Secret Things

by Andrews, Nazarea

  “Do you really think I will?” I ask, stung.

  She shrugs. “I think that this is a big deal and you need to be very careful. I know you miss him. But maybe this two week is exactly what you needed.”

  A knock jerks both of our attention to the door and she gives me a quick smile before a PA is dragging her away and I’m left standing there, wondering if she’s right.

  The problem is, I do miss him.

  I have spent seven years with Cari, and four with Dimitri. And in those years, I’ve rarely been without them. Even when we’re on hiatus, there’s a steady stream of texts between the three of us, skype calls when one of us travels, private jokes he shares with me.

  I’m not used to thinking, Dimitri would like this without immediately following that thought up with a text to share it.

  I’m not used to spending two weeks without hearing his voice. He calls when he drives, when he’s bored, when he’s stuck on a line of poetry. Sometimes, he calls when he stumbles across a movie he knows I love on TV and we’ll watch it together, in silence except for his sarcastic commentary and my shushing him.

  Once, he called to read me a book of poetry that ended up so erotic I had to mute him and jerk off in the quiet of my childhood bedroom.

  So it’s not that I’m not thinking about what this means. It’s that I miss him.

  I miss my best friend.

  Is it worth risking more if I can’t keep his friendship? Because I can get by without more. I can get by without kissing him again, without hearing his voice whispering filthy encouragements in my ear as I come.

  I can’t get by without his friendship.

  Cari didn't like getting close to men, because they wanted something. Wanted to take advantage of her, of her fame, of who she was.

  I wasn't as extreme about it. I didn't dislike getting close to people. I just didn't do it well. It was hard to trust that it wouldn’t blow up in my face or end up hurting me or the show, or--most important--Cari.

  It's one of the reasons when Dimitri first came to set I didn't trust him.

  But he fit with us, and he earned our trust, and Cari adored him, even before I did, and he became our friend.

  He became my friend.

  The fans think that we care about the show, and that we get along and we do.

  God, we do. It's the kind of deep caring that doesn't happen often in our industry and becomes a legend, when it does.

  But we aren't. Legends. We're just friends who are devoted to each other and the story we're telling, and I want Dimitri. I want everything that is sitting like a silent promise between us.

  I just don't know if I can be selfish enough to attempt to take it.

  Because if we fall apart, if this thing that is so raw and fragile between us--if it shatters.

  It'll destroy the rest of it. It'll destroy what he has with Cari and the show's chemistry and I'll have lost my best friend.

  The thought sends a bolt of fear down my spine, chasing cold and sickening, around in circles.

  I want more.

  And I can't risk what we have.

  The door swings open and Cari pulls herself up the two short steps into my trailer on a wave of too hot air and sweat, smelling faintly of smoke and makeup.

  "We're done for the day," she says. "They need to reset the scene before they're ready for you."

  I nod. Dimitri steps in behind her, and his gaze rakes over me. Too bright, and searching.

  God.

  Can I walk away from him, after just the tiny taste I've had?

  "Jeb's giving me a ride to Lucy's house," Cari says, abruptly, jerking into my thoughts. "Dimitri, can you take this idiot home?"

  "Of course, sweetheart. Be careful while you’re out," he murmurs, and she smiles, kissing his cheek in acknowledgement, before she's slipping away.

  "I might stay at her place," she adds, over her shoulder, before the door slaps shut behind her.

  Dimitri is still standing there. Close. But not close enough. Not so close that I can't tug nervously at my tie, pulling it off and hanging it for wardrobe, before I strip off Josef's leather coat and ironic t-shirt that I kinda hate, and kinda love.

  "Camden?"

  I hum in response, a wordless acknowledgement.

  "Go to dinner with me?"

  I pause, and glance at him. There's nerves there, nerves he's trying very hard to keep wrapped up and pushed down.

  I smile, because it's strange to see Dimitri nervous and it eases some of the tension I'm feeling. "Yeah, Dimitri. Dinner'd be great."

  There's a little sports bar that we like. It's quiet, aside from the noise of the games, and dirty, and old men smoke at the bar, despite the laws that no one pays any attention to. The lighting is shitty and the waitresses are older than my mom, but it's got good wings, better nachos, and it never has a fangirl in sight.

  And it serves the fancy beer Dimitri prefers, because he's too much of a goddamned hippie to drink Bud Light like a normal red-blooded American.

  We go there, and he orders me an IPA when I'm in the bathroom, and our usual order.

  The waitress is retreating when I return, and she grins at me before she's passed me, and I'm slipping into the booth across from Dimitri.

  "Cari says I need to apologize," he says, without waiting for me to say anything. He's frowning at his fork, this grumpy, little furrow to his brow that makes me smirk and want to reach across the table to soothe it away.

  "She said that I can't just cut and run like I did because she has to put up with your moody ass when I do, and that it isn't fair."

  I choke on my IPA--which is annoyingly good--and Dimitri smirks at me, this mischievous, little grin that tells me he knew exactly what he was saying before he did.

  "I am," he says. "Sorry. I shouldn't have run like that. It wasn't fair."

  "You gonna tell me why you did?" I ask, and he shrugs.

  "I'm scared. I'm not trying to hide that, Camden. I want this. I want you. But it's giving up a lot."

  "Vic."

  "Not just that. It's giving up my best friend."

  I inhale and he cocks his head, staring at me.

  "I'm not going anywhere," I say, and I'm kind of absurdly proud that my voice doesn't shake. That I can say something without falling apart in front of him.

  "When I fell for Vic, it was a quick thing. We knew each other for a week, maybe. And we were gone on each other, in love with the idea of each other as much as actually loving each other. He was someone who wanted out, just as badly as I did. Who dreamed just as big as I did. Of course, I fell in love with him.

  “And we were friends. But it came later. It came because we were lovers. It was never as deep as I wanted, as I craved, because I was fucking him, and I was doing that long before I ever thought about asking him what he wanted for breakfast at IHOP."

  I stare at him, very still and he smiles. "I didn't do that with you. We both fought this, for so long and so damn hard."

  "Do you want to keep fighting?" I ask.

  "I want to know you'll still be here. No matter what happens, no matter how we might hurt each other, no matter who we're fucking or if we're fucking each other."

  He pauses, and then, "Cam, I've never cared about someone the way I care about you and Cari. It's this utterly ridiculous thing, our friendship. But I can't do this without you both."

  “Do you think, after the movie theatre, and your apartment, and hell, right now, do you think we can go back to what we had before?”

  He looks at me, a little pale and shrugs. “If that’s what you think is best.”

  I stare at him, and then smile. He’s got cheese on his lip, from the nachos, and his cheeks are red, and god, he’s fucking gorgeous.

  I lean forward and wipe my thumb over his lip, dragging the cheese away, and his mouth falls open, just a little. I lick the ball of my thumb, slowly, catching the taste of cheese and peppers and him.

  He’s staring at me, a look so fucking heavy and full I want to squ
irm under it.

  I don’t. I smirk at him. “Finish your nachos, man. I’m tired and I wanna go home.”

  Chapter 8.

  It’s not about being the best. It’s about being your best. Always. – Camden Martin

  Don’t ever let someone shame you for loving something. Love madly, deeply, recklessly. Love with wild abandon, even when it’s dangerous and unreturned. –Dimitri Blackwood

  Be kind in a world that is so often cruel. –Carissa Aukes

  --

  Seeing Camden again, after two weeks of silence, is like getting a shot of heroin. It’s a fucking high, sending me right into the stratosphere, and it leaves me a jittery mess when I have to leave him again, crashing back into a reality that I’m not really cool with.

  He looks tired and gorgeous and I want to step into his space, want to press against him, have him pull me close with a careless arm tossed over my shoulders.

  I want his soft smile, the one that just turns up the corner of his lips. The one he gives me and Cari, when he’s tired and distracted and we snag his attention. It’s not the fake wide grin he gives fans, or the intent attention he pours into interviews, or even the full-body laugh he gives when he’s truly happy.

  It’s Camden. Quiet and unassuming and breathtakingly beautiful.

  So I avoid him, because I can’t be close to him, without pressing too close to him, and as much as I want that, as much as I need our normal, it’s not. We have to reevaluate and I need space to do that.

  But now we’re here, in a place that I consider ours.

  Silly, because it’s not. Cari comes here with us. Jeb is usually a seat away, happy with a glass of water and a huge plate of wings. Sometimes Kristoff will come out with us, and on very rare occasions, James and Jax. It’s not our place.

  But it is, and he’s watching me with those big, green eyes of his, shinning in the gloomy light, as he licks his thumb clean.

  I want him.

  I want everything with him.

  I want my life to twist up and around with his, until I can’t separate the two.

  It’s what I had with Victor, and it’s what I thought I wanted. But maybe that’s because we fell into it and it was easier to give in than to separate ourselves.

  With Camden, it’s been a choice.

  Every step of the way, it’s been a choice to care. To be friends with him. To get invested in the relationship between him and Cari.

  To allow him into my world.

  Every time. Every night spent in each other’s trailers, and afternoon in the park. Every drink after filming and dinner after a Con. Every movie we fell asleep to and afternoon spent cooking with Cari, and long drunk conversations on their back porch.

  It was all a choice.

  With Vic, I got swept into everything. Into the band, into his bed, onto the tour. Into his world. I never fought it, because I loved it. I loved him.

  But with Camden, there was always a moment, when he gave me that quick look, a question with his eyes, and I grinned, and chose him.

  Accepting that makes this so fucking easy.

  “Come home with me,” he murmurs, and I smile.

  And I choose him again.

  The house is dark and empty, aside from the dogs. Gil sniffs at me happily before he seems to realize that Zed isn’t with me, and then he whines, low and mournful in his throat. Cari’s pups, a pair of mutts she rescued a few years ago, dance around happily.

  I love the dogs. I do. And usually, I’d be sinking down to my knees to soak up their happy, open-mouth smiles and hard, wagging tails, to pet silky, long ears and rile them up while Camden stared at me with fond exasperation, waiting for them to lose interest in me and bolt for the backyard.

  But tonight isn’t a normal night, and I don’t want them.

  I catch Camden’s eye and he whistles sharply, that short in-command note that snatches the dogs’ attention and they rush past him, out the door he’s holding open and into the dark yard.

  When he turns back to me, he’s smiling. The soft, easy smile. The one I’ve been waiting on and it pushes me from where I’m standing near the couch, into his space, into his arms.

  “Dimitri,” he murmurs, against my lips, and I smile as his arm comes around me.

  Maybe it’s because we’re actors, and we have to share space, so much.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve never really been good at paying attention to personal space.

  But either way.

  This is so very easy.

  I press into his space, into him, and I lick that smile from his lips, kiss my name from him and press deeper. For more. His hands come up and close around my waist as I nip at the pouting swell of his lower lip, and he groans, fingers digging in just a little, tugging me closer.

  It’s lazy and sweet and exploratory, and I stand in his arms, my fingers tangled in his long hair, while his lips coax me open. Until the thrust of his tongue turns harder, hungrier.

  Until the twist of my fingers in his hair become desperate instead of slow.

  Until my hips roll into his, and he groans against my skin, and I shudder as his teeth close over the curve of my shoulder, sucking a bruise there.

  I whine in my throat when he pulls away and Camden smiles. “Want you in bed, Dimitri.”

  “Yeah?” I breathe, and smile against him. “Okay.”

  I always thought, when—if—we got here, it would be fast. This mad rush into each other and into bed, a furious, quick, over-before-it’s-begun-fuck that Camden would regret and I would hold close.

  This isn’t like that, though.

  This is gentle and slow. Lazy and warm and a little bit teasing.

  It’s little huffs of laughter when we run into the walls as we meander down the hall, his fingers warm and caressing on my hips, his lips teasing against mine as he keeps the kisses changing. Slow and deep and sweet. Quick and chaste and innocent. And these long, deep drugging things that make me whine against him and he smiles against my mouth.

  Chapter 9.

  His New Faith, a Blackden fic. First posted on EndersHollow,

  The problem, he knows, is that he is bitter.

  And when he’s with Dimitri, that slips away.

  So.

  They watch each other.

  Sometimes, she catches them, and Dimitri will laugh and wander away.

  Sometimes, she doesn’t and those are worse, he thinks. Because without her buffering them, the stares are a little too long. The connection is just a little too deep.

  They’re walking a very dangerous line, and he knows it.

  He’s known it since the first time Dimitri followed him, drunk, into his trailer, and kissed him against the door, while they were both still in costume and she was outside, talking to a PA.

  He’s known it since the day he followed Dimitri home, and sank to his knees, worshiping in the only way he knew how.

  He’d lost faith in people, in the industry, in love. He’d even lost faith in himself. But when he was with Dimitri, and long fingers tangled in longer hair, he had faith.

  Dimitri said he was living inside the head of Josef too much. He laughed, a little bitterly, and kissed his way up the other man’s torso, and let his doubts be silenced by another man’s lips.

  Their kisses taste of rain and cold and the sharp edge of wine, of mint Chapstick and cigarettes that are as bitter as he is, and mostly, of them.

  --

  Dimitri tugs back on my hand when I lead him to the bedroom, and that’s wrong. That isn’t the right response. A whine builds in my throat, and I don’t quite hear him, when he speaks. I blink, twisting to tug him back where he belongs—against me—and sort through sensation and sound.

  Not there.

  It takes a second, and I have to pull away, have to look at him. His gray eyes are blown wide and hungry, the gray almost completely eaten up by his pupil, and his pink lips are red and wet. His hair is messy from my fingers, and he looks so fucking perfect, I can’t resist leaning in again, p
ressing against him, sucking that pretty, pouty lip between mine and biting down until he arches against me with a groan.

  Then it makes sense.

  “Your bed?” I ask against his lips and he smiles, kisses me back.

  It wasn’t always his room. When we bought the house, it was Cari’s office, before she realized she hated being alone. Even then, though, it was where Dimitri crashed when he stayed too late. It’s where his stuff, the shit he randomly left on the recliner and in the kitchen and on the fucking porch—seemed to migrate, like that bed was his and everything Dimitri-esque was to be relocated there when Cari made me clean up the clutter.

  It only became his, semi-officially, when he kept stealing my clothes and I bitched about it. Dee, being Dee, bitched back. Cari watched us over her coffee and said, blandly, if Dee was going to quasi-live with us, he should quasi-move in.

  So he did. And it’s his. From the dirty laundry Cari refuses to touch, to the pictures on the wall and the piles of books I pick through when he’s babbling a-mile-a-minute about shit I’m not actually expected to listen to. Even the sheets he grudgingly picked out when Cari threw a fit about making it his.

  It’s Dee’s, and every night that he gives me his sleepy smile and retreats there after too many episodes of The Walking Dead or too many beers, or simply because why not—every night, I’ve gone to Cari’s bed and lain next to her, and thought about this.

  Dimitri pushes me back, hands on hips and lips on my shoulder, teeth digging a little, and it distracts me. I hit the bed and tumble down, sprawled out on the messy sheets and blanket that smell like him. Dee’s eyes glitter as he stares down at me, and I feel seen, even though I’m dressed.

  It feels like too much, and panic claws at me because this is Dee, my best friend, my costar, the guy I get drunk with, and this…this.

  I take a breath and shove it down.

  Because I want this.

  I want him.

  So I summon a smirk, the one I know drives him just a little bit crazy and palm my cock through my jeans. Watch his eyes go hungry and narrow. “See somethin’ you like?” I tease.