Dark Harbor Fanfic: "Charades"
Title: Charades
Fandom: Dark Harbor
Characters: David/Young Man
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1069
Summary: He's used to being what people want him to be. And he loves David… in his fashion.
Notes: Written for hc_bingo May challenge, for the prompt "serial killer". In the movie the young man does not have a name. I've chosen to call him James.
Charades
by Severina
David shuffles the scraps of paper on the table. This one with handwriting in a messy scrawl, that one neat and precise. A dozen and then a dozen more, not one alike. Scraps of poems and pieces of memories, dictated by the man he loves and transcribed by strangers in coffee houses and on boardwalks and in back alleys.
They are the key to his plan.
And the plan hinges on the boy.
He rests a hand on the tattered papers, glances at the boy slouched in the kitchen chair. The backpack rests near his elbow, a few more tattered papers still spilling from its open mouth. How many times did his young man strike up acquaintances on his wanderings, share drinks and conversations, convince people to jot down his errant thoughts?
"Why did you do it?" he asks.
James shrugs, flicks one long finger at the frayed cord on the backpack.
"You're not illiterate. You're one of the most erudite people I know." David pushes at one of the papers, snatches of the boy's arcane poetry catching his eye. Some of it heartbreaking, some morbidly romantic, some a little bit silly. All of it unique, special. "Why the charade?"
The boy looks up at him then, mouth curving in a slow smile. "You know why."
David raises an eyebrow. "All of them?"
For a moment the boy's eyes continue to sparkle. Then he slumps back in the chair, looks away. "Nah," he says.
"But some of them," David prompts. It's like poking at a old wound, picking at a scab. He doesn't know why he does it, especially when the very thought of other men touching the boy makes his blood boil, paints pictures in his head that he doesn't want to see. Yet the words keep falling out of his mouth and he seems helpless to stop them.
"A couple," James mumbles. "I wouldn't have kept trying it if it didn't work at least some of the time."
"Why didn't you try it with me?"
The boy lifts his head then, meets his eyes. "You're different, David. I knew… I hoped it was going to be different with you. I didn't want you to just fuck me and then walk away in the morning."
He can't deny that he wanted to touch James from the moment he met him, squinting up at him from a park bench with the sun in his eyes and a battered backpack at his feet. Wanted it and resisted it, resisted for so long. Because somehow he knew that if he took that step - so easy with all the other boys, who were always nothing more than a series of convenient fucks to wash the taste of Alexis from his skin - he knew with this special young man that there would be no turning back.
He was right. Here they are.
He leaves the papers where they lay, crosses to stand behind James and drape his arms over the boy's shoulders. James tips his head back, rubs his cheek against his sweater. He doesn't have to look down to that the boy's eyes are closed; his breathing deep and steady. One of the boy's hands comes up to wrap around his wrist, thumb dancing lightly over his skin.
All the boy has ever asked of him is safety, security, love. All the things James never had.
All David is trying to do is give that to him.
"Can you do this?" he asks softly.
The hand stills. He feels the shudder go through the boy's frame. "I don't want to," James says. "The thought of it…" He shivers again, but then he turns in the chair, looks up at him with those startling blue eyes. "But I'll do it for you, David. I'll do anything for you."
David pushes a lock of straggling hair out of the boy's eyes before pulling him to his feet, urging him up onto the table. It seems fitting that they should make love here, among the detritus of his young man's old life. He pushes the papers out of the way even as he tugs eagerly, anxiously at James's zipper.
"Why did you keep them?" he mumbles against the boy's neck.
The boy shrugs. "Memories, I guess."
* * *
David is splayed out on his stomach and snoring when James creeps quietly from the bed and steals into the dining room.
He stoops to pick up the papers that had spilled from the table during their earlier exertions, smooths them with his palm. The room is couched in shadows but the moonlight shines through the window above the sink and it's to there that he walks, tilts the scraps of paper to the light.
Rodney. Long Beach, two years ago. He traces a finger over the spiky backhand letters. Rodney had never been without his leather even in the heat of summer, had tasted like ripe strawberries. He had driven the knife deep and watched the blood drain away from him like so much spilled juice.
Michael. New Jersey, last summer. Hours spent walking the boardwalk, talking about the stars. Michael had scrawled his words on a paper ripped from one of his own sketchbooks. James had seen him off to art school on the Greyhound, made promises to keep in touch that he never planned to keep.
Carolyn, her writing filled with obvious swirls and loops. He'd played the bad boy for her, known it was just a childish rebellion against her rich parents, her privileged life. He'd taken her to the beach and held her under the water until she wouldn't have to worry about any of that again.
He hears David stirring, so he crosses the room and lets the papers flutter onto the table to join the rest. His hand lingers on the backpack, tucked away on a shelf in the closet ever since David started footing the bill for this place. Just feeling it under his palm brings back memories of the roads he's travelled, the people he's met. The adventures he's had.
He cocks his head when David calls his name, takes a deep breath before heading toward the bedroom. He's used to being what people want him to be. And he loves David… in his fashion.
He pauses to glance back at the dining room table, and smiles. There is a fresh notebook in his backpack. For Alexis.
.
Fandom: Dark Harbor
Characters: David/Young Man
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1069
Summary: He's used to being what people want him to be. And he loves David… in his fashion.
Notes: Written for hc_bingo May challenge, for the prompt "serial killer". In the movie the young man does not have a name. I've chosen to call him James.
Charades
by Severina
David shuffles the scraps of paper on the table. This one with handwriting in a messy scrawl, that one neat and precise. A dozen and then a dozen more, not one alike. Scraps of poems and pieces of memories, dictated by the man he loves and transcribed by strangers in coffee houses and on boardwalks and in back alleys.
They are the key to his plan.
And the plan hinges on the boy.
He rests a hand on the tattered papers, glances at the boy slouched in the kitchen chair. The backpack rests near his elbow, a few more tattered papers still spilling from its open mouth. How many times did his young man strike up acquaintances on his wanderings, share drinks and conversations, convince people to jot down his errant thoughts?
"Why did you do it?" he asks.
James shrugs, flicks one long finger at the frayed cord on the backpack.
"You're not illiterate. You're one of the most erudite people I know." David pushes at one of the papers, snatches of the boy's arcane poetry catching his eye. Some of it heartbreaking, some morbidly romantic, some a little bit silly. All of it unique, special. "Why the charade?"
The boy looks up at him then, mouth curving in a slow smile. "You know why."
David raises an eyebrow. "All of them?"
For a moment the boy's eyes continue to sparkle. Then he slumps back in the chair, looks away. "Nah," he says.
"But some of them," David prompts. It's like poking at a old wound, picking at a scab. He doesn't know why he does it, especially when the very thought of other men touching the boy makes his blood boil, paints pictures in his head that he doesn't want to see. Yet the words keep falling out of his mouth and he seems helpless to stop them.
"A couple," James mumbles. "I wouldn't have kept trying it if it didn't work at least some of the time."
"Why didn't you try it with me?"
The boy lifts his head then, meets his eyes. "You're different, David. I knew… I hoped it was going to be different with you. I didn't want you to just fuck me and then walk away in the morning."
He can't deny that he wanted to touch James from the moment he met him, squinting up at him from a park bench with the sun in his eyes and a battered backpack at his feet. Wanted it and resisted it, resisted for so long. Because somehow he knew that if he took that step - so easy with all the other boys, who were always nothing more than a series of convenient fucks to wash the taste of Alexis from his skin - he knew with this special young man that there would be no turning back.
He was right. Here they are.
He leaves the papers where they lay, crosses to stand behind James and drape his arms over the boy's shoulders. James tips his head back, rubs his cheek against his sweater. He doesn't have to look down to that the boy's eyes are closed; his breathing deep and steady. One of the boy's hands comes up to wrap around his wrist, thumb dancing lightly over his skin.
All the boy has ever asked of him is safety, security, love. All the things James never had.
All David is trying to do is give that to him.
"Can you do this?" he asks softly.
The hand stills. He feels the shudder go through the boy's frame. "I don't want to," James says. "The thought of it…" He shivers again, but then he turns in the chair, looks up at him with those startling blue eyes. "But I'll do it for you, David. I'll do anything for you."
David pushes a lock of straggling hair out of the boy's eyes before pulling him to his feet, urging him up onto the table. It seems fitting that they should make love here, among the detritus of his young man's old life. He pushes the papers out of the way even as he tugs eagerly, anxiously at James's zipper.
"Why did you keep them?" he mumbles against the boy's neck.
The boy shrugs. "Memories, I guess."
* * *
David is splayed out on his stomach and snoring when James creeps quietly from the bed and steals into the dining room.
He stoops to pick up the papers that had spilled from the table during their earlier exertions, smooths them with his palm. The room is couched in shadows but the moonlight shines through the window above the sink and it's to there that he walks, tilts the scraps of paper to the light.
Rodney. Long Beach, two years ago. He traces a finger over the spiky backhand letters. Rodney had never been without his leather even in the heat of summer, had tasted like ripe strawberries. He had driven the knife deep and watched the blood drain away from him like so much spilled juice.
Michael. New Jersey, last summer. Hours spent walking the boardwalk, talking about the stars. Michael had scrawled his words on a paper ripped from one of his own sketchbooks. James had seen him off to art school on the Greyhound, made promises to keep in touch that he never planned to keep.
Carolyn, her writing filled with obvious swirls and loops. He'd played the bad boy for her, known it was just a childish rebellion against her rich parents, her privileged life. He'd taken her to the beach and held her under the water until she wouldn't have to worry about any of that again.
He hears David stirring, so he crosses the room and lets the papers flutter onto the table to join the rest. His hand lingers on the backpack, tucked away on a shelf in the closet ever since David started footing the bill for this place. Just feeling it under his palm brings back memories of the roads he's travelled, the people he's met. The adventures he's had.
He cocks his head when David calls his name, takes a deep breath before heading toward the bedroom. He's used to being what people want him to be. And he loves David… in his fashion.
He pauses to glance back at the dining room table, and smiles. There is a fresh notebook in his backpack. For Alexis.
.