Trowchester Blues

by Alex Beecroft

  They’d had more wine with dinner, enough to break Michael open and jimmy the locks he held tight around his soul. He put his head in his hands and let the flick flick flick of the streetlights shuttle past like prayer beads. “One too many failures,” he slurred. “One too many people I couldn’t protect. You get tired, you know? You get tired of it all being on you. You get tired of watching people get hurt and being able to do nothing.”

  Finn looked at him in surprise as if he had expected something else and then slowly reached over and put a hand on his knee, squeezing in a touch that should have felt like lust but felt like absolution instead.

  The moment the bookshop door closed behind them, Michael was driving Finn up against it, crushing him into the uneven planks with his weight, compressing his chest and making it hard to gasp a deep breath. Oh, but the man was a tank, and he liked that. He spread his legs so that Michael could drive one thigh between them, press upwards and take him onto tiptoe, his own weight forcing his cock against Michael’s leg. The security chain of the door pressed into his back, and when he wriggled it dug into his spine with a harsh-edged pressure that made him arch closer into Michael’s grasp.

  Michael had one hand in his hair, fingers tangled at the nape of his neck, pulling hard to bend Finn’s head back, expose his throat. He leaned down to get those sensuous lips of his on Finn’s neck, lick his way across Finn’s collarbone, and suck hard at the pulse that hammered like a war drum under his skin.

  “Mmm,” said Finn, forgetting that he’d ever had doubts about this and scrabbling to try to haul Michael’s coat off so he could get at those shoulders he had so admired. “Good, but . . .”

  Always a problem with the big guys, in his experience—the responsible ones at least. They were just too scared of their own strength, scared of doing harm, of hurting him. But he liked a little hurt. “Bite.”

  “Mmm?” Michael had his hand up under Finn’s jumper, undoing the buttons of his shirt and slipping inside. Calluses on his fingers dragged harsh and delicious over Finn’s skin, licked rough as the tongue of a cat over his nipples and made him lift the other leg from the floor and wrap it around Michael’s waist.

  “Bite me.”

  Michael shifted his grip, slid both hands under the waistband of Finn’s trousers, and cupped them around his arse, pulling him in closer, sending a flush of desire through him so strong it curled his hair. For a moment, Michael looked down on him in clear concern, and then he bent his head back to the bruise he had made on Finn’s throat, and suckling it into his mouth, he bit down on the already sensitive flesh.

  “Ah!” said Finn. “Yes.”

  He was going to say, Not in the hall. Come on, have some class. I made the bed specially, but Michael took all his weight on one arm—one arm!—and wound the other hand between their bodies to work at their clashing belt buckles and somehow it slipped his mind. Finn managed to push the coat far enough down Michael’s arms that Michael could shake it off onto the floor. He immediately got to work on the shirts, pulling Michael’s T-shirt out from his belt, hauling it over his head, taking the overshirt with it.

  And oh yes. Michael’s shoulders were everything he’d promised himself. He stroked the strength of them with appreciative fingers. And that powerful chest, heavy with muscle. He wanted to rub himself all over it; instead, he sunk his hands into Michael’s black curly hair and tugged to make him let go of the little wound on Finn’s throat, force him to look up so that Finn could take possession of his soft mouth and remind him who was in control.

  “Let me down. Not in the hall.”

  Michael gave his arse a regretful squeeze and put him down. As soon as Finn had both feet beneath him, he headed for the stairs, pulling off his jumper and shirt as he went, feeling Michael’s fingertips skim down his spine as he followed. He dropped his trousers in the kitchen, made it to the bedroom only in boxers just in time to lay Tom’s picture facedown by the bedside so that Tom wouldn’t have to see.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he managed to dispose of his socks before he raised his eyes and saw Michael standing irresolutely in the doorway, looking at the face-down photo.

  He too had lost his trousers somewhere in the house, but hadn’t managed the sock gap with as much grace as Finn, and was watching Finn with the raw fear and vulnerability appropriate to a man Finn now remembered had never been with another guy.

  “Who is he?” Michael nodded at the portrait.

  “He was my partner.” Finn folded back his gold silk coverlet, raised his hips, and wriggled his boxers off, throwing them to land on top of the socks. “He died five years ago. I’m thinking that if he’s watching now, we should give him a show he can enjoy even in the afterlife.”

  Michael swallowed, came slowly forwards, his mouth half-open and a subtle shake working its way through the muscles of his arms.

  “Come on.” Finn took pity on him, held out both hands, and drew him down to lie beside him. He covered them both with warmth and leaned in to kiss Michael’s mouth again and to run his tongue along the inside of his upper lip, while he closed his hand around the man’s prick and stroked smooth and slow. Michael’s hands clenched hard on his hips as he gave a growl of pleasure deep in his chest.

  “Hold me down,” Finn instructed, wanting all Michael’s strength, all his bruising physical power. Wanting it to do what he told it to do. “Make it so I can’t move.”

  Michael rolled on top of him, gathered both his wrists into one hand and pinned them above his head. Finn tugged at the grip, trying to pull them out, and couldn’t budge them an inch. “Yes!” The helplessness hit kinks he’d barely known he’d had. “That’s it. I want to be pierced and pinned like a butterfly to a board. Break me. Make me scream.”

  They were both slick with pre-cum, their cocks trapped together between their bellies. When Michael thrust tentatively against him, Finn stopped talking, wrapped himself around the larger man and held on tight, feeling dark delicious bliss and abandon and ruthless angry need coil through his body from his toes to the roots of his hair. “I want you in me. I want you in me. I want you to split me apart with your prick and hurt me.”

  “No.” Terror in Michael’s eyes again, and he stopped, damn it, cutting off the mounting pleasure like snapped elastic. “No, don’t ask. I don’t want . . .”

  Belatedly, Finn remembered the man was fragile—fragile and a great deal more gentle than he looked. He rushed to make things right before Michael bolted. “Hey.” He still couldn’t move his arms, but he arched up and caught Michael’s mouth in a tender, thorough kiss. “Shhh. It’s okay. It’s fine. You ever done anal before?”

  His calm seemed to catch. Michael smiled ruefully and nodded. “My wife enjoyed it. I’m guessing it’s much the same with a man.”

  Finn relaxed—freak-out averted—and nodded to the drawer by the bed where he kept lube and condoms. “How about you suit up and suit yourself then? We’ll work up to pain another day.”

  “Okay.” Michael smiled and leaned on his elbow to rummage in the drawer, tear open a condom packet with his teeth, and kneel to put it on. A position that gave Finn a great chance to ogle what he had in store for him. Like the man himself, it was not particularly long, but it was thick. He reached down and stroked himself in anticipation. He was definitely going to need to be ready for this, definitely going to feel it in the morning, and that was the very best thing.

  He turned his hand up so Michael could fill it with lube and slicked himself, enjoying the silky glide of his own hand, getting himself loose and relaxed and ready. “Get on with it, then.”

  Michael laughed. “You’re such a control freak.” He dipped his dripping fingers between Finn’s cheeks, dragging them over his hole, pressing lightly, too lightly for Finn’s tastes, infuriatingly careful.

  “You need it. Or you’d never get anything done. For crying out loud.” Finn tried to arch up, press himself onto the blunt, teasing fingers, but Michael pinned his hips with the other hand, held him immo
bile. He rolled his head on the pillow, unconsciously offering his throat in surrender. “Please, you’re going to kill me. Get on with it.”

  Michael relented, pushed a finger in and slid that restraining hand over until it was cradling Finn’s balls. Between the deep delicious ache of penetration and the warm vulnerability of being cradled in a fist that could geld him if it closed tight, Finn struggled to concentrate on the educational value of the moment. “Feel around. Here’s a key difference. There’s a bump.”

  Michael looked at him like he half-resented being told what to do, but he got one arm under Finn’s backside and lifted it for a better angle, sliding his lubed middle finger in exploratory curves. He hit the spot. Finn’s mouth fell open, he closed his eyes, and clutched at his hair. “There. You want to do that again.”

  “So I’m gathering.” Michael sounded relaxed now, amused and confident. He pushed a second finger in, leaning forwards at the same time to rub his slightly bristled cheek over the head of Finn’s cock. It was rough and unexpected and sore; Finn gave a strangled cry, reached down, grabbed Michael’s hair, and made him do it again.

  He hit the prostate at the same time, and fierce stars exploded in all the cavities of Finn’s body. “Enough prep,” he gasped. “Just fucking do it. Then get up here so I can kiss you.”

  “So demanding.” Michael drew back, kissed the inside of his knee gently, and then positioned himself, the touch of the blunt head of his cock against Finn’s arsehole oddly tender before it began to drive inside, forcing him wide open, spreading him with a stretch that added a wire-thin intensity of pain to his pleasure. He bit down hard on his own lip to hold back the whine of wanton need and wound his legs around Michael’s strong back, trying to open himself even more.

  Michael’s weight came forwards, blanketing him again, pressing the air out of his lungs with a force that left him feeling as though the man was everywhere inside him, filling even the hollow of his chest. He offered his throat again and the bruise there, but Michael captured his lip instead and bit where Finn had bitten, making his mouth ache and throb, swollen with blood.

  Michael moved then, his thrusts long and slow, rocking them together, Finn gone liquid in his arms, utterly surrendered to the feel of his cock sliding over his prostate, the regular bursts of escalating bliss. He tangled his hands in Michael’s hair and just held on, rocked and anchored and speared on that strength that was greater than his, that had no better purpose than to give him everything in the world that he could possibly want.

  It built and built, slow and velvety and deep and soft, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. “Please, please. Oh God! Please!” He struggled under the relentless weight, trying to speed the pace, to finally get off, his muscles clenched tight and straining, his balls aching, and his grazed prick bruised with need. Too much gentleness, nothing to focus on, nothing to bring it to a crisis point and let it snap.

  Michael licked across the mark on his throat with a dark, approving growl. Then he bit so hard he almost broke the skin, and at the same time raked his fingernails across Finn’s nipples, digging in deep.

  Finn’s world flew apart in an electric storm. He screamed and came hard, feeling Michael follow him over, a hard thrust and a burst of warmth inside. “You’re perfect,” he gasped, as Michael settled his damp forehead into Finn’s neck and held on through the shudders of his own orgasm. “Oh God, you’re perfect.”

  “Beautiful boy,” Michael mumbled, not taking his face out from where it was tucked into Finn’s neck. He rolled them both onto their sides, pulling out while at the same time he snugged Finn closer, wrapping both arms around him as tight as they would go, like he could meld them into one person. Like he was trying to hide inside Finn’s skin. “Beautiful, beautiful boy.”

  Michael was shuddering and overwrought, so Finn didn’t mention the fact that Finn was, both in fact and in temperament, clearly the grown-up in this relationship. He just found a towel while Michael dealt with the condom, wiped them both down, and then dragged Michael firmly back into his bed. Petting the man’s hair, he drifted in the warmth of postcoital bliss, savouring the safety of the big body enfolding him and the wordless animal comfort of being held. After so long. After so long alone, it was . . .

  He had not quite found the right word for it before he fell asleep. In the morning, he woke to implacable kisses and another round of gently overbearing sex spiced with small and welcome cruelties. The continuing question of finding the vocabulary to sum this new development up utterly slipped his mind. As did all his problems and troubles, put on hold by the magic of phenomenal sex.

  “Out.” Finn braced a hand on Michael’s chest and shoved him towards the door. He let himself be nudged back a step, grinning. “Get out.”

  “My life as a sex toy,” Michael grumbled. “You only want me for the nights.”

  “Too right.” Another shove, and Finn echoed his grin a little fiercer. “Some of us have to work, you know.”

  He didn’t want to go, and he wasn’t going to pretend that he did, but he could see Finn’s point. They’d pushed it as it was, with another round of sex and mutual showering, and a breakfast together in Finn’s scattered, colourful little kitchen, watched by the half-restored face of Pegasus, where they had managed less eating than kissing.

  It wouldn’t last. They were both too old for the kind of heedless marathons of new-partner sex, the don’t come out of the bedroom for three days except to eat toast and bathe weekends he remembered from his youth. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have appreciated spending the day as well as the night.

  “I’m serious.” A note of exasperation entered Finn’s tone. Michael caved immediately.

  “I know. I’m going.” He caught Finn’s shoving hand and used it to pull the man into his arms and kiss him properly, just to tide him over. “Can I come back this evening?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  Michael was fairly sure this was a joke, decided it was worth saying anyway. “Yeah, of course. You tell me not to, and I won’t.”

  He hadn’t quite worked out exactly where Finn stood on the whole question of who was in charge—hadn’t expected him to yield with such abandoned sweetness when they made love. But this question was a no-brainer; he absolutely had the right to end it whenever he wanted, though Michael really hoped he would not.

  “And that’s why you can.” Finn smiled at him, reaching up to turn down the collar of his coat and smooth it evenly over his shoulders. Louise used to do that too, and it brought a lump to his throat to be tidied up by Finn’s quick, clever hands. It felt like love.

  But Finn looked pensive afterwards, his eyes downcast.

  “You okay?”

  “It’s been a while,” he said, “since I had someone to fuss over. It just . . .” He gave a rueful laugh. “Brought back memories.”

  “For me too.”

  They stood smiling at one another for a little while, Finn’s hands clasped in Michael’s while the textures of their lives ran together around them. Then Michael stirred, pulled away, and opened the door. “This evening, then.”

  “This evening.”

  Everything became bittersweet when you were old enough, Michael thought as he ventured out into a blustery October morning. And maybe better for it—bittersweet like chocolate, or a subtle aged wine. But there was no denying that the top notes of today were all joy.

  The trees, in their little squares of earth that formed an avenue along the street, tossed their golden heads in the wind, and russet leaves floated like confetti over the bike stands and bins. The bakers had their door open and the scent of newly baked bread joined the coffee from the cafés and the pungent floral scents of LUSH in a maelstrom of sensation. And Michael breathed it in like elixir, feeling strong.

  Out here, away from London, away from the sinkhole into which the dirt of the country emptied, there really was still something clean to enjoy. When you turned the stones here, you found urchins and sea horses—beautiful things. You
found extraordinary, capable, clever, funny, offbeat, generous people like his neighbours and, of course, like Finn.

  Like Finn, who thought he was perfect, and who made him want to be perfect to prove him right.

  Well, then, there were things he could do today that would give back to the world some of the joy it had given him. He swung by the local DIY shop, cut some spare keys and bought white paint and brushes. In the charity shop next door, he found a fake Moroccan rug that would just fit into the narrowboat’s tiny living space, its blue-and-red pattern making the mismatched bedding and curtains look like they were planned that way.

  He spent the morning painting the boat throughout, with his headphones in and a prog-rock mix cycling through Led Zeppelin, Hawkwind, and Motörhead, stopping him from thinking too much. It was done by lunchtime. He opened all the doors, windows, and portholes to let the paint stink out and stood in the stern, hands on his hips, admiring the affect and feeling accomplished.

  It was, though he said it himself, pretty damn good. Austere, perhaps, but bare and empty and bright in a way that felt calming, that made the space feel like it was bigger on the inside, like you could lie here on the darkest of days and not feel trapped.

  Maybe he could bring Finn here, instead of ever subjecting the man to the house again. They could go up the river—long lazy days filled with the sound and movement of water, fishing or sunbathing or just watching the banks go by. And at night they could cuddle up close on the not-quite-double bed and experiment with this whole pleasure-and-pain thing that Finn had going on.

  Except . . . He folded his arms and sighed, letting the daydream go. He’d already made himself a promise for how to use this boat. He’d have to make a new one for Finn. Maybe make it with him—add more bookshelves, maybe some carvings, leather bench seats . . . gargoyles around the waterspouts? Something less generic than this. Unique as Finn himself.

  It was a measure of how much better he felt that the prospect sounded exciting rather than simply exhausting. Committing himself to it, he washed and dried an old takeaway coffee cup with a lid, wrote a note saying, “I’m in the house, the boat is empty,” and folded it into the cup. He dropped the hatch key in after it and fastened the lid on tight, sellotaping over the drinking hole.