Most nights weren’t like that. Most nights Spencer would let himself out of the house after fifteen minutes, cross the grass to Ryan’s door rather than walking on the path, because of all the footsteps in the world he never wanted to follow, those scuffs in the gravel under the moon were top of the list. He’d knock as he opened the door, but he’d always open it himself, without waiting—he couldn’t afford to stand outside where he might be seen, and…Ryan was often better off staying on the ground anyway. As long as he stayed still, he hurt less, so Spencer tried his best to let him stay still. Spencer would let himself in, and try not to let anything real show, make sure he never, ever let Ryan see how sick it made him, or how it made him want to run away. He’d fill a cup of water from the big bucket Ryan brought in in the morning, because Ryan would always be thirsty half an hour after Spencer came in. And then he’d place it down on the ground by Ryan’s side, and sit down on the ground in front of him, and let Ryan make the move to shift forward and curl into him, Spencer’s arms loose around his back, shaking against Spencer’s chest, breathing quietly into his shirt.
Ryan always did, after the first time, and Spencer always held him, just loosely, and always got him to drink some water after half an hour when he’d stopped shaking, and always sat in silence and listened, to the silence if Ryan didn’t want to talk. And every night, his traitorous, ridiculous body was interested. It was much worse the few nights that Ryan wanted to ‘try’ then and there, when Ryan kissed him frantically, shaking, flinching with every touch but keeping on going like his life depended on it, face tight and hard and devoid of anything close to pleasure or peace. It was worse those nights because kissing Ryan, with Ryan’s hands on his arms or his neck or in his hair, Spencer couldn’t help the way he reacted, couldn’t help getting half-hard, or worse, and the way he hated himself for that was eclipsed only by how scared stiff he was that Ryan might notice. It wasn’t normally that bad, there wasn’t usually ‘evidence’, but every night, with Ryan in his arms, Spencer wanted him. Not right at the start, not trembling and still damp from scrubbing himself clean, but as the night wore on, and Ryan stilled, and breathed a slow beat against Spencer’s heart, Spencer always wanted him, the parts of him that didn’t listen to reason or fairness or wrong and right, and he always walked silently back to the house some time after midnight wondering whether it was right of him to go down to comfort Ryan at all.
no subject
Most nights weren’t like that. Most nights Spencer would let himself out of the house after fifteen minutes, cross the grass to Ryan’s door rather than walking on the path, because of all the footsteps in the world he never wanted to follow, those scuffs in the gravel under the moon were top of the list. He’d knock as he opened the door, but he’d always open it himself, without waiting—he couldn’t afford to stand outside where he might be seen, and…Ryan was often better off staying on the ground anyway. As long as he stayed still, he hurt less, so Spencer tried his best to let him stay still. Spencer would let himself in, and try not to let anything real show, make sure he never, ever let Ryan see how sick it made him, or how it made him want to run away. He’d fill a cup of water from the big bucket Ryan brought in in the morning, because Ryan would always be thirsty half an hour after Spencer came in. And then he’d place it down on the ground by Ryan’s side, and sit down on the ground in front of him, and let Ryan make the move to shift forward and curl into him, Spencer’s arms loose around his back, shaking against Spencer’s chest, breathing quietly into his shirt.
Ryan always did, after the first time, and Spencer always held him, just loosely, and always got him to drink some water after half an hour when he’d stopped shaking, and always sat in silence and listened, to the silence if Ryan didn’t want to talk. And every night, his traitorous, ridiculous body was interested. It was much worse the few nights that Ryan wanted to ‘try’ then and there, when Ryan kissed him frantically, shaking, flinching with every touch but keeping on going like his life depended on it, face tight and hard and devoid of anything close to pleasure or peace. It was worse those nights because kissing Ryan, with Ryan’s hands on his arms or his neck or in his hair, Spencer couldn’t help the way he reacted, couldn’t help getting half-hard, or worse, and the way he hated himself for that was eclipsed only by how scared stiff he was that Ryan might notice. It wasn’t normally that bad, there wasn’t usually ‘evidence’, but every night, with Ryan in his arms, Spencer wanted him. Not right at the start, not trembling and still damp from scrubbing himself clean, but as the night wore on, and Ryan stilled, and breathed a slow beat against Spencer’s heart, Spencer always wanted him, the parts of him that didn’t listen to reason or fairness or wrong and right, and he always walked silently back to the house some time after midnight wondering whether it was right of him to go down to comfort Ryan at all.
(cont. next comment...)