The Ending Hour
by Maya Tawipart seven
"Do you think you'll have time to change yourself later?
Pay your dues to the devil and your payment to the maker"
--Helium, "All The X's Have Wings"AFTER
Meredith was happy to see him. Harrison could tell, because as soon as he walked into her hotel room, she slapped him across the face.
"Good arm," he said with a wince.
"Oh, shut up!" she yelled. "Goddamn it, Harrison, do you have any idea what you've put me through? Taking off like that, without a single word--"
"Mer--"
"Shut up! I put my reputation on the line for you--"
"Jesus, Meredith, it wasn't even two days!" Shit, his face still stung. At least he hadn't walked in with the handcuffs on. God and Meredith only knew how hard she would've hit him then.
"They moved up the trial date, you fucking brat!" she shouted. "It starts on fucking Tuesday!"
Harrison froze. "Are you serious?"
"Do I look like I'm fucking joking?"
In truth, she looked like hell. Her hair was wild and unbrushed, she was wearing a sweatshirt and frayed jeans-- Harrison hadn't known she even owned any jeans-- and her face seemed strangely naked. It was, he realized, the first time he'd seen his sister without makeup since she'd discovered the magic of Maybelline.
"No," he said at last, "but you've definitely expanded your vocabulary. Mer--"
"Don't you dare 'Mer' me!"
"Meredith," he amended, and pressed the tape recorder into her hand. Her fingers were stiff, and he had to wrap them around the recorder so it wouldn't fall. "Listen to the tape. Make a copy. Make fifty copies, I don't know, just keep it someplace safe, and don't play it for anyone. But just listen to it first, right now, before you do anything else."
She looked down. Her mouth opened, then closed again. The anger faded from her face, and suddenly she looked as drained as he felt.
"Harrison," she began, then stopped.
Harrison opened the door. Jack walked in, still cuffed, flanked by Ray and Fraser. Jack looked unconcerned. The other two looked grim.
"This is Jack," Harrison said, as Meredith stared, open-mouthed. "He's a fuckhead, but he's got an offer for you."
He left them to the negotiations and went down to wait with Isaac at the unmarked police car. Richard had already been taken into custody; Fraser had called ahead, and the Seattle cops had met them at the airport. Harrison had expected to be hauled in at the same time, but some slick Canadian talk had convinced them to let him and Jack stay in Fraser's hands for the time being. Harrison was half-asleep on his feet by that point, so he didn't remember much of what we said. There were some big words involved, was all he knew.
He'd thought about Jack's offer for the rest of the flight, and in the end, he'd decided that he just couldn't decide. Meredith was the lawyer; she knew how these things worked. And if she were still inclined to feel any sympathy for Richard, his taped confession would take care of that.
It felt like a cop-out, but Harrison didn't care anymore. He supposed that recognizing his limitations was just another part of growing up.
Yeah. He'd changed. Who hadn't.
Isaac had been busy in his absence. He met Harrison at the car with a brand-new lighter and an unopened pack of Marlboros.
"God, I love you," Harrison said, grabbing the goods from his hand.
Isaac clutched his chest. "Be still my heart."
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was just the nicotine hit after so many hours deprived; either way, after Harrison lit up, he slumped against the car and mumbled, "I kinda do, you know."
Isaac turned and gave him a long, hard look.
"Good," was all he said.
Harrison leaned back, exhaling the smoke into the air above his head. It hung there for a few seconds, motionless; then the wind picked up and whipped it away, scattering it among the skyscrapers, pulling it apart until it faded into the low red haze of the overhanging clouds.
The next three days passed in a blur. It was near dawn on Sunday morning by the time Meredith gave the okay and the resident Canadians came down to haul Jack off to the police station for processing. On Monday, after Harrison and Meredith had spent eighteen straight hours locked in her hotel room and going over the case, the news came that all charges against Harrison had been dropped. No reason, no explanation.
"Well," Meredith said, looking dazed as she hung up the phone. "That's that, then."
Harrison groaned. "And I had my suit dry-cleaned, too."
"Suck it up," Meredith advised. She hesitated, then sat down next to him on the bed. "That was nice of him, I suppose."
He didn't have to ask who she meant. She wasn't calling Richard Dad anymore, but she didn't seem able to call him by name either. She settled for pronouns instead, and Harrison always knew who she was talking about by her tone of voice: a little wary, a little apologetic, like she felt guilty for bringing him up in the first place.
She hadn't said anything about the tape, or Tru's and Harrison's calling, since Harrison's return. She didn't need to. He knew she believed him now; if she hadn't, she wouldn't have taken Jack's offer. If she thought Richard really was crazy, she would have let the tape go to court. Simple as that.
Unfortunately, it seemed she still couldn't resist the urge to play peacemaker. Harrison snorted and dropped backwards on the bed, one arm draped over his eyes. "You don't know it was him."
"I know how the system works, Harry. It had to be him."
"So he's feeling guilty. Thinks he can make it up to me or something."
After a moment, Meredith said, "He can't, can he."
It wasn't a question. Harrison moved his arm and squinted at her. She was still perched on the edge of the mattress, twisted around to look at him, an indecipherable expression on her face.
"Should he?" he asked at last. "What he did, you think I should forgive him?"
"That's not my call."
"Can you?"
Meredith turned away and stood. "Get some rest," she said, keeping her back to him. "This isn't over yet."
It wasn't, Harrison knew. He should have been thrilled at the reprieve, or at the very least relieved, but all he felt was numb. It wouldn't be over until Richard was behind bars.
With his trial no longer an issue, it was Jack's turn to spend long hours locked up with Meredith, this time down at the local jail. Harrison couldn't decide which of them he pitied more, and resolved the issue by ignoring it in favor of fourteen hours of blissful, dreamless sleep.
He was finally woken up on Tuesday afternoon by a decidedly non-sisterly hand sliding down the front of his boxers. After displaying the appropriate responses in the proper order-- first alarm, then annoyance, then a half-hour grope session in the shower, during which they somehow managed to get themselves clean-- Harrison let Isaac drag him out of the hotel and across town. They ended up in a seedy bar in an even seedier motel, worlds away from Meredith's luxury suite.
"Crack whores and drug dealers," Harrison observed, taking in his surroundings. "You always find the nicest places."
"It's a gift," Isaac said.
"It's like I never left home."
He started to order a beer, then stopped. A hollow victory was still a victory. Harrison was a free man, his father was locked up with no chance of bail, and it was his first drink since he'd left Boston. Beer wasn't going to cut it.
"Two tequilas," he told the bartender. "Limes, salt, the works. And keep 'em coming."
"Feeling festive, are we?" Isaac asked.
"Getting there," Harrison said.
He was on his third shot when he noticed that Isaac seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone, he realized a moment later, when Isaac raised his hand in greeting.
Harrison turned to look, and his stomach dropped, or maybe spun sideways; it was getting hard to tell. He said, "Of all the crappy motel bars in all the world."
"Can it, Bogart," Isaac said.
"You're dead, asshole."
Across the room, Fraser smiled and waved back. Ray looked pissy. Nothing new there.
Harrison had known that they'd had to stick around to testify, and were being housed somewhere cheap at the state's expense. Ray's lost day off had turned into a free vacation. Of course he'd complained.
"I hate Seattle," he'd grumbled at the news. "Freakin' yuppies."
"You've never been to Seattle, Ray," Fraser had said.
"And already I hate it, so what does that tell you?"
And that was the last Harrison had seen of them until now. He'd tried not to think about it, but the thing with Ray on the plane still gnawed at the back of his mind, even through the chaos of everything that followed. He was used to seeing disapproval on Fraser's face. Coming from Ray, it hurt more than he'd ever expected.
Ray didn't even know the whole story. All he knew was that Harrison had killed somebody the first time around, in order to force the rewind. He didn't know whose skull had taken the bullet.
That was something else Harrison was trying not to think about, something nobody but he, Olivia, and Jack would ever know. He'd made that much clear to Jack on the way from the airport to Meredith's hotel, when he'd realized that he had a better chance of scoring some private time with Angelina Jolie than of getting Jack alone for the conversation. So, crammed between Jack and Isaac in the back seat of a borrowed copmobile, with Ray driving in a silent sulk and Fraser doing his best to make conversation, Harrison had leaned over and hissed in Jack's ear, "What happened yesterday."
Jack just looked at him.
"You tell anyone, I kill you. You know I'll do it now."
Jack's smile had almost looked genuine.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," he'd said. "I always knew what you were capable of."
Harrison wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"Good," he'd said at last, and sat back in his seat. He'd caught Ray's eyes in the rearview mirror and glared back, until Ray ran a stoplight and Fraser scolded him to keep his eyes on the road.
Now, three days later, Ray was returning the glare in full force as he followed Fraser to the bar. Isaac looked back and forth between him and Harrison, then burst out, "Fuck's sake, would you two kiss and make up already?"
Harrison's fourth tequila appeared next to his elbow. He slammed it down without a word.
"Ray?" Fraser asked, frowning. "Is something wrong?"
"Not with me," Ray said. "I'm great." He was still glaring at Harrison.
"I see," Fraser said. "Only you seem to be glaring at Harrison."
"Picked up on that, did you?" The fourth shot hit Harrison all at once, knocking his tongue loose, and he gripped the edges of his bar stool to keep from falling off. "The great Supermountie. Can't put anything past you."
"Screw this," Ray said, and turned and stormed toward the exit.
"I'd hit you," Harrison informed Isaac, "if I could find your face."
"That was fast," Isaac said.
"I've been sober. It sucked." He slid off the stool and lurched for the door. "Later, Izzy."
"Where are you going?" Isaac called after him.
"Away," Harrison muttered, his head spinning with every step. He needed fresh air. He needed a smoke. He needed to stop finding it funny that the two concepts were not mutually exclusive.
Fucking Isaac. He always had to know things. He knew Ray was pissed at Harrison. He knew the motel where Ray and Fraser were staying. He knew that if he parked Harrison at the bar long enough, they'd turn up sooner or later. And he just had to put the fucking pieces together, didn't he?
Harrison didn't need help screwing up his friendships. He could do that just fine on his own, thank you very much.
The cool, damp air outside smacked him in the face, but it didn't do much to sober him up. He lit a cigarette as he stepped into the street, meaning to take a walk to clear his head; the next thing he knew, he was flying backwards with a hand gripping the back of his shirt, as a horn blared and a pair of headlights whooshed by at about seventy billion miles an hour. The driver didn't even slow down.
"Asshole!" Harrison yelled after the car, from his new prone position on the sidewalk. His tailbone ached. Great. One more indignity to add to the list.
The hand on his shirt hauled him to his feet, and he stood, blinking and swaying, as Ray's angry face swam into view. "Hey! Helen Keller! Watch where the hell you're going!"
"What do you care," Harrison muttered, patting his pockets. His cigarette was long gone. He needed a new one.
"Oh no you don't." Ray dragged him back into the bar, not even stopping when Harrison tripped in the doorway and almost fell again. Harrison would have fought, but the post-near-death-experience thing was kicking in, and he was starting to feel sick.
They passed Isaac and Fraser, still at the bar. "Make nice with the criminal element, Ben," Ray snapped when Fraser opened his mouth, not bothering to slow down.
Harrison finally managed to get his heels under him and dig in. It didn't have much effect. "What are you-- hey-- where are we going?"
"Your favorite place," Ray said, and shoved him into the men's room. It was empty. Harrison staggered against the closest urinal and gave serious thought to throwing up.
"Not tonight," he mumbled, and closed his eyes. "I got a headache."
The slam of the door made him jump. His eyes flew open, and then Ray was right there, looming over him and backing him against the wall.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ray demanded.
Harrison gave a short, hollow laugh. "You got a few hours?"
"How long you been sober?"
"Eight days." He didn't even have to think about it. One day free in Seattle, three in lockup, two in Canada, two under Meredith's watchful eye-- he'd been counting the hours.
"Any DTs?"
"None of your business." Harrison tried to push him away.
Ray slammed him back against the wall; his skull cracked against the plaster, and he saw sparks. "Dumbass, are you trying to kill yourself? Walking right out into fucking traffic--"
"I didn't see it!"
"You didn't look!" Ray shouted.
"I'm fucking drunk!" Harrison shouted back.
"That's the fucking problem!"
Harrison stopped. Stared.
"Whoa, okay, wait," he said. His voice cracked in disbelief. "Is this seriously an intervention?"
Ray snorted. "Touchy-feely bullshit," he said, and stepped back. Harrison started to relax until his realized Ray was just taking off his jacket.
"This ain't an intervention," Ray went on, swinging his arms at his sides and rocking back on his heels. He twisted his neck with an audible crack. "This is me knocking some long-overdue sense into your ass."
Harrison started to laugh, and kept on laughing until Ray punched him in the face.
"Motherfucker!" he yelped then. His head bounced off the wall again.
"Like I said." Ray was almost dancing now, crackling with barely-contained energy. Harrison felt dizzy just watching him. Or maybe that was the blow to the head.
"Jesus Christ!" He ducked the next swing, just barely, and broke for the door. Ray caught him and shoved him face-first against it, twisting one arm up behind his back. The same arm Richard had dislocated; Harrison's shoulder twinged at the memory. He struggled, to no avail, then spat, "Let go, you freakin' lunatic!"
The door started to open, smacking against the side of Harrison's face. He and Ray both stilled, but Ray's grip didn't loosen.
"Ray," came Fraser's voice from the hallway. "I heard shouting. Is everything all right?"
"No, it's--" Harrison began, and Ray's free hand clapped over his mouth. He bit down hard.
"Fine, Ben," Ray said through gritted teeth. "Go away."
"You don't sound fine."
Harrison growled. Ray gave his arm a sharp twist.
"Ben," Ray said, "listen very, very carefully."
"I'm listening, Ray."
"Go. The fuck. Away."
There was a long pause.
"As you wish," Fraser said at last, sounding hurt.
Ray counted to ten under his breath, then removed his hand.
Harrison spat. "Nice going, Dr. Phil."
Ray slammed him against the door again; he grunted. "You shut up and listen to me. I'm not good at this stirring speech thing. You wanna be convinced, go talk to Ben."
"Great," Harrison said, squirming. "Let me go and I'll--" Slam. "Ow!"
"I said shut up. I don't do speeches, I just call 'em like I see 'em. You know what I see? You're an alcoholic. You know it, I know it, the freaking Dalai Lama knows it."
"He tell you that himself?" Another slam. "Ow! Fucker!"
"What part of 'shut up' do you not understand?"
"The part where you punched me in the face!"
"If you'd shut up in the first place, I wouldn't've had to," Ray said. "You know what gets me?"
"I'd like to," Harrison muttered.
Ray ignored him that time. "You're an alcoholic, but you just went a week without a drink. What does that tell you?"
"I was busy," Harrison said through clenched teeth.
Ray made a loud buzzer sound. "Bull. Addicts find the time. They make the time. You don't drink 'cause you need to drink, Harrison. You drink 'cause you need the distraction."
"Great," Harrison said. "Good to know. Are you done?"
To his surprise, Ray let go and stepped back. Harrison didn't move; his face throbbed, and the metal door was cool. Despite playing an active role in his injuries, it felt good against his hot skin.
Behind him, Ray said quietly, "You been looking for your sister's killer for the last four years. You found him, Harry. You brought him down. You won. Don't let him drag you down with him."
Harrison closed his eyes.
"You know, Ben, uh, he first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father. And then there was a whole liaison thing. You probably heard the story. Thing is, he got the job done, and he moved on. He made a life there. Me, my wife dumped me. I didn't want my life anymore, not without her. 'Swhy I took the Vecchio gig. I could've just given up then, but I didn't. I moved on too."
"You had Fraser," Harrison muttered.
"And you got Isaac, and that lawyer sister, and your secretary whatsername, and that weird guy Davis. You got other things in your life, Harry. More than me or Ben did."
He didn't answer.
"Think about it," Ray said. "'Sall I'm saying. Think about what you're doing, why you're doing it. Maybe you did some things you shouldn't. That don't matter now. Take a breath, look at your life, move on. There. End of speech."
A hand fell on Harrison's shoulder. He flinched, but Ray just tugged him away from the door and led him to the row of sinks.
"Come on," Ray said, as he stared at himself in the mirror: bloody nose, split lip, a massive bruise forming down the left side of his face. "Clean yourself up."
"Just one more thing," Harrison said, and turned and slammed his fist into Ray's nose.
Then he threw up in the sink.
Isaac was alone at the bar when they returned. He did a double-take when he saw Harrison's face. "What the hell happened to you?"
Harrison and Ray exchanged a glance.
"Walked into a door," they chorused.
Harrison started to grin, then stopped, wincing at the pull on his lip. "Shit. Don't make me laugh, fucker."
Ray half-shrugged and leaned back on one elbow against the bar. His other hand held a crumpled piece of toilet paper to his still-bleeding nose.
"Looks like I missed a party," Isaac said.
Harrison climbed wearily back onto his stool and rested his forehead on the bar. "I'll make it up to you," he mumbled.
"I can hardly wait."
"Where's Ben?" Ray's voice was muffled by the tissue.
"He left," Isaac said. "Looked like a kicked puppy. I just figured you two were having sex in there."
Harrison didn't raise his head. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ray's head drop back. "Shit," Ray told the ceiling. "Better go."
"Yeah," Isaac said, with just a hint of an edge to his voice. "You'd better."
Harrison looked up in time to see Ray halt in mid-step. Ray's head snapped around, and he stared at Isaac for a long moment. Then he flashed a sharp, thin-lipped smile and started walking again.
"What the hell's that about?" Harrison asked when Ray was safely out of earshot.
Isaac's eyes narrowed. "He hit you."
"Chill, Izzy, it's good. I hit him back."
"That's supposed to impress me? I've seen how you hit."
"Low blow."
"He hit you," Isaac said again.
"He's Ray," Harrison said. "That's how he communicates."
Isaac grunted. Harrison grabbed his jaw and leaned in close, until their noses were almost touching.
"You can kill me with your pinky," he said, staring deep into Isaac's eyes. "I know that. But you start pulling that overprotective guy bullshit with me, I will kick your ass."
Isaac gave a slow, unimpressed blink.
"Still," Harrison added, grinning-- carefully, this time. "It's kinda cute."
"Fuck you," Isaac said.
Harrison let go and propped his elbows on the bar. "Trust me, when I want you to beat someone up for me, I'll let you know."
"Whatever," Isaac said, and nodded at the empty shot glasses. "Another round?"
Harrison made a face; he'd rinsed out his mouth in the sink, after first rinsing out the sink, but he still remembered the taste of blood and tequila and sour vomit. "Pass. I'm all set."
"Ready to leave?"
"Please," he said.
"You know," Isaac said, "neither of us should really be driving."
"Actually, I'm pretty sober now--"
Isaac caught his arm as he started to stand, holding him in place. "Dude, do you really want to spend another night in your sister's room?"
Harrison looked down at the hand on his sleeve, then back up at Isaac's face. He ran his tongue over his cut lip and asked, "What did you have in mind?"
Isaac smiled.
The motel room was small and cramped and smelled like mold, and that was about all Harrison had time to notice, because as soon as he got the door open and managed to find the light switch, Isaac was already wrapped around him and unzipping his pants.
"Wait, Is-- mmph!" Harrison said, as Isaac's mouth clamped down over his, shutting him up. He clawed at Isaac's back for a few seconds, not sure if he was trying to get away or just pull off Isaac's long wool coat; then he tasted blood again, and the sudden shock of pain from his split lip cleared his head. He wrenched back and gasped, "Door!"
Isaac looked blank. "What about it?"
"It's open," Harrison said.
"Oh," Isaac said, and looked over his shoulder. They stared out the open door for a few seconds, contemplating the dark alleyway beyond.
"So, um," Harrison said, "we should close it. I think." Isaac's hand was sliding into his boxers, making it hard to concentrate. "Uh."
"I don't mind," Isaac said.
"Yeah, you're a freaking exhibitionist. I noticed. Can you please shut the damn door?"
The hand wrapped around his erection and pulled. He squeaked.
"Make that noise again," Isaac said, grinning.
"Close the door, maybe I will," Harrison said. He could feel blood trickling down his chin, and without thinking, he licked it away.
Isaac's eyes darkened.
Shit.
"Door, fucker!" Harrison shoved, trying to push him away; he'd forgotten about the iron grip on his dick. Isaac took one step back, then another, still with that evil shit-eating grin, and Harrison had to follow. He grabbed Isaac's wrist with both hands and whimpered. Slowly, way too fucking slowly, they made it too the door.
The alley was still empty. Harrison wondered how long that would last. He knew what was coming, could feel it crawling out of the dark corners of his brain, and he didn't want a fucking audience.
"Isaac," he warned.
Isaac's leg shot out and kicked the doors closed. His eyes never left Harrison's face.
"Happy?"
Harrison gulped. "Ecstatic." No way was he going to mention the lock.
Isaac's grin widened even more.
"I hate you," Harrison said.
"Cry me a river, white boy. This here's payback."
Harrison's skin tingled. Shit.
Isaac steered him to the bed, still with the same convenient handhold. Harrison bit down hard on his lip to keep from making any more embarrassing sounds, and grunted as fresh blood welled up between his teeth.
"That'll never heal if you don't stop picking at it," Isaac said in a sing-song voice.
Harrison matched his tone. "Did I mention I still hate you?"
"Not enough," Isaac said. He let go then, and Harrison collapsed on the mattress, weak-kneed. The bedsprings protested beneath him.
"Was it good for you?" he muttered, clutching his aching dick.
Isaac ignored him. "Strip."
"You first."
Isaac's expression wasn't quite a smile. "I don't think so, Harry. You're not getting how this game is played."
"Maybe I am," Harrison said, with an answering flash of teeth.
"Maybe," Isaac allowed after a moment. "One question, though."
Harrison said, "Shoot."
"Do you really think you need to make this harder on yourself?"
He knew he couldn't resist. He didn't even try.
"Looks like it's pretty hard already," he said, and grinned at the obvious bulge in Isaac's pants.
Isaac leaned forward and planted his fists on the mattress, trapping Harrison between his arms. "Strip," he said again, softly.
Harrison's pulse pounded. He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. "Make me."
Isaac raised one hand and wiped the blood from Harrison's mouth with his thumb. Then he grabbed the front of Harrison's shirt and ripped it open.
Buttons flew, scattering over the carpet. Harrison didn't move.
"Take off your boots." Isaac's voice was still soft. Too soft.
"Do it yourself."
That did it.
Isaac didn't bother with the boots; he hauled Harrison off the bed and pushed him back down onto his stomach. Harrison caught himself on his elbows, then promptly lost that support as Isaac yanked his hands back, and got a face full of pillowcase instead. Isaac was doing something to his sleeves; Harrison craned his neck to see what, and Isaac shoved his head forward again.
He laughed into the pillow as he figured it out. Isaac was buttoning his cuffs. "That been bothering you, tough guy?"
"If I were you," Isaac said, "I'd keep my mouth shut." He yanked the shirt down over Harrison's shoulders.
"And that's why you're not me." Wrists now free, Harrison tried to push himself up again, and his arms stopped halfway around. The buttoned cuffs wouldn't slide over his hands; they were trapped behind his back.
His body buzzed. Now we're getting somewhere.
"Keep talking, then." Isaac raised Harrison's hips, just enough to pull his jeans and boxers down around his knees. When he let go, Harrison's hard-on was trapped between his stomach and the mattress. He squirmed, enjoying the friction.
Isaac slapped his ass. "Stop that."
"Make me," he repeated.
One hand pressed down against the small of his back, holding him in place. He growled.
"That's one." Isaac sounded breathless. "What do you think, an even ten? Think that'll take care of the list?"
Harrison closed his eyes. Images flickered rapid-fire through his brain. The white sparks of the gunshot, the bullet, the red wet hole between Isaac's eyes. Isaac falling.
"It's a start," he heard himself say.
The second blow was harder than the first. He clenched his jaw and didn't make a sound.
Three. This time, a small hiss escaped between his teeth.
"Count," Isaac ordered from behind him.
"Fuck you," he said.
Four. He grunted.
"Count," Isaac said again.
Harrison smiled without opening his eyes. "Don't think so."
Five, six, and seven all fell in quick succession. His grunts became whimpers, then a low, constant whine. His ass burned. His dick throbbed. He was floating.
"You're gonna count to ten," he heard Isaac say, far away and getting farther. "Ten and I'll stop. Not before."
It took effort now to speak. "I bet," Harrison whispered, then stopped, shuddering. Too much. He couldn't do it.
He felt Isaac lean forward, felt his body close, heard his voice from a distance. "You bet what?"
"I bet," Harrison said, and licked his lips. They were bleeding again. He grinned wide, feeling the cut split open, letting the blood flow. "I bet... I can hold out... longer than you."
Isaac stilled. The hand on Harrison's back curled into a fist. "Harry--"
He didn't recognize his own voice anymore. "Do it."
After a few seconds, Isaac did. He didn't speak again.
And Harrison broke first, just like he knew he would; and he shouted finally, one, two, three, until his throat was sore and he could barely make the words, and ten was almost a whisper; and Isaac let him go, and it only took two hard thrusts against the mattress before he was coming; and then, still high and spinning, he shrugged his shirt back on and pushed himself up, then wrenched Isaac's pants open and sucked hard on his cock and swallowed every drop. And Isaac let him.
"Harry, what," Isaac began some time later, when they were naked and huddled under the sheets, and the stained comforter had been kicked to the floor.
Harrison just kissed him. He could shut up Isaac too.
After that, Isaac didn't ask again, and Harrison closed his eyes and pulled the covers over his head. And just before he fell asleep, he saw it again: Gunshot. Bullet. Skull.
Isaac, falling.
MAY | NOVEMBER (1) | NOVEMBER (2) | NOVEMBER (3) | DAY 1 | DAY 2 | AFTER | EPILOGUE Email: mayatawi@populli.net