horseboykarl

OOC note: takes place Christmas morning, the morning after this.

I open my eyes and see that it's still dark outside, and I'm disoriented for a moment, wondering why I'm awake. But then fingers twitch on my ribs again, tickling slightly and I remember. Sean. Still in bed with me, and I turn my head, and he's there, a bulky shape in the darkness of the room. I can just barely see his eyes moving under his eyelids and I guess he's dreaming, and I'm hoping it's a good one if it involves his hands moving and I remember his hands moving last night, and fuck, I'm aching for him again.

I wonder if he'd appreciate my hard-on as an early Christmas present, but it's not even dawn yet and he looks so peaceful. I roll over and pull him closer, smiling against his sunny hair. Aunt June had pretended like she didn't know who he was, despite her threats when I called her. Treated him like any other ex-pat Brit living in Zid. And went to bed early.

And now, somehow, despite us still not talking about what we expect from each other, I can't fret about it anymore. He knows the worst thing about me, and it doesn't bother him. Whatever this is that we've got, it's something good, something peaceful and comfortable, in between times of almost uncontrollable lust. I'll just let it be, let us be, take whatever this is without worry or fear.

( Warm and content, I slide back into sleep. )

NC-17

By the time the sun gets fully up and warms the chill air, I’ve ditched my shoes, enjoying the feel of the rich dirt of the farm between my toes. Eric just shakes his head, having gotten used to my aversion to shoes. We’re tying vines to the their trellises, an extremely boring job, but by the time the morning is half over, we’ve fallen into a rhythm with it. He stretches the vine along the wire, I wrap the twine, tie it off and cut the ends.

“Told you she’d make you work.”

He snickers. “I was scared to say no.”

“Right, mate, totally understand. She’s scary, all right.”

( “What’s she calling her wines anyway?” )

NC-17

I locate my phone and find a heavy barn coat on the hooks on the back porch. I put it on over my T-shirt against the chilly fall night. I check on Smokey in the barn, running my hands along his withers, letting the contact soothe me.

What the fuck do I do? I knew this shit was going to catch up with me eventually and now it has. How do I tell people I care about that there's another part of my life that's ruled by insanity? They won't believe me.

But I know one person who did, maybe because he's a little out there himself. Somehow Hugo found a way to tell Johnny about the shifts and Johnny not only believed him, but stuck by him.

I give Smokey one last pat and leave the barn. There's a place on the other side of the barn, where the wall holding back one of the terraces slopes down to the building. The wall gets lower and makes a vee where it meets the foundation of the barn. I go around there and climb into the spot, a familiar place from childhood.

Hugo's number is stored in the phone and it's a little after eleven o'clock in Wellie. Hopefully he's still up and in the mood to help me out. I punch the number and wait, listening to the ringing.

( Weaving's Mortuary. You stab 'em, we slab 'em. )

I have been summoned, by perhaps the only person in my life with the power to make me drop anything and go to her. She was vague on the phone, just said that I needed to come up to the farm. It seems like I barely stay at home since I moved back to Wellie, but I could use her straightforward common sense about now. Not that I can tell her what the real problem is, but she’ll see the evidence of some of it on my face. It hurts a little to chew, my eye is a delightful greenish-purple color and my forehead is still a bit swollen. Paris has the fucking hardest head I’ve ever run across.

And the rest of the evidence of my ongoing battle with Éomer is starting to feel better, it had been a little red and swollen at first until I got the antibiotics, but today it seems to have gone down some. I wonder if I should show her my piercing, but she’d probably like it, knowing her, and want me to get some sort of Maori scarification tattoo to go with it. I shudder, maybe I won’t show her.

If I take Ire, I’m going to have to take the truck, and I’d rather have the wind in my face just now, so I arrange for him to stay with my neighbor who will also feed Smokey. The bike growls between my thighs and eats up the miles, I’m taking the back roads outside of Hastings before I know it.

I pull into the lane and bump my way up to the house. She’s not around this time of day, but I’m buzzing from the road and not going to hunt her down. I walk through the unlocked door to the kitchen and sort through her fridge for some beer and I find some crisps in the cupboard. I sprawl on one of the chairs on the porch to wait, sun will be going down soon, she’ll be back.

I must of dozed off, for the next thing I hear is a shout. “Where’s that no-good scamp Karl Urban?”

( I stand up and watch her walk toward me from her truck. )