Fic: The Man Who Never Smiled (3/5)
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V
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Greg wakes up to the room spinning around him. Or maybe it’s the bed, spinning like a turntable with him as the record. The feeling’s not unpleasant, until he opens his eyes and tries to focus on something, anything, and becomes completely disoriented. He picks one of the striped chairs, since it’s in his immediate field of vision, and ties an anchor to it, waiting out the ride as the revolutions slow and finally stop.
He’s on his stomach, one arm and the lower part of one leg hanging off the side of the bed. His head feels too big and his throat’s dry. He briefly considers getting up to get some water, but decides walking would be too much trouble. Closing his eyes again he rolls over onto his back, sighing heavily.
His mind slowly drifts to the events of the night before, trying to piece together how he had come to be lying half off the bed, and not quite believing he had actually done the things he remembered doing. His thoughts skirt quickly around those things, coming to rest on the memory of him lying against Kurt’s half-naked body on the floor. Kurt had urged them up and, discarding the remnants of his clothes, climbed into bed. Greg had stripped down to his boxers and joined him, nestling close against his side. Once between the sheets, they had both fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving him with more than a bit of an itch still left to scratch.
He opens his eyes and turns his head. In the dim pre-dawn light, he can see Kurt lying on his back next him, awake and watching.
“Weren’t you on the other side of me when we went to sleep?” Greg asks, his voice still thick from sleep.
“Yes, but you damn near shoved me off.”
“Sorry,” Greg laughs, “guess I’m just used to sleeping on the left side of the bed.”
“I see,” Kurt says. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow, resting his head in the palm of his hand. “Do you do this often, then?”
“Do what?”
“Pick up lonely old men at conferences?”
The question cuts slightly, and Greg feels the smile fade from his lips. He covers for it with exaggerated indignation.
“Old men? You can’t be more than a few years older than me, and I’m not old, mate. Don’t let the grey hair fool you.”
“All right, all right!” Kurt laughs, raising his free hand, palm outward in a token of peace.
Somewhat appeased, Greg curls up on his side to face Kurt, scooting close enough to lay his head on Kurt’s pillow. “So just how long have you been lonely, old man?” he teases.
“Are you asking how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?” Kurt asks, with a gruffness Greg hopes is feigned - he’s a bit of a difficult read.
“Well, yeah. If you want to be crude about it,” Greg replies, smiling.
“Three, four months…I don’t know” Kurt answers, waving a hand dismissively. “Longer before that. What about you, then?”
Greg instantly regrets opening the door to this line of questioning. The truth of the matter is it’s coming up on a year since his last shag, and that had been a disappointing affair with a pretty blonde A&E nurse. Falling into bed with her that one time was something he’d done more because it was expected of him than because he’d really been interested. But a year seems just too pathetic to cop to, so he lies.
“Ah, you know, six months, give or take,” he says, not meeting Kurt’s eyes. He stirs uncomfortably and then adds, “Maybe a bit more.”
There is a long pause during which Greg focuses intently on the muffled sounds of early morning traffic leaking through the closed window, until Kurt breaks the relative silence once more.
“Why would you do that to yourself?”
It’s an unexpected follow up, and Greg forgets his discomfort for a moment, looking up at Kurt searchingly, seeing a face clouded with concern. A fragment of a picture of the man is revealed by the framing of his question. One thing Greg’s learned in his long years of police work: projection is the devil’s mirror.
Why would you do that to yourself?
Meaning, why would you punish yourself that way?
So, Kurt’s been punishing himself…for what? Greg finds himself wanting to know every transgression the man has committed, perceived or otherwise. But this isn’t an interrogation, so he holds his tongue on the matter.
“I don’t know. There were opportunities, I suppose. I just…It all started to seem so hollow, if you know what I mean. Just…not what I was looking for.”
A long moment of silence settles over them. Kurt reaches out and lays a hand on his forearm, rubbing a thumb gently over the skin of his wrist. Tension starts to mount in the pit of his stomach again, yet he hardly dares hope for anything more to happen between them, particularly not in the growing light of day and the waning influence of alcohol. Unfortunately, the growing hardness between his legs isn’t apt to listen to reason.
Kurt stops stroking his wrist, but doesn’t move his hand away.
“Did you find what you were looking for here?” he asks quietly.
Greg licks his lips, debating how well a lie might serve him this time, but truth takes the initiative and answers for him in a husky whisper. “Not quite.”
The air between them is thick with anticipation now, like the breathless moments between the crack of lightening and the roll of thunder. He can feel Kurt’s hand trembling slightly against his skin.
“What you did last night,” Kurt says, “I’m not really comfortable reciprocating. I’ve never really done this before, you see.”
Greg thinks he does see, and he backs off quickly. “No, no. It’s ok,” he says, sitting up. “It’s fine, really. I don’t…you don’t have to if you don’t want…”
“But I want to want to,” Kurt interrupts his stammering placations with a gentle laugh. He gestures for Greg to lie down again and he does. Kurt pulls him close, wrapping his arms about Greg’s shoulders. Greg relaxes against Kurt’s chest, trying to work out what he should do next, and finally settles on nothing. Let Kurt take the lead this time.
Kurt runs a hand firmly up and down Greg’s back for several long minutes, then up into his hair. Greg’s resolve for patience fails him rather quickly, and he nuzzles eagerly into Kurt’s neck, grazing his teeth along the rough, stubbled skin below Kurt’s jaw.
Kurt pulls away and gazes at him, his eyes glistening with an intensity that makes it difficult for Greg to withstand. After only a brief moment Greg lowers his eyes, but Kurt places a hand under his chin, tilting his head up, until he relents and meets Kurt’s gaze once again.
“Would you like me to tell you what to do?” he asks, voice low.
Words catch like dry leaves in Greg’s throat, so he just nods. Yes. Please, yes.
“Take your boxers off.”
A moment’s hesitation, then he rolls over onto his back and does as he’s commanded. His breathing quickens as he watches Kurt’s eyes rove over the length of his body. Kurt moves closer until they’re pressed up against each other. He reaches down and runs a hand along Greg’s thigh while nudging a knee underneath it.
“Spread your legs,” he says and Greg obliges, hooking one knee over Kurt’s legs. Greg’s never felt so self-conscious and exposed, and he shivers and presses himself closer into the other man’s body. Kurt then grasps him by the wrist and places his hand between his legs.
“Show me,” Kurt says, echoing Greg’s words of the night before. He hesitates again before slowly encircling his fingers around his own erection. This isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. Feeling exposed like this is arousing, but his frustration makes him pause. He can always play with himself on his own time - he wants someone else’s hands on him now. But Kurt is gazing at him expectantly, gently drifting a hand through the fur of Greg’s stomach. Closing his eyes, he tries to relax and get into a rhythm…a rather dry rhythm.
He gathers up as much saliva as his dry mouth will allow and spits into his hand before resuming. His movements are easier now, and he starts to pant slightly and grind his hips into the bed. He feels Kurt shift next to him, then a strong hand overlays his own, keeping time with his strokes. He bucks up harder, moaning softly. With each pass he gradually loosens his grip, until finally Kurt allows him to pull his hand away and takes over.
“Come on,” Kurt murmurs a soft encouragement to him and Greg answers by thrusting harder. Kurt seems to respond to his vocalizations, tightening his grip and quickening his pace with every moan and throaty supplication to God that escapes Greg’s lips, so he lets them fall more freely.
Then, “Come on!” sharper this time, more demanding. Greg cedes control of his movements, thrusting erratically into Kurt’s hand. He curls his fists into the sheets and comes, loudly.
Kurt doesn’t give him time to recover before pushing him over onto his stomach. Greg gasps as Kurt runs a come-spattered hand into the cleft of his arse. Feeling Kurt slide between his legs, he instinctively arches his back, raising his hips in invitation. Kurt kisses and nips his way up Greg’s spine, until suddenly he lets out a frustrated groan and drops his head down between Greg’s shoulder blades.
“I haven’t any condoms.”
Jesus Christ! Greg thinks. Who the fuck goes to a conference without condoms?
He slides out from under Kurt and off the bed to find his trousers. Rifling frantically through the pockets, he grabs a foil packet from his wallet, presses it into Kurt’s hand and repositions himself on the bed, hoping the delay hasn’t allowed Kurt to reconsider what he was just offering.
He needn’t have worried. Kurt’s on him again, digging insistent fingers into his hips.
“Up! On your knees,” he commands.
Greg obeys instantly, rising up onto his knees and elbows, and Kurt is pushing into him lubed only with his own spit and Greg’s come. It hurts - Greg hasn’t done this in years, decades even - and he knows he’s wincing with every thrust. His voice sounds pinched and high in his own ears, but Kurt doesn’t ask him if he wants to stop, and he’s glad. He doesn’t want to stop. Even pain is better than the empty numbness that has settled over him like a damp sea fog this past year.
Just when he thinks he can no longer bear it, there is a sudden shift and the pain becomes something else - a hot ember of pleasure at the base of his spine pulsing out through every nerve of his body. He relaxes, dropping his head down and pressing his face into the cool sheets. His moans become low-pitched grunts, guttural and raw. As if waiting for this cue, Kurt picks up the pace and Greg begins to match him thrust for thrust.
“Down.” Kurt throws his weight against him, pushing Greg forward so that he’s lying completely prone, and pounds him mercilessly into the bed. He feels the stuttering rhythm of the other man’s release through an endorphin-induced haze, and is only vaguely aware of Kurt rolling off of his back and grabbing him roughly by the arm.
“Come here!” Kurt growls and pulls him around into a crushing embrace, fisting a hand into Greg’s hair to force his head back and kissing and biting his neck and shoulder. Greg doesn’t fight this sudden aggression, but instead relaxes into it. He presses his face into Kurt’s skin, inhaling the scent of whiskey mingling heavily with sweat, until the aftershocks of Kurt’s orgasm subside and they both lie still.
Greg falls asleep again, waking a few hours later to a gentle touch on his shoulder. He blinks to ward off the brightness of the sun streaming through the half-open curtains. When his eyes finally focus he sees Kurt sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over him, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“It’s 9:30, you have about an hour before check out,” he says.
He goes to move away, but Greg quickly sits up and grabs him by the arm, pulling him back. Their lips meet for the first time and, despite all that they had done, it is this gentle, eager dance of lips and tongue and teeth that seems the most intimate. Greg snakes his arms up around Kurt’s neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. His skin burns and thrums, still aching with a hunger he thought had been sated.
Kurt reluctantly pulls away from the kiss, but Greg’s arms still hold tight about his neck. He presses his clean-shaven cheek against Greg’s forehead. Inhaling deeply, Greg breathes in the scent of soap and shave cream that has replaced the acrid tang of whiskey from earlier that morning.
“Please,” Kurt laughs. “I have to go.”
His voice is pleading and Greg believes that, if he had a mind to, he could probably make Kurt miss his flight. Thinking better of it, he relents and loosens his grip, placing a final kiss on the corner of Kurt’s mouth. He lies back down, curls onto his side, and closes his eyes against the too-bright light and the growing ache in his head. Kurt rises, and the sound of his footsteps slowly recede. When Greg hears the door click shut he opens his eyes again and rolls onto his back. He stares blankly at the ceiling for a few long minutes, then passes a hand over his face, exhaling loudly.
“What in the hell was all of that?”
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Greg wakes up to the room spinning around him. Or maybe it’s the bed, spinning like a turntable with him as the record. The feeling’s not unpleasant, until he opens his eyes and tries to focus on something, anything, and becomes completely disoriented. He picks one of the striped chairs, since it’s in his immediate field of vision, and ties an anchor to it, waiting out the ride as the revolutions slow and finally stop.
He’s on his stomach, one arm and the lower part of one leg hanging off the side of the bed. His head feels too big and his throat’s dry. He briefly considers getting up to get some water, but decides walking would be too much trouble. Closing his eyes again he rolls over onto his back, sighing heavily.
His mind slowly drifts to the events of the night before, trying to piece together how he had come to be lying half off the bed, and not quite believing he had actually done the things he remembered doing. His thoughts skirt quickly around those things, coming to rest on the memory of him lying against Kurt’s half-naked body on the floor. Kurt had urged them up and, discarding the remnants of his clothes, climbed into bed. Greg had stripped down to his boxers and joined him, nestling close against his side. Once between the sheets, they had both fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving him with more than a bit of an itch still left to scratch.
He opens his eyes and turns his head. In the dim pre-dawn light, he can see Kurt lying on his back next him, awake and watching.
“Weren’t you on the other side of me when we went to sleep?” Greg asks, his voice still thick from sleep.
“Yes, but you damn near shoved me off.”
“Sorry,” Greg laughs, “guess I’m just used to sleeping on the left side of the bed.”
“I see,” Kurt says. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow, resting his head in the palm of his hand. “Do you do this often, then?”
“Do what?”
“Pick up lonely old men at conferences?”
The question cuts slightly, and Greg feels the smile fade from his lips. He covers for it with exaggerated indignation.
“Old men? You can’t be more than a few years older than me, and I’m not old, mate. Don’t let the grey hair fool you.”
“All right, all right!” Kurt laughs, raising his free hand, palm outward in a token of peace.
Somewhat appeased, Greg curls up on his side to face Kurt, scooting close enough to lay his head on Kurt’s pillow. “So just how long have you been lonely, old man?” he teases.
“Are you asking how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?” Kurt asks, with a gruffness Greg hopes is feigned - he’s a bit of a difficult read.
“Well, yeah. If you want to be crude about it,” Greg replies, smiling.
“Three, four months…I don’t know” Kurt answers, waving a hand dismissively. “Longer before that. What about you, then?”
Greg instantly regrets opening the door to this line of questioning. The truth of the matter is it’s coming up on a year since his last shag, and that had been a disappointing affair with a pretty blonde A&E nurse. Falling into bed with her that one time was something he’d done more because it was expected of him than because he’d really been interested. But a year seems just too pathetic to cop to, so he lies.
“Ah, you know, six months, give or take,” he says, not meeting Kurt’s eyes. He stirs uncomfortably and then adds, “Maybe a bit more.”
There is a long pause during which Greg focuses intently on the muffled sounds of early morning traffic leaking through the closed window, until Kurt breaks the relative silence once more.
“Why would you do that to yourself?”
It’s an unexpected follow up, and Greg forgets his discomfort for a moment, looking up at Kurt searchingly, seeing a face clouded with concern. A fragment of a picture of the man is revealed by the framing of his question. One thing Greg’s learned in his long years of police work: projection is the devil’s mirror.
Why would you do that to yourself?
Meaning, why would you punish yourself that way?
So, Kurt’s been punishing himself…for what? Greg finds himself wanting to know every transgression the man has committed, perceived or otherwise. But this isn’t an interrogation, so he holds his tongue on the matter.
“I don’t know. There were opportunities, I suppose. I just…It all started to seem so hollow, if you know what I mean. Just…not what I was looking for.”
A long moment of silence settles over them. Kurt reaches out and lays a hand on his forearm, rubbing a thumb gently over the skin of his wrist. Tension starts to mount in the pit of his stomach again, yet he hardly dares hope for anything more to happen between them, particularly not in the growing light of day and the waning influence of alcohol. Unfortunately, the growing hardness between his legs isn’t apt to listen to reason.
Kurt stops stroking his wrist, but doesn’t move his hand away.
“Did you find what you were looking for here?” he asks quietly.
Greg licks his lips, debating how well a lie might serve him this time, but truth takes the initiative and answers for him in a husky whisper. “Not quite.”
The air between them is thick with anticipation now, like the breathless moments between the crack of lightening and the roll of thunder. He can feel Kurt’s hand trembling slightly against his skin.
“What you did last night,” Kurt says, “I’m not really comfortable reciprocating. I’ve never really done this before, you see.”
Greg thinks he does see, and he backs off quickly. “No, no. It’s ok,” he says, sitting up. “It’s fine, really. I don’t…you don’t have to if you don’t want…”
“But I want to want to,” Kurt interrupts his stammering placations with a gentle laugh. He gestures for Greg to lie down again and he does. Kurt pulls him close, wrapping his arms about Greg’s shoulders. Greg relaxes against Kurt’s chest, trying to work out what he should do next, and finally settles on nothing. Let Kurt take the lead this time.
Kurt runs a hand firmly up and down Greg’s back for several long minutes, then up into his hair. Greg’s resolve for patience fails him rather quickly, and he nuzzles eagerly into Kurt’s neck, grazing his teeth along the rough, stubbled skin below Kurt’s jaw.
Kurt pulls away and gazes at him, his eyes glistening with an intensity that makes it difficult for Greg to withstand. After only a brief moment Greg lowers his eyes, but Kurt places a hand under his chin, tilting his head up, until he relents and meets Kurt’s gaze once again.
“Would you like me to tell you what to do?” he asks, voice low.
Words catch like dry leaves in Greg’s throat, so he just nods. Yes. Please, yes.
“Take your boxers off.”
A moment’s hesitation, then he rolls over onto his back and does as he’s commanded. His breathing quickens as he watches Kurt’s eyes rove over the length of his body. Kurt moves closer until they’re pressed up against each other. He reaches down and runs a hand along Greg’s thigh while nudging a knee underneath it.
“Spread your legs,” he says and Greg obliges, hooking one knee over Kurt’s legs. Greg’s never felt so self-conscious and exposed, and he shivers and presses himself closer into the other man’s body. Kurt then grasps him by the wrist and places his hand between his legs.
“Show me,” Kurt says, echoing Greg’s words of the night before. He hesitates again before slowly encircling his fingers around his own erection. This isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. Feeling exposed like this is arousing, but his frustration makes him pause. He can always play with himself on his own time - he wants someone else’s hands on him now. But Kurt is gazing at him expectantly, gently drifting a hand through the fur of Greg’s stomach. Closing his eyes, he tries to relax and get into a rhythm…a rather dry rhythm.
He gathers up as much saliva as his dry mouth will allow and spits into his hand before resuming. His movements are easier now, and he starts to pant slightly and grind his hips into the bed. He feels Kurt shift next to him, then a strong hand overlays his own, keeping time with his strokes. He bucks up harder, moaning softly. With each pass he gradually loosens his grip, until finally Kurt allows him to pull his hand away and takes over.
“Come on,” Kurt murmurs a soft encouragement to him and Greg answers by thrusting harder. Kurt seems to respond to his vocalizations, tightening his grip and quickening his pace with every moan and throaty supplication to God that escapes Greg’s lips, so he lets them fall more freely.
Then, “Come on!” sharper this time, more demanding. Greg cedes control of his movements, thrusting erratically into Kurt’s hand. He curls his fists into the sheets and comes, loudly.
Kurt doesn’t give him time to recover before pushing him over onto his stomach. Greg gasps as Kurt runs a come-spattered hand into the cleft of his arse. Feeling Kurt slide between his legs, he instinctively arches his back, raising his hips in invitation. Kurt kisses and nips his way up Greg’s spine, until suddenly he lets out a frustrated groan and drops his head down between Greg’s shoulder blades.
“I haven’t any condoms.”
Jesus Christ! Greg thinks. Who the fuck goes to a conference without condoms?
He slides out from under Kurt and off the bed to find his trousers. Rifling frantically through the pockets, he grabs a foil packet from his wallet, presses it into Kurt’s hand and repositions himself on the bed, hoping the delay hasn’t allowed Kurt to reconsider what he was just offering.
He needn’t have worried. Kurt’s on him again, digging insistent fingers into his hips.
“Up! On your knees,” he commands.
Greg obeys instantly, rising up onto his knees and elbows, and Kurt is pushing into him lubed only with his own spit and Greg’s come. It hurts - Greg hasn’t done this in years, decades even - and he knows he’s wincing with every thrust. His voice sounds pinched and high in his own ears, but Kurt doesn’t ask him if he wants to stop, and he’s glad. He doesn’t want to stop. Even pain is better than the empty numbness that has settled over him like a damp sea fog this past year.
Just when he thinks he can no longer bear it, there is a sudden shift and the pain becomes something else - a hot ember of pleasure at the base of his spine pulsing out through every nerve of his body. He relaxes, dropping his head down and pressing his face into the cool sheets. His moans become low-pitched grunts, guttural and raw. As if waiting for this cue, Kurt picks up the pace and Greg begins to match him thrust for thrust.
“Down.” Kurt throws his weight against him, pushing Greg forward so that he’s lying completely prone, and pounds him mercilessly into the bed. He feels the stuttering rhythm of the other man’s release through an endorphin-induced haze, and is only vaguely aware of Kurt rolling off of his back and grabbing him roughly by the arm.
“Come here!” Kurt growls and pulls him around into a crushing embrace, fisting a hand into Greg’s hair to force his head back and kissing and biting his neck and shoulder. Greg doesn’t fight this sudden aggression, but instead relaxes into it. He presses his face into Kurt’s skin, inhaling the scent of whiskey mingling heavily with sweat, until the aftershocks of Kurt’s orgasm subside and they both lie still.
Greg falls asleep again, waking a few hours later to a gentle touch on his shoulder. He blinks to ward off the brightness of the sun streaming through the half-open curtains. When his eyes finally focus he sees Kurt sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over him, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“It’s 9:30, you have about an hour before check out,” he says.
He goes to move away, but Greg quickly sits up and grabs him by the arm, pulling him back. Their lips meet for the first time and, despite all that they had done, it is this gentle, eager dance of lips and tongue and teeth that seems the most intimate. Greg snakes his arms up around Kurt’s neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. His skin burns and thrums, still aching with a hunger he thought had been sated.
Kurt reluctantly pulls away from the kiss, but Greg’s arms still hold tight about his neck. He presses his clean-shaven cheek against Greg’s forehead. Inhaling deeply, Greg breathes in the scent of soap and shave cream that has replaced the acrid tang of whiskey from earlier that morning.
“Please,” Kurt laughs. “I have to go.”
His voice is pleading and Greg believes that, if he had a mind to, he could probably make Kurt miss his flight. Thinking better of it, he relents and loosens his grip, placing a final kiss on the corner of Kurt’s mouth. He lies back down, curls onto his side, and closes his eyes against the too-bright light and the growing ache in his head. Kurt rises, and the sound of his footsteps slowly recede. When Greg hears the door click shut he opens his eyes again and rolls onto his back. He stares blankly at the ceiling for a few long minutes, then passes a hand over his face, exhaling loudly.
“What in the hell was all of that?”
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