Fic - NC-17 - Misfits - Nathan - Science of Fear (8/11)
Title: Science of Fear (8/11)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Misfits
Pairing: Simon/Nathan
Genre: Angst/Drama/Hurt/Comfort. All the squishy things that I love.
Spoilers: Yes. Both seasons.
Word Count: 4400 ish
Warnings: Rape references, and the general crudity of Nathan and overal grittiness of Misfits. Oh, and some sexytimes.
Summary: Nathan finally finds employment only to find out that his boss was also affected by the storm, and his immortality can't save him this time.
Timeline: Set a few months after they’ve finished their community service, but before the events of the Christmas episode. Marnie doesn’t exist, Simon and Alisha are not together, though they do have some history. Simon is NOT aware of ‘Future-Simon,’ but lives in Future-Simon’s pad after Alisha showed it to him (and cleaning a lot of it out) and telling him that Superhoodie lived there.
Author's Note: Delayed due to a much needed holiday, and working on original fiction too. Reviews are all kinds of love.
part 01
part 02
part 03
part 04
part 05
part 06
part 07
The first nightmare comes like a freight train, it slams into him and then powers through him, pushing his organs aside, and leaves him gasping and kicking the blankets off. Simon wakes up abruptly and the heavy hardback on military science that he was reading slides to the floor with a hard thud. Nathan doesn’t notice this. One hand is up around his throat, as though if he holds it, or grasps at it, he’ll be able to take a full, slow breath. The other hand tries to dig into the sheets.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Nathan hears himself say, over and over again. ‘Jesus. Jesus, they’re not getting any better. Motherfucking sons of bitches.’ He ends up saying ‘fuck’ over and over again, on each exhale, until his breathing slows down. His hand moves from his throat, passes over his eyes, through his hair, and then he leans over and hauls the doona up off the floor. That’s when he notices that Simon is awake, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes glinting in the dimness.
‘I’m worried about you.’ Simon says, and Nathan laughs, but the sound is broken and his throat is hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours. And he’s sure he hasn’t been.
‘That was a bad one.’ Nathan responds. ‘That was like the nightmare to end all nightmares. You still want me to face Fagin tomorrow?’
Simon pauses, he shakes his head, and Nathan feels a wave of relief wash over him. And then Simon says;
‘No, I don’t want you to, but I still think you should.’
‘Sadist.’ Nathan mutters, under his breath, kicking his way under the quilt and trying to find his way back to sleep again. It comes for him quickly, taking him under with its blackness, throwing him deep into the dark.
*
The second nightmare creeps up on him gently and softly. At first, it’s not like a nightmare at all. Instead, it’s a movie montage. Fagin handing him a milkshake and telling him, ‘I made it just for you, extra chocolate, just how you like it.’ Fagin sharing a conspiratorial wink with him, before following one of the young men from the cafe. A moment of accidentally brushing each other while bustling around behind the counter. The way the sweet aromas of roasted garlic and hearty aromas of beef infused the air at Fagin’s house while they’d shared a beer together. The smile that Fagin gave him as he plunged the fork into his chocolate cake and asked, ‘is there such a thing as sponge virginity?’
The nightmare caressed him and moved over him, stretching sweetness into all of the corners of his mind. He didn’t even have enough sense to be scared of Fagin as it was happening. There was no red flag, there were no instinctive worries, instead his brain shushed him with charm and soothed him with all the things he missed about Fagin, all the things that he craved and hated to admit that he craved. All the things he sought and ridiculed others for seeking.
It was the cruellest of nightmares; well and truly soothing him to a restful place before revealing its darkness.
All his other nightmares had been, so far, explosive, but this one was different. It turned dark slowly. Fagin inside of him, pain everywhere, but receding, because Fagin was slowing down and stroking his curly hair and the shell of his ear and his cheek. Whispering things to him; clichéd, stupid things, about how he could make it feel good, and how ‘I always knew you’d be like this,’ and crooning ‘you’re so filthy, Nathan, but just for me, just for me.’ And Nathan, swimming in and out of consciousness, fighting against his own body’s responses, and yet wanting to sink as far into them as he could so he could escape the horrible pain everywhere else. And then later, a moment of respite, between hits and kicks, at the community centre, where the sole of a heavy boot pressed thoughtfully and unerringly along his spine. Over and over. And Nathan shivering and broken and bleeding on the concrete, and the boot becoming a hand thumbing tears away and gentle whispers.
‘Stop it, already.’ He’d managed, at the time, and Fagin muttered something under his breath that Nathan never comprehended, and then he curled around the vicious kick that followed. And in his head, over and over again, stop it, stop it, stop it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
‘Nathan! Nathan! Wake up, g-god just-’
There’s an earthquake in the dream, tremors pushing Fagin off him, breaking the world apart with its tremors. He wakes up abruptly, Simon’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him, risking being hit or hurt by Nathan, forehead furrowed, eyes wide.
‘I’m awake, I’m-’ But he can’t finish, because his face his wet and his throat is choked up and he balls up under the blankets for a minute, trying to catch himself, trying to get it together. Failing.
Simon’s hand remains on his shoulder, and for a moment it’s weird, because it’s Simon, and because his mind is shaken loose and he doesn’t know what to think. And then he registers only sensory feedback. The warmth of the hand, the way his body tilts towards the other body sitting on the side of the bed, that the pressure is unwavering and steady; an anchor. His breathing resolves into something regular, though he still shudders, and he can’t seem to stop.
When Simon withdraws his hand, Nathan leans in and follows it, just a little, just enough. The hand returns, more uncertain this time.
‘Don’t sleep on the chair again.’ Nathan hears himself saying, hears the crack in his own voice, thinks that at a time like this he should be doing anything other than showing his vulnerability to someone else. He thinks Simon will choose this moment to be the voice of reason, of caution, to say, ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ but instead the fingers squeeze reassuringly, and Simon’s body shifts completely onto the bed. Legs sliding under the covers. He hasn’t removed his hand yet.
‘And I thought the storm was strange.’ Nathan hears himself saying. ‘Turns out getting struck by lightning has got nothing on this. These perverted, retarded, machinations of my own stupid brain. Who would’ve ever thought there’d be a day where, technically, you’re all I’ve got?’
‘We all care about you.’
‘I don’t see anyone else in this room.’ And then because he can’t help it, his head pokes furtively above the covers so he can check that Fagin isn’t there with him. Nathan turns at Simon’s sigh, and Simon removes his hand from Nathan’s shoulder. He feels it like a loss. Immediately his body starts giving away the small amount of heat he’d gathered from their contact. This registers is an ache in his chest, and he doesn’t know why.
‘I don’t know about you, Barry, but...I don’t see me falling asleep again tonight.’
‘Nightmares are exhausting.’ Simon says, lying down on his side and facing Nathan, smoothing his own hair down so that it’s not sticking up anymore. Nathan realises that Simon looks exhausted too. His face is drawn taut, a pulse spasms in his neck. Even in the faint light, he can see it thumping away.
‘If you hadn’t killed him, we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Nathan says. Simon closes his eyes, as though he knows this himself, and then he frowns and opens them again, all that intensity pointed in Nathan’s direction.
‘He would’ve kept on doing it. Look at how you are now. Imagine how you’d be in two years time, or five years time, not able to outrun him, unable to talk to anyone about it. He would have... you would have gone insane. And not insane in the ‘it’s possible to recover with some time in an institution,’ kind of way. Not my kind of insane,’ Simon grudgingly admits, with a reluctant half-smile, ‘I mean, it’s too much for anyone. It’s too much now. It should never have happened.’
Silence then, and Nathan’s heart slows down until he can’t hear it thundering in his ears anymore. His body relaxes incrementally into the bed. He can feel Simon’s body heat because they’re not that far away from each other, facing each other. Nathan has a moment where he imagines leaning forwards, kissing him, but he thinks maybe Simon would definitely stop him then, and he doesn’t think he can handle being pushed away. Not tonight.
‘It felt good.’ Simon said, suddenly, his eyes lidded and his voice deeper and huskier with tiredness. ‘It felt good, killing him. And then he came back the way he did. And it was the worst thing. The worst thing that had ever happened to me. And then later, that night, I realised that the worst thing that had ever happened to me was still nothing like what you’re g-’
‘Shut up.’ Nathan says. He shivers, and closes his eyes, and tries not to complete the sentence in his head, even though he already has. ‘Just shut up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You should be.’ He mumbles, and then laughs under his breath. ‘You’re right though. If you hadn’t killed him... I’d be a completely unsexy kind of mad. I wouldn’t be glorious, or magnificent, or magnanimous with my advice on how to suck snatch and cock.’
Simon laughs too, quietly, and Nathan risks a peek at him. Simon has his eyes closed, and the worried marks across his brow have faded away. Like this, Nathan thinks he looks much younger than his age, and innocent. Too innocent to be a murderer. A hero.
‘G’night, Barry.’ Nathan whispers, and dutifully closes his eyes again.
It takes a while for him to fall asleep. And it’s not until he inches a little closer to Simon that he’s able to do it at all.
*
The brain after trauma is unknowingly cruel, and the third nightmare opens its maw and stretches its claws and tears into Nathan with violence.
He wakes up with a jerk, and his whole body lurches, as though he’s going to be sick, or start clawing back, but it’s an aborted movement and he stills. There is a hand in his hair, a warm body behind his back, soft words. He ignores the choked, coughing sound of trying to catch his own breath, and focuses on Simon instead. Focuses hard, with all his might. He flinches when fingers brush over the spot on his head that had once been split open, and Simon pauses and then skirts around it instead.
‘You wouldn’t let me take you to hospital for it, but it looked so awful,’ Simon says, as though he doesn’t expect Nathan to answer. His fingers keep moving through his hair, not tangling with it, finding sure patterns on his scalp. Nathan is trembling and still catching his breath, he leans back into Simon and Simon doesn’t push him away. Doesn’t stop stroking his hair. There is warmth all around him, but cold down in his bones. When was the last time someone held him like this? He wasn’t even aware that he needed it until now.
Nathan twists around and even though his sight is blurred, even though the light is low, he doesn’t miss. He finds Simon’s mouth and presses his lips against them, desperately ignoring the wetness he finds there, which he knows is from the trackmarks of his tears finding their way to his mouth. He turns awkwardly, grabs onto Simon’s shirt, hangs on and keeps kissing. Is, in fact, unable to stop. When he bites Simon’s lower lip, Simon responds, hand moving to the back of his neck and turning his head slightly, changing the angle. He opens his mouth against Nathan’s, breathes heavily as their tongues slick against each other.
Simon still tastes faintly of toothpaste, and something else that is unmistakeably Simon, dark and musky all at the same time. Simon withdraws when Nathan gets too frenzied, fractions of seconds that teach Nathan to slow down, to go at a difference pace. Nathan wonders why he’s never kissed slowly like this before, because it’s driving him crazy in a good way. Simon slowly explores Nathan’s mouth with his tongue, explores Nathan’s lips with his lips and teeth. Drags his lips across Nathan’s and presses his cheek against Nathan’s cheek. Both breathe heavily, and then Nathan’s head moves back when Simon’s thumb rubs against his lower lip.
‘Fuck.’ Nathan says to no one in particular. This is what hotel beds are meant to be for. He thinks.
Without moving his thumb away, Simon moves back, begins kissing him again, uses his thumb to stroke his lips, his cheek, his jaw-bone, the underside of his neck. Nathan’s hard now, and the memory of the nightmares are deep underwater, too deep for him to want to pay any attention to them.
Nathan whines, and then presses forwards, and Simon leans back, breath hitching.
‘We-we can’t do this.’ He says, as though he’s convincing himself. His voice is deeper.
‘Okay, okay, we can’t do this. Except that we are, and we can, right?’ Nathan leans in again, and Simon pulls back a little.
‘You’re using me. You’re using me to forget.’ Simon says, using words to cut through the sensual fog that’s been clouding Nathan’s thoughts.
And Nathan considers this. He considers it seriously. He thinks about the week he’s had. The nightmares. A hollow, awful emptiness yawns wide inside of him and he swallows.
‘Yeah. Yeah, maybe.’ He says; his voice shakes. ‘Please be okay with that.’
‘I...’ Simon drifts off, as though this wasn’t the answer he was expecting. In the dimness, he tilts his head to the side and Nathan gives him time to think, even though he doesn’t know if this is the right thing to do. Without thinking, his hand clenches at Simon’s shirt and he pulls himself forward just a little, another centimetre. And Simon responds, leaning towards Nathan, pressing his forehead to Nathan’s forehead.
‘Okay.’ He says.
And then Simon’s mouth is on his again, sure and hypnotic, warm and thorough. Nathan rolls backwards and Simon rolls with him, half covering his body and sliding a muscled leg between Nathan’s. Their breathing pauses at the same time, and then Simon soothes him with fingers caressing the side of his face, lips moving wetly across his jawbone, along his sensitive neck. And then Simon’s other hand is pulling at his shirt and Nathan’s lifting slightly so he can pull it off himself. Before he’s even settled back onto the mattress, Simon’s hand is trailing a fiery path down the middle of his torso.
‘Jesus.’ Nathan hears himself sigh.
‘I used to think about this a lot.’ Simon whispered, pressing his lips to Nathan’s lingeringly, before moving down and biting his collarbone gently, palming Nathan’s hip, fingers sliding beneath the hem of the tracksuit pants.
‘You did?’ He hears himself say, voice breathier than usual. He keeps his eyes closed, and has no idea what he’s asked for. What does forgetting mean, to Simon? He thinks maybe he should ask and then decides to keep his mouth shut when Simon’s hand drifts further and further down between his legs, close to his cock, but not touching. Why does it not surprise me that he is a total cocktease? Nathan thinks.
Simon never responds. His mouth travels further south, tongue and teeth grazing lightly over one of his nipples. Nathan whimpers, and Simon’s other hand grips harder, his whole body moves closer in reply. Nathan can’t help but get the impression that he is being consumed by this man who he under-estimated from day one, and will probably keep doing until the end of time, because Simon just has too many tricks up his sleeve. Who knew he was so built? Who knew he’d be any good at this? That out of all five of them, he’d be the one who’d shoulder the responsibility of their mutations with the most courage?
Nathan’s hands lift and move under Simon’s shirt, running along compact muscle and wiriness, but the angle is awkward because Simon’s moving further down. It takes a moment before Nathan realises what he’s doing, where he’s headed.
‘Shit. Really?’ Nathan says, and Simon looks up at him while hooking his fingers into Nathan’s tracksuit pants and manoeuvring them down. Nathan is unable to look away, and then his mouth drops open when one of Simon’s hands wraps around his cock firmly, confidently. Simon’s gaze is easily as intense as the feeling of those five fingers around him, and he finds that he can’t breathe properly, and the ability to form thoughts scatters.
‘Jesus,’ Nathan chokes, and then his head thumps back down onto the bed when Simon starts moving his hand up and down. Nathan reaches up and places a hand over his eyes, even though there’s nothing to block out, and he can still feel wetness on his cheeks. He winces at that, but the nightmares stay far away, the memories are on mute.
He feels a hot, slick tongue push itself into the tip of his cock and he’s completely lost. He hears the start of some broken sound, and sinks so deeply into sensation that he doesn’t hear the rest of it. Maybe the nightmares sensitised him, maybe it’s just that it’s Simon, but this is way better than just about anything else he’s experienced while not high on drugs.
The tongue becomes a mouth enveloping him, sliding down, and he arches up and Simon pulls back, choking, and there’s a moment. A pause where Nathan looks up again, guilty for thrusting up, and Simon looks at him, also guilty, for withdrawing. They stare at each other, breathing hard, Simon’s hand still moving up and down, up and down, and Nathan swallows thickly.
‘I...I’ve thought about it,’ Simon says suddenly, continuing their earlier conversation, ‘but...that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at it.’
‘Are you shitting me, Barry?’ Nathan’s incredulous. Not at Simon’s lack of experience in blowjobs; that’s entirely expected. But Nathan can’t believe that Simon thinks that this has been a subpar performance so far. Because it’s been fucking amazing. ‘You could have an alternative career as a fluffer. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a totally viable income stream if you ever get tired of being a superhero spy deviant. You can be a perverted fluffer instead.’
It’s hard to form sentences, but he manages, even with the heat in him being stoked by that firm and clever hand. It makes sense - Nathan thinks - that Simon would be good at this. The man has probably spent at least as much time jerking himself off in darkened rooms as Nathan has. Simon’s other hand moves up and strokes his torso, presses into his side, smoothes over his upper thigh, and Nathan is disarmed and vulnerable. It’s been a while since he’s been able to enjoy anything like this at all. It feels like it’s been months, though it’s been far less time than that. But it’s long enough for him.
Simon holds his gaze for a little while longer. His expression is serious even now, and maybe even worried, and Nathan remembers - like he’d asked an hour ago and not just a few minutes - that Simon thinks this is just about forgetting. About being used. And Nathan thinks that it’s those things, maybe, and it could be more than that. Because this doesn’t feel cheap, and it doesn’t seem superficial. But before he can think of how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic or trite, Simon’s other hand braces against his hip and his mouth envelopes Nathan’s cock again, sliding down and joining the place where his hand is moving.
And then Nathan stops thinking, and he’s pretty sure his eyes just rolled up in the back of his head. He is sensate and raw, abraded by the days that have passed and the hours that tick on by, by the nightmares and the pain of waking up again into reality. And Simon seems to know that Nathan can’t handle things being stretched out, or maybe that’s just not his style, because the tempo increases and Simon sucks more insistently and Nathan is sketching out pained, sweet sounds on almost every exhale.
There is a moment, a blinding, breaking moment just as his balls start to tighten, as his legs start to tense and he’s fisting one hand in the sheet and one in the pillow beside his head, when suddenly it’s all too much. He opens his mouth to tell Simon that he can’t deal with this. It’s too much. It’s the reason why he couldn’t jack himself off. It’s too close to all the other oblivions; too close to the oblivion of death, of his head hitting the door, of collapsing onto concrete and a boot in the ribs. It expands inside of him, huge and unrelenting; but Simon isn’t looking at him and Nathan can’t remember language, and instead it explodes in glittering shards in his mind as he comes.
Simon removes his hand almost reluctantly, and then trails it up Nathan’s torso as he moves back up the bed, reaches over Nathan for a tissue and spits his come out into it. And Nathan is trying to drag some kind of retort in response to that through the fuzziness, but he gets as far as ‘come on, I don’t spit it out when I taste it, why do you have to?’ and he discards it and collects his breath together instead.
He doesn’t expect Simon to remain close. To press his forehead into the side of Nathan’s head. And then when he feels movement into the mattress, when he knows that Simon is pushing his hips down hard into the bed, he slides his eyes sideways.
‘Barry...do you want me to give you a hand with that?’ He leers, and Simon pauses, and then sighs. His breath blows against the side of Nathan’s face, smelling of sex. There’s a thin layer of sweat between them where their faces are touching, skin to skin, and Simon’s hand has stretched out possessively over Nathan’s torso.
‘Not tonight.’
There’s a pause, and then Simon’s hand presses into Nathan’s skin, fingers splaying.
‘I...don’t know if I did the right thing. Tonight. With you.’
‘Not if you think some magical blow-job is the answer to all of life’s questions and problems. Though, you know, before this month, I actually thought it would be. Sucks to be wrong about that, huh?’
‘Did it help, at all? Do you feel better?’
Nathan closes his eyes. He reaches across and covers Simon’s hand with his own. His fingers are longer than Simon’s, and he feels, for a moment, like he is the one protecting Simon. Which is ridiculous. And then he thinks maybe it isn’t. But Nathan’s way is honesty, and he has to be honest.
‘No. I feel fucking miserable. I don’t know about you, but I’ve decided to put recovering from rape on my ‘anti-bucket’ list.’
But as he says it, he realises that it’s not entirely honest. He turns into Simon and ends up with his face sandwiched between Simon’s and the pillow, feeling hurt and bitter, satiated and frustrated all at the same time. His eyes open, and he stares into the darkness of Simon’s neck, feels the warmth radiating from him.
‘Still. Felt good.’ He says.
‘W-what are we doing?’ Simon says, his voice small and tired. The question settles around them both, and Nathan thinks that he’s probably the last person who can answer it. But he decides to try.
‘We’re fucking around in a hotel, like champions. Isn’t that what we’re supposed be doing? Isn’t that - really - what life is all about?’
Simon laughs under his breath, and their hands squeeze together. Simon’s motion is sure, and Nathan’s is more like a spasm.
‘Jesus, I’m so fucked up.’ Nathan whispers. ‘It’s never bothered me until lately.’
‘You’re not the problem. Not in this.’
‘You don’t understand.’ He replies, resisting the tiredness, not wanting anymore nightmares to find him, unhappy that a fantastic blowjob hasn’t really helped him to forget at all.
‘So tell me.’ Simon yawns. ‘Tell me. You think it’s your fault, don’t you? You-’
‘I’m not talking about this tonight.’ Nathan says, perturbed that Simon has him so figured out. ‘I’m not talking about this until he’s gone. He might never be gone. I fucking hate that stupid storm. Being immortal and shit.’
It’s the first time he’s said it to anyone. And he’s never really known how true it is, until he says it out loud. It wasn’t true at first; but all the dying wears a man down, and the more time that goes by and he experiences physical invincibility; he thinks something inside him is eroding away. Something he used to have a lot more faith in. He has no idea what that is, maybe his mojo.
‘Please, tomorrow, the exorcism...’ Simon says.
‘Fuck you, you little bastard. Just as we’re falling asleep. Did you...’ his eyes widen and he has to cast around to find the breath to finish the sentence, he feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, again. ‘...Did you plan this? Did you do this just to get me to say yes to your stupid plan?’
Silence, and then Simon jerks his hand back from Nathan’s torso, and in that moment Nathan realises that he’s hurt his feelings. More than hurt. He reaches out, grabs at Simon blindly, pulls him back though Simon’s resisting against him. His whole body tense in the dimness.
‘Sorry. Sorry, Barry. Trust issues.’
Simon relaxes again, slowly, and then leans in again, though there’s something about the cant of his body that says he’s still hurt. He’s still thinking about it. Nathan wishes he could take it back, but he doesn’t know how.
‘Shit.’ He says, at himself, more than anything else.
‘I-It’s okay.’
‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, man. Just don’t. Look, I’ll think about it. I’ll think about the exorcism. If you’re there, maybe I can do it. Maybe. But even if it works, don’t expect it to be all sunshine and cumshots afterwards, because I’m starting to think I’m all about that whole when you look into the abyss it looks into you and fucks you up schtick.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Simon says with conviction, and Nathan shivers because that could be true, because he’s grateful, because he doesn’t know what it’s going to mean; tomorrow, the next day, the next month. And then he reaches out behind him and awkwardly pulls the doona over them both and tries not to think about it.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Misfits
Pairing: Simon/Nathan
Genre: Angst/Drama/Hurt/Comfort. All the squishy things that I love.
Spoilers: Yes. Both seasons.
Word Count: 4400 ish
Warnings: Rape references, and the general crudity of Nathan and overal grittiness of Misfits. Oh, and some sexytimes.
Summary: Nathan finally finds employment only to find out that his boss was also affected by the storm, and his immortality can't save him this time.
Timeline: Set a few months after they’ve finished their community service, but before the events of the Christmas episode. Marnie doesn’t exist, Simon and Alisha are not together, though they do have some history. Simon is NOT aware of ‘Future-Simon,’ but lives in Future-Simon’s pad after Alisha showed it to him (and cleaning a lot of it out) and telling him that Superhoodie lived there.
Author's Note: Delayed due to a much needed holiday, and working on original fiction too. Reviews are all kinds of love.
part 01
part 02
part 03
part 04
part 05
part 06
part 07
The first nightmare comes like a freight train, it slams into him and then powers through him, pushing his organs aside, and leaves him gasping and kicking the blankets off. Simon wakes up abruptly and the heavy hardback on military science that he was reading slides to the floor with a hard thud. Nathan doesn’t notice this. One hand is up around his throat, as though if he holds it, or grasps at it, he’ll be able to take a full, slow breath. The other hand tries to dig into the sheets.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Nathan hears himself say, over and over again. ‘Jesus. Jesus, they’re not getting any better. Motherfucking sons of bitches.’ He ends up saying ‘fuck’ over and over again, on each exhale, until his breathing slows down. His hand moves from his throat, passes over his eyes, through his hair, and then he leans over and hauls the doona up off the floor. That’s when he notices that Simon is awake, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes glinting in the dimness.
‘I’m worried about you.’ Simon says, and Nathan laughs, but the sound is broken and his throat is hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours. And he’s sure he hasn’t been.
‘That was a bad one.’ Nathan responds. ‘That was like the nightmare to end all nightmares. You still want me to face Fagin tomorrow?’
Simon pauses, he shakes his head, and Nathan feels a wave of relief wash over him. And then Simon says;
‘No, I don’t want you to, but I still think you should.’
‘Sadist.’ Nathan mutters, under his breath, kicking his way under the quilt and trying to find his way back to sleep again. It comes for him quickly, taking him under with its blackness, throwing him deep into the dark.
*
The second nightmare creeps up on him gently and softly. At first, it’s not like a nightmare at all. Instead, it’s a movie montage. Fagin handing him a milkshake and telling him, ‘I made it just for you, extra chocolate, just how you like it.’ Fagin sharing a conspiratorial wink with him, before following one of the young men from the cafe. A moment of accidentally brushing each other while bustling around behind the counter. The way the sweet aromas of roasted garlic and hearty aromas of beef infused the air at Fagin’s house while they’d shared a beer together. The smile that Fagin gave him as he plunged the fork into his chocolate cake and asked, ‘is there such a thing as sponge virginity?’
The nightmare caressed him and moved over him, stretching sweetness into all of the corners of his mind. He didn’t even have enough sense to be scared of Fagin as it was happening. There was no red flag, there were no instinctive worries, instead his brain shushed him with charm and soothed him with all the things he missed about Fagin, all the things that he craved and hated to admit that he craved. All the things he sought and ridiculed others for seeking.
It was the cruellest of nightmares; well and truly soothing him to a restful place before revealing its darkness.
All his other nightmares had been, so far, explosive, but this one was different. It turned dark slowly. Fagin inside of him, pain everywhere, but receding, because Fagin was slowing down and stroking his curly hair and the shell of his ear and his cheek. Whispering things to him; clichéd, stupid things, about how he could make it feel good, and how ‘I always knew you’d be like this,’ and crooning ‘you’re so filthy, Nathan, but just for me, just for me.’ And Nathan, swimming in and out of consciousness, fighting against his own body’s responses, and yet wanting to sink as far into them as he could so he could escape the horrible pain everywhere else. And then later, a moment of respite, between hits and kicks, at the community centre, where the sole of a heavy boot pressed thoughtfully and unerringly along his spine. Over and over. And Nathan shivering and broken and bleeding on the concrete, and the boot becoming a hand thumbing tears away and gentle whispers.
‘Stop it, already.’ He’d managed, at the time, and Fagin muttered something under his breath that Nathan never comprehended, and then he curled around the vicious kick that followed. And in his head, over and over again, stop it, stop it, stop it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
‘Nathan! Nathan! Wake up, g-god just-’
There’s an earthquake in the dream, tremors pushing Fagin off him, breaking the world apart with its tremors. He wakes up abruptly, Simon’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him, risking being hit or hurt by Nathan, forehead furrowed, eyes wide.
‘I’m awake, I’m-’ But he can’t finish, because his face his wet and his throat is choked up and he balls up under the blankets for a minute, trying to catch himself, trying to get it together. Failing.
Simon’s hand remains on his shoulder, and for a moment it’s weird, because it’s Simon, and because his mind is shaken loose and he doesn’t know what to think. And then he registers only sensory feedback. The warmth of the hand, the way his body tilts towards the other body sitting on the side of the bed, that the pressure is unwavering and steady; an anchor. His breathing resolves into something regular, though he still shudders, and he can’t seem to stop.
When Simon withdraws his hand, Nathan leans in and follows it, just a little, just enough. The hand returns, more uncertain this time.
‘Don’t sleep on the chair again.’ Nathan hears himself saying, hears the crack in his own voice, thinks that at a time like this he should be doing anything other than showing his vulnerability to someone else. He thinks Simon will choose this moment to be the voice of reason, of caution, to say, ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ but instead the fingers squeeze reassuringly, and Simon’s body shifts completely onto the bed. Legs sliding under the covers. He hasn’t removed his hand yet.
‘And I thought the storm was strange.’ Nathan hears himself saying. ‘Turns out getting struck by lightning has got nothing on this. These perverted, retarded, machinations of my own stupid brain. Who would’ve ever thought there’d be a day where, technically, you’re all I’ve got?’
‘We all care about you.’
‘I don’t see anyone else in this room.’ And then because he can’t help it, his head pokes furtively above the covers so he can check that Fagin isn’t there with him. Nathan turns at Simon’s sigh, and Simon removes his hand from Nathan’s shoulder. He feels it like a loss. Immediately his body starts giving away the small amount of heat he’d gathered from their contact. This registers is an ache in his chest, and he doesn’t know why.
‘I don’t know about you, Barry, but...I don’t see me falling asleep again tonight.’
‘Nightmares are exhausting.’ Simon says, lying down on his side and facing Nathan, smoothing his own hair down so that it’s not sticking up anymore. Nathan realises that Simon looks exhausted too. His face is drawn taut, a pulse spasms in his neck. Even in the faint light, he can see it thumping away.
‘If you hadn’t killed him, we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Nathan says. Simon closes his eyes, as though he knows this himself, and then he frowns and opens them again, all that intensity pointed in Nathan’s direction.
‘He would’ve kept on doing it. Look at how you are now. Imagine how you’d be in two years time, or five years time, not able to outrun him, unable to talk to anyone about it. He would have... you would have gone insane. And not insane in the ‘it’s possible to recover with some time in an institution,’ kind of way. Not my kind of insane,’ Simon grudgingly admits, with a reluctant half-smile, ‘I mean, it’s too much for anyone. It’s too much now. It should never have happened.’
Silence then, and Nathan’s heart slows down until he can’t hear it thundering in his ears anymore. His body relaxes incrementally into the bed. He can feel Simon’s body heat because they’re not that far away from each other, facing each other. Nathan has a moment where he imagines leaning forwards, kissing him, but he thinks maybe Simon would definitely stop him then, and he doesn’t think he can handle being pushed away. Not tonight.
‘It felt good.’ Simon said, suddenly, his eyes lidded and his voice deeper and huskier with tiredness. ‘It felt good, killing him. And then he came back the way he did. And it was the worst thing. The worst thing that had ever happened to me. And then later, that night, I realised that the worst thing that had ever happened to me was still nothing like what you’re g-’
‘Shut up.’ Nathan says. He shivers, and closes his eyes, and tries not to complete the sentence in his head, even though he already has. ‘Just shut up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You should be.’ He mumbles, and then laughs under his breath. ‘You’re right though. If you hadn’t killed him... I’d be a completely unsexy kind of mad. I wouldn’t be glorious, or magnificent, or magnanimous with my advice on how to suck snatch and cock.’
Simon laughs too, quietly, and Nathan risks a peek at him. Simon has his eyes closed, and the worried marks across his brow have faded away. Like this, Nathan thinks he looks much younger than his age, and innocent. Too innocent to be a murderer. A hero.
‘G’night, Barry.’ Nathan whispers, and dutifully closes his eyes again.
It takes a while for him to fall asleep. And it’s not until he inches a little closer to Simon that he’s able to do it at all.
*
The brain after trauma is unknowingly cruel, and the third nightmare opens its maw and stretches its claws and tears into Nathan with violence.
He wakes up with a jerk, and his whole body lurches, as though he’s going to be sick, or start clawing back, but it’s an aborted movement and he stills. There is a hand in his hair, a warm body behind his back, soft words. He ignores the choked, coughing sound of trying to catch his own breath, and focuses on Simon instead. Focuses hard, with all his might. He flinches when fingers brush over the spot on his head that had once been split open, and Simon pauses and then skirts around it instead.
‘You wouldn’t let me take you to hospital for it, but it looked so awful,’ Simon says, as though he doesn’t expect Nathan to answer. His fingers keep moving through his hair, not tangling with it, finding sure patterns on his scalp. Nathan is trembling and still catching his breath, he leans back into Simon and Simon doesn’t push him away. Doesn’t stop stroking his hair. There is warmth all around him, but cold down in his bones. When was the last time someone held him like this? He wasn’t even aware that he needed it until now.
Nathan twists around and even though his sight is blurred, even though the light is low, he doesn’t miss. He finds Simon’s mouth and presses his lips against them, desperately ignoring the wetness he finds there, which he knows is from the trackmarks of his tears finding their way to his mouth. He turns awkwardly, grabs onto Simon’s shirt, hangs on and keeps kissing. Is, in fact, unable to stop. When he bites Simon’s lower lip, Simon responds, hand moving to the back of his neck and turning his head slightly, changing the angle. He opens his mouth against Nathan’s, breathes heavily as their tongues slick against each other.
Simon still tastes faintly of toothpaste, and something else that is unmistakeably Simon, dark and musky all at the same time. Simon withdraws when Nathan gets too frenzied, fractions of seconds that teach Nathan to slow down, to go at a difference pace. Nathan wonders why he’s never kissed slowly like this before, because it’s driving him crazy in a good way. Simon slowly explores Nathan’s mouth with his tongue, explores Nathan’s lips with his lips and teeth. Drags his lips across Nathan’s and presses his cheek against Nathan’s cheek. Both breathe heavily, and then Nathan’s head moves back when Simon’s thumb rubs against his lower lip.
‘Fuck.’ Nathan says to no one in particular. This is what hotel beds are meant to be for. He thinks.
Without moving his thumb away, Simon moves back, begins kissing him again, uses his thumb to stroke his lips, his cheek, his jaw-bone, the underside of his neck. Nathan’s hard now, and the memory of the nightmares are deep underwater, too deep for him to want to pay any attention to them.
Nathan whines, and then presses forwards, and Simon leans back, breath hitching.
‘We-we can’t do this.’ He says, as though he’s convincing himself. His voice is deeper.
‘Okay, okay, we can’t do this. Except that we are, and we can, right?’ Nathan leans in again, and Simon pulls back a little.
‘You’re using me. You’re using me to forget.’ Simon says, using words to cut through the sensual fog that’s been clouding Nathan’s thoughts.
And Nathan considers this. He considers it seriously. He thinks about the week he’s had. The nightmares. A hollow, awful emptiness yawns wide inside of him and he swallows.
‘Yeah. Yeah, maybe.’ He says; his voice shakes. ‘Please be okay with that.’
‘I...’ Simon drifts off, as though this wasn’t the answer he was expecting. In the dimness, he tilts his head to the side and Nathan gives him time to think, even though he doesn’t know if this is the right thing to do. Without thinking, his hand clenches at Simon’s shirt and he pulls himself forward just a little, another centimetre. And Simon responds, leaning towards Nathan, pressing his forehead to Nathan’s forehead.
‘Okay.’ He says.
And then Simon’s mouth is on his again, sure and hypnotic, warm and thorough. Nathan rolls backwards and Simon rolls with him, half covering his body and sliding a muscled leg between Nathan’s. Their breathing pauses at the same time, and then Simon soothes him with fingers caressing the side of his face, lips moving wetly across his jawbone, along his sensitive neck. And then Simon’s other hand is pulling at his shirt and Nathan’s lifting slightly so he can pull it off himself. Before he’s even settled back onto the mattress, Simon’s hand is trailing a fiery path down the middle of his torso.
‘Jesus.’ Nathan hears himself sigh.
‘I used to think about this a lot.’ Simon whispered, pressing his lips to Nathan’s lingeringly, before moving down and biting his collarbone gently, palming Nathan’s hip, fingers sliding beneath the hem of the tracksuit pants.
‘You did?’ He hears himself say, voice breathier than usual. He keeps his eyes closed, and has no idea what he’s asked for. What does forgetting mean, to Simon? He thinks maybe he should ask and then decides to keep his mouth shut when Simon’s hand drifts further and further down between his legs, close to his cock, but not touching. Why does it not surprise me that he is a total cocktease? Nathan thinks.
Simon never responds. His mouth travels further south, tongue and teeth grazing lightly over one of his nipples. Nathan whimpers, and Simon’s other hand grips harder, his whole body moves closer in reply. Nathan can’t help but get the impression that he is being consumed by this man who he under-estimated from day one, and will probably keep doing until the end of time, because Simon just has too many tricks up his sleeve. Who knew he was so built? Who knew he’d be any good at this? That out of all five of them, he’d be the one who’d shoulder the responsibility of their mutations with the most courage?
Nathan’s hands lift and move under Simon’s shirt, running along compact muscle and wiriness, but the angle is awkward because Simon’s moving further down. It takes a moment before Nathan realises what he’s doing, where he’s headed.
‘Shit. Really?’ Nathan says, and Simon looks up at him while hooking his fingers into Nathan’s tracksuit pants and manoeuvring them down. Nathan is unable to look away, and then his mouth drops open when one of Simon’s hands wraps around his cock firmly, confidently. Simon’s gaze is easily as intense as the feeling of those five fingers around him, and he finds that he can’t breathe properly, and the ability to form thoughts scatters.
‘Jesus,’ Nathan chokes, and then his head thumps back down onto the bed when Simon starts moving his hand up and down. Nathan reaches up and places a hand over his eyes, even though there’s nothing to block out, and he can still feel wetness on his cheeks. He winces at that, but the nightmares stay far away, the memories are on mute.
He feels a hot, slick tongue push itself into the tip of his cock and he’s completely lost. He hears the start of some broken sound, and sinks so deeply into sensation that he doesn’t hear the rest of it. Maybe the nightmares sensitised him, maybe it’s just that it’s Simon, but this is way better than just about anything else he’s experienced while not high on drugs.
The tongue becomes a mouth enveloping him, sliding down, and he arches up and Simon pulls back, choking, and there’s a moment. A pause where Nathan looks up again, guilty for thrusting up, and Simon looks at him, also guilty, for withdrawing. They stare at each other, breathing hard, Simon’s hand still moving up and down, up and down, and Nathan swallows thickly.
‘I...I’ve thought about it,’ Simon says suddenly, continuing their earlier conversation, ‘but...that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at it.’
‘Are you shitting me, Barry?’ Nathan’s incredulous. Not at Simon’s lack of experience in blowjobs; that’s entirely expected. But Nathan can’t believe that Simon thinks that this has been a subpar performance so far. Because it’s been fucking amazing. ‘You could have an alternative career as a fluffer. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a totally viable income stream if you ever get tired of being a superhero spy deviant. You can be a perverted fluffer instead.’
It’s hard to form sentences, but he manages, even with the heat in him being stoked by that firm and clever hand. It makes sense - Nathan thinks - that Simon would be good at this. The man has probably spent at least as much time jerking himself off in darkened rooms as Nathan has. Simon’s other hand moves up and strokes his torso, presses into his side, smoothes over his upper thigh, and Nathan is disarmed and vulnerable. It’s been a while since he’s been able to enjoy anything like this at all. It feels like it’s been months, though it’s been far less time than that. But it’s long enough for him.
Simon holds his gaze for a little while longer. His expression is serious even now, and maybe even worried, and Nathan remembers - like he’d asked an hour ago and not just a few minutes - that Simon thinks this is just about forgetting. About being used. And Nathan thinks that it’s those things, maybe, and it could be more than that. Because this doesn’t feel cheap, and it doesn’t seem superficial. But before he can think of how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic or trite, Simon’s other hand braces against his hip and his mouth envelopes Nathan’s cock again, sliding down and joining the place where his hand is moving.
And then Nathan stops thinking, and he’s pretty sure his eyes just rolled up in the back of his head. He is sensate and raw, abraded by the days that have passed and the hours that tick on by, by the nightmares and the pain of waking up again into reality. And Simon seems to know that Nathan can’t handle things being stretched out, or maybe that’s just not his style, because the tempo increases and Simon sucks more insistently and Nathan is sketching out pained, sweet sounds on almost every exhale.
There is a moment, a blinding, breaking moment just as his balls start to tighten, as his legs start to tense and he’s fisting one hand in the sheet and one in the pillow beside his head, when suddenly it’s all too much. He opens his mouth to tell Simon that he can’t deal with this. It’s too much. It’s the reason why he couldn’t jack himself off. It’s too close to all the other oblivions; too close to the oblivion of death, of his head hitting the door, of collapsing onto concrete and a boot in the ribs. It expands inside of him, huge and unrelenting; but Simon isn’t looking at him and Nathan can’t remember language, and instead it explodes in glittering shards in his mind as he comes.
Simon removes his hand almost reluctantly, and then trails it up Nathan’s torso as he moves back up the bed, reaches over Nathan for a tissue and spits his come out into it. And Nathan is trying to drag some kind of retort in response to that through the fuzziness, but he gets as far as ‘come on, I don’t spit it out when I taste it, why do you have to?’ and he discards it and collects his breath together instead.
He doesn’t expect Simon to remain close. To press his forehead into the side of Nathan’s head. And then when he feels movement into the mattress, when he knows that Simon is pushing his hips down hard into the bed, he slides his eyes sideways.
‘Barry...do you want me to give you a hand with that?’ He leers, and Simon pauses, and then sighs. His breath blows against the side of Nathan’s face, smelling of sex. There’s a thin layer of sweat between them where their faces are touching, skin to skin, and Simon’s hand has stretched out possessively over Nathan’s torso.
‘Not tonight.’
There’s a pause, and then Simon’s hand presses into Nathan’s skin, fingers splaying.
‘I...don’t know if I did the right thing. Tonight. With you.’
‘Not if you think some magical blow-job is the answer to all of life’s questions and problems. Though, you know, before this month, I actually thought it would be. Sucks to be wrong about that, huh?’
‘Did it help, at all? Do you feel better?’
Nathan closes his eyes. He reaches across and covers Simon’s hand with his own. His fingers are longer than Simon’s, and he feels, for a moment, like he is the one protecting Simon. Which is ridiculous. And then he thinks maybe it isn’t. But Nathan’s way is honesty, and he has to be honest.
‘No. I feel fucking miserable. I don’t know about you, but I’ve decided to put recovering from rape on my ‘anti-bucket’ list.’
But as he says it, he realises that it’s not entirely honest. He turns into Simon and ends up with his face sandwiched between Simon’s and the pillow, feeling hurt and bitter, satiated and frustrated all at the same time. His eyes open, and he stares into the darkness of Simon’s neck, feels the warmth radiating from him.
‘Still. Felt good.’ He says.
‘W-what are we doing?’ Simon says, his voice small and tired. The question settles around them both, and Nathan thinks that he’s probably the last person who can answer it. But he decides to try.
‘We’re fucking around in a hotel, like champions. Isn’t that what we’re supposed be doing? Isn’t that - really - what life is all about?’
Simon laughs under his breath, and their hands squeeze together. Simon’s motion is sure, and Nathan’s is more like a spasm.
‘Jesus, I’m so fucked up.’ Nathan whispers. ‘It’s never bothered me until lately.’
‘You’re not the problem. Not in this.’
‘You don’t understand.’ He replies, resisting the tiredness, not wanting anymore nightmares to find him, unhappy that a fantastic blowjob hasn’t really helped him to forget at all.
‘So tell me.’ Simon yawns. ‘Tell me. You think it’s your fault, don’t you? You-’
‘I’m not talking about this tonight.’ Nathan says, perturbed that Simon has him so figured out. ‘I’m not talking about this until he’s gone. He might never be gone. I fucking hate that stupid storm. Being immortal and shit.’
It’s the first time he’s said it to anyone. And he’s never really known how true it is, until he says it out loud. It wasn’t true at first; but all the dying wears a man down, and the more time that goes by and he experiences physical invincibility; he thinks something inside him is eroding away. Something he used to have a lot more faith in. He has no idea what that is, maybe his mojo.
‘Please, tomorrow, the exorcism...’ Simon says.
‘Fuck you, you little bastard. Just as we’re falling asleep. Did you...’ his eyes widen and he has to cast around to find the breath to finish the sentence, he feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, again. ‘...Did you plan this? Did you do this just to get me to say yes to your stupid plan?’
Silence, and then Simon jerks his hand back from Nathan’s torso, and in that moment Nathan realises that he’s hurt his feelings. More than hurt. He reaches out, grabs at Simon blindly, pulls him back though Simon’s resisting against him. His whole body tense in the dimness.
‘Sorry. Sorry, Barry. Trust issues.’
Simon relaxes again, slowly, and then leans in again, though there’s something about the cant of his body that says he’s still hurt. He’s still thinking about it. Nathan wishes he could take it back, but he doesn’t know how.
‘Shit.’ He says, at himself, more than anything else.
‘I-It’s okay.’
‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, man. Just don’t. Look, I’ll think about it. I’ll think about the exorcism. If you’re there, maybe I can do it. Maybe. But even if it works, don’t expect it to be all sunshine and cumshots afterwards, because I’m starting to think I’m all about that whole when you look into the abyss it looks into you and fucks you up schtick.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Simon says with conviction, and Nathan shivers because that could be true, because he’s grateful, because he doesn’t know what it’s going to mean; tomorrow, the next day, the next month. And then he reaches out behind him and awkwardly pulls the doona over them both and tries not to think about it.