by zerodignity

Cy fumbled with the lock, cursing animatedly to himself, fingers stiff and chapped in the early morning cold. It was nothing fancy, just a cheap pin-tumbler mechanism, more a formality than a lock, really. But he didn’t have the right tools for this, and he’d been up walking through the entire night, and the damp mountain air seeped cruelly through his too-thin clothing. He was fucking up. This was taking too long. 

At last, he felt the cylinder turn, and the bolt click, and he was awash with so much relief that he felt momentarily lightheaded. He opened the door, and stepped inside the cabin.

It was well-kept, sturdy, and comfortably furnished. Exactly as he’d hoped it would be, sizing it up from the long gravel drive setting it back from the road. Unheated, of course, since it was unoccupied at the moment — probably saw use mostly during the summer months — but already a few degrees warmer than outside. Good enough, at least, as a place to crash for a few hours.

Cy wandered through the space quietly, craning his neck to peer into each room in turn. The place was neat, not antiseptic. There were holes worn through the crocheted throw blankets draped over the back of the sofa and armchair, probably handed down from some relative, decades ago. State park brochures piled atop a living room shelf. Razor and half-tube of toothpaste on the edge of the bathroom sink. Nice kitchen, too: heavy-duty pots and pans strung up like trophies above a small island, knife block on the counter, well-stocked pantry

The point was, it felt lived-in. Personal. Someone’s little refuge in the woods.

It wasn’t Cy’s first time breaking into a stranger’s house. But he still hadn’t gotten over the feeling that there was something spooky about it, wandering through this accidental museum of a person’s life. This must be how ghosts felt, he thought, in all those haunted house stories. Intruding into someone’s private space, picking up and handling their shit, putting it down in the wrong spot so it wasn’t quite where they left it last. 

Not that he was trying to fuck with them — he was trying to be good, this time. He was trying to be careful, not to make a mess of things. But maybe the ghosts were trying, too.

He passed into the single bedroom. Sparser, less decorated than the rest of the house. Just a heavy wooden bedroom set, lamp, bookcases stocked with well-worn paperbacks. No sheets on the bed, but that was probably just as well. The couch would suit him fine. He’d feel less weird about it. 

He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, and noticed how especially haggard he looked amid these tidy, respectable surroundings. Face deeply lined and roughly shaven, hair unkempt and streaked with gray. His clothes hung loosely from his frame, oversized flannel and stiff jeans over a body too soft in some places, too lean in others. 

Some people came out of prison built, he knew. He’d never quite understood that. This was what he got instead, this other version of a convict’s body. A product of years of shitty food, make-work jobs, rough treatment. He had hoped it wouldn’t be quite so obvious on him, but it was. 

He turned away from the mirror, annoyed. This bullshit, at least, ghosts didn’t have to deal with.

He returned to the bathroom and tried the sink. It coughed, sputtered, poured rust-brown as the stale water cleared from the pipes. But within a minute or two it ran clear and steaming hot. For a moment he simply held his numb fingers there, letting the feeling return to them. Thanking whatever stroke of blind luck had blessed him with this place. Far enough out not to draw attention, close enough to civilization to still have hot running water.

His gaze strayed, involuntarily, to the tiled white shower stall, set into the wall behind a sliding door of transparent glass. He imagined stepping inside, letting the water engulf him, getting clean, getting warm.

It was a bad idea, he reminded himself. Bad to get comfortable, to put yourself in a position where you couldn’t fuck off at a moment’s notice. He’d been plenty careful, creeping up the drive while it was dark enough that no one would’ve seen him from the road. There were no neighbors out here, no real risk of being spotted through the windows. And he was pretty sure — like ninety-nine percent sure — that the cops hadn’t followed him up here, three days out from the prison, a state line and a couple hundred miles of highway between him and them. 

Still, he had rules about these things for a reason. Stick to the sofa and one of those throw blankets. Sleep until evening. Maybe scrounge around and grab anything light enough to carry with you. Then get out. 

That was the smart play. That was exactly what he would do.

He stood before the sink a while longer, rotating his hands under the water. Finally he shut it off, and stripped out of his clothes, and climbed into the shower.

The instant the hot water hit his bare flesh, he gasped aloud, and all his remaining doubts evaporated. Of course this was a good idea. He would warm up faster like this, and sleep better afterward. Maybe even look a little less terrible, less like a fugitive, once he was cleaned up. It would be stupid not to do it. 

He stood utterly still for a few minutes, letting the water reach his scalp, run down across his cold and aching limbs, warm him through to his core.

It was the third morning since he’d broken past the prison’s outer fence and made his run for it, the first that he’d had an actual shower. Three days of dozing here and there during hitched rides, sponging down in gas station restrooms, eating, on the whole, very little. 

He wasn’t in the clear, just yet. There were still too many ways for him to get picked up while living this way. Vagrancy, or trespassing, or shoplifting, and then they’d run his prints and it would all be over. But so far he had moved fast, stayed quiet, and gotten lucky. A couple hours’ head start before anyone would’ve realized he was gone. A trucker who’d been willing to take him close to two hundred miles that first day without too many questions. Street clothes lifted from an unattended truck stop discount rack, then a stolen ride, shivering in the back of someone’s flatbed. Finally getting paranoid about sticking too much to the main roads, and deciding to risk this lonely byway up into the mountains on foot. 

Now he’d made it here, to this little nowhere place, to this perfect empty house in the woods. And he suddenly didn’t feel quite so much like a cornered animal as he had the day before.

He picked up a half-empty bottle of shampoo from the shower’s ledge and studied it. Something herbal-smelling but not sweet, pleasant, tingly. He took a small amount and worked it into his hair, then scrubbed the rest of himself down as well. Taking his time with it, reveling in the luxury of it. The percussive tap of the water against the back of his neck and shoulders, almost as soothing as a human touch. The soapy aroma, reminiscent of being pressed close against a masculine body.

He felt his muscles loosen as he washed himself, shivers of pleasure lighting across the surface of his skin, a building ache in his groin. He was already half-hard, he noticed, his body evidently seizing on this windfall of time and safety and privacy to remind him that it had been too long since he’d been able to take care of himself properly. He ran a hand experimentally over his cock, and stifled a moan. 

Okay, he thought. This was a bad idea. A line he definitely shouldn’t cross. A pretty simple fucking rule: Don’t jerk off in a stranger’s house.

But what was he supposed to do about it, exactly? It wasn’t like there were a lot of other good places for it. The woods, somewhere out in the open, would hardly be better. A public restroom was a sure way to land yourself in trouble. At least here he could easily clean up after himself. Could maybe even afford to enjoy himself, a little.

He braced his left arm against the wall of the shower while taking a firmer grip of himself with his right. He stroked himself in a gentle rhythm, letting the pleasure build slowly from the backs of his thighs and through the pit of his stomach. Coaxing himself to his full hardness, letting his mind sink into a warm, floaty haze. 

He could barely remember when he had last had the desire to go slowly like this, even less the opportunity. Most of his sex in recent years had been a matter of convenience, or a currency of exchange, or some combination of the two. It felt like another sort of unearned luxury just to fantasize a bit. To think about the sex he wanted. Large hands gripping him from behind, pulling him into position. Or a hand tightening through his hair, not too rough, but firm and demanding. Or a low voice in his ear, telling him how he should ask for it —

“Fuck,” he murmured, accelerating his pace. “Please. Fuck.”

He buried his face against his arm, eyes squeezed shut, and let his hand mimic a rhythm of giving and denial. Bringing himself close to release and then pulling back. Dragging a thumb over the tip of his cock and spreading its moisture lightly down its underside, like a tongue. Swiping his hand across his belly, thighs, brushing the full length of his erection, like a partner who wanted to make it last, to enjoy every inch of him.

He pumped himself slow, so slow that it almost wasn’t enough, sobbing out a series of small moans. He imagined the warmth of a body heavy against his back and thighs, imagined someone else’s cock pressed up against the deepest part of him. Imagined them holding him still and steady, keeping him there at his apex of need. Making him squirm and beg for it. 

“Please,” he breathed, “fuck me — please,” and came, spilling out over his hand in three deep, knee-shaking contractions.

He stood hunched forward like that for several long seconds, catching his breath, allowing the hot water to beat down on him and drain all remaining energy from his body. Then he opened his eyes, and caught sight of the figure of a man standing in the bathroom doorway. He nearly fell backward in terror, releasing a choked sound of alarm.

“Who the hell are you?” the man said at last. His voice was not loud, but low, tense, bewildered. There was a beat of silence before he seemed to recognize the pointlessness of the question, and asked instead, “You broke in through my front door?”

He was staring at Cy much too directly. Scrutinizing him, as if he might somehow recognize him, or read some sort of useable information from his naked body. But then he appeared to catch himself, and averted his eyes in embarrassment.

Cy struggled to find his voice, burning in humiliation and fear. Caught out, cornered, arms clenched protectively around himself. Mind looping with variations on the theme of oh no, oh fuck, you fucked up, you fucked up bad.

“Yeah,” he answered helplessly, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the running water.

“Did you take anything?” the man asked. No particular threat behind his tone, as if he asked purely for information, purely out of curiosity.

“Not yet,” Cy answered, before his mind could catch up with him. Dumbass, it pointed out. Fucking clown.

The stranger shifted his gaze up toward him again, and Cy thought for a moment there might even be a trace of amusement in the slight squint of his expression. Then he turned his head away, fixing his eyes toward the corner of the room, and said, “I didn’t see a car out front. You walk all the way up here?”

It occurred to Cy suddenly that the man was looking away for his benefit. That he was trying, somehow, to be polite. Trying to respect his privacy. A bubble of half-hysterical laughter threatened to burst out of him at the thought. He choked it back, and stammered, “Yeah, I just — just needed a place to get warm for a couple of hours.”

The man seemed to consider this. “You didn’t bring a weapon, or anything?”

“No. Just this,” Cy said tightly, nodding toward his discarded clothes strewn on the bathroom floor. “And, uh, one of the pockets has what I used to get in your door. Metal, not very big.”

The man leaned forward and nudged tentatively through the pile of clothes with the toe of his boot. Then he seemed satisfied, and straightened. “I was about to make breakfast,” he said. “But when I cook for people, I like having help in the kitchen. You finish up in here, and come out, and you can give me a hand. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Cy answered automatically. Mind still racing to understand what the fuck was happening. What the fuck he was meant to do about it.

The man nodded. Then added, “There’s a towel on the rack, if you need one.” He turned from the door, and pulled it gently shut behind him.

“What the fuck,” Cy moaned to himself, burying his face miserably in his hands. He washed the remaining traces of ejaculate from his belly and groin, then knelt guiltily to scrub the floor of the shower. Prayed that the guy couldn’t have seen that much from where he was standing. But how fucking long had he been standing there, anyway?

He turned off the water, toweled himself down, and pulled on his clothes. Paused before opening the door, trying to catch his breath. 

It didn’t sound like the guy was planning to call the cops. It sounded like he assumed that Cy was homeless. Or, only homeless, and not also the other thing. You still had to be careful with that, with these Good Samaritan types, people who thought they were helping. They could turn on you fast if things didn’t go the way they wanted. But maybe, somehow, it was going to be okay. Maybe he could still get out of this safe. 

You dumb, dumb, lucky fuck, Cy thought bitterly, smoothing down his damp hair and stepping out of the bathroom.

The man stood behind the stove, arranging slabs of bacon in a cast iron skillet, flanked by grocery bags and a large cooler on the countertop next to him. Just inside the front door lay his luggage, not yet unpacked. Duffels, tackle box, fishing poles.

Cy took a moment to get a decent look at him. More gray than not, bearded, broad across the chest and belly, dressed in a soft blue sweater and brown twill pants. Put-together, Cy thought, but comfortable. He hadn’t made any particular effort to envision what the owner of this place might look like, but it seemed to fit.

As he approached, the man glanced up, and seemed to take a beat to make a similar accounting of him, eyes passing from his damp hair, to his stubbled face and neck, down to his somewhat grimy, ill-fitting clothes. His gaze hung there a little too long, and Cy had a brief, queasy notion that he was being read. Seen through, as if every one of the unpleasant facts about his life were written plainly across him. But after a few seconds the guy just dropped his gaze, turning his attention back to the counter in front of him.

“I’m thinking bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, pancakes, coffee,” he said, pulling items from the grocery bags as he listed. “You have any dietary restrictions, anything like that?”

“No,” Cy answered cautiously. Relieved that the man sounded so calm about the situation, and realizing with a jolt of awareness just how hungry he was.

“I didn’t bring anything special for the pancakes,” the man went on, “so I was thinking you could get us some blackberries while I get started in here.” He reached out a plastic bowl in Cy’s direction, then added, “Can I get your name?”

“Yeah. It’s Cy,” Cy answered. No point in lying about that, he decided. Either he was fucked, or he wasn’t. Giving out his name wasn’t going to change that. 

Besides, he’d tried out fake names, fake identities, once or twice in the past, and it hadn’t gone well. In all his long years, the most important lesson he had learned about himself was this: that he was a dipshit first and foremost. Overestimating his own cleverness was the surest way to land himself in trouble.

The man nodded. “I’m Hadden. Not my first name, but it’s what most people call me. Anyway, there should still be plenty of berries in the bushes outside, you’ll just have to look for ones the birds haven’t gotten to yet. You good with that?”

Cy hesitated, eyeing warily the bowl in Hadden’s outstretched hand. “How will I know which ones are right?”

“You know what a blackberry looks like, don’t you?” Hadden asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, um. More or less.”

“Well, there aren’t any poison ones that look like that. Size doesn’t matter, just go for the ones that are all black, not red.” The corner of his mouth turned up into a slight, amused smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”

Cy knew that he definitely should not be reassured by that. But he was.

The air outside was already warmer than it had been just an hour earlier, and he found that if he stuck to the spots where the sun filtered down through the branches, it was actually quite pleasant. He circled the clearing around the cabin and eventually found them, dense brambly bushes near the edge of the woods, dripping with shiny dark berries. He pulled a small one off and tasted it. It was sweet, and firm, and tasted like a blackberry.

He realized that if he wanted to run, now was the time to do it. He was out clean. He could disappear into the woods. Even if the guy decided to call the cops on him after that, they would have a hell of a time finding him out there.

But then what? He still hadn’t slept, and hadn’t really had the time or presence of mind to think much past that immediate goal. He was living minute-to-minute, and the idea of a future further ahead of him than the next few hours seemed almost unimaginable. Maybe, if all had gone to plan, he would’ve left the cabin that evening, worked his way down to the highway on the other side of the mountains overnight, and hitched a ride further out. But he was hardly up for a long hike through the woods right now, and heading toward the highway in daylight would be too risky in any case. 

And another thing: he would, eventually, need to eat. This guy — Hadden — if he wasn’t just fucking with him — he was offering a real meal. Not like the shit they fed you at the prison. Not like a candy bar lifted from a gas station checkout, or whatever he could scrounge from the pantry of an empty house. Real food.

Another rule, probably, that he should add to his mental list: When you get caught breaking into someone’s house, you don’t fucking stay for breakfast after. But, at least it wouldn’t be the dumbest decision he’d made today.

It took him fifteen minutes or so of hunting. He scraped his knuckles a few times before he learned to watch out for the thorns. But it was true that there were more than enough berries once he knew where to look for them, and he fell into a quiet rhythm, pulling them from the branch with a faint pop and dropping them in the plastic bowl.

When he stepped back inside the cabin, he was nearly knocked flat by the smells of frying bacon, and coffee sputtering through the filter, and a fresh onion that Hadden was chopping with a large, heavy chef’s knife.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, in awe. He stopped in his tracks, taking a moment just to breathe it all in.

Hadden glanced up at him with a pleased twist of his mouth, evidently taking the remark in the spirit intended. He leaned forward to give the bowl of blackberries an appraising look. “Looks pretty good,” he said with a satisfied nod, and Cy felt a strange, unwarranted swell of warmth in his chest, to have earned that shred of approval. “Go ahead and grab your coffee, then I have another job for you.”

 

He waited for Cy to fill a mug with steaming black coffee, then pushed a cutting board toward him across the kitchen island, a small paring knife and four good-sized potatoes laid atop it. “Peel, and then dice,” he instructed. “We want them pretty much the same size, so they cook even. About like this.” 

He whipped his knife rapidly around one of the potatoes to separate the peel from the flesh, then sliced off layers and chopped them first one way, then the other, to produce a series of near-identical creamy white cubes, each a bit smaller than a dime. He held one up to Cy to demonstrate.

Cy watched him with growing dismay. “I can tell you right now mine aren’t gonna look anything like that,” he said with a frown.

Hadden let out a brief laugh. “You’ll get it. Just take your time. Doesn’t have to be perfect, just make sure they’re not much bigger than that.”

Cy sat on a stool beside the kitchen island, picked up the paring knife doubtfully, and set to work. It took him a few tries to get the angle of the blade just right to take off the peel, and even then he left the surface all pitted and gouged. Finally he moved on to chopping what remained into cubes, but his strokes were clumsy and uncertain, in contrast with Hadden’s smooth and confident ones. Still feeling out the weight and resistance and drag of the knife.

It struck him suddenly that Hadden must be even more trusting than he’d thought, to hand over a knife to the stranger who had just broken into his house. But it could be, Cy decided, that he took comfort in his own, larger chef’s knife, still laid out beside him on the countertop. Or in the heavy skillet full of hot grease, from which he was presently pulling crisp strips of bacon. Or in the countless other objects in this kitchen, which he seemed to have mastery over in a way that Cy didn’t, and probably never would.

That’s true, Cy thought brightly, almost relieved. There’s probably a dozen different ways he could kick my ass in here.

But why the fuck did that thought make him feel so cheerful?

Hadden sprinkled some sugar over the berries, tossing them with a few flicks of his wrist, then pulled down a large glass bowl from a cabinet and began to scoop into it quantities of flour, sugar, baking powder, salt. Cy occasionally glanced up to watch him with interest before returning to his personal wrestling match with the potato. 

It was quiet for a good long while, apart from the sizzling in the pan and the clink of their utensils. Cy began to wonder if Hadden was keeping purposefully silent. Avoiding asking too many questions. Not interrogating him on who he was and what he was doing here, even though it would have been a perfectly natural thing to do, under the circumstances.

He was being, Cy thought with a pang of guilt, considerate. Careful with him, for some reason. As if Cy’s comfort in this situation could possibly matter.

“I didn’t think anyone would be up here, this late in the year,” Cy said eventually, hoping it sounded at least a bit like an apology. “Thought it would be too cold for fishing this high up.”

Hadden tilted his head equivocally, not looking up from what he was doing. “You know much about fishing?”

“No,” Cy replied.

“Well, you’re not completely wrong,” Hadden said with a faint grin. “But I like coming up here anyway, even when the fishing’s bad. So I guess you just got unlucky.”

Cy’s eyes caught on that grin. It had made an appearance a few times already, and each time he’d had to struggle to pull his attention away from it. That oddly delicate, almost feminine curve of a mouth, buried amid the masculine expanse of Hadden’s beard. 

Cy had a dim memory of when he was little, and his class went on a field trip to an old pioneer village, and there had been an authentic bow and arrow that they let the kids shoot at a target. He remembered the powerful impression it had made on him: the tight bracing of the wood under his hands, the rapid thwip when he let go, viscerally satisfying even when his arrow only made it a couple of yards in front of him. 

Anyway, he thought, this guy’s mouth was like that. A taut curve bending with each new expression, then snapping back into place like a released bowstring.

Hadden had lifted his head from his work. Was noticing, probably, that Cy had been staring at him, eyeing his mouth, for much longer than was strictly polite. 

But it wasn’t like that, Cy wanted to explain, as he averted his eyes in embarrassment and returned to his work on the potato. Sure, it’d been a long time since he’d had his dick sucked, and it’s not like he would turn it down if offered. But that wasn’t what he was thinking of at all. Nothing like that, nothing sexual. 

More like — he just had this nonsensical urge to put his hand there. To reach out and run his fingers over that mouth. To feel out its shape, its stretch and softness. Prod at it, maybe push inside just a little. Dip his index finger along the warm inner surface of that curved bottom lip —

Okay, he admitted, pushing down the thought, shifting in his seat uneasily as he felt the early stirrings of another erection. Maybe it was a little sexual.

“Do you always come up here alone?” he asked, mostly to distract himself. Thinking of that single razor set out beside the sink, the masculine smell of the soaps in the shower. Then he realized how it might sound coming from him — prying, predatory, the kind of thing a murderer might use for small talk — and mumbled quickly, “I mean — you don’t have to answer that.”

“Pretty much always,” Hadden replied neutrally, brushing past his last remark. “I only got this place after my divorce. Figured it was worth it, settling for a shitty apartment back home, if that meant I could afford to come up here on my time off.” He shrugged. “The area empties out pretty good this time of year. And the quiet is part of the draw.” He paused and glanced up curiously at Cy. “How about you? You have family around here?” Then dipped his head and added, “You don’t have to answer that, either.”

“No one around here,” Cy answered promptly. “And I don’t really talk to my family anymore.” Might as well be honest, he thought, as far as that would take him. Normal people talked about this kind of shit, right? And the truth was, he kind of wanted to, anyway. “My folks are still alive,” he went on, “but I haven’t seen them in years. I think my sister takes care of them, mostly.”

Hadden did not respond. He was mixing the pancake batter now with a few sharp, quick strokes, bowl cradled under one arm. It threw out new aromas into the kitchen, cinnamon and vanilla and raw flour. He set the bowl to one side, started heating a second thin, flat pan on the stovetop, then moved back to the skillet filled with bacon grease and dropped in the diced onion. It immediately began to sizzle and brown, releasing a heavy savory smell.

“How’s it coming along over there?” he asked Cy. “We’re about ready for those potatoes.”

“Um. Well fuck,” Cy answered, surveying his single mangled potato on the cutting board, and the two others, untouched, still beside it.

“I’ll peel, you focus on chopping,” Hadden told him matter-of-factly, sweeping up the remaining two. “You’re really not doing bad at all. It takes some practice to get the hang of it. But the important thing is, you got all the pieces more or less the same size.” 

He paused to pick up one of Cy’s irregular bits of chopped potato, and held it up next to his own neat little cube from earlier.

“See?” he said. “That’s good.” Then added, voice dropping low with interest, and a curious open-ended lilt to it, as though he hadn’t meant to say it, or wanted to say more: “You’re good at following instructions.”

Cy said nothing, only fixed his gaze on the cutting board in front of him. Tried to shut down the part of his brain that lit up at that statement, that flushed his face and quickened his pulse in response. That very much wanted Hadden to say it to him again, maybe while cradling the back of his head and pushing his cock down his throat.

He tried to listen, instead, to that other part of his brain — the smart one. The one capable of pattern recognition, and self-preservation, and remembering things for longer than five minutes at a time. The one that said: You broke into his house, dipshit. Do not get your wires crossed on this.

They eventually finished their work on the potatoes, more through Hadden’s efforts than Cy’s. Hadden scraped them into the skillet alongside the onions, seasoned them generously with salt and pepper, then turned to ladling pancake batter into the other heated pan. He offered no further instructions for the time being, simply allowing Cy to sit and drink his coffee in silence. And Cy found he was a little disappointed by that.

“Anything else you want from me?” he piped up, unable to restrain himself.

“Uh. Sure,” Hadden answered with another approving flash of his eyes in Cy’s direction. “I’ll need to get started on the eggs in a minute. Think you can hold down flipping pancakes while I do?”

Cy stood and walked over to the stove, assessing the half-cooked pancake there attentively. Steam rose copiously from it, little pockets of air breaking over its surface. He picked up the flat spatula from the counter, then glanced over at Hadden. “Okay,” he said expectantly. “What do I do?”

Hadden leaned in a little to get a better look. Cy was acutely aware of how close he was standing now, closer than he had been all morning, nearly brushing up against him. He smelled good, that same spicy-herbal smell of his soap in the shower. His beard was thick and dark despite the gray, and there was a certain tender patch of skin at the base of his jaw, just below his ear, where it didn’t quite reach. And his arms and shoulders looked even thicker and heavier up close, like he could really pin you down if he wanted—

For the love of Christ, Cy begged himself. Stop.

“It should only take a few minutes on each side,” Hadden said, after a pause. “But really you’re not counting, you’re going by looks. You want to wait until it looks kind of dry on top. You’re going to slide your spatula underneath, jiggle it gently. If it’s done, it shouldn’t stick much. Then flip it. Just one quick motion.”

Cy focused. It was easier, somehow, when Hadden was talking. Giving direction, calm and confident, forcing Cy’s attention back to the task in front of him. He watched the pancake for a while longer, until it looked like the damp sheen was gone from its surface. “Now?” he asked.

Hadden shrugged. “Give it a shot.”

Cy pressed the spatula underneath, found with satisfaction that it released easily from the pan. He lifted, balanced it for a moment, then flipped it back down, exposing a smooth, tawny brown surface, with a lacy crispness around its edges.

“Gorgeous,” Hadden murmured warmly, and it sounded so good coming from his lips, sent such a jolt of electricity through Cy’s gut, that he almost thought Hadden must be doing it on purpose. But Hadden was already turning away, already letting the space open between them once more, as he moved back to the other burner to tend to the potatoes. “Looks like you’ve got that pretty well covered. Shouldn’t be too much longer now, and we’ll be ready to eat.”

Cy continued as he’d been shown, scooping batter into the pan, rotating it slightly to help it spread, flipping when it was time. Hadden turned over the potatoes, and Cy could see that they had turned a dark golden brown as well, glistening and fragrant in the bacon grease. Hadden cleared some space beside them with the back of a spoon, then cracked two eggs directly over the top, letting them sizzle as they struck the heat of the skillet. 

Cy flipped his final pancake out onto the serving dish, and compared it to the ones Hadden had made. Not too far off, he decided — fluffy, evenly colored, just shy of round in shape. “Done,” he declared, unable to restrain a note of satisfaction in his voice.

“Alright then,” Hadden nodded. “Plates.” He pulled two down from a cupboard, and piled each one with a heaping serving of fried potatoes and onions. Three slices of bacon. A fried egg, whites firm, center gelatinous and golden. Then, last, a pancake, buttered, topped with the blackberries, which seemed to have loosened and melted a bit in the sugar, swimming in a deep violet syrup. 

“Goddamn,” Cy murmured reverently. He seated himself at the kitchen island and began to fork the food eagerly into his mouth. “Goddamn… amazing.”

“Appreciate the help,” Hadden replied with a mild nod of acknowledgement. “It goes a lot smoother with an extra set of hands.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Cy soon began to feel full, and warm, and comfortable in a way he had not in a long time. Safe, almost. But if there was another thing he had learned about himself, it was that he was incapable of keeping his fucking mouth shut. Even when he definitely should. Even when there was nothing to be gained by opening it. So eventually he gave in, and broke the silence.

“Not to sound ungrateful,” he began tentatively, glancing up in Hadden’s direction. “But, just wondering: why exactly are you doing all this for me?” Hadden reacted with a little squint of discomfort, and Cy hastened to correct himself. “I just mean, most people wouldn’t have let me stay for breakfast.”

Hadden gave a noncommittal shrug. “I like cooking,” he said. “And cooking is much nicer with two people than one.”

“But you could’ve called the cops on me for breaking in here,” Cy pressed on. “Or, beat the shit out of me, or something. But you didn’t.”

He knew it was a stupid thing to say. An unnecessary risk. Much safer just to leave it the hell alone, to let this guy’s reasons be his own. But he was starting to get an anxious, fluttery sensation in his chest. An instinct that things should not stay this good for this long. That there was another shoe, somewhere, waiting to drop. 

Because if there wasn’t, then why the fuck would anyone be this nice to him?

Hadden looked at him in surprise, and seemed to take a minute to find the words he wanted to say. Mouth drooping into a frown, uncharacteristically ill at ease. “I don’t know,” he answered eventually. “You said you broke in because you needed to get warm. You haven’t really done anything I wouldn’t have done in your place. Just figured if I were in your position, I’d want someone to be understanding.”

My position, Cy thought, with a wince. So that was it. Hadden was making some overly generous assumptions, maybe, about what exactly his position was. About the kind of person he was, and the particular sequence of events that had landed him here.

“That’s nice,” Cy replied, looking away and taking a swallow of his coffee. “And there are probably some folks who deserve that. Don’t know that I’m one of them, though.”

He saw that Hadden was looking directly at him, as if examining him closely. Reading him, again. Making, at the very least, some educated guesses. 

Dumb shit thing to say, Cy thought. Sounds like a confession. It sounded that way, because that’s exactly what it was.

“Can’t think of many people who don’t deserve to eat when they’re hungry,” Hadden replied eventually. “And” — he paused — “I get the sense that maybe you deserve more than you think.”

Cy only looked at him in confusion, then dropped his eyes, and said nothing.

They finished their breakfast and cleared away the dishes together. It was nice, Cy thought. Nice in a way it shouldn’t be. To feel useful. To simply enjoy Hadden’s company, to relax into his mood of comfort and ease, which Cy’s presence somehow, inexplicably, had not ruined.

But with his belly weighed full of warm food, he felt himself flagging. The exhaustion of his long sleepless trek up the mountain road the night before was beginning to catch up with him. As he dried and stowed the last of the dishes, nearly swaying on his feet, Hadden shot him a look of concern.

“Seems like you could use some rest,” Hadden said. “How about you lie down on the couch for a bit, while I get unpacked? Then I can give you a ride to wherever you’re headed next.”

Cy was silent for a moment. He knew that the smart move would be to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Before he had a chance to say or do anything else stupid. Before he dug himself any deeper into… whatever this was. Playing house. Pretending this was something it wasn’t. Letting himself want things he shouldn’t want, and couldn’t have. 

But he was too tired to do the smart thing. So instead he just said, “Yeah. Okay.”

Hadden disappeared into the bedroom, and returned with a pillow, sheet, and extra blanket. He stood watching as Cy began to settle in on the sofa. There was that strained look on him again, Cy noted, brows lowered, the animated curve of his mouth set in a slight frown.

“What is it?” Cy asked, catching his eye.

“Do you — uh — want to borrow some sweats, or something?” Hadden mumbled awkwardly. “Probably be too big on you, but it’ll be more comfortable to sleep in.”

Cy blinked in surprise. “I don’t want to take your clothes,” he lied.

“Yeah,” Hadden nodded, for some reason seeming uneasy, not looking at him. “Sure. Up to you.” He turned away, then added, “I’ll put some out, just in case you change your mind.”

He came back a few moments later and laid the neat stack of clothes on the arm of the sofa. Then returned to his bags to finish unpacking in silence. 

Cy was still for the space of a few heartbeats. Trying to unwind the tangled threads of the situation. To suss out the possible dangers here. It was too intimate, yeah? Wearing another guy’s pajamas. It felt like it meant something, possibly more than Hadden intended it to. Another line that Cy definitely shouldn’t cross.

Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t like the idea. Even apart from the question of comfort, apart from his very real desire to be out of his days-old dirty clothes, the fact was that he liked letting Hadden do nice things for him. Because Hadden made him feel —

Made him feel what, exactly? 

Like he was being cared for. Like he was worth caring for.

There it was, he thought. That needy, sappy feeling that had been catching him off guard all morning, keeping him on his back foot. Better to admit it to himself, at least. Better to be honest about it. As long as he knew what kind of stupid he was being, it would be much easier to keep himself safe.

What he didn’t understand, still, was what Hadden was getting out of all this. Cy hadn’t seen any sign, yet, that he was planning to ask for anything in return. But you could never be sure. And, maybe the biggest danger was that if Hadden did ask for something, Cy would find himself all too eager to give it.

He picked up the stack of Hadden’s clothes, and took them to the bathroom to change. Held them up in front of the mirror and studied them — white crew neck t-shirt, grey sweatpants, even a fresh pair of boxers. Cy stared at them dumbly, then lifted them to his face and inhaled. Clean, soft, smelling of detergent. His things. For some reason it made him ache inside, like a lovesick teenager.

Do not get hung up like this, he warned himself. He’s being nice, and you need to be smart. Just be smart, for once, please.

He stripped out of his own clothes and pulled Hadden’s on in their place. Loose on his smaller frame, but comfortable, softer than anything that had touched his skin for a long time. He took a small squeeze of toothpaste from the tube on the sink, and washed out his mouth, and felt truly clean for the first time in days. 

Hadden said nothing as he passed on his way back to the sofa. Seemed to avoid looking at him, for some reason. And Cy didn’t say anything either. He only laid down, pulled the blanket up across his shoulders, and closed his eyes. Listened idly to Hadden’s shuffling movements between the door and the bedroom as he unpacked his things. Those oddly comforting little domestic noises, the sounds of sharing space with another person. 

Within minutes, Cy was asleep.

When he woke again, it was dark. There was a sound of rain pelting against the roof and windows. He sat upright, disoriented, kneading his eyes with his hand. It took him a solid minute to remember where he was, what day it was, what was happening in his life, whether he needed to be ready to fight or run. But he felt the brush of clean sheets and soft clothes, smelled Hadden’s soap and detergent on his own skin, and remembered. Things were okay, for now. He was safe.

He pushed himself upright and walked blearily over to the kitchen, muscles stiff and sore from the previous night’s hike. A light was on, and Hadden sat on a stool behind the kitchen island, reading one of his thick, beat-up paperbacks. Would’ve been more comfortable in the chair in the living room, Cy thought. But it seemed Hadden was being considerate, again. Giving Cy his space. Respecting his privacy.

“Fuck,” Cy muttered in confusion. “What time is it?”

“Around nine,” Hadden answered. Then glanced over at Cy’s vacant expression, made a judgment, and added, “P.M.”

“What the fuck,” Cy said, passing his hand over his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sleep for so long.”

“It’s okay,” Hadden said gently. “You looked like you needed it. And —”

He paused. Cy noticed that he was watching him again, with that same peculiar intensity. Like he was seeing more than he said. Like he wanted to say something else.

“What?” Cy asked. “What is it?”

“Well,” Hadden began, shifting his gaze away, “I was planning to give you a ride somewhere. But I’m guessing you don’t really have anyplace to stay for the night.”

Cy shrugged. “If you can get me as far as the highway, I can catch a ride there.”

“In this rain? No.” Hadden shook his head adamantly. “I’m not about to dump you by the side of the road and hope someone picks you up before you freeze.” 

Cy caught the particular note of insistence in his voice. That hint of protectiveness, which sent a buzzing wave of warmth through him. But he also had begun to piece together a guess as to what all this was about.

This is how he’s working up to it, he thought. He’ll eventually get around to offering to let me stay the night. And in return I’ll offer to let him fuck me. And then we’ll be square. 

He was overcome with relief, because this at least made sense. This was a bargain he had made before, a dance whose steps he knew well. Hadden had taken longer than most to lead up to it, true. But if he wanted to add in good home-cooked food and clean clothes and kindness to the equation, Cy could hardly object to that. 

And Cy had no complaints, either, about his end of the bargain. A warm friendly fuck, from this warm friendly person. It was better, honestly, than he could’ve hoped for.

But then Hadden went on, “There’s a motel about forty miles down the road. I can drive you down there and get you set up with a room for the night. The rain should’ve cleared up by morning, so you can head out then. That work for you?”

“A motel?” Cy replied in bewilderment, and some dismay.

“You can get your stuff together,” Hadden added, a little too hurriedly, rising from his seat and heading toward the living room. “I’ll grab my keys.”

“Hold up a minute,” Cy protested, following him as he walked away, an anxious knot rising in his chest. “You know I can’t pay you back for that.”

“Not a big deal.” Hadden shook his head, bending over the coffee table in the darkened living room in search of his keys. “Should be pretty empty this time of year, so it won’t —” 

He turned, then stopped short mid-sentence as he found himself face to face with Cy, only inches from him. He stood there mutely for a moment, brows contracting into an expression of bewilderment, mouth falling slightly open.

“Won’t what?” Cy asked in confusion.

“Nothing,” Hadden breathed. But he did not move. “It’s just —” He paused, seemed at first as though he did not mean to finish the sentence. When he spoke again, it was very quiet, his voice just a low rumble in his chest, eyes tracing across Cy’s face with fascination. “It’s just, you smell like me,” he said. “Like all of my stuff. My toothpaste, my clothes, my soap.”

Cy felt his mind go blank. Synapses lighting up at the trace of possessiveness in the words, the hunger. “Oh,” he mumbled in blind relief. “You like that?”

Hadden’s breaths were coming more shallowly, and he seemed unable to pull his gaze from Cy’s face. “Yeah,” he replied, with something like a shiver. “I guess I do.”

“Good,” Cy told him, “then come here and show me.”

He grasped the front of Hadden’s shirt, pulled him forward, and pressed his lips against the soft, mobile line of his mouth. Felt, with a surge of elation, that Hadden began to kiss him back, first with a muffled sound of surprise, then deep and insistent.

He pulled Hadden down onto the sofa. Groped wildly to get his hands under his sweater, then down the front of him to feel out the shape of his hardening cock through his pants. Conscious only of raw sensation, thick here, firm there. The muscular press of Hadden’s arms, holding Cy in place as he kissed him. The expanse of coarse hair covering Hadden’s chest, the finer hair trailing down along his belly. The startling heat of his mouth, sucking against Cy’s bottom lip, pressing his tongue deeper, almost aggressive, toward Cy’s throat.

“Yes,” Cy mumbled between breaths. “You want to fuck me, right? To own me? Show me how you want me.”

Hadden’s chest vibrated with an indistinct sound, then he broke off and pulled back, hands against Cy’s shoulders, pushing him gently away. “I don’t —” He stopped, seemed to lose his breath, tried again. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cy agreed, “probably not.” He leaned in and pushed his tongue back into Hadden’s mouth, licking out the warm inside of it. Hadden gasped sharply, then pulled back from him with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he said, with the barest note of reproach in his voice, still softened by breathlessness. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay,” Cy explained, words running desperately ahead of his thoughts. “Doesn’t have to be complicated. I can be out of here before morning, if you want. I’ll suck you off, and let you come in my mouth, and then I’ll go. I’ll be grateful. I won’t ask for anything else.”

“Yeah,” Hadden replied, with a little squint of dismay. “That’s… kind of what I was afraid of.” He turned away and leaned forward against his knees, running a hand though his hair and letting out a slow, controlled exhale. 

Cy slumped back against the sofa, watching all this with a sinking feeling. Trying to sort through how he’d managed to fuck this up. This thing that could have been so simple, and so good.

“The problem is,” Hadden said eventually, voice low and strained, “the two of us aren’t playing for even stakes. You see? I can throw my chip on the pile, just because I like you, and I’m excited to see where this goes. But for you, it’s not like that.” He shook his head. “It’d be different if you didn’t need food, and a place to stay —”

“And if the cops weren’t after me,” Cy murmured.

“Right,” Hadden confirmed, not missing a beat. As though he had already been thinking it, had guessed it long ago, had avoided saying it aloud only for Cy’s sake. “That too.”

Cy rasped a dry, humorless laugh. “How’d you know?”

“Didn’t, really,” Hadden answered. “Didn’t want to assume. But I used to volunteer teaching classes down at the state prison, and you remind me of some of the guys I met in there. Kind of nervous. Too quick and too careful at the same time, you know?” He shrugged. “Just thought I recognized it on you. What a place like that does to you.”

Cy nodded, with some dismay. He had been right: it was obvious, just by looking at him. “Are you going to ask me, then?” he prompted eventually, when it seemed Hadden had no intention of saying more.

“You mean, how long you were in for?” Hadden asked. “Or how you got out?”

“Thirteen years,” Cy said, “and they got careless, and I got lucky, and my feet took me out of there before my brain had time to wonder if it was even a good idea. But no, asshole. You still haven’t asked me why I was in prison.”

Hadden shifted beside him on the sofa, as though embarrassed. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “For some reason it didn’t really seem to matter. But… I guess maybe it should.”

“Well. Wasn’t just one thing,” Cy told him. A bit too readily, as though part of him was afraid Hadden would try to stop him before he’d said it. “I’ve been in trouble most of my life. But the worst was armed robbery. Brought a gun with me to a break-in.”

Hadden processed this with a nod and a faint frown. Then asked, “You hurt anyone?”

“Didn’t shoot anyone,” Cy said. His vocal chords tightened around the words, like guitar strings tuned too high. “But I pointed my gun at the guy. At the trial he said he hadn’t slept well since then. Said it was the worst day of his life.”

“Okay,” Hadden said. He sat staring at the rug at his feet for a while, still strangely calm, apparently deep in thought. After a minute or two he spoke again, still not looking in Cy’s direction. “Anything you want to ask me about, then? Just to keep things fair.”

“Like,” Cy suggested, “if Hadden’s not your first name, then what is?”

“No, asshole,” Hadden said, the corner of his mouth turning upward in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Arthur, if you really want to know. But I was thinking more like, was the divorce my fault, and what exactly happened there, and were there any kids in the picture? Because my answers would be: yes, it was my fault. I wasn’t a good partner to my wife, I walled myself off and drank too much, I didn’t like my life and resented her for it. And, yes, I have two kids. But I wasn’t a good dad to them either, so they don’t really like to see me anymore.”

“Okay,” Cy replied uncertainly, realizing only afterward the unintended echo of Hadden’s earlier response. “So you hurt people too.” He studied Hadden in profile for a few seconds. Almost finding it difficult to match that story to this impossibly warm, generous person. But of course you couldn’t really tell. And maybe it was true that people could change. “It’s not really the same, though,” Cy added eventually, with a skeptical frown. “They don’t put you in prison for being a shitty dad.”

“You’re right,” Hadden said, shaking his head and leaning back against the sofa. “It isn’t the same. My situation isn’t the same as your situation. So you get what I’m saying, then?”

“Sure,” Cy said numbly. “I mean, I probably wouldn’t want to fuck someone like me either.”

“Not that,” Hadden said firmly. “I’m saying you have more to lose. You have fewer options than me, here. And that doesn’t sit right with me. So,” he concluded, “that’s why I’m going to take you to the motel tonight. Because you ought to have your own space. Somewhere you can be safe and warm without having to worry about what I want, or what I expect in return. Or — if you’d really rather — I can drive you down to the highway like you said. I’ve got some rain gear you can use. Wouldn’t feel good about leaving you there — but it’s your call.” He exhaled again, and shrugged heavily. “The main thing is, I don’t really like the idea of you trying to pay me back. Especially not like that.”

Cy listened in silence, mind whirring to piece together what Hadden was telling him. That damned politeness. That effort to be careful with him. That insistence, even knowing exactly what Cy was, more or less, that what he wanted mattered. Cy felt a weak, fluttery feeling pass through his chest again. The unfamiliar sensation of being treated so delicately, which he still did not quite know how to parse, or what to do with. 

Yet at the same moment, there was also a sense as though he had snapped the final piece of a jigsaw into place. And he felt genius-smart and dogshit-dumb at the same time, because it all made a kind of sense to him now, and because it should have been obvious to him a lot sooner.

“I think I get it,” he said eventually. “You’re saying you want me to have options. I hear that.” He leaned forward and looked up at Hadden pointedly. “But if the question is, would I rather stay the night here with you, or lie awake in a motel room thinking of you? Would I rather lie alone, trying to remember what your mouth tastes like, imagining how good it would be to have your cock inside me, dreaming up all the nice things you might say while you fucked me?” He shook his head. “That’s easy. I’d rather take the real thing.”

“Huh,” Hadden breathed, blinking in surprise. He shifted a hand over the front of his pants, adjusting himself as his body responded to the words. “That so?”

“Yep,” Cy said. “Matter of fact, out of all the things I could be doing with my life right now, that ranks pretty near the top of the list. And, if it makes you feel any better, just think: if the cops found out that you knew about me, and helped me anyway, you’d be almost as fucked as I am.”

Hadden let out a small exhale, nearly a laugh. “Is it messed up that that does make me feel a bit better?”

“I don’t think so,” Cy replied. “But maybe I’m not the best judge of messed up shit.”

A small smile moved across Hadden’s lips, then faded. When he spoke again, his voice was low and careful, like he was trying to build up a house of cards, and feared one false move would send it tumbling apart. “The thing is,” he said, “I don’t like you feeling obligated, or trying to pay me back. That doesn’t work for me.” He tilted his gaze in Cy’s direction, a sharp edge of hunger in it again. “But I like that you’re wearing my clothes, that you smell like my stuff. I like how you seemed so eager all day for me to tell you what to do. And I sure as hell like the way you get all flushed and quiet every time I give you the tiniest bit of praise.” 

Cy nodded, felt his stomach drop and his pulse quicken with anticipation.

“So — that’s being honest,” Hadden said. “But I’m not quite sure what to do with all that.”

“Well,” Cy volunteered. “I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But, I don’t suppose you’ve got any condoms or lube lying around this place?”

Hadden’s eyes widened in surprise, mouth turning up into a faint grin. After a few more seconds, he rose to his feet, and picked up his keys from the coffee table. “There’s a gas station down the road, about twenty minutes’ drive,” he said. “You get comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”

He stood over Cy, took his chin in his hand, and tilted his face up to kiss him. Firm, just on the edge of rough. It felt good, being handled like that, and Cy felt a small whimper release from his throat as Hadden pulled away.

“But don’t undress till I get back,” Hadden told him. “I want to be here for that. Agreed?”

Cy nodded. Hadden walked out the door into the rain, and Cy watched the sweep of his headlights as he pulled away from the cabin. He sat there for a few seconds more, then stood from the sofa and pressed open the door into Hadden’s bedroom.

The bed was newly made up in clean sheets and a quilt. Cy pushed back the covers and laid down in the dark to wait. He was well on his way to being hard again, thinking of that final kiss, and the thrill of heat in Hadden’s words to him, and the possessive glint in his eye. Cy had an urge to put a hand on himself, to stroke himself just a little, to relieve the tension. But he had promised to be good, to wait patiently. So he only laid there, hands at his sides, allowing the anxious anticipation to pulse through him with each heartbeat.

The wait felt agonizingly long, and he began to wonder if Hadden had decided not to hurry. Had decided to take his time with his errand, to keep him waiting for as long as he could. Maybe because he wanted to give Cy one final chance to bail out, to take what he wanted from the cabin and leave. Maybe because he liked the idea of Cy lying there in his house, painfully hard and waiting to be fucked. Maybe because it felt right, somehow, that they both had to wait and wonder a bit. To trust each other in this.

At last there was the creak of the front door, and the clatter of keys against a countertop, and footsteps through the living room. Hadden appeared in the bedroom doorway, hair rain-damp, and clicked on a lamp beside the bed, casting the room in a dim golden light. He dropped a small paper bag on the bed, shed his jacket, and just stood there for a moment, looking over Cy stretched out on the bed in front of him, the shape of his cock bulging visibly against the soft front of his sweatpants.

“Hmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “If that isn’t about the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Cy caught his breath, squirming his hips slightly as the compliment sent a throb of readiness through him. But he otherwise did not move.

“That still a yes, then?” Hadden asked.

Cy nodded. “Yes. Please.”

“Good. You can undress for me now,” Hadden told him. “But eyes on me, yeah?”

Cy nodded, and slowly pulled off his shirt, then raised his hips from the bed to pull down the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers. He felt the sweep of Hadden’s eyes over his nude body, watching as his erection grew to full firmness again against his bare belly. Hadden stood there looking at him for a long time, too long, gaze hard and unabashed, and Cy fought down the instinct to shy away, or cover himself. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on Hadden’s face. Focused there, remaining perfectly still, letting his obedience pull him outside of himself, waiting for his next instruction.

Finally Hadden leaned over him on the bed, drawing a hand along Cy’s breastbone, coming to rest lightly against his throat. Cy did not move, though his heartbeat accelerated in his chest.

“You’re being so good,” Hadden murmured, and Cy did not bother to restrain the wordless little sound that praise drew out of him. “So good.”

Hadden bent down and rewarded him with a kiss, plunging greedily to fill his mouth until Cy was nearly sucking on his tongue. Cy swallowed a moan of relief, and felt his hand move reflexively to touch himself. But Hadden pulled back, and wrapped a hand around Cy’s wrist, stilling him. 

“No hands,” he said firmly, though with a glint of amusement. “I’ve already seen that show once today. Remember?”

Cy felt his face bloom into a furious flush at the words, and Hadden’s mouth bent into a smile, evidently satisfied at this reaction.

“Not to say that I didn’t enjoy it,” Hadden added, with an approving stroke of Cy’s cheek, “seeing you all arched over and moaning like that in my shower. But I want you to show me something different this time.”

Cy nodded helplessly.

“Face down,” Hadden instructed. “I want you to be able to move your hips, to fuck yourself on my fingers while I open you up. Sound good?”

Cy released a hoarse breath, and did as he was told, flipping onto his hands and knees and spreading his thighs apart. 

Hadden positioned himself behind him, coated his fingers in lube, and worked the first one into him. Stroking lightly along the entrance, coaxing and stretching, before sliding it in deeper. He reached the prostate and pressed into it, lapped against it with the pad of his finger. Cy tensed his abdomen with a sharp sob.

Hadden withdrew, then pushed inside him again with a second finger, as his other hand traced faintly along the length of Cy’s erection. Not enough to give satisfaction, just enough to make him want more, to hold him at the edge. Cy tried to thrust against his hand, but Hadden slipped away from him before he could make contact, all the while working his fingers into him relentlessly from behind.

“Fuck,” Cy begged. “Hadden. Touch me, please. Just a little. I need —”

“I’ll give you what you need,” Hadden told him, voice low and soothing, calm except for the slightest tremor. “But I want to see you work for it. Got it?”

Cy squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded. “Yes.”

Hadden helped him spread his legs further apart, adjusting his angle with firm pressure on his belly and lower back. Cy lowered himself against the mattress and braced on his forearms, then began to roll his hips forward and back, dragging Hadden’s fingers across his prostate, feeling the stretch and burn where they pushed him open wider. His cock was achingly hard, thrusting against nothing but empty air, and he could feel the precum beginning to stream from its tip and drip along its head.

“That’s beautiful,” Hadden told him, voice heavy with amazement, and Cy let out a shuddering moan at the encouragement. “I’m going to put another finger inside you now. Say yes if you want it.”

“Fuck,” Cy gasped. “Yes. Yes please.”

“That’s good,” Hadden rumbled. “Good boy.” 

He stroked a hand through Cy’s hair affectionately, then pressed a third finger inside him. Cy sobbed out incoherent pleas, and began to work his hips more rapidly in search of relief. Hadden rewarded him with a single long, firm pump of his cock, and Cy almost shouted.

“I’m going to touch you now,” Hadden said close to his ear, “But I don’t want you to come just yet. I’ll tell you when it’s time. Understand?”

Cy shuddered, gasped, struggled to reconnect his mouth to the verbal center of his brain. “Fuck, Hadden,” he murmured desperately. “Don’t know if I can — I’m too close.”

“You’ll do good,” Hadden told him. Cy shuddered to hear the curve of his smile in the words. That same smile, teasing and indulgent, he’d been unable to tear his eyes from all morning. “You’re so obedient. So well-behaved. I know you can do it. Just focus on me.”

He reached around and took Cy’s cock in his hand, then began to stroke him, slow and exploratory. Cy moaned and cursed against the bed, tried to focus on anything else to keep from immediately falling apart. The smell of Hadden’s detergent. The warmth and weight of Hadden’s body leaned across him. The fascinated shift of Hadden’s breathing as he ran his thumb up the head of Cy’s cock to circle through the wetness at its tip.

“You’re so hard for me, beautiful,” Hadden said, voice weakening, giving Cy’s cock a few steady pumps, enough to drag another generous bead of precum from him. “You still thinking of having me inside you?”

“Yes,” Cy choked out, clenching his jaw against the orgasm that threatened to climb up along the nerves of his spine. 

“Then I’ll need you good and relaxed first. Opened up and ready for me. Alright?”

“Yes,” Cy moaned.

He let Hadden roughly slide his fingers in and out of him until he felt loose and hollow. Willed his body to submit, panted through the ache of withheld release in a series of heedless staccato cries. Striving to make his mind blank and flat, to let the thoughts and sensations bleed together, before any one of them could take hold of him and tip him over the edge. 

“That’s good,” Hadden told him, “you’re doing so well,” and Cy sobbed as he felt him pull out of him. “Face up, now. I want to get a look at you.”

Cy turned over and collapsed back against the bed. He must look pretty well ruined, he thought, sweat plastering his forehead, face and chest reddened with exertion, cock painfully hard against his belly. Hadden, by contrast, was still fully dressed. Still, somehow, put together, with only the slightest hints of disarray in his appearance, erection straining against the front of his pants, sweater sleeves rolled up to the elbows, fingers slick with lube. And only the faintest softening of arousal in his expression as he looked down at Cy, lips falling open with satisfaction.

“Alright now, go ahead and ask for what you want,” Hadden prompted him, with a glint of genuine curiosity. “You’ve been so good, I think you’ve earned that.” He opened the front of his pants, and ran his hand over his erect cock. Cy tilted his head up eagerly to get a good look at it, heavy, smooth, and flushed with readiness. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Cy shivered. “I want you to hold me down and fuck me. Please.”

“Mmm,” Hadden murmured contentedly. Something so genuine, so pleased in his tone, that Cy felt a burst of euphoria, like something warm breaking open inside him and flooding to fill his chest. “You really know how to ask, don’t you? It sounds so pretty coming from you.”

Hadden slipped on a condom, and knelt, still clothed, over Cy, guiding himself inside him with a long, shuddering gasp. Cy cried out and grappled frantically at his waist and thighs, pulling him closer, searching for leverage. But Hadden only took him by the wrists and pressed his arms against the bed, gentle but unyielding, as he began to fuck him. 

Cy’s brain spiked with sensation, whited out with need, went blessedly silent with the relief of handing himself over to Hadden’s control, to his care. Hadden inside him, his weight heavy over him, the ache of his grip around his wrists, his warm smell surrounding him. And the rhythm of his movements, brushing faintly against his own untouched cock, summoning up a desperate urgency in him again, threatening to spill out of him at any moment.

“God,” he said, “Hadden. I’m going to come. Please — let me come —”

“Oh, you’re even better than I thought,” Hadden answered softly, with an amazed quiver of laughter. “Go ahead and come for me then, sweetheart. Let me see you come just from being fucked.”

He shifted, repositioned Cy’s knees around him, and thrust deeper into him, varying his pace to find the rhythm that would draw out the litany of curses and wordless moans from him. Cy’s arms strained involuntarily against his heavy grip, tears of frustration starting from the corners of his eyes, hips arching upward in search of the contact he needed to push him over the edge.

At last he found it. The steady hit of Hadden’s cock deep against his prostate, the too-slight brush of Hadden’s clothing against the sensitive skin of his erection, and his orgasm finally fought itself loose from his body. Twisting out of him, dragging a series of drawn-out shouts from his throat as he spurted and emptied himself across his stomach and chest. And it was only moments later that he felt Hadden tighten around him, falling into a rapid, arrhythmic pace, as he gasped through his final thrusts, and came to his finish inside him.

They both lay there, sapped and sweating in the cool air of the room. Silent except for their panting breaths and the continuous, quiet tap of the rain against the roof.

“Well holy shit,” Hadden murmured eventually. He gripped the condom around its base and pulled out of Cy, who only released a depleted gasp in response. “You doing okay, down there?”

“Fuck,” Cy whimpered. Then realized hazily that he should probably answer the question, and added, “Yes. Definitely yes. But fuck.”

Hadden stood, discarded the condom in the bedroom waste bin, and tucked himself back inside his clothes. He disappeared out the door for a minute or two before returning with a damp towel, then sat beside Cy on the bed, surveying his debauched state with a kind of rapt admiration.

“Incredible,” he murmured, with a low chuckle, as he carefully wiped up the mess from across Cy’s abdomen. Cy shivered slightly, and only watched him, taking in the gentle smile that moved across his face, saying nothing. 

“I don’t suppose you want that ride to the motel now,” Hadden asked him quietly, after he’d finished cleaning him.

“Fuck,” Cy said. “Sure don’t.”

Hadden smiled morosely, and laid down near to him on the bed, not quite touching, pulling the sheets and quilt up to their shoulders. “Yeah,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t really want you to go, either.”

Cy was still for a few moments. Would have stayed that way, maybe, if he’d been listening to the smarter part of his brain. The one that held all the lessons learned from a lifetime of bad breaks and worse decisions. The one that told him staying in one place too long, getting attached, not keeping his eye on the door, was a guaranteed way to get himself in trouble. That reminded him that nothing this good could last.

But he had already broken so many rules today. What was one more, now?

He rolled onto his side, ran his hands through Hadden’s beard, and leaned toward him for a slow, affectionate kiss. To ask for tenderness after everything else — it was another unearned luxury, more than he had a right to, more than he deserved. Yet Hadden kissed him back, then pulled him into an embrace, letting Cy nuzzle close against him. They both lay like that, half-dozing, for several minutes. Cy resting against the warmth of Hadden’s chest and belly, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing, Hadden stroking a hand through Cy’s hair.

“I’m not really sure how all this is supposed to work,” Hadden said eventually, voice quiet and thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Cy agreed weakly. “Me either.” He swallowed, and added, “I didn’t really have a plan even before all this. No kind of future charted out. Still just trying to figure out what tomorrow morning is supposed to look like.”

“I suppose,” Hadden replied carefully, “that’ll depend on what you want.”

Cy thought it over, and quickly found his thoughts getting tangled, like trying to fight his way out of a spider’s web. He finally gave up, and shrugged. 

“No matter how many times I run through it in my head,” he said, “I can’t come up with a version of tomorrow that makes sense. But right now” — he hesitated, searched for the words, for the most honest thing he could say, then finished — “I don’t know. For some reason, right now, with you, it makes sense.”

Hadden gave a little sigh, contented or maybe sad, and leaned down to bury a kiss at the crown of Cy’s head. Then continued stroking his hair.

“You know,” Hadden said eventually, “there is one problem, though. Something that can’t wait until morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. I just realized, you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”

“Oh.” Cy considered this, and found that there was indeed a gnawing pit of emptiness in his stomach. “True. I’m pretty fucking hungry, now that you mention it. You got stuff for a sandwich or something?”

“Hmm.” Hadden fell into deep thought, as though he’d been asked a question of the greatest importance. “Well, I didn’t bring anything too fancy. But we could do grilled cheese on sourdough, maybe? And tomato soup?” He tilted his head down to look at Cy. “You know how to make any of that?”

“Nope,” Cy said. “Not even close.” He pushed himself out of bed, stretched, and began to pull on his clothes. “But I’ve been told I’m pretty good at following instructions.”

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