Reason to Believe

by brooklinegirl (witchbaby)

8/2001

NC-17


Situation normal, all fucked up. (Sequel to Lonely Too Long)


Sometimes the kisses are all it takes to steady me. All it takes to keep me sane. All the rest of it, everything, is madly out of control. By allowing myself to get lost in the kisses, I get to escape that, if only for a time.

Sometimes thatís enough.

But sometimes I need more. Is it getting lost or getting found? Sometimes it doesnít matter. What does matter is this: being alone together. Alone together, behind locked doors, and nothing, nothing outside that door matters at all.

Want and need, lost and found; all the lines blur. Doesnít matter, none of it matters. Sometimes what you have to do is to give yourself over to this and to hell with the consequences.

I need this. Need something. Something to hold me together. The kisses, Zekeís tongue hot in my mouth, arms firm around me, these are good things. These put me back on solid ground.

But I need more.

The kisses are soft and sweet. Good, but not enough. Not right now. Not nearly enough.

There is a sudden fierceness to the kissing. Need something, need it bad. Canít talk about it, canít put it into words. But that feeling inside, that one that takes good hold of you, shakes you and wonít let you go; the one that wounds you. That feeling where you donít know who you are, *what* you are; canít find yourself amidst the fucked-up nightmare that surrounds and penetrates and destroys you bit by precious bit.

Itís destroying me. Eating me up, eating me alive.

And what is there to save me but this? In the middle of hell, I found something real. Think itís real, pretty sure itís real. Need, so bad, to make it real, if thereís any chance it isnít. Need something. Need this. Need Zeke, need him to give. Give himself, give over, give in, give me something, *something*, to hang onto, or else Iíll spiral over and never come back. Become something not me. Become someone who doesnít care, canít care, as circumstances all around seem to be begging me not to care. Telling me itís wrong to care. Let it go; it donít mean nothiní. Lifer talk, something to get by on, blinders protecting you all along.

Fuck that. It means something. It sure as hell means something.

Canít do this, canít do this, canít just let it go. Shouldnít let it go, shouldnít ever let it go. For one fucking second in this miserable war, I want to let go the way I *should*. Release myself and let myself go here in this one place where thereís a fucking shred of hope. Do it. Just do it.

It started off as an easy kiss, trying to bring Myron back from the edge. Throw him a lifeline, give him something to hold onto.

It turned into something more, as these things tend to do.

One moment, they were standing there, kissing, tender and sweet, Myron just hanging onto Zeke for dear life. The next moment, and Zeke himself couldnít tell you quite how it happened, it had turned into one of those wild kisses. Hard and deep and Myronís tongue was thrusting into his mouth and Zeke was moaning, caught up in that kiss. Myronís arms tightened around him, fiercely, and it was more than just a kiss. The need and desperation fed into it, and Zeke was being pressed backwards.

The LT needed something here. Zeke gave way under Myronís intent pushing, and Myron let up not an inch, followed him back, never releasing his lips for even a moment. Both of them were gasping for air, lips tasting, gulping. Never letting go, always there, always touching, feeling, grounding. Zeke felt his back hit the wall and Myron was just about melting over him, into him, covering him with his body, pressing him back, hard back, against the wall.

Myron needed him to give. Needed him to surrender. Needed to push it all, push it to the brink, and needed to find Zeke still there at the end. Zeke could take it, could take any damn thing this boy had to offer. Could take it easy, and if this was what the lieutenant needed, he would give. Give it all over and give him what he needed. Let him know he was in charge here. That he could have it all. That it was his to take.

And it wasnít a front. Zeke was up against a wall, literally, and Myron simply wasnít letting up. Lips, hot and wet, searching him, scorching him, eating him alive. And Myronís hands were everywhere, holding Zeke against the wall and caressing at the same time, feeling him, exploring him, while Myronís hips pressed against his own. He could feel Myronís cock hard, so hard, against him.

Needed this. Needed this.

Who did? Myron? Or Zeke himself? Need built up heavy in the room and that was pushing them, too.

Good thing, the noisy air conditioner, the locked door. Damn good thing, because Zeke was moaning and wasnít sure he could stop. Somehow during all of this, Myron had gotten his hands between them. Swiftly and surely undone Zekeís pants and shoved them down roughly. And Zeke gasped out loud, bit back an oath, as Myron grasped hold of his cock. Ran his fingers up and down it, surely, proprietarily.

Zeke trembled. Myron pulled his lips away, but kept caressing him with his hand. Zeke opened his eyes to find Myron looking at him, hard and wanton, piercing, watching. Needing. Eyes flinty, but sure of something, at least.

Zeke felt owned. Knew just who he belonged to, who was in charge here. Shivered. Kind of liked the feeling of being owned.

Myron, still stroking his cock, just looked at him a moment longer. Zeke, shaking a little, overwhelmed, met his eyes. Myron paused. Then sank to his knees.

Zeke pressed his head back against the wall, stifled a groan, as Myronís mouth engulfed him in one swift movement. No hesitation. The hot, wet, closeness was overwhelming and, without volition, Zeke tried to thrust his hips forward. No quarter given there, as Myronís hands were planted firmly on Zekeís hips, holding them to the wall. He continued to run his lips, tongue, teeth, up and down the length of Zekeís cock. Steadily up and down, steady and sure and it was driving Zeke *crazy*.

Then one hand delved further. Myron stroked that sensitive spot behind his balls, then went further back. Slipped a finger inside. Deep. Zeke jerked, gasped, at the unexpected breach. Myronís finger worked back and forth. Found a rhythm. Found. . .oh lord. Found that spot.

Zekeís back arched and he couldnít breathe right. Another finger entered. Scissoring. Myronís mouth was all over him, and Zekeís hands were clenched in Myronís hair, and he heard little keening sounds coming from his own throat as he realized he was very quickly losing himself in this. It was all slickness and wet as Myron ran his tongue firmly up the underside of his cock, then circled the tip, slow, over and over again, before once again plunging down. And again. Again.

No quarter. No let up, just mouth and wet and movement and Zeke trying so hard to move his hips, get Myron to take him deeper, deeper still. His head was pressed hard back against the wall, and he was gasping for air. Myronís hands held fast to his hips, Myron himself on his knees in front of Zeke, on his knees and completely, utterly in control. Moving steadily, driving Zeke, and there was the edge, everything in him tight and ready. He heard himself gasping, "God, god, please, donít stop, I canít stop, god. . ." and he pressed his head back hard. Stars exploded in his head and he was coming, coming hard, and Myron was taking it all, swallowing again and again.

Myron was still holding onto his hips, which was good, since Zekeís knees practically gave way as Myron released him, slowly. Myron worked his way up deliberately, planting hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses over Zekeís body as he went, pushing Zekeís t-shirt out of the way, pushing it off his body, as he rose slowly from his knees.

Zeke still leaned, limp, against the wall. No question about who was in charge here. Myron tossed the shirt aside, captured Zekeís lips in a kiss. Pulled back and looked him in the eye.

The LT wasnít done yet. He turned Zeke, and pushed him back to sit on the bed. Knelt, once more. Removed Zekeís boots. Took off his own, too. Kissed Zeke quick and hard, pushing him to lie back on the bed, then pulled Zekeís pants the rest of the way off. Stood there for a moment. Just stood there and stared at Zeke with that smoldering gaze.

Zekeís breath was coming fast, still recovering, as he *felt* Myronís gaze trace its way down his body. Myron stood watching for several moments, just watching and breathing. Then he very slowly and deliberately took off his own shirt. Stood there in just his fatigue pants, and Zeke couldnít tear his eyes away. Who was in control here? Neither of them, maybe. Zeke was trying to think quickly, think more quickly than things were moving here, but that wasnít quite possible. All of this need, all of this frustration, all of this thwarted power, building up and spilling over and something, *something* had to give. Or everything else would break down entirely and thereíd be nothing left to trust in in the whole world. Not fair, not right.

No telling what was right here. Twists and turns, fuck-ups and screw-ups. Nothing left to save, nothing left to hold you together in one fucking piece. Youíre torn apart, shoved apart. Nothing, nothing is ever right, even a little bit right. There is no right choice, no one true way. Itís all wrong, every twist, every turn, every straight and narrow path leads to nothing but. . .nothing.

Not even an all-consuming wrong. Not even an answer as black and white as that. That would be too easy. That would make too much sense. Even a child could point out to you the difference between right and wrong. Not here. Not in Viet-fucking-Nam, unh-unh. Here you got no answers. No way, no how.

Need to find something here. Need to find something real, an anchor to hang onto. Find it, hold onto it, find yourself in it. ĎCause otherwise, youíre just lost. Lost. Donít want to be lost. Canít lose all this. Canít get lost in this. Find your base. Find your center, and hold on tight.

Prove it. Make it real.

One moment Myron was looking at him. The next he was on him. On Zeke and pushing against him with all he had, lips and tongue and hands and hips. Consuming Zeke, all passion and fire, with the overwhelming need almost palpable. The feel of Myronís hands, the taste in his mouth, all need and desperation. Nowhere left to turn.

So Zeke gave. Wasnít in him to lie back and let it happen, unh-unh, but he could give as good as he got, and that sort of giving helped, too. The struggle between them was building up, catching fire, and there was no stopping here. His hands tore at Myronís pants, and Myron hands were against his as they shoved the pants off. They were still pressed against each other, couldnít let go of that touch for even a moment.

Need something.

Need this.

Need you.

Hands imprinting that need into his skin. Lips searing, taking. All over him. Needing him. Zeke was responding in an earthy, primal way, couldnít stop himself, caught up in the desperation of it all. He went through it too. Saw it all. Felt it all. Lived through it, too many times to count, while everyone around him went away. Gone, gone, gone, and sometimes, wasnít it better to be gone than to live through another day of this? Wasnít it? Why did he keep fighting? Why did he keep doing it, keep sane? How did he do it?

Fighting still. Fighting now. Against Myronís pressing, needing body, against his aching, needing thrusting. Zeke didnít understand it, couldnít, but knew Myron needed. Needed something. Needed this. Needed this bad. Myron was yanking Zekeís legs up, up high, and Zeke was reveling in the pulling, aching pain. Wanted this. Needed this. Give over, give in. Trust. Something to trust. Something to fucking believe in. Had to believe. Had to give.

There was a pause. Wasnít a hesitation so much as a moment. A moment of Myron, desperate, sweating, aching need etched onto his face, wanting, needing, looking at Zeke. Making Zeke look at him.

Zeke met that hard gaze full on and pressed himself, moaning, against his LT. And Myron, never dropping his gaze, ever and always on Zekeís eyes, eyes desperate and needing, shoved into him, hard, not all the way, not at first (careful yet, careful even in this). Pressed in, gasping aloud himself, watching Zekeís eyes, watching Zeke flinch. Myron held back, rocking restlessly, till Zeke, hands on his ass, pulled him forward. Till Zeke narrowed his gaze and asked. Demanded. Finally, begged.

Control ebbed and flowed and who could tell the difference? Who was giving and who was taking?

Zeke arched his back, arched into the demanding, penetrating heat. And Myron slammed into him, hard, good, so good. Real and true and this, this giving and taking mixed together, this meant something, would always mean something. This was real.

This was real.

Donít let it go and donít you ever fucking forget it. This is real and no way, no how, am I ever letting you go.

No fucking way.

Not letting you go. Stay with me. Be with me. Be with me tonight. Need you as much as you need me. Need you. Need you. Christ. Canít live without you. Canít let you go. Give. Give. Give.

Here, now, amidst the mind-blowing fucking passion of it all, they were ingrained to be careful still. Sobbing moans into each otherís mouth, taking it inside themselves, swallowing it. Losing themselves, in each other. Giving and taking, and none of it, *none* of it easy. None of it easy at all.

But it meant something.

Myron slammed into him and stayed. Zeke met the thrust, felt the warm heat of Myronís orgasm pouring into him, through him, consuming him in its heat and he was lost. Gone, anyway, gone from this place, existing only in Myronís arms, and wasnít that enough? Couldnít that be enough? Please, God, couldnít that be enough, even for just a moment?

Wasnít it worth that much?

Wasnít it just?

Wasnít it?

So Iím crying here and canít seem to stop.

Zeke is taking it in stride, as he does almost everything. Holding me close, without a word. Strong and steady, always, and I need that. Need him. Steady and real and I need him.

Boys donít cry.

Right?

So why is this okay?

~end~


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