Thirty Years Gone - C/Z (NC-17)
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Thirty Years Gone
by Serai
"What's this?" Renee asked, and Casey turned to look at the box she'd pulled out from the bottom shelf. It was plain cardboard taped up, its lid thick with dust. He stepped closer as she crouched down over it, brushing at the lid and then clapping her hands together to clean them off. Now the writing hastily scrawled in black marker were clear, and she read it out loud - NIK N5 w/cs VIV 10+2p LNS 6 FIL.
Sometimes you know, he thought. Sometimes a moment comes and you just know. To change lanes, to run for the train, to cross the street. To stop yourself. To stop someone else. It was just on his lips to say, "Just some old car parts." Something, anything, that would keep her from opening the lid of that box. But he said nothing, just stood there, looking at the box he'd shut years ago, shut and taped and hid away. She went ahead.
The stuff was wrapped in an old blanket, blue fuzz worn away in patches. As she pulled back the cloth, there it was, ensconced in its leather case, strap wrapped around it. The lens cases and filter box with their delicate cargo. A few film cans, their contents long since useless. The sight of them set off a rustling like the shuffle of cards in the back of his mind.
"It's my camera," he said, and the odd, flat quality in his voice made her glance up. "My photo gear." Gooseflesh crawled over his arms, and he felt the ghost of pressure over the back of his body, from thighs to nape.
"Camera?" she asked. "You? I've never seen you take a picture. When was this?"
When, when, when... He remembered the weight of it, comforting and conspiratorial. He saw again his hands working the settings and lens - slender, smooth hands with their mutilated nails. How the world looked through the viewfinder, composed and artful instead of hostile and chaotic, and the constant game of weighing and judging how the photograph would look when finished. The careful ritual steps of the darkroom, and its red-lit peace.
He tried on a smile, and answered, "High school. It never went anywhere. I wasn't very good, really. Put it away a couple of years into college." He chuckled a bit.
"Hey," she said, and tugged at the hem of his jeans. "A mystery. You got any of your pictures still?"
"Nah, got rid of them. Like I said, not very good." Faces half-remembered, hallways dank with peeling paint. "And not really anything worth keeping." Black hair, golden skin, evil eyes. "Forgotten it was there, honestly."
Renee made a hmm sound. "Too bad. I'd like to know what you found worth photographing back then." She smiled knowingly to herself. He opened his mouth to retort when a loud thump and raised voices inside the house made him roll his eyes and turn towards the door.
As he started down the hall towards the living room, the voices subsided to normal level. He stopped, listening for trouble, and heard none. Carmichael was laughing now. The sound was deep and husky, and again the gooseflesh, this time racing over his back in a chittering wave.
His old photos, high school, heartache. Dogging after Delilah, spoiled little princess bitch that she was, but the only consolation in all that painful trial. She and his camera, the only joys he had. Until...until...
Memories burst like flash bulbs in his mind, hot and invasive. Arm around his shoulders, the wet sharpness of teeth at his neck. He gasped and reached out, steadying himself on the wall. Puffs of breath in his ear, how he bent his head back, giving himself up willingly. He was trembling now, leaning his head against the cool wallpaper.
No, he thought desperately, but it was like getting caught in a rip current. The jagged splinters of light, hair and teeth and eyes, muscles bunched and straining, sweat making everything slippery. That voice, deep and husky, teasing and amused even then, when Casey could feel it against his back, how hot and hard he was. Here he was again, wrapped around Casey like a cruel protective cage, his hands so good he could make the whole fucking world disappear.
His legs gave way, and he slid down to the floor, turning his back to the wall and curling in on himself, around the spike of heat that now dominated him. Gotta get up, he scolded himself. Make it to the bathroom and take care of this. But he couldn't move, his limbs heavy and passive, his breath gasping. The light. The light was bright, burning his thighs. He closed his eyes and without knowing it, rocked back and forth. The mirror, the mirror... His hips bucked involuntarily, responding to voice and touch thirty years gone. He nearly moaned aloud at the name he'd forgotten, the name he'd made himself forget. Zeke.
Lurching to his feet, he made his hands into fists and squeezed, jamming his nails into his palms. No, he thought weakly, imploring. Something began to crumble in him; he could feel cracks running up carefully constructed walls, the approaching temblors, maybe disaster. Not now. He looked around at what he'd built, what they'd built, together. But he was only half there, the other half lost, drowning its voice in a mouth that sucked it in eagerly, bit him with a nonchalant selfishness. You were always such a bastard, Zeke. You never cared whose lives you fucked with. And now here he was, and Zeke had broken him again, broken him open to plunder. But he wouldn't be the only one broken this time.
Wiping his eyes with one hand, Casey headed for the bathroom.
Chapter 5 of High Contrast
Chapter 6
Thirty Years Gone
by Serai
"What's this?" Renee asked, and Casey turned to look at the box she'd pulled out from the bottom shelf. It was plain cardboard taped up, its lid thick with dust. He stepped closer as she crouched down over it, brushing at the lid and then clapping her hands together to clean them off. Now the writing hastily scrawled in black marker were clear, and she read it out loud - NIK N5 w/cs VIV 10+2p LNS 6 FIL.
Sometimes you know, he thought. Sometimes a moment comes and you just know. To change lanes, to run for the train, to cross the street. To stop yourself. To stop someone else. It was just on his lips to say, "Just some old car parts." Something, anything, that would keep her from opening the lid of that box. But he said nothing, just stood there, looking at the box he'd shut years ago, shut and taped and hid away. She went ahead.
The stuff was wrapped in an old blanket, blue fuzz worn away in patches. As she pulled back the cloth, there it was, ensconced in its leather case, strap wrapped around it. The lens cases and filter box with their delicate cargo. A few film cans, their contents long since useless. The sight of them set off a rustling like the shuffle of cards in the back of his mind.
"It's my camera," he said, and the odd, flat quality in his voice made her glance up. "My photo gear." Gooseflesh crawled over his arms, and he felt the ghost of pressure over the back of his body, from thighs to nape.
"Camera?" she asked. "You? I've never seen you take a picture. When was this?"
When, when, when... He remembered the weight of it, comforting and conspiratorial. He saw again his hands working the settings and lens - slender, smooth hands with their mutilated nails. How the world looked through the viewfinder, composed and artful instead of hostile and chaotic, and the constant game of weighing and judging how the photograph would look when finished. The careful ritual steps of the darkroom, and its red-lit peace.
He tried on a smile, and answered, "High school. It never went anywhere. I wasn't very good, really. Put it away a couple of years into college." He chuckled a bit.
"Hey," she said, and tugged at the hem of his jeans. "A mystery. You got any of your pictures still?"
"Nah, got rid of them. Like I said, not very good." Faces half-remembered, hallways dank with peeling paint. "And not really anything worth keeping." Black hair, golden skin, evil eyes. "Forgotten it was there, honestly."
Renee made a hmm sound. "Too bad. I'd like to know what you found worth photographing back then." She smiled knowingly to herself. He opened his mouth to retort when a loud thump and raised voices inside the house made him roll his eyes and turn towards the door.
As he started down the hall towards the living room, the voices subsided to normal level. He stopped, listening for trouble, and heard none. Carmichael was laughing now. The sound was deep and husky, and again the gooseflesh, this time racing over his back in a chittering wave.
His old photos, high school, heartache. Dogging after Delilah, spoiled little princess bitch that she was, but the only consolation in all that painful trial. She and his camera, the only joys he had. Until...until...
Memories burst like flash bulbs in his mind, hot and invasive. Arm around his shoulders, the wet sharpness of teeth at his neck. He gasped and reached out, steadying himself on the wall. Puffs of breath in his ear, how he bent his head back, giving himself up willingly. He was trembling now, leaning his head against the cool wallpaper.
No, he thought desperately, but it was like getting caught in a rip current. The jagged splinters of light, hair and teeth and eyes, muscles bunched and straining, sweat making everything slippery. That voice, deep and husky, teasing and amused even then, when Casey could feel it against his back, how hot and hard he was. Here he was again, wrapped around Casey like a cruel protective cage, his hands so good he could make the whole fucking world disappear.
His legs gave way, and he slid down to the floor, turning his back to the wall and curling in on himself, around the spike of heat that now dominated him. Gotta get up, he scolded himself. Make it to the bathroom and take care of this. But he couldn't move, his limbs heavy and passive, his breath gasping. The light. The light was bright, burning his thighs. He closed his eyes and without knowing it, rocked back and forth. The mirror, the mirror... His hips bucked involuntarily, responding to voice and touch thirty years gone. He nearly moaned aloud at the name he'd forgotten, the name he'd made himself forget. Zeke.
Lurching to his feet, he made his hands into fists and squeezed, jamming his nails into his palms. No, he thought weakly, imploring. Something began to crumble in him; he could feel cracks running up carefully constructed walls, the approaching temblors, maybe disaster. Not now. He looked around at what he'd built, what they'd built, together. But he was only half there, the other half lost, drowning its voice in a mouth that sucked it in eagerly, bit him with a nonchalant selfishness. You were always such a bastard, Zeke. You never cared whose lives you fucked with. And now here he was, and Zeke had broken him again, broken him open to plunder. But he wouldn't be the only one broken this time.
Wiping his eyes with one hand, Casey headed for the bathroom.
Chapter 5 of High Contrast
Chapter 6