Cracking Ice 7

by N. J. Lysk

  Then, slow and premeditated, Carry opened his mouth against the side of his neck. His teeth rested against the skin there like a threat... or a promise.

  Keenan had to force himself to stay still for it, and then, finally, he was rewarded for his patience as Carry’s teeth pressed harder against the exposed flesh—high enough anyone would see.

  Keenan’s hips snapped up into Carry’s weight, lifting him off the bed as his cock erupted between them. Carry startled and bit harder than he probably meant to, and Keenan’s free hand flew to his body, his back, his hip, anywhere he could reach. For a long moment, he actually managed to hold them like that—suspended in space and time as his every cell burnt.

  When he came to, Carry’s mouth was still pressed to his neck. No longer biting but kissing softly, licking at the mark he’d left almost lazily. His body had gone pliant on top of Keenan’s.

  He’d got his right hand free at some point, a little worse for the wear, he realised as he stretched his fingers against the sheets. Embarrassingly, it took him a good two minutes to even remember his partner’s pleasure. It was only then that he realised Carry didn’t smell aroused any more, instead he...

  “Did you... come?” he checked, rubbing at Carry’s lower back—half sensuous pleasure, half apology.

  “Twice,” Carry said, startling him enough that he tried to sit up despite the fully-grown man using him as a recliner. “Don’t,” his lover grumbled, he was panting, humid and fast next to Keenan’s ear.

  “Twice?” Keenan repeated.

  “I was close, then you...” He paused like he was actually short on air. “You did, and it... the bond was open so I came too, and then it kind of kept going from there.”

  Keenan was not prepared to offer anything intelligent to that, his balls ached from the intensity of his orgasm, but the image still made him squirm. He rubbed at Carry’s back instead, soft but firm—as much as he could do to ask him to stay close.

  Carry seemed willing to stay and Keenan was tired, but suddenly, he rolled off him and Keenan couldn’t react fast enough to even object to the separation.

  “You really...” Carry said.

  And before Keenan could voice a complaint, he was pressing close to Keenan’s side instead.

  He hadn’t minded being a little crushed, but this was lovely too. He tilted his head towards his lover, pressing his nose to Carry’s neck.

  “You really liked me biting you,” Carry whispered in the space between their mouths.

  His first instinct was to reach for his shields, but Carry didn’t say anything else and he managed not to slam them shut. He’d been wide open while it happened, what was the point of trying to hide now? And, anyway, he had liked it. Of course he’d liked it, and if Carry didn’t know why, then, well, that was fine too. The notion of complete honesty with one’s bond partner had always seemed a little disturbing to him—some thoughts were better off remaining just that.

  “I can shut up,” Carry offered, and Keenan noticed he had closed up, slowly enough for Keenan to miss it among his own conflicted thoughts, but obvious now that his attention was focused on him again.

  And then Carry’s words actually acquired meaning. “What?”

  “I can feel you’re uncomfortable.” Just as Keenan could feel how frustrated he was—with himself, not with Keenan, the tinge of rain in his scent made that obvious enough.

  “I liked it,” he made himself say. He didn’t want Carry wondering that much, even if... “I... Did you like it?”

  Carry’s disbelief echoed between them like a gong even as his teammate raised his head enough to stare Keenan right in the face.

  “Okay! Stupid question,” Keenan said quickly. “So you like...”

  “Being on top,” Carry finished, his voice firm, his mind awash with doubts. Keenan didn’t think he could have deciphered the rapidly shifting emotions and half-formed ideas if they’d been his. He reached for Carry’s hand where it was playing with his chest hair like it was a fiddle toy. It was only when he was holding it, smaller than his own but rough with the same calluses that he remembered this very hand had been at his throat minutes earlier.

  That he’d liked that too.

  “I just...” Carry’s vacillation was both fascinating and disconcerting. “I haven’t... I haven’t done much.” He stopped, not just speaking but moving. “Can I tell you about it?”

  Keenan tried to straighten his neck to look at him. “What?”

  “When you stopped me in the corridor, the... the first time we did this, you said—”

  “We didn’t do this,” Keenan said. He hadn’t meant to, but it just... “Sorry, go on.”

  He caught a glimpse of blue and Carry’s shields were still low enough for him to catch his uncertainty. He squeezed his hand.

  “You said you had instincts and you needed to protect me.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t remember it, but then again, he had been half out of his mind with lust—enough he’d slept with a man who hated his guts.

  “So...” Carry continued. “If you need... If you don’t want to hear about my experience with other people...”

  He tensed, suddenly understanding, but squeezed Carry’s hand again. “I’m thinking,” he warned, smiling when he realised he was echoing Carry’s own words.

  The idea of his omega in someone else’s arms, worse, with someone else— He shoved the thought away. Was Keenan angry? He knew he should be; he knew everything in him should demand Carry’s absolute allegiance, to be the only one to touch him, the only one to... And he wanted to be.

  He was.

  He knew that, not even because of the bond, but because even with the bond it’d taken Carry almost a year to get to the point where he could let Keenan in.

  To say his lover’s trust was hard to earn was an understatement of magnificent proportions. Carry was wary of air itself, and Keenan didn’t even know what had happened to make him that way.

  It was an effort not to try to find his eyes then, but he was wise enough in the ways of Cartwright Johnson to know he should not ask a question such as this and try and see the answer on his face.

  “What happened the first time?”

  It was only the oily smell of confusion that made him realise his mind had wandered too far. But Carry was too smart not to catch on. “With—? When I was with the Titans?”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Keenan hurried to add, lowering his shields a little as Carry took his hand away and sat up, retreating inside his own mind. “But I want to know.”

  He shivered a little, but he didn’t ask him to come back.

  “Why?” The demand was, indubitably, full of pain.

  Keenan risked a look in his direction, carefully staying on his back and letting Carry look down at him. “Because it happened to you.”

  Carry shook his head, swallowing and tugging the blankets up. “It didn’t happen to me; I chose to do it. I knew the risks and I did it anyway.”

  “Yes, and then Pu—” He cut himself off but didn’t manage to start speaking again before Carry gave him a superior look.

  “Puccio,” he said. “You can say his name, we both know who we’re talking about and he’s not some fucking god too sacred to speak of.”

  “Puccio,” Keenan repeated, rolling away so he could sit up and scoot back until his back hit the headboard. It tasted awful in his mouth. “He told everyone?”

  “No,” Carry said simply. “He just told Villiers. Pretty sure, at least... Had to brag, I guess. Or maybe Villiers guessed, we certainly— we weren’t discreet. They... They all knew.”

  The notion made Keenan dizzy, especially when he realised... “Lerroux?” he asked in faint hope.

  “Yes.”

  “Carry...” He didn’t know what to say, how to express how terribly he’d been failed by the very system that had then condemned him as the failure. “He—”

  “I know,” the omega told him, sounding weary. “But he didn’t.”

  Keenan exhale
d slowly, counting in his head until he could do something that wasn’t scream. “Good thing it’s summer.”

  “What?”

  He swallowed, keeping his gaze averted. “If I had to play him now...”

  “Keenan,” Carry’s tone held a definite warning and the hand he wrapped around Keenan’s wrist left nothing to the imagination. “You can’t—”

  “I won’t,” he said. Suddenly, he felt very tired. He didn’t want to ask about people who’d hurt Carry any more, he just wanted to hold him close. To... To make sure he didn’t get hurt again. He raised his head. “Can you...?”

  Carry’s eyes were very blue and very confused. He’d closed his shields again, Keenan noted absently.

  “Can you hold me?” he asked, only after saying it did he realise how selfish it was that he needed comforting after Carry had told him about being betrayed not by a teammate but his whole team. “I mean—”

  But Carry was already tugging him over to lay his head on Carry’s opposite shoulder, bodies tangled awkwardly. They were still naked but this was no dance, this was burrowing close in the dark, seeking safety in the promise of warmth of another body—the ultimate proof that you were not alone.

  Carry held him like that, playing with his hair, as Keenan tried to think of something to say to make it better. Not fix it or erase it; it didn’t matter if he never made a mistake and they miraculously managed to change the legislation and public opinion tomorrow, Carry’s history would remain his.

  Theirs.

  Maybe the words did not exist, maybe Keenan just couldn’t find them before he let go of all words.

  “WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN,” Keenan started. “My dad almost died.”

  Carry’s arms around him instinctively tightened and he made a low sound of distress.

  Keenan let himself close his eyes and enjoy the closeness. He could see why Carry liked to talk to him while facing away and being held. Even as he opened up, it was a relief to know he didn’t have to experience his reactions as well as his own.

  “Pneumonia,” he managed to add.

  “Fuck,” Carry said, like the word had been a blow, voice rough and low.

  “Yeah, it really freaked me out when Thomas got sick,” he confirmed.

  “You...” He felt Carry’s breath against the back of neck, then the words, “What happened?”

  He swallowed, not because he didn’t know what to say. He’d been thinking about sharing this for a few days—since his parents had asked to meet Carry, really. “It’s pretty common for people with spinal cord injuries to get other stuff later on. I don’t know why exactly but, well, basically, if you’re injured and not doing the stuff an able-bodied person does, then the rest of your body can’t function normally either.”

  “Oh.” Keenan felt Carry’s cheek against his naked back. He wondered if he could hear how fast his heart was beating.

  “He had a cough, just... a stupid cough!” It came out too raw and he stopped to take hold of himself. “But after a few days my mum drove him to the E&R, because she knew it could be dangerous for him, you know?”

  Carry was tense at his back. He didn’t say anything, but then again, what was there to say?

  “And they said he was fine and it hadn’t been that long... So he went home. That night my mum had to call an ambulance because he was running a really high fever. They took him in and they gave him antibiotics right away, but he wasn’t...” He felt Carry’s breath hitch against the nape of his neck, wet and close.

  “But he’s fine now,” his lover said, sounding a little unsure.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. But... I kinda want to call him right now,” he admitted, throat tight.

  Carry got to his knees and leaned over rather awkwardly to touch his face. For once, he was seeking Keenan’s eyes. Keenan let himself be pushed onto his back, but he kept his gaze lowered. Carry wouldn’t have budged, he knew.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have either; he felt flayed open by Carry’s attention when he... Carry cupped his face, rubbing his thumb under Keenan’s left eye and he blinked, his eyes were a little too wet and— “You could,” Carry said.

  “What?”

  “You could call him,” Carry repeated.

  “But...” He gulped, trying to think of how to explain.

  “It’s only nine thirty,” Carry told him gently. “Call him and have a chat; what’s the harm?”

  “If I do that every time I...” He looked down again, avoiding Carry’s eyes. “I don’t like letting it control me, make me—”

  “But you’re afraid,” Carry said, openly pained.

  “I’m always afraid for him,” Keenan explained, looking up at him. It was not often that he felt the years between them, but now... No, not the years, the experience. Carry had never gone through the hell of waiting outside a hospital room, or at home—checking the phone was on and charged, waking to check again. And then done it again and again—each time as terrified as the last until you learned to quash that quiet terror just so you could get up in the morning, eat, shower... Live.

  He’d never learned that the more you checked, the more your brain learned to be afraid.

  Keenan let the air out slowly, trying to keep his attention on Carry’s warm hand on his face, his body close and welcoming. “He’s... One day he’ll be gone, and I’ve known it since I was a kid, that we don’t have as much time as... as other people.”

  Carry’s scent grew dark, bitter as some chemical that warned you off its toxicity. Keenan met his eyes, then reached for his hand and squeezed. Carry said he loved the truth, he needed it even... But this was not the kind of truth anyone wanted to hear. And yet, Keenan could not apologize for it. He wondered if he should have waited...

  Carry put his other hand on top of Keenan’s and squeezed it hard. “I’m sorry you have— I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

  The words were nothing special. Close enough to what anyone would have said, but this was Carry, who was like no one else, who never gave up. And he was simply taking Keenan’s word now that there was no out, no way to achieve the impossible. He leaned closer and put and arm around Keenan, not even trying to hide the raw despair twirling through his mind from bleeding into his scent.

  But he was there. He was alive and he was with Keenan, not fixing anything but making the horrifying truth a little easier to swallow, a little easier to put aside.

  Keenan tightened his own hold. “I’m seeing them tomorrow, and my mum would call me right away if... if anything was wrong,” he explained.

  And then, they spoke no more.

  CARRY WAS LEANING AGAINST his kitchen cabinets, sipping at a cup of tea like a lord while only wearing a bathrobe. They’d woken up late and got up even later and now Keenan was enjoying his scent all over Carry, who’d demanded breakfast before a shower. He wouldn’t have minded rubbing himself all over him some more...

  But being an alpha, or a boyfriend, really, wasn’t about getting what you wanted. You needed to make sure you were giving what your partner needed.

  “Are there...” he started, then hesitated and glanced away. “Are there more things I need to know? Like the blankets thing or that you don’t like too much noise?”

  “Things about me being autistic?” Carry said it thoughtfully, not at all offended or even surprised—did he think he’d told Keenan about it or that it was simply that obvious? “I don’t know, I don’t have a list, just... It was helpful when I was little, mostly. Well, it was helpful so people remembered not to hug me,” he added with a grimace. He took a bite of the chocolate digestives that were the only breakfast-appropriate food Keenan had in his flat and chewed, gaze lost in the middle distance. “Not that my parents let me get away with it that long. Sandra convinced them she’d train me,” he added with a smile. “So we agreed she got one hug a day, supposedly so I would get used to it... Pretty sure she just wanted a hug,”

  “Get away with it?” Keenan demanded, hoping he’d misunderstood. “Why would you need to hug people if y
ou didn’t want to?”

  Carry shrugged, dipping the biscuit into his teacup with a dubious look, then biting off the soggy bit barely on time to avoid it falling back into the cup. “Because I was a cute child and it was an impulse often had by adults around me. It reflected poorly on my parents if I flinched, or worse, had a meltdown.”

  “But now... I mean, you didn’t like hugs then, but now...” Carry met his eyes, he was open enough that Keenan could feel not just his curiosity, but the tension on his trapezoids. He was forcing himself to hold his gaze, Keenan understood and looked down himself, overwhelmed like he’d never been by eye contact. If Carry felt half as... “You like it when I lie down on top of you... And when I hold you tight. When I hug you.”

  Carry sighed, and Keenan heard the cup click against the marble counter a second before Carry stepped into his personal space to wrap him into his arms.

  Keenan leaned into it, no questions asked. “I like when you hold me,” Carry whispered, then blew on Keenan’s ear, making him jump. Keenan put his arms around him, holding him close but loosely. Carry tightened his own grip and pulled at him, then leaned forward again... Rocking them, Keenan’s brain informed him after a couple of seconds. “I like this too,” his boyfriend told him, sounding a little shy.

  “It’s nice,” Keenan told him, swaying to keep them moving. “But I might fall asleep on your shoulder.”

  “Go ahead,” Carry said. “I’m strong enough to hold a hockey stick, pretty sure I can hold you up.”

  And Keenan sighed and leaned in further, letting him.

  “MY PARENTS WANT US to come over. For dinner.”

  Carry had known a question was coming; it was the whole reason he’d put on a cooking show instead of the newest episode of “Spinning”. He loved Keenan, but he wasn’t sure he could put up with anyone interrupting Gyaan.

  He turned to blink at his partner. He guessed it was a fairly natural reaction for progenitors to have to their child dating someone, but Keenan seemed way too nervous for something so banal. Carry could go to dinner if he was required to—he certainly had enough practice playing nice with strangers—but something about the way Keenan had said it... “Do you want me to come?”