But you're mistaking speed
For getting what you need
And never even noticing
-- Aimee Mann

He's drunk. Far drunker than he can remember being in a long time, which is probably why he's not paying as much attention as he should to the things and people around him. But he's not going far. Just out the door and down to the corner for a bit of fresh air and some quiet. The party's fun and all, but he just needs a moment to sober up again.

Rounding the corner of the building, he finds he's not quite as drunk as he first thought. No, not quite as drunk at all. He can still light the cigarette that he shakes out of the pack and slides between his lips. Sure, he's stumbling a bit, and everything is still too bright, too colorful, but it's not bad. He's been worse.

And better, as well.

Explains why he misses the man walking behind him until he's slammed face first against the brick wall. Stupid of him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is New York City, and it's late, and just what the hell was he thinking, anyway?

Clearly he wasn't. Thinking, that is. And now he's in a bit of a fine mess, isn't he? Idiot man, when will you think before you do? Probably the second Tuesday of next week, least that's what his mum always told him.

Pay attention. You're being mugged. Only...

Maybe he isn't. What the hell? He jerks as one of the hands holding him in place slides over his waist, around his hip, down to cup him through his jeans. Alright, alright, this definitely isn't a mugging. No, it's something much worse.

"You make it a habit to walk around strange cities by yourself after dark?" The voice is low, amused, curling around his nerves and pulling them taut as a bowstring.

And it's so fucking familiar. No. Can't be. He is half a world away. Impossible for him to be here, now.

"W-what... " is all he manages to get out before the hand tightens. Hips push against him, and he can feel the erection through the worn denim of his jeans. Feels the heat, the hardness, searing him through the layers of clothing. Just like before. Just like... .

"What am I doing here?" The voice is still amused, but now with something darker lurking around the edges. There. That's the voice he remembers. The one that's kept him awake more nights than he can count. The one that can reduce him to a shameless, whimpering, begging whore in a matter of minutes. And they're still on a very public street.

His only response to the question -- hell, the only response he can give -- is a silent jerk of his head.

"I'm living here now. For the moment, anyway." He's still to process the words through a drink-fogged brain when he hears the chuckle. "Ah, Orlando didn't tell you, did he? Careless of him."

Careless? What? Oh. Of course. Orlando. Last week in L.A. But then, he doesn't think for a single second that what Orlando did was out of carelessness. No, there's something in that laugh, something that tells him that Orlando had known exactly who -- and what -- would be waiting for him in New York. And Orlando, bloody git that he is, hadn't said a damn word.

Of course not. The amusement factor wouldn't have been nearly as high for Orlando if he'd said anything. Swear to Christ, the boy's got an evil streak to rival Lucifer's. And when he... .

Ah, ah, pay attention.

The hand shifts, fingers slipping, sliding, accompanied by a soft burr as his zipper is lowered. Ah, fuck me. Those nimble, clever fingers curl around his cock, and he has to fight back the choked groan that forms in his throat. Not here. Not like this.

"Could've called me, you know." Words whispered along his skin, breath stirring his hair, and he shivers. So this is what it feels like, some dim portion of his brain tells him, and he has no time to wonder at the meaning of the words before the hand starts moving.

"I... I thought... ." Fuck thinking. His brain isn't going to work until his dick lets it. He gasps, the sound short and sharp in the chill air, and jerks, hips flexing to thrust into the fist sliding along his aching length.

"Thought what?" comes the low murmur, accompanied by a flick of talented fingers. Another gasp, this one louder. "Thought I'd forgot what I'd promised? Thought you'd escaped?"

"N-no... ."

"Liar." It's said with such fond amusement that he can't take offense. Another flick and slide of those fingers has him reeling, scrabbling at the wall as his entire body arches. "You can't escape the truth, pet. And the truth is that you want this. All of it. You always have, and you always will."

It's true, but he's not ready to admit it. Not out loud, anyway.

"No... ."

"Liar." Again, only more forceful this time, harsher. The fingers wrap firmly around the base of his cock and don't move. He arches again, pushes forward, blindly seeking friction. Release. Craving it with every part of his being. Then, before he can form a coherent thought, the hand pulls away. No.

"Please... ." The word comes out as a choked sound, halfway between a sob and a whimper. He bites his lip, closes his eyes. Takes several deep breathes against the laughter he knows is coming.

But it doesn't.

Instead, something is shoved in his pocket -- a key? -- and he feels the familiar length of a beloved body pressing all along his back. "The address is on the keyring," the dark voice whispers in his ear, lips just brushing the lobe. "Use it."

And, just like that, the weight, the warmth, is gone. He doesn't have to turn to know he won't see anything. Not here. Not now.

* * *

An hour later, he lets himself into the dark house. There's a single, dim light burning in the hallway, but he doesn't move towards it. He doesn't have to.

"You're late." Quiet words as the dark figure steps out of the hall. He can't see an expression, can only see the bulk of a leanly muscled body limned by the pale glow. It's enough.

"Took a bit to get away from the party," he says, knowing it's a pitiful excuse, but it's the only one he has. Luckily, it's accepted with a brief nod. "I didn't know you were living in New York."

"I know." Each word is accompanied by another step across the room.

Surprisingly, he holds his ground. It's an effort, when every cell in his body is screaming for him to back down, to submit. He knows that will come soon enough. "I was with Orlando," he says, raising his chin just a bit in defiance. There.

"I know." Amused again. Doesn't exactly bode well for him, not if he's reading all the signs correctly. "He told me."

"Bloody bastard," he mutters under his breath. Only it's not quite under his breath if the fingers suddenly gripping his chin are any indication.

"I told him it was alright. I allowed you to amuse yourself with him." The fingers force his head up, and suddenly he's staring into eyes darker than the shadows around them. He can see lust in the fathomless depths. And something else. Something deeper, stronger... gentler. "Just as I allowed you to amuse yourself with Viggo, David, Dominic, and Karl."

"Y-you... ."

"Karl's beautiful on his knees, isn't he? I think it turned him on to tell me every detail of his times with you as I was fucking him. He's quite... obliging like that." A sardonic grin twists that gorgeous mouth, and all he can do is stare. The idea of Karl and... it's too much. And his brain can only process one thing at the moment.

Allowed. Allowed.

"Why?"

"Because it amuses me to let you have a sense of control." Another smile, slow and lazy, and the sight shoots straight through him. "Because I knew that, in the end, you'll be back."

"Cocky bastard, aren't you?"

"You're mine." Dark eyes pin him in place. They glitter with a thousand unnamed emotions, but he only cares about one. "And I think that, maybe, you tried to forget that, didn't you?"

"Yes," he whispers, and the confession hangs between them for what feels like an eternity.

"Strip."

Without a sound, without a thought, he acquiesces. Shaking fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt, the zipper of his jeans, until he's standing naked and trembling. That penetrating gaze rakes him, and he shivers. He doesn't have to be told what comes next.

Still silent, he sinks to his knees, looks up. When Harry looms over him, Sean reaches for Harry's belt. When Harry smiles and touches his hair with a gentle hand, Sean smiles, basking in the approval that's never changed.

- written December 19, 2004

Slashababy 2004 Stories