silenttrainbaby | More questions than answers (closed to Curtis 11/11)

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curtis

More questions than answers (closed to Curtis 11/11)

There were nights when he wasn't at Curtis's. The nights where Grey stayed at Rat's, he curled himself around Rat's smaller frame the cat slept with them, too, the smallest of the spoons.

When Grey wasn't there, there were times when he kept to himself on the sofa. But it's so quiet and he still didn't like too-wide spaces in the dark, when he was alone.

He wandered, then, listening at Yona's door, quiet, then Curtis's. Curtis who tossed and turned.

He padded in, the cat following at his heels, wearing just a pair of sweatpants and he knelt in from of Curtis, reaching out a hand to rest it on his shoulder, to still him.

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There was the softest groan, the pant of breath as Grey was filled. Then his ankles were hooked behind Curtis's hips. He slid his hands down that broad back, fingers digging into the meat of the muscle of his ass, and he used his heels to push, to get Curtis deeper.

It was an odd thing, to realize that he was nearly thirty five and had never fucked in a bed. Their bunks in the tail hardly counted, and his fumbling, teenage encounters had happened in cars and once, in a storage shed, hurried and giddily nervous, while they'd listened for nearby parents.

It was a struggle, keeping balance like this with his one arm. Frustrating, because he wanted that other hand to touch, to map out the skin beneath him.

Forehead resting against Grey's, Curtis rocked his hips, letting his brain shut down and his body take over.

That was how it was to be, wasn't it? Losing themselves in this, in the give and the take.

They share something more in Darrow too now, the newness of the intimacy this place allows. Grey matched Curtis's thrusts with his own. His breathing came harder, harsher.

Grey so rarely made any sound at all, that even those harsh breaths, the soft, aborted moans, seemed precious, somehow. Finding Grey's mouth with his own, Curtis kept up a pace that ensured he didn't have to think. Because it meant that he was free of them, for a little while. Their faces, people counting on him. People he'd gotten killed.

There was just Grey, this kid who'd been fucking handed to him. You go with Curtis, now...

His hips stuttered, thrusting harder, but his arm had begun to shake. "Fuck," he hissed, frustrated, and abruptly, he rolled them again, taking Grey with him as he sprawled on his back.

His own face flushed even under the olive complexion, Grey guided Curtis's hand - his one good hand - to his straining erection even as he moved, even as he rocked to take Curtis as deep as he could. Yes, please. Yes. Take. Give. Please.

Good.

Knees bent to give himself more leverage, he thrust up into Grey's willing body, eyes open and watching as Grey moved over him. He let Grey guide his hand, jerking him off in time with their bodies, wanting Grey to actually get something out of this, instead of just taking...

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he panted, and neither of them going to last much longer. Maybe that was for the best.

Grey whined, just a little, the heels of his hands digging into the muscle of Curtis's chest as he moved. The rhythm was going to hell; his movements jerky as he was close to coming. It was - he would -

His cock jerked in Curtis's hand, painting over his chest.

Curtis pulled him through it, his eyes dark as he watched Grey tense above him. Then, clutching at Grey's hip, he bucked into him once, twice, a third time, and then he came with a hoarse cry, his head thrown back and his face twisted as if in pain.

Even as his breathing slowed, as his heart stopped hammering in his chest, Grey stayed there, perched on Curtis's hips, still feeling him inside.

He leaned forward, chest to chest, running his fingers along the lines on Curtis's face, working to smooth them away.

Panting weakly, Curtis lifted his hand and pushed it through Grey's hair, allowing himself a few moments of afterglow. Of affection. He held Grey close, enjoying the weight of him, his lips finding Grey's in a sleepy, slightly off-center kiss.

It was nice. It was ... so nice. A kind of peace that Grey wasn't expecting with Curtis. Even though they were sticky when the kiss broke, he laid his cheek on Curtis's shoulder, content.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His hand slid down the length of Grey's spine, taking another moment of comfort, and giving a bit in return. But then, with a heavy sigh, he pinched at the bridge of his nose, as the implications of what they'd done began to weigh on him.

You go with Curtis, now...

There was a necessary shift: Grey needed to let Curtis slide free; he shivered at the loss, then just slid a little, angled so that his cheek was on Curtis's shoulder still, a leg thrown over a leg. They were sticky, then, messy. Maybe, though, they could take a shower, together.

He rested his hand over Curtis's heart.

"Grey..." he murmured, scrubbing his hand across his eyes, wishing he didn't enjoy the warmth of some else in his bed as much as he did. "I shouldn't have... Fuck. That shouldn't have happened. I shouldn't have let that fucking happen."

... what?

Lifting his head, Grey peered down at him in the dark, brow furrowed. It happened. Shouldn't have? Why?

"Don't. Don't look at me like that."

He shouldn't look at me the way he does...

"You know why." Heaving a sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut, but when they opened, he touched the side of Grey's face, fingertips grazing the younger man's cheek.

No. Grey didn't. Curtis understood the train, understood Grey's life. Now, they had this and Curtis was saying they shouldn't have?

But they did. He reached out, too, fingers on Curtis's jaw. Why? Tell him why.

"I got you fucking killed, Grey. We got you killed. You and Edgar and Tanya... It was all bullshit. I was bullshit," he said, his voice rough in the dark.

"Not to mention, don't you have a fucking boyfriend?"

The words were light slaps, sharp and stinging. Grey sat up, naked and sticky, to peer down at Curtis as he tried to take that in.

What was bullshit? The Rebellion?

Yes, he nodded, he had Rat, but when did that mean that this couldn't happen? In the train, most people slept with whoever. Curtis knew that.

Curtis sat up, shook his head, and took the fucking coward's way out. It would've been easy, the perfect time, to tell Grey what had happened in Wilford's chambers. But what fucking good would that do? Because who the hell even knew what was the truth, anymore.

"Forget it," he murmured, propping himself up against the pillows, with a sigh. Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed a pack of smokes and his lighter, his face flaring orange in the glow of the flame. After the first drag, cigarette stuck between his lips, he reached out and traced the spiral of words on Grey's ribs.

There was come drying on his own stomach. He'd need to get up and clean himself off. In a minute.

But...

Grey was confused. What was bullshit? Were they not going to fuck again? The touch made him shiver and move closer. Curtis... Tell him what to do. Grey would follow orders, always.

"If you're with someone, you need to lay out ground rules," he said, after a moment, "This isn't the train. People don't like to be fucked around on."

You couldn't be picky or possessive on the train. No one really had that luxury. Sure, there were a few that tried the traditional route, married couples who never strayed, but you never knew when the assholes in the front would come and split you apart. It just never seemed worth it.

"I'd rather not have Rat come at me with a knife, if I can help it."

If Rat came after Curtis, Grey would have to choose. He would choose Curtis because Curtis was from the Train.

He didn't like thinking about that.

Did that mean Curtis didn't want Grey? He caught the arm without the hand. Curtis?

The last thing Curtis wanted to do was make Grey choose between anyone. If it came down to it, he'd push Grey away, just to make sure that the kid didn't make a stupid choice like that one. They'd chosen to follow him, once, and look where that got them. Free of the train, but at what cost?

When Grey's hand curled around his arm, Curtis flinched. He'd avoided letting anyone touch that arm-- it still felt foreign, like it didn't belong to him anymore, even if he'd lost it doing the right thing.

How can I be a leader with two good arms?

The stump, just looking at it, reminded him of Gilliam. Reminded him of those first months on the train. Reminded him of Edgar, small and crying, and the weight of a knife in Curtis' hand.

"Don't you get it? You don't need to do this. Not to make me happy. You shouldn't be trying to make me happy. For Christ's sake, make yourself happy, for once."

This, though. This was what Grey was used to. This was what he knew. And in this place where he didn't know so much, there was a comfort in that.

Grey shifted, lying down again, next to Curtis, slipping under the handless arm so that it was around him. He rested his cheek on Curtis's shoulder again.

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manwiththeknife - 2014-12-07 04:52 (UTC) - Expand

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silenttrainbaby - 2014-12-07 15:45 (UTC) - Expand

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