discoveredinalj | Day Four - Prosfic: Want Not by Heliophile

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Want Not
by Heliophile

The thing is, I didn’t actually want him. Well, yes – he was sex on legs all right, poetry in motion, walking wet-dream, whatever you want to call it – he was all that and more; still is, even with his hair more grey than anything else these days. But I didn’t want him. Well I didn't. You see by the time our paths crossed I’d already had more than ten years’ practice – a lot of practice, intensive practice – at not wanting blokes I couldn’t have. It was all strictly anonymous hand-jobs, the odd blow-job, just once in a blue moon anything more. Blokes I wouldn’t come across again, mostly. There were a couple of times back when I was a merc (I’d have to tell Ray not to fall asleep if I mentioned that, the aggravating little toerag, a couple of times when I knew it could have turned into something a bit more than that – blokes I got on all right with, who I could tell wouldn’t mind making it a bit of a regular thing, a bit of a partnership, a port in the storm. But I steered well clear of that – it was tempting, of course it was, 'cause it’s safer going with the tried and trusted instead of always being on the lookout for someone new, putting out feelers, making sure he won’t deck you, or throw a blue fit or never be able to stand working next to you again and throw the whole group out of synch. But it’s more dangerous too, ‘cause sooner or later you get careless, someone notices and then you’re well and truly fucked. Tolerant? Not so much, the mercs. And it’s more dangerous as well because chances are one of you’ll probably cop it before too long, and it’s hard enough losing your easy-come-easy-go mates; I didn’t want to get into the habit of losing people I’d grown fond of.

So you see, I didn’t want him. I could say that and mean it, and I could enjoy working with him, and watching him in action, and I didn’t mind it that I was getting to like him, then getting to like him a lot, and eventually in between enjoying the view and saving his neck a few times – and getting mine saved right back – I was perfectly happy to love him; it was brother-in-arms love, strong as the gates of hell – we’d either of us have gone there and back for the other – but not the other kind. It was good, it was perfect, and I wouldn’t have swapped it for anything.

I always liked birds; loved takin’ ‘em out and winning ‘em over, wining and dining and dancing and fucking, loved the whole shooting-match from start to finish, from perfume to painted toes, kisses to curls. Kisses and curls together, thank you very much – theirs or mine, loved it both ways, loved the way they feel, the way they taste … and there’ve been a few birds – not many, but just a few - I get on all right with too, even apart from all that. Birds are brilliant, as far as I’m concerned – it was just that blokes were even better, in and out of bed. But birds were easier and birds were safer, and I never had any trouble charming ‘em out of the trees. So it wasn’t any hardship watchin’ him flirtin’ an’ dancing and falling in and out of bed with birds by the dozen; we had fun trying to cut in on each other, seeing who could run up the best score, cheering each other on and telling each other all about it afterwards. ‘Course there were times Ray fancied himself in lurve, which was usually a bit of a pain – it always ended badly, could have told him that, and I didn’t like to see him hurting. And I didn’t much care for him throwing away all that passion on some bird who’d never know what to do with it and wouldn’t have the first idea how to love him back, not like he needed. I reckoned I knew what he needed all right, and that was someone who could love him through thick and thin, come hell or high water, even when he was being a right moody bastard which he very often is. And preferably someone who could take him three out of five in a fair fight, match him pint for pint, outshoot him with a rifle (he can have the handgun crown, I’ll give him that), watch the match and like it – and who appreciates the importance of keeping on Cowley’s windy side when it’s Scotland versus England. But Ray didn’t fancy blokes, thank god, so there was never any risk of everything getting turned arse over teacups and coming horribly unstuck – and so I didn’t want him, and that was just fine.

But it did come unstuck in the end, and nothing like I thought it would either. If you’d asked me back then – not that you would have, this is purely hypo-whatsit, thetical – I’d have reckoned the most likely thing that would make it all go pear-shaped would be Ray getting wind of me having those once-in-a-blue moon blokes and getting all awkward around me. He’d never have flipped his lid, not openly, much too been-there-done-that-seen-it-all-in-my-days-on-the-beat is our Ray. Never admit to anything shocking him. But he’d’ve got it under his skin and never been easy around me again, and that was why I never wanted him to find out.

Everything was fine between us and I was as happy as a pig in shit until bloody Cowley’s bloody leg went south at last. He had to be practically dragged off, kicking all the way, but in the end there was nothing even he could do about it: an op he needed and an op he had to have. While he was out – and it was a while, because for all he chafed at it, and I was with him on that, you don’t heal as fast in your fifties as you did in your teens and that’s all there is to it – while he was out, like I said, they brought in a replacement. There were none of us had the right sort of seniority to step in, not back then we didn’t, and we had to admit there wasn’t much option but to bring in the next best thing to Cowley they could find – someone with more than field experience. And I admit Tony Ward did a decent enough job of it, even if his right name was The Hon. Anthony and even if there wasn’t a man alive would be a patch on Cowley himself. But Ward had some ideas of his own, and he was the boss so there was no nay-saying him. And one of his ideas was that a handful of us among the older agents – Ray and me, Murph, Anson and a couple more – were long overdue for a change of status. There were quite a few young bloods in the ranks, you see, and not so many of us superior types – and Ward reckoned he was going to preserve our expertise for the nation – well for the squad, at any rate – by easing us out of the field and into training, running ops, strategic planning … and maybe he was thinking of having an eye on the lot of us to see who might work out for the top job further along the line; I don’t know and I don’t much care, if any one of us got it the others’d back him to the hilt and that’s all that matters.

But with Ray and me out of the field more and more of the time, suddenly we weren’t automatically in each other’s pockets every minute of every day – and if felt bloody weird by this time, let me tell you, after all the years we’d practically breathed each other’s breath twenty-five hours a day eight days a week. We started setting things up to get together deliberately, consciously, instead of it always just being “pick you up in the morning” and “fancy a pint”, and I found I liked it. Reckon Ray did too; he was the one suggesting things for us to do together half the time, and what with me having to come up with cruel and unusual ideas for Brian and Jack to inflict on the new tryouts – and helping ‘em do it too, which was a lot more fun than I thought it would be – and what with Ray researching and working up ops plans, we both found we didn’t see that much of each other at work some days, but the work went twice as well with the both of us running our ideas past the other after hours. We didn’t get to spend quite as much time together, but we enjoyed it when we did. Except that after a while I noticed Ray was acting a bit distracted, a bit odd – he kept on coming up with more and more odd ideas for ways for us to spend our time together, finding new pubs with quirky things about them – there’s one way out in the sticks he found with a real wooden skittle alley, bloody brilliant night that was – dragging me off to go-kart races and darts tournaments and real-ale nights and christ knows what-all. And every now and then I’d catch him looking at me like we’d only just met and he was trying to work out what made me tick. Like we hadn’t been closer than arse and drawers, week in week out for years.

Anyway, one Friday (and there was something I didn’t miss about fieldwork – we got the weekend to ourselves more often than not these days) he came up with one that pretty much floored me; nothing would do but I had to go with him to an exhibition – a photography exhibition, if you please. At the ICA it was, some bloke called Mapplethorpe. Well I rolled along as usual – I end up finding something to like about Ray’s ideas more often than not – but I was a bit surprised when I actually started looking at some of the photos on the walls. I’d been expecting landscapes and flowers and what-not – and there were plenty of flowers all right – but there were a fair few pictures would have made my toes curl if I hadn’t been keeping a grip. Pictures of blokes. And there was Ray, rabbiting on about light and composition and texture as if butter wouldn’t melt, and not looking me in the eye. Not once.

I started to worry. I kept a lid on it, though, and made bloody sure I didn’t bat an eye, not so’s anyone could see. And after an hour or so, Ray checked his watch and dragged me out and half-way across town so fast I thought my feet wouldn’t touch; we were on our way to the highlight of the evening, apparently.

Now we’ve always made a habit of taking in the occasional match now and again, and even though Ray swears blind you wouldn’t catch him dead watching cricket I’ve managed to get him to an innings or three when I’ve been playing. Now me, I’ve always reckoned watching sports is about the best chance you’ll ever get to really get an eyeful of some good-looking blokes not too over-dressed and working their bodies hard, and nobody a penny the wiser. Not that I don’t go in for the match itself, or whatever – I do; I’ve always loved seeing how far I could push my own body and the feeling you get when you do, and you can really appreciate another bloke’s strength and skill when you see him push himself to the limit and a bit further. Not to mention I won’t hear a word against Liverpool, so don’t try it on.

We used to watch footy, mostly, but a bit of rugby too and the odd boxing match. But when Ray pulled up a block from this big South London stadium, you could have knocked me flat with a feather when I realised the event for the evening was a gymnastics championship. A pretty low-key affair itself, but a qualifier for the next big Commonwealth events and whatever that leads to – Olympics I suppose – and there were some serious contenders sprinkled in among the hopefuls. We just caught the last few women’s events – I do enjoy watching an athletic bird do her stuff, for obvious reasons, and though I don’t like ‘em as young and skinny as these girls were they were a treat to watch. Except for all that naff prancing about they have to do between the real moves; total bollocks in my opinion. Then it was the men’s competition. And there was Ray, all cool calm and collected, making the odd vaguely relevant comment I hardly listened to, I was wondering about him on all cylinders by now. Mainly, I reckoned he’d sussed me out somehow and this was his way of – well, letting me know he knew? Checking to see if he was right? Testing me, for christ’s sake? Whatever it was it was bloody unsettling, not to mention aggravating.

There were quite a few empty seats in the stands – like I said, it wasn’t a top-ranking event – and all sorts in the crowd, mostly young girls with their families, a few motherly types and older blokes who could have been the competitors’ dads, but a few younger blokes too. And it wasn’t long before I noticed that Ray and I were getting a few looks ourselves, from one or two lads I could see were watching the action with what you might call an appreciative eye.

I was wondering about Ray too much to really enjoy it, but it was still a bloody nice view – you ever seen a really good athlete work out on the rings? Amazing what some of ‘em can do, I wouldn’t fancy holding that cross pose myself – though they don’t have anyone shooting at ‘em while they do it, mind you. And come the end of the show we were heading for the exit, I was just wondering how best I could get away and shut my own door behind me on my own to think about all this in peace, when I felt something being slipped into my hand. It was one of the lads I’d noticed noticing us, a bit flimsy-looking for my taste – I like a bloke who can measure up to me, not some sort of delicate flower – but pretty enough so’s I wouldn’t have minded if only I’d been on my own. Not that I’d have phoned the number on the bit of paper he’d slipped me – anyone daft enough to do something that risky is not my cup of tea. He gave me the eye, though, as he went out the door ahead of us – looked Ray up and down for good measure – and Ray gave a sort of wonky grin and muttered something about him reckoning he’d got my number all right. I shot him a look that must have been pretty black, and kept my trap shut.

We got as far as my place, and I hopped out of the car smartish saying “See you Monday then, mate” – which was not my usual MO for a start, as we’d normally have caught up with each other at least once more on a weekend, for a couple of jars at least, but I couldn’t get away from him fast enough right then. Fat chance, of course; if he didn’t feel like it, Ray wouldn’t take a hint if you bludgeoned him over the head with it. Pig-headed little sod that he is. No, he was right behind me before I could get me keys out, inviting himself in for a drink and making free with a bottle of scotch I’d barely had a drop out of yet. And then he didn’t drink any of it, just sort of wandered about with the glass in his hand like someone’d forced a cocktail on him he couldn’t stand and he didn’t know what to do with it.

I didn’t give him any help; I was still hoping he’d bugger off before too long and give me a bit of peace and quiet to sort out what the hell had been going on all evening – but of course that was too much to hope for, and after a bit he just sort of ground to a halt by the window and stared out at nothing for a while. Then he turned round, and he had the poor relation of that wonky grin on his face, and he said “maybe I reckon I’ve got your number too.”

I’d been brewing a temper since before we left the gymnastics thing, thinking about Ray – my best mate by a long chalk – analysing me like a specimen in a dish, nudging me to see what would happen like a kid poking some poor dumb ape through the bars of its cage, and for a moment I was bloody furious. I had a hand on his throat in about a second flat and was shoving his head back till he hit the wall by the window and his glass hit the carpet and rolled away somewhere. Just as well it was a bog-standard whisky and he’d only poured himself a small one, though at the time I don’t think I’d’ve cared if it’d been a Macallan. I was so angry I had to force myself to keep my hand open, because Ray’d let me get away with something no-one could normally do to him in a month of Sundays and he still wasn’t putting up a fight; he just stood there, white as a sheet and with his eyes so big and black you’d think he was on something. And I realised his pulse was going nineteen to the dozen and he was just barely shuddering all over every so often, like a greyhound before a race. So I just asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing, and he turned up his lips into some sort of ghastly rictus of a smile, and said he was sorry.

“Thought I had your number all right, but I guess I was wrong. Sorry mate.” There was a long pause, then he said “I’ll just bugger off, then. See you Monday, all right?” But I was still glaring at him, too churned up inside to even move let alone say something. And with my hand still resting on his throat I could feel his heart racing away, could see how pale he was, see how his pupils had blown up so wide there was next to nothing left of that lovely greeny-hazel of his. And part of me was thinking he’d had to get his nerve up a fair bit to say even as much as he had, and part of me was thinking he’d better not have a heart-attack on me now. And for some reason I couldn’t seem to get my hand unstuck from his neck; I think both of us were breathing like we’d just missed getting shot and he seemed to be getting nearer except that I had him backed up against the wall so it must have been me doing it.

When I kissed him I thought the whole world had come to an end. Everything went away, I couldn’t stop tasting him and kissing him like I wanted to eat him alive and my hands were all over him, his head, his hair, I’ve always loved touching his hair, his shoulders and his back, he’s got such a bloody lovely strong back, and I was grabbing onto his hips and I hadn’t quite made it to his arse yet – maybe I was a bit afraid of spooking him, but he was right there with me, giving it to me as hard and hungry as I was and I swear there was a long, long moment when neither of us would have realised it if Cowley himself walked in on us or cared even if we did.

Well my heart was hammering fit to beat the band too now, we were both getting our hands inside each other’s clothes and were mostly unbuttoned and undone and I couldn’t think of anything but that I had to get Ray into my bed. Had to. Like I would die if we didn’t. And everything had been turned inside out and upside-down now anyway, so we might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb … and Ray was up for it – I mean, not only was he up for it, he was doing his level best to touch every part of me at once, running his hands over me like it was him who’d been after me for years instead of the other way around. Even though I hadn’t been, of course - but right then it felt like every minute of my life I’d spent carefully not wanting him had flashed into wanting him forever, all turned around, like the back-to-front image you get burnt into your vision when a bomb goes off and a dozen suns explode into your eyes. I’d wanted him forever and I wanted him more than I wanted to keep breathing. I thought I wanted to fuck him and that I couldn’t, because he’d never be up for trying that so soon, but then he got his hands on my arse, really gabbing himself a handful, reaching round and back in through my legs and practically nudging my balls from behind, stroking hard, hard against me behind the balls and getting his fingers right between my cheeks and pulling them apart and I swear I nearly lost my breath for a second; thought I was going to lose it right then and I knew I was going to get him to fuck me if we could just make it to a flat surface and get enough of our clothes off in time.

We hustled and hauled each other as far as my bed and more or less fell onto it, dragging our own and each other’s clothes off and generally making a right mess of things, and we kept stopping to kiss some more because he tasted better than anything or anyone I’d ever had before and I wanted to have that taste in my mouth for the rest of my life so I kept on having to go back for more, and more and more. Drinking his mouth, tasting the skin on his shoulder, biting his neck … and him with his hands on my arse again, reminding me of what I wanted – and I wanted it now, in case he decided after all that he’d taken leave of his senses and never wanted to do it again. I managed to get my hand into the bedside drawer and find the Vaseline – I’d rather’ve had a tube of K-Y, and you can always say it’s for the birds, but no-one’s going to ask questions about Vaseline. Much. And I shoved it into his hands and hoped he’d know what to do with it. But Ray just grinned, and said “you or me?” with a lovely dirty laugh, and I felt this warmth all through me as I realised we were going to be OK. Maybe a lot more than OK.

He scooped out a couple of fingers-full and took me by surprise again when he got to work on my arse and it turned out he either knew what he was about or had a bloody vivid imagination, rubbing two fingers all around the rim and just dipping inside until I thought I was going to lose my voice I was trying so hard not to howl. I’d shut my eyes without realising it and was trying desperately to get more of his fingers inside me it felt so bloody good and I had to get him in a bit further so’s he’d reach me where I wanted him … and then the sneaky little bugger took advantage while he had me all laid out helpless like a fish on a plate and went down on me too. Well I think I must have screamed, or at any rate yelled so loud the neighbours were probably wondering whether to dial 999. I tried to warn him, pull his head off in case he didn’t really fancy a mouthful, but there wasn’t much point because I only lasted seconds. Pitiful. And the best I’d ever had.

I don’t think he actually did swallow, judging by the amount of spunk that seemed to have got everywhere, but he sat up and wiped his mouth and grinned at me like a cat that’s got more cream than the London Dairy Show. I was too knackered to do more than grin back at him, happy as larry because I reckoned that on top of all that I was going to get him to fuck me as well. Bloody amazing. Except of course he was more keyed-up than either of us had reckoned for, and he never did get all the way in – just about got us both in position, with me on my side and him spooned up behind me, rubbed up against me a few times and barely got the tip of his prick engaged when he was jerking and groaning – and swearing – and coming all over my backside. Felt like we’d soaked half the bed, even though I know that never really happens, it just feels that way. Felt brilliant. I’m not normally one to give a monkey’s over something like that one way or the other – normally regard it as the unavoidable consequence of a bloody good time being had by all, in fact – but right then it was like I needed proof, somehow, proof that Ray really was into me. Well, except that he wasn’t, of course, more like up against me than inside, but you know what I mean.

Ray groaned and rested his head against the back of my neck. “Made a right cock-up of that,” he said. “Or not,” I answered. He raised his head, trying to see my face, I think, but I’d started giggling at my own razor-sharp wit – well I couldn’t help it, could I, was feeling a bit high-spirited for some reason – and that set him off and we were both giggling like idiots and he was kissing me all over again and I got my arms round him and we both just lay there, happy as clams. “Give me another chance?” he asked, after a bit, and I kissed him again. “All the chances you want, mate. Or” – and I gave him my best ‘superior’ look – “I could show you how to do it properly, if you like.” I thought that would get in amongst him a bit, but he just laughed, and then he stopped grinning for a moment and swallowed and said “Yeah. Whenever you want.” And we smiled at each other again, and I knew we had the whole partnership thing still going, still intact, just …. bigger. More.

And you know, I’m not sorry I spent all that time not wanting him. Because by the time Ray finally got around to laying my world by the heels and turning it upside down and inside out and into something I’d never imagined it could be – into one where I actually had a home to go to, and a reason for going there – we’d already seen each other through more than most people have to cope with in half a dozen lifetimes, all the way from unwanted deaths to unwashed dishes. And now we both get to have what we want, since it turned out – against all the odds, odds that had me fooled for years – that what we really want, what we both need, what we both choose – is each other.

Title: Want Not
Author: Heliophile
Slash or Gen: Slash B/D
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes please
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