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Mute only fucks him when he’s drunk.
Sober, he floats on the edge of Smoke’s circle, displaying no motivation neither for invading it nor leaving it altogether – a quiet young man with no patience for those who can’t keep up, and paired with Smoke’s tendency to tease and bully easy targets, they’ve had a few verbal altercations which left them both frazzled. Mutual friends are the ties that bind them together, like rubber bands dragging them towards each other if the distance grows too big. Bandit sometimes requires Mute’s expertise which leads to him spending some time with Smoke as well, yet he withdraws as soon as he’s not needed anymore. And Smoke confides in Rook now and then, the bubbly Frenchman with a mischievous streak, and Mute is never far from him.
But it feels incidental. Like they wouldn’t interact if it wasn’t for outside forces.
Therefore, when he ends up with Mute’s tongue down his throat one night, it comes as a bit of a surprise. Up until then, he liked Mute well enough in a dismissive kind of way, someone whose presence he doesn’t mind most times but wouldn’t choose by himself, yet he can’t deny how attractive Mute is. It’s just – there’s a latent energy around him, in the arrogant way he flips and plays with his pens like someone used to being bored at school, in the set of his jaw when he’s focusing, in his left brow which he cocks entirely too often. He moves like he knows where to go, doesn’t budge on his opinions but lets facts change his mind, and always needs to know everything. He’s serious and intelligent and meticulous and a whole bunch of other things Smoke isn’t.
He’s always been attracted to opposites, maybe as a form of self sabotage: setting himself up for failure has a long-standing tradition, especially in his love life, but Mute isn’t even an option until he replies with a nonchalant me neither, wanna have a go? to Smoke mentioning he hasn’t snogged anyone in ages. He kisses like he means it and of course he’s bloody good at it too, he’s good at everything after all. It’s a punch to the gut – the sudden desire, that is, the realisation how much he wants to tear through every layer of Mute’s clothing and worship him, feed his ego even more and make him come apart at the seams. Mute makes it worse, much worse, stays in the pub longer than he usually does, and once he’s proper intoxicated, follows Smoke outside a second time and licks his mouth open until he moans helplessly.
It’s a game, possibly. He’s not sure. Fact is that Mute grins during most of it, bathes in Smoke’s noises and writhing and utter surrender and his fucking Cheshire cat grimace only widens when he gropes Smoke’s crotch because his brain misfiring is probably audible. In the middle of the alley right in front of the pub most of Rainbow frequents, Smoke melts under Mute’s fingertips. The alcohol eradicates most of his inhibitions and so a string of filth escapes him while Mute attempts to make him come with the heel of his hand; the rest of the world has ceased to exist or at the very least to matter. Intimacy is horribly addicting and Smoke is desperate for any bit and piece he gets – he’s tasted blood and now the need for more roars in his ears. He wants this, he wants Mute so badly it’s painful and every time they lock lips, his want explodes behind his eyelids.
The intensity of it should’ve been indication enough. Feelings like this never last, not in Smoke’s experience, and his fairytale bubble bursts when Mute suddenly remembers where they are. He laughs it off, takes a step back when the door opens behind them to let out a few inebriated patrons, and though he’s dishevelled and flushed, his behaviour gives nothing away. We should go back in, he suggests and ignores the fact that Smoke is ablaze. He played with fire and now refuses to take responsibility for the flames he kindled.
Nothing will come out of it. It happens to the best of them; a lapse in judgement, loneliness pounding away at their temples with irresistible demands. Smoke is familiar with the longing for stimulation, for stimulating someone else. Holding this power is addicting, so he doesn’t blame Mute for unleashing it on him, feels flattered even. He hopes Mute got what he wanted.
Smoke certainly didn’t.
He expects nothing to change. Why should it? If some drunken making out held the chance of altering interpersonal relationships to a noticeable degree, Smoke wouldn’t partake in it so often – he’s snogged more people than he can count and it’s ultimately inconsequential that he had some kind of horny awakening concerning Mute seeing as his object of desire doesn’t feel the same way.
And then he ends up wrapped around Mute, teeth buried in shoulders, breath mixing with his and it’s heaven, it’s fucking heaven come to earth – the insistent pull between his legs gets stronger and stronger the more the body between his limbs moves against him. A night out ended in bliss: first disbelief, then impatience, and once they were finally in Mute’s flat, it took less than ten minutes for the other man to bury himself deep and force all the air out of Smoke’s lungs. Hands flailed and grabbed and dragged and shoved and Smoke is powerless to do anything against the thrum slowly driving him insane with every slap of skin on skin, their own personal ambient noise interspersed with embarrassing whimpers as he climbs and climbs.
The kisses are sloppy and Mute licks over his jaw, his ear, his neck, ready to attack anything in range with his mouth and Smoke doesn’t even want to know how precise his onslaught would be if not for the alcohol in his blood; Mute is a force of nature and Smoke has no hope to withstand. He pictured it going differently, involving a lot more prompting on his side but Mute gladly took charge and him apart and now they’re moving in unison towards a finish Smoke already knows he’ll regret.
No orgasm in the world is worth the awkward feeling festering in his stomach as he gazes at Mute’s unconscious form, sated, spread out, sleeping. Nothing holds up against bumbling around in an unfamiliar flat, opening and closing cupboards, walking a fine line between tending to his needs and invading privacy. He tries his best not to make it weird, takes a quick shower, drinks some tap water out of a cup and puts his clothes back on. They smell of cigarettes and sweat but he’d rather stink of pub than risk displeasing Mute by borrowing clothes.
He sleeps like the dead. Smoke checks his pulse and places another cup next to the bed for when Mute wakes up, then feels silly for not having found the glasses, searches the kitchen once again and replaces the mug a few minutes later.
There’s a human-shaped empty space next to Mute. His mattress could easily accommodate three people, and now Smoke is wondering whether it has, at some point. Mute certainly doesn’t seem to be hindered by modesty.
Smoke leaves. Nothing will change. The sex was good, in an unfocused kind of way, and he doesn’t want to scrutinise it too closely lest he find the shortcomings for which he’s looking. If Mute asks again, he’ll say no. Simple as that.
A week later, he finds out Mute likes to pull on his hair. It’s the single hottest experience of his life and wet lips muttering possessive obscenities in his ear do their part of undermining his composure as it’s slowly being fucked out of him. All of it is so unlike Mute he has to remind himself it actually is him several times: the lazy nonchalance has vanished, given way to recklessness, his usual fastidiousness turned into uncoordinated, even rough movements. He claims Smoke and inflicts pain without asking, bites, scratches, slams into him and it’s so out of character that Smoke briefly considers stopping him once or twice. If only it didn’t feel so good.
His climax makes him see stars and it’s a long while until he comes back down from his intense high. Unlike last time, Mute painfully digs into his muscles to get him to scoot closer and throws half of his limbs over Smoke’s torso once he does. A switch has been flicked and the new setting really is the stark opposite – he pets Smoke’s hair, scatters butterfly kisses on his forehead since it’s all he can reach, and hums against him.
Smoke doesn’t know what to do. Extracting himself from Mute’s passed out form seems like too much work. At least he doesn’t snore. The scratches burn faintly, Mute’s leg is too heavy and he’s warm. He doesn’t want to move. He’s exactly where he wants to be.
He knows he’s being used.
A few characteristics surface after a while. Mute is a horny drunk and he goes the way of least resistance. One evening, Smoke declines but changes his mind and later notices Mute’s phone screen displaying a paused video showing a whole lot of skin. If left to his own devices, he seems to take care of himself rather than not at all, and prefers doing so over involving anyone else. Anyone other than Smoke. He’s easy and he vows to stay that way if it makes Mute choose him over nobody.
Mute suffers from noticeable mood swings while drunk. On some days, he’s generous and attentive, licks Smoke loose and prepares him so thoroughly he’s shaking by the time Mute enters him. On others, he prefers riding, or laying back and letting Smoke do all the work, or an efficient quickie. There are hardly any constants in what he does and it’s a relief – after the second time, Smoke feared something was wrong with him. It just turns out he doesn’t handle liquor well.
Another aspect to note: Mute doesn’t handle liquor well. He’s gotten distracted in the middle of fucking before, asked Smoke some exceedingly random and weird questions, more often than not related to some show or film franchise, and seemed to simply forget what they were doing. The moment he gets a curious, unfocused look in his eyes is the moment Smoke climbs on top of him and tries to salvage what’s left, sometimes finishing before Mute goes limp or kills the mood, sometimes not being so lucky. Playing along has the chance for a recovery, in case Mute gets bored of himself and pushes a few fingers inside Smoke just to watch his reaction, or when he later allows Smoke to come on his face and even parts his lips for it. But sometimes they’re just perched in the living room with Mute showing him an endless reel of videos he finds hilarious but which are objectively neither interesting nor funny, and Smoke laughs anyway because there’s an emptiness between his legs only Mute can fill.
And, lastly, the most important detail Smoke figures out much too late. Mute only fucks him when he’s drunk.
For how much Smoke wants him, their sex is surprisingly awkward. He daydreams about Mute’s flawless skin and filthy mouth daily, pictures his gorgeous body and mocking smile during his daily wank, but when they’re actually in Mute’s flat, fucking on his bed or over the couch or in the kitchen, it’s as if both of them lost their script. On rare nights, they’re in sync and determined to produce the world’s hottest porn film, yet most of the time Smoke doesn’t dare demand what he really wants Mute to do, and Mute endlessly changes positions only to eventually go back to the tried and trusted ones anyway. Smoke is garbage at blowjobs and tries extra hard, but Mute is put off by his gagging, and most of the random ideas Mute comes up with they only try once.
His infatuation is one-sided. The truth hurts every time he’s reminded and never aches more than the morning after. No orgasm is worth this mix of shame, disappointment, nausea. And it’s time he stopped lying to himself about the physical aspect of it being enough. Mute always falls asleep right after and never comments on whether Smoke stayed the night or not, merely shares a quiet morning routine with him where they make a contest out of interacting as little as possible and both believe Smoke’s lie about not wanting any breakfast. Right before breakfast is the latest he leaves, right after coming the earliest. Mute has started to cling to him now and then, condom still on, more often than not when it’s empty. Whenever he asks Smoke to stay – and he does so while avoiding eye contact –, Smoke obliges. Even though he’s fairly sure neither of them gain anything from it.
Mute still pulls his hair and Smoke still loves it when he does. All their weird experimentation resulted in them being familiar with each other’s bodies, and sometimes, when Mute is in a mood, he makes a clinical trial out of it. Without taking anything for himself, he touches and kisses and licks all the places he knows are sensitive and watches Smoke like a hawk. He seems to get drunk on the reactions he earns, chest swelling with pride when he pushes Smoke over the edge teasing nothing but his nipples. Smoke doesn’t like it. Mute performs an autopsy, that’s what it feels like, analyses all the bits and pieces he finds, extrapolates Smoke’s past – he nearly got strangled to death once and flinches when anything touches his throat, and now Mute knows – and his present. Smoke feels vulnerable and it’s worse when Mute is fully clothed when he does it. He doesn’t like it.
But Mute does. And so he lets him do it.
Outside of Mute’s flat, not much changes. They provoke each other now and then, Smoke gloating over every achievement Mute doesn’t share and Mute implying Smoke’s cluelessness in a subclause; they’re competitive without really competing. Electricity crackles between them and Smoke is sure if he were to reach out, he’d get shocked, numb his fingers. It’s the usual casual callousness colleagues display when they value their job: not enough to cause problems, but enough to convey the disdain necessary to prevent genuine friendliness.
It hurts. When he’s about to sleep, when he just woke up, when he has a quiet minute to himself, it fucking hurts and incentivises to keep his mind occupied. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll think about confessing and lose himself in what-ifs and that shite stings so, so, so much worse. No daydream is worth this self-inflicted pain.
You want to check out that new burger place?, he’d ask and Mute, while hesitant, agrees. Smoke has the perfect excuse for why it’s only the two of them and a thoughtful question has Mute thaw in minutes. The soft lighting emphasises his dimples and he looks at Smoke like he’d never seen him before, not properly. And something magical happens.
Let me worship you today, he’d suggest and Mute, while hesitant, agrees. Smoke pulls all the stops, demonstrates what it means to make love and services Mute like he’s never experienced it before. His wondrous smile is radiant and he visibly enjoys himself, and when he wants to know why Smoke is doing all this to him, for him, Smoke tells him.
I could get used to waking up next to you, he’d say and Mute, while hesitant, agrees. Smoke snuggles up to him and for once, the morning atmosphere between them is serene, his statement has changed the air around them. Mute can’t help but picture it and realises belatedly just how much Smoke has invaded every part of his life. And when Smoke says it, Mute doesn’t take long to reciprocate.
Heart pounding, he tries the first. Mute isn’t hungry. He frowns a little, visibly put off by the odd suggestion. Smoke backpedals and ends up going with Sledge instead. He can’t taste anything.
Pulse racing, he tries the second. Mute snorts at his choice of words and gets restless after a minute or two before asking Smoke whether he remembers the conversion rate from Celsius to Fahrenheit. Mute falls asleep on top of him a little while later and Smoke debates taking care of himself but is terrified of Mute waking up and throwing him out.
He doesn’t try the third. Mute tells him a weird dream he had, or he’s gotten up already, or he’s playing on his phone. Smoke doesn’t even try to cuddle. He couldn’t bear Mute pushing him away.
So he endures the throbbing pain which rears its ugly head more often than he’d like. Digs himself a hole in the hopes of burying part of him once he’s done, only he doesn’t think he ever will be. He wants and wants and wants so much, yet if he allowed any of it to get out, it’d sour everything. Poison it all. Even if all it could destroy is barely more than nothing. No orgasm is worth his soul but he always knew it was so much more than that, it was Mute’s hair between his fingers, it was shared time, it was being the focus of his attention. Briefly. And Mute’s soft expression when he comes, condom ditched halfway through, is worth thousands of souls.
Pity Smoke only has the one to give.
The pattern is erratic and unreliable yet undeniably present. Between the third and fourth drink, roughly, is when Mute’s eyes start to seek his. Not often, not obvious, more of a reassurance that Smoke is still there, hasn’t ditched the group. The later the evening, the more frequent the glances, each of them a burning trail on Smoke’s skin even through his clothes. He doesn’t dare meet them for more than a fraction of a second but it’s oddly reassuring to know about them. Sometimes they’re part of the same group talking, then the looks happen in context, their purpose clear only to the two of them.
On some evenings, Mute gets handsy before they even leave the pub. Roughly grabs the front or back of Smoke’s crotch, pets his hair, crowds him against a wall, locks lips. The chance of it happening rises with increasing alcohol consumption and the result is not at all unwelcome, but if Mute drank too much, he gets whisky dick and Smoke will have to take care of himself in Mute’s bathroom or at home later. They rarely talk. Both of them know where they’re headed anyway, and if the others ask, they’re catching a cab together or have to walk in the same direction. The others don’t ask much. Smoke assumes they know anyway, judging by Bandit’s sleazy grin or Sledge’s underhanded comments. And while they might know Smoke’s getting fucked, they don’t know his heart is, too.
Mute keeps his hands to himself if they do catch a ride. The typical display of politeness is the most Mute-like thing he does on pub nights, trumped only by the time he interrupted himself eating Smoke out to watch a livestream of some game. Astonishingly enough, he still has basic decency and tries to communicate, asks about Smoke’s kinks and gets pissed when he refuses to say. Mute either has no kinks or all of them; the same action rarely has the same effect twice and therefore Smoke milks it whenever he’s found the correct one for that night. He once calls Mute every term of endearment he can think of while holding back overstimulated sobs from Mute attempting to make him come hands free and it really does the trick. The time after that, the unamused glare he receives for calling Mute babe convinces him to quit while he’s ahead.
It’s a bit like coaxing a puppy to do a trick. It might succeed, but it might also just fall asleep, wander off, lose all interest, react with confusion. He wants to shake Mute and tell him to be normal for once, just this one time, but then he remembers Mute’s parents sent him textbooks for his birthday and didn’t even call, remembers that his best friend was a fifty year old professor for a while, remembers that he lost his virginity to a guy who blackmailed him with fabricated evidence about Mute cheating on a test, remembers that Mute’s dog died right before his final exams and he was only told afterwards so it wouldn’t skew his results. He’s never been normal.
And maybe this is the reason why Smoke wants so desperately to rearrange Mute’s face, fix that broken smile only he seems to notice, tear down the cool façade which protects and deters and suffocates and stings. Listlessly moves the pieces around without knowing what the final image is meant to look like, because Smoke has only had it described to him one bit at a time from all the people in his life, because he’s hardly normal himself yet his weird doesn’t match Mute’s and so he has no idea what to do.
He just doesn’t know what to do.
The status quo always has something soothing about it, like a stop sign: clear about what it requires of him, unambiguous, tried and tested, safe. He knows how to deal with everyday situations and though he revels in chaos, outside of work he prefers not using his brain too much lest he depletes it for when he actually needs it. Some traditions follow him wherever he goes, like throwing all half-worn clothes onto a chair, or letting the dishes pile up, or wanking daily. When there’s important rugby on, he watches it with Sledge, when Bandit asks to hang out, they do, and when it’s pub night, he lets Mute fuck him. Pub night is once a week. It neatly integrated itself into his loose schedule with all its implications.
So when Mute texts him on a Tuesday, he breaks protocol. Tuesday isn’t pub night. Tuesday isn’t the day Smoke moans into a cushion or bites into a pillow. Tuesday is the day after the black hole of self-doubt, disillusionment, regret. Sunday is usually spent catching up on all the things Smoke still has to do, but watching Mute laugh at anyone else’s jokes on Monday wrecks him.
wanna come over, he writes. No time for a question mark. Is it a suggestion then? Or a statement? Smoke has a feeling Mute knows he won’t decline, but assumes the other man isn’t aware of the uneasy feeling in Smoke’s throat, doesn’t anticipate his sweaty palms and hopeful eyes, like someone who gets kicked in the nuts every time he dares to dream, but maybe this time it won’t happen.
An impatient hand drags him inside and an even more impatient mouth sucks a claim onto his lips; no opportunity to take off his shoes so he toes at them until he can kick them away, too distracted to pay much attention to the acrobatics of their tongues though he doesn’t need to anyway. His body is taking notice and at this point a stranger could pass him by and tell him making out with Mark and Smoke would begin to salivate, he’s been conditioned well. He could be running on autopilot if there wasn’t the fact that it’s fucking Tuesday and Mute requested his presence and this is what it feels like to be a teacher’s pet, he gets it now. He made fun of the nerds for nothing. This shite’s brilliant.
Mute is ravenous and he seems to have a craving for skin seeing as Smoke is stark naked not even a minute after entering his flat. Palms push and press and pet, and cup his jaw for more sizzling kisses which have him leaking already – Mute is unusually attentive and clear and Smoke isn’t sure he can handle him. These touches have purpose, aim to dismantle him, the swipes of tongue and fingers are deliberate and sensitive spots ripe for the taking. Mute reaps the rewards of months and months of half-arsed fucking and finally makes use of the map he slowly put together with Smoke’s help. Or rather his resistance. He didn’t want to give too much away for he was sure it’d be nothing but ammunition in these destructive hands, and oh lord he was right.
He wants to do this to Mute, make him feel the same way he feels despite knowing how impossible and futile it is; Mute will never experience the same kind of elation blooming in Smoke’s chest every time he looks at him. Not even through a telepathic link could he convey this fundamental bliss over being recognised. Mute is looking at him. Mute wanted to touch him. Maybe even missed him. They’ve never met up outside of established parameters and his joy reverberates inside like an upbeat song, gains strength the longer Mute is unable to keep off him and eventually fills Smoke entirely. He vibrates in tune, becomes the body, the instrument, the amplifier. He has to accept this tiny victory for what it is and not overstep boundaries. Overstaying his welcome is the worst he can do now.
“I love you”, it spills from his lips like foam bubbling over.
Mute’s tongue withdraws from his navel and fear settles in instead. He doesn’t have the time to second-guess himself. “What?”
“I like you”, he repeats, but not really. There’s a draft under the door and his feet are cold. He’ll start shivering soon.
Mute blinks at him like he deserves to be blinked at with all those inane topics he brings up when he’s bored, yet instead Smoke humours him and plays along and pretends to be fascinated by any fucking word Mute utters and how he hasn’t detonated from lack of self-respect yet is a goddamn miracle. Mute, however, isn’t humouring Smoke. He just swallows Smoke’s cock whole like it’s an appropriate reply to his confession and normally, this would drive Smoke wild but with the weight in his stomach and the pressure on his chest, all he experiences is his hollow statement echoing in his head. How dumb can he be. Of course Mute doesn’t care.
On the way to the bedroom, he spots a few bottles on the coffee table. He knows they weren’t there on the weekend, and now that he’s looking for it, he notices the carelessness in Mute’s movements. At the very least, he’s tipsy.
“Don’t”, he says. The sour taste on his tongue is nauseating.
Mute’s gaze is too calm, too unconcerned. It pierces Smoke like a gunshot and has him re-evaluate – does he want to give up on today? Pass up this chance of leeching body heat? Is it worth giving up all hope? He knows that if he leaves now, he’ll think twice about coming back.
He tries again. Maybe if he keeps it up, one of them will slip through and reach its goal. “I like you, Mark.” He doesn’t dare repeat his initial revelation, as if it’d soften the inevitable blow. “I really do. I like you a lot. I’m – I like you.”
I don’t, he expects. The truth is written all over Mute’s face, easy to decode. And, naive as he is, Smoke thinks it’d be the worst answer. Assumes these two words would do the most harm, already shielding himself, reading them off of Mute’s lips before he utters them. They will break him, that much is obvious, and hearing them is on a different level to imagining them entirely, but he did not plan for a differing response. Was not at all ready for the two words which wring what little is left of him out of his fragile body.
Not batting an eye, Mute says: “I know.”
And it’s devastating. The implication is indifference. A whole new type of cruelty making him want to throw up, vomit out all the sudden disgust he feels over himself, over investing so, so much into this, over all the fucking wasted time and lost evenings and bloody half-arsed conversations and half-arsed sex and half-arsed caring. Now he knows he’s the only one getting anything vaguely emotional out of this because Mute is a rock, a drunk rock somehow intent on crushing Smoke together with any last shred of hope still remaining and he was wrong – Mute’s reply didn’t break him, not only. It snapped him in half, but not cleanly, not accompanied by a puff of separation, no, this rift is splintery and then glued back together wrong. All wrong.
He’ll have to break again for this horrifyingly wrong reattachment to heal properly.
Instead of the usual heat, hands now leave behind a trail of ice on his skin and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt the need to shiver this violently. He was prepared for Mute to not return his feelings. He wasn’t prepared for being little more than a piece of furniture in Mute’s life.
“Please don’t”, he says and alcohol softens Mute’s features, he can see the poison now. Liquid devil whispering suggestions into the other man’s ear, and the angel on his shoulder has long bidden farewell.
“You’re so fucking full of shite”, Mute shoots back and it’s chock full of venom.
What the hell is he even on about. “How? What?”
“You don’t. You really don’t. You’re delusional. Stop saying it and come on, I’m horny.”
A week ago, these words alone, uttered at him on a Tuesday of all days, would’ve driven Smoke insane. He was chosen to take care of Mute’s needs, he’s the chosen one. But maybe he was just the first thing in reach. And he’d never dare say no. With every passing second, the prospect of sleeping with him becomes less enticing; there’s a bitter note to it Smoke can’t stomach.
Then it sinks in what makes Mute’s brow crease. What prompted his words.
“Fuck you”, Smoke spits back and doesn’t even mentally remark on the fact that this isn’t the first time they’re arguing with at least one of them naked. Normally, it’s hardly anything personal though. Mute makes it very clear he’d prefer to keep Smoke out of his life as much as possible. “I know what I said. And I meant it. I know it. Don’t be a tosser.”
“Stop.” Mute sits up between his legs and the distance keeping them apart is now represented physically as well. He’s gorgeous. It hurts so fucking much to look at him. “We don’t even talk.”
They talk plenty. Mute probably hasn’t raved on about his convoluted and utterly unintelligible views about nerd stuff like string theory to anyone else, not after joining Rainbow and cutting ties with nearly everyone else because he’s crap at remembering people outside of his direct line of vision. Smoke is there and a convenient hole to either fuck or yell obscure ideas into. But Smoke knows what he’s referring to. He doesn’t even know Mute’s hobbies, has stumbled over a badminton racket but no clue whether he plays or whether it’s even his, and he doesn’t play video games either which Smoke thought insane. Everyone plays video games.
“You don’t want to”, he defends himself lamely and why is it that he has to justify his feelings? They’re there, unbidden, and he would’ve gotten rid of them if he could since they’re tearing him apart bit by bit. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t contain them anymore either, and now he’s asked to rationalise them. He’s bleeding and Mute’s got his back turned, pretending he’s just making it up while refusing to check.
“Fuck you”, Mute echoes him and if possible, it’s even lamer than Smoke’s own words. He’s so far away. “You wouldn’t even tell me what you like.”
And oh that’s a fucking joke. Mute asked him, once, and Smoke truthfully replied everything, leaving out the that you do, and Mute seemed as offended as when someone made that tasteless remark about his grandma. They never broached the topic again. “Then start. Do it yourself.” He’s tired of experimentation, tired of scrutinising Mute to find out whether he hit a nerve today or whether he’ll fall asleep holding his own cock, hoping to get off on the smallest movements without waking up a snoring Mute. He’s just tired.
He’s really, really tired.
“Slap me”, Mute says.
Smoke’s palm starts itching. He pictures it and this action alone causes him to die a little inside. He’s familiar with the sensation. “I don’t -”
“Call me worthless.”
It’s the first time Smoke has ever seen him blush, and it’s the first time Smoke is about to tell him no and mean it. But Mute is taking a chance here, a first step, and leaving himself so open and vulnerable that Smoke just can’t refuse, not if Mute is supposed to look him in the eye after this. It doesn’t matter they’ve derailed, well, everything at this point, conducting two very different conversations yet converging right now. Smoke knows if he declines, it’ll be over – maybe not immediately, but Mute will shut him out for good and he won’t be able to stop thinking what if.
Mute has never been this hard. Moans drip from his lips like honey as he bucks up into Smoke perched on him like a jockey and spewing insults directed at himself but reaching Mute instead – a waste of space, and Mute’s eyes roll back, useless and better off dead, and Mute’s nails dig into pale thighs. The words cut deep, not into their audience but the abuser, and though it’s the best show Smoke’s ever seen, the ravenous maw of doubt and disappointment inside him devours any enjoyment he might’ve derived from this. It hurts because he’s clenching down not the fun way, and his own body cowers from the untruths his brain produces.
I love you, Smoke thinks and tells Mute how nobody would miss him. He remembers all the times Mute’s display came alive to read mum, only to be silenced by the press of a button. He remembers the awkward, disbelieving looks whenever Mute made inappropriately callous jokes. He remembers overhearing someone considering uninviting Mute to some party only for him to not show up anyway. His heart hurts. He thinks he sees something in Mute’s expression, something which convinces the other man it’s all true.
Smoke stays flaccid the entire time.
When Mute is spent and satisfied, Smoke keeps him inside to let the feeling linger. It takes a moment to realise he’s crying. Because his fingers are dirty, he uses the back of his hand to wipe tears away and no matter how often he does it, there are always more. Mute stares up at him with so much pain in his eyes that Smoke asks himself: why are we doing this to each other? Neither of them try to console him and a few drops land on smooth skin where they mix with sweat and dark hairs.
“I didn’t mean it”, he bursts out in between hiccups and regrets his choice of words immediately. When he’s tossed back outside, feeling wrung out and mangled, it’s his own fault. How will he ever make Mute understand which of the words he said that day came from the bottom of his heart, and which ones mutilated himself?
Mute misses the next pub outing. Smoke never finds out whether he returns the time after that, because he stops going himself. Excuses suffice for the first few times and after that, people just don’t ask anymore. Rumours have it they had a falling out, broke up, lost interest, found someone else, and Smoke couldn’t be more grateful that nobody actually approaches him about it. Work becomes exactly that – work. Professional and personal lives don’t mix well and besides, anything Smoke touches rots anyway. This particular shitstorm has been festering for quite a while.
He’s a ghost at the edge of Smoke’s vision. Painfully tangible up close but fortunately both of them seem to share the idea of an ideal distance between them, and anything necessary is shot over Smoke’s shoulder or addressed at Mute’s feet. It’s like he died. It certainly feels like it. He’s a walking corpse, hollow, wandering through a mono-coloured world with a few bullet points on his list of things to do. It’s very short.
And then he breaks one of Twitch’s ribs.
Two, if he’s precise, and fractures another, and crimson is coating his hands, warm and wrong and definitely in all the incorrect places of Twitch’s body. Smoke wishes it felt like a nightmare because then he could convince himself it’s not real, yet with sirens ringing in his ears and grave faces as constant companions, lying to himself is not an option. She’s dead for a minute and Smoke needs to be told five times before he believes it, it feels like an eternity. Neverending. And it’s irrelevant, all the hurt he’s experienced, wiped clean off his mind because there are bigger things in life, and saving Twitch’s is one of them. Mute helps, talks to him over comms throughout the whole thing as if Smoke needed the assistance more than she did.
They’re told not to dwell. They know better than to blame, have been taught to act and assess, not to brood. And still all of them do, even the cut-throat ones, even the cheerful ones. Especially the cheerful ones. Death is difficult to handle and mistakes impossible. He spends every waking minute rehearsing his next steps, planning out conversations and ending up stumped when they deviate from the options he considered. He feels like a solar powered calculator at dusk, only it’s been programmed wrong. The numbers he spits out seem to bemuse everyone.
Moving on is necessary and the sound of bones cracking as he pumped oxygen through a failing system is an immense weight tied to his ankles. No one’s helping and all of them think they are. She’ll be okay, blurry faces inform him. She's recovering quickly. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Right. Of course. Why didn’t he think of that.
“She’s fucking lucky she didn’t end up brain dead”, Mute tells him, deadpan, serious. And says the one thing which actually absolves him, actually silences the demons in his mind if only for a brief moment: “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
He caught him after physical, hair damp and steam basically still coming off him – Mute showers last, always has, lingers on the grounds or strikes up conversations (and if that doesn’t raise any suspicion), and while Sledge would normally react with a bollocking to any squeamish behaviour, he recognises neuroses when he sees them and stopped bringing it up. Smoke is already fully dressed but forgot how to function for a heartbeat, frozen on the bench in the locker room and staring like there was anything to see on the tiled floor.
“Thanks”, he says and means it.
Being alone is one of the big factors, obviously, they would’ve parted and continued their miserable existence if others had been present, but if there had been anyone listening, Mute might’ve not approached him anyway. Hypotheticals aren’t worth his time though, and so all Smoke thinks about is how suddenly it happens. A switch. One press of a button. Like a steam train going full speed reversing directions at the drop of a hat. Remarkable how quickly both of them act given the circumstances, and then Smoke tastes the calciferous tap water on Mute’s tongue.
Like magnets.
Feelings don’t simply disappear by themselves, not when their source remains steadfastly in Smoke’s life no matter how much he wished it gone – burying is a temporary solution for someone as cowardly as him, when facing, accepting, changing isn’t an option. It works well enough, with well being a key word here as they all bubble back up at once, fill this well and call its formerly dry bottom lies. They’re a death sentence this time around, ripened like fruit, ripened the fastest when unobserved. They’re overwhelming and for now they feast on Mute’s tight grip, as if he actually missed all this.
Smoke has. God has he missed this.
His hands forgot what to do with a willing body now that he’s confronted with one again, and complaining about getting shoved against the lockers isn’t even on his list, not even as the last point. Gladly letting Mute take charge, he does the one thing which has gotten him into so much trouble numerous times yet he refuses to learn. He talks.
“Please.” It’s the most sincere word he’s uttered in the past week. “Please, Mark. Give me anything, anything at all. I’ll take it.”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t. He can’t. “Fuck me, please. I want this, I want you. Mark.”
Mute’s lips are disassembling him. He doesn’t seem to be listening but there’s a grin when Smoke tells him he likes having his hair pulled, and in an echo of the phrase which destroyed Smoke a while ago, it now fills him with sweetness: “I know. Shut up.”
Flailing, scrambling, doing everything out of order, and Smoke is astonished to notice he’s not the only one. There’s a finger inside him and none of their clothes undone, but on the other side Mute is grinding against his front and moaning like a whore. Smoke tried not to tarnish memories and started each wanking session with nondescript faces and generic body types, only to finish on something looking deceptively like Mute. This is all their best nights combined after a long break and he’s going to explode any second now.
The finger’s gone momentarily, then shoved into his mouth together with its neighbours and Mute bites down so hard on his shoulder Smoke has to gasp for air. The sting is bright and carries no pleasure, neither do the digits rummaging around his tongue like they’re hoping to find something, treasure maybe, yet as soon as they return to their rightful place between Smoke’s cheeks, he’s seeing stars. They’re rutting against each other like animals in heat and Smoke’s vision goes completely when desire jolts through him, mercilessly stroked to life by Mute’s fingers burrowing deep.
When he comes, he loses all control over his body like he never has before. Like a spring snapping back, he curls in on himself and headbutts Mute’s chest painfully, making noises of distress and ecstasy foreign to his ears, and then begins a very long, very slow slide downwards as he revels in shocks and aftershocks, gasping like a fish out of water. He ends on the floor with no recollection of getting there, head swimming and breathing hard.
He doesn’t want Mute looking at him like that. Pity is the last thing he needs and he’s ready to fight – but after a moment, it clicks that what he’s facing is smugness.
“Fuck off”, he mutters and lets Mute drag him back on his feet like he weighs nothing. They sometimes snogged after sex. Never like this. Never like it was deliberate.
Then he realises something else: Mute is sober. Stone-cold.
“You don’t know me.”
He knows the answer to this one. For once, he’s convinced of saying the right thing and if that isn’t a fantastic improvement: “I want to.”
“I’m kinda fucked up.”
Assuming he’s not the first one to get this speech, it explains Mute’s lack of partners. “Me too.” Confidence level on this is no more than sixty, maybe seventy percent, and it plummets when it harvests a scoff.
Still, Mute’s expression is soft and open and for the very first time, he’s actually listening. “That sounds like a horrible foundation.”
Oh.
“For what?”
A shake of the head is hardly an acceptable reply, not when he just -
“Mark. Foundation for what? To build what on? The fuck do you mean, talk to me. A foundation for what?”
He’s brilliant when he smiles. “Come by later, yeah? I wanna have you over.”
“Fucking wanker. Answer me.” He’s just ribbing him at this point and they’re both aware, how could they not when their frequencies are matching for once. The hand clenched in Smoke’s shirt lets go but physical distance is more of a precaution than necessity. They wouldn’t like being caught.
Still, Smoke’s fingers follow Mute’s and lock fingertips to bridge the gap. “I’m afraid I’m out of beer though”, Mute mumbles.
Mute only fucks him when he’s drunk. And since he won’t be today, Smoke expects they’ll be doing something different. If it’s anything like their sex, it’ll take them forever to figure it out, and maybe they’ll never manage. But he’ll be damned if he won’t try.