and willingly performed errors. There's nothing to be won by coercion. If he is to find out what Sawyer wants, those words must come out of his mouth by sheer will alone. Will and trust, and love.
It's time to wake Sawyer up. Slow kisses, hardness upon hardness and wrists restrained, all the weight of Sayid's body pressing Sawyer's into the mattress. This is how they liked it, back at the beginning, the first few times they touched, Sayid on top, controlling, Sawyer surrendering.The story was different, the reasons to like it not the same, but their bodies' response hasn't changed. It's one of the things that makes it them, makes it work. Sayid's mouth leaves a trail of kisses on Sawyer's neck, a steady line on that skin no one else sees, always covered by his long hair. There won't be any biting just yet. Marks, later on, perhaps, but not yet. For all that he enjoys roughness, Sawyer doesn't like to be waken up like that. That much Sayid has learned.
This is how he likes to be waken up, with Sayid's hands tracing a line across his chest, from one nipple to the other, the touch light and sharp when he digs in his nails, not hard enough to hurt, not just yet, just deep enough to make it real, impossible to ignore. Sayid can feel himself getting hard, his cock against the curve of Sawyer's ass, the heat of their bodies rising. It won't be long before dawn comes. It won't be long before Sawyer wakes up. A hand between Sawyer's legs and Sayid is jerking him off, the grip strong but light, just like they like it when there's no need to hurry, no urgency to come, to give in or give up. They're just waking up.
"Mornin', Sayid," Sawyer murmurs, his voice low and gritty, from sleep and sex. He rubs himself back against Sayid, his hands framing the pillow, fingers splayed on the sheets. He won't move, he won't fight back, not just yet.
"Good morning to the both of us."
Sawyer tries to roll over, possibly to lay on his back. This isn't how Sayid thought it'd go, but the idea of Sawyer's body open to him like that does have its appeal. There's nothing quite like sucking him off, take the edge off without allowing him to come. Sayid lets him, gives Sawyer the illusion that he's stronger than he actually is, but there won't be any wrestling this morning.
Now that Sawyer is on his back, Sayid makes sure that he doesn't move any further, holding his wrists above his head with one hand, with the other making sure he's hard, a finger on the head of Sawyer's cock teasing back and forth until he gets that first drop of precome. There won't be any more slowing down from this moment on.
From that moment on, every move has its purpose, a clear goal in sight. Sawyer spreads his legs, making room for Sayid, their bodies touching from head to toe, height difference denied. There's plenty ot time to look for and find toys, but Sayid doesn't need them, not this early in the morning, nor does Sawyer want them. Their bodies, this close, it's enough. The roll of their hips, the weight of their bodies, the kisses that turn messier by the second, that's it, that's all they need. They're ready, they're hard, and this could go any number of ways, but seeing that look in Sawyer's eyes, Sayid knows it's got to be simple.
It doesn't take him long to find the bottle of lube, a familiar brand with a name in a different language. They won't need much, not for this, just a little on Sayid's hands to warm it up, to rub it on their cocks as they rub against each other, Sayid's hand around their erections. They could spend hours doing this, moving slowly, taking their time to really feel each other. They could move fast, rub against each other frantically as if the world's about to end, as if they have no privacy available, but that's not the way it's going to go this morning. Instead, Sawyer spreads his legs even further, the request obvious even before he mutters the words on Sayid's ears. "Fuck me."
It's easy enough to go through the motions, the practised moves required. There's no need to delay, to tease. There's only one need between them and that's to be close, closer than two people can physically be. Sayid pushes in, slow and steady, fucking in and out in a rhythm that would drive them crazy any other time, but it's dawn and it's a new day and there's no need to move any faster. It's hard, hard enough to move the bed, hard enough to force Sawyer to bite his lips, but that's how he likes it, to wake up to that vague feeling of soreness, his body awake before his mind is. That's how he likes to fuck Sayid.
"C'mon, faster," Sawyer orders. He's keeping his eyes closed, but Sayid knows full well what the expression on his face would be like. Eyes blue and green, all that passion, all that intensity directed at him. The sweat on his face and his body, that glow that seems to come from within. They've done this so many times before, but it feels new, it feels urgent, and the pleasure building low in Sayid's spine is demanding release. There's no choice but to move faster and close his eyes, words and sounds and harsh breathing breaking free, his mouth open as he leans forward, his chest against Sawyer's, his hips thrusting, not even bothering to keep the right angle any longer because Sawyer's about to come any second now, his cock trapped between their stomachs. "Faster," Sawyer insists and Sayid's there, falling over that delicious edge, coming almost without warning, giving in to the silence of his orgasm, a lazy hand on Sawyer's cock helping him come, feeling him clench hard around him, grunts and groans and wetness on his hand and he's coming all over their hands on this early morning.
When Sayid wakes up, it's almost noon. He's clean, there's coffee on the night table and Sawyer's sitting by the foot of the bed, eyes focused on the letter Sayid discovered just a few days ago.
"Feelin' better, Sayid?" he asks.
"Much better, thank you."
"Good. Now, I'd ask what's wrong with you, but I'm not going to bother. I could tell you what this letter is about, but I ain't going to bother either, 'cause I'm pretty sure you've already read it," Sawyer adds, looking at Sayid from behind his reading glasses. "We gotta do something about it."
"About what," Sayid asks, his voice controlled and measured.
"All this bullshit about us pretending neither one of us has a past. There's only so much hiding you can do and I'm runnin' out of space to hide my shit."
"What do you suggest?"
Sawyer leans forward, sitting right by Sayid's side. "How about you asking me what you want to know and me doing the same? No hurries, no deadlines, just, you know," Sawyer shrugs, "what I'm guessin' normal people do."
"I think that's a plan I very much agree on," Sayid replies, a careful smile on his face.
Learning to live like the natives means pretending neither one of them knows how to kill, how to make a living out of lies and deceit. Learning to live like the natives means ignoring some problems, addressing others. Learning to live like the natives means that this isn’t just a house, it’s home.