The leather seat creaked under Federico as he shifted, making him still instantly. He didn’t want his parents knowing he was listening, and besides, the creak was loud enough to cover their voices, and he was already straining.
The stiff fabric of his corduroy trousers folded as he bent forward, staying ‘seated’ only by virtue of his butt still maintaining contact with the chair. His Gameboy lay forgotten behind him. He could just see the sheen of his mother’s hair, the rough cadence of his father’s voice, and the seraphic tones of the doctor.
“…it is not uncommon, I’m afraid.” He was saying.
“But…what do we do now?” his mother replied, her quavering voice resonating in Federico’s ears and shivering down his back. She sounded on the verge of tears.
“Obviously, I recommend further therapy. I have a colleague who specialises in children who have victims of rape trauma.” The doctor told her, appeasing and calm as ever.
“Did he truly tell you that, Doctor?” his father interjected, voice gruff. “He’s only ten years old. It’s disgusting.”
A cold wash of dread swamped Federico then, and his shivering upgraded to a tremble.
He never should have said it, he never should have told. He was disgusting. He was wrong wrong wrong. His parents would hate him, he was a filthy thing and could never be forgiven...
A sigh. “It’s not uncommon, as I said, Mister Rossi. Young boys who have been through this kind of trauma often become…confused. I suspected something like this, which is why I have kept recommending you bring him to me.”
“But it was a year ago now.” His mother persisted, wanting to poke holes in the doctor's words, make them fallible. “How can this still be happening after so long?”
“Some damage can become scarring, Mrs Rossi. It’s unfortunate but true nonetheless. He told me without a doubt that he questions his sexuality.”
“How can he…” his father’s voice was cut off. Federico stared at the plastic fern across from him in the waiting room. Its colouring and manufacture were high quality, and it almost looked real. Federico would have been fooled if he hadn’t seen it look exactly the same for the past fifty-five Tuesdays.
“I will put you in touch with my colleague, Mister Rossi.”
“Thank you, doctor.” His father replied, sounding more sad than grateful.
When his parents came to find him, he was shivering visibly and his mother sank to her knees, wrapping him in her arms and Dio.
“Caro mio,” she whispered into his ear, holding tight as if she could stop the uncontrolled shivering. “Don’t worry, my beautiful boy. We will fix it. We will fix you.”
We will fix you.
Fuck Christian. Fuck Brendan.
Fuck Eddie, Eddie told himself.
He leaned his foot heavily on the gas, letting the car accelerate just above reasonability and turned up the music. Lewis Del Mar’s Loud(y) sang out, rearranging the rhythm of his heart-beat. It was angsty music, but Eddie was feeling angsty and that was perfectly appropriate. The window was down and Eddie let the music thump through his body, obliterating his thinking.
He pulled in at the Pink Flamingo, the only gay club on this side of Portland. It wasn’t far out of town but far enough that his activities there wouldn’t make it back to campus. As names went it was very much on the nose, but that didn’t stop it from being packed to bursting every weekend. The beautifully painted and near naked dancers in cages helped too, obviously. Aston, the owner of the club, knew what his clientele wanted and it wasn’t subtlety.
Eddie kissed the bouncer on the cheek as he glided past the queue out front. He didn’t need permission; he was known. Slinking his way to the bar he winked at the little redheaded barman, who grinned in anticipation, his little green eyes twinkling. He liked to call himself Tinkerbelle, and wore a gold speedo and bow tie that was the standard club uniform. Being extremely cute and lithe, he pulled it off perfectly. He was also very good at serving drinks. He poured twelve shots of something bright green before sliding one over to Eddie.
“Seeing you later?” he asked, hopeful.
“Maybe, honey.” Eddie replied, though he doubted it. Little Tinkerbelle was too much work in bed and tonight he was looking for a good, hard fuck. Preferably with someone he would never see again.
He threw back the shot in a quick movement then tapped the empty glass twice on the table, signalling for more. ‘Belle knew his tastes, and passed him something stronger in a tumbler before going back to his other patrons, flirting shamelessly to get more tips. ‘Belle liked being groped. Eddie wondered if he sometimes felt like an old banknote at the end of the night, with other people’s fingerprints all over him.
He sat back, the neon strobing of blue and purple light, the deep hum of the base almost unnoticeable to him, he was so immersed in it. You can’t see the mountain you’re standing on can you?
That was probably why he hadn’t realised just how much he had fallen for Christian until it had hit him like a fucking hammer in the face.
He drank deeply, partly wishing he did partake in mind altering drugs, at least then he could be a little looser. But it also meant he wouldn’t really be able to enjoy himself tonight, which was his intention. Instead he went to dance, pushing his taller than average body out onto the floor with minimal effort. He had dressed specifically to catch tonight, wearing a tight fitting black muscle tee with threadbare patches, as well as a pair of skin tight cut-offs. To be extra sure, there were two gold painted handprints over his ass.
The blatant invitation was noticed, and before long he had a few onlookers, one or two bold enough to come close and sway against him hungrily.
After twenty minutes and a bathroom break, he surveyed his options. A thin, rangy sort, with spiked up hair and a leather choker. An effeminate, soft looking boy with a very dirty smile, though he looked a bit young for Eddie’s tastes. And a bulky bouncer type, who hadn’t danced but was nonetheless giving him come-hither eyes. Eddie weighed them up dispassionately. He preferred to kiss first, so he could get an idea what someone might be like in bed, but it wasn’t like he was at the Pink Flamingo for romance. He glanced briefly at the bouncer again, who had his arm around someone else, and he grimaced. Eddie decided he wasn’t in the mood for multiples tonight.
Then a well-defined bicep blocked his line of sight, and he flicked a lazy look upwards. The man would be shorter than him, but as Eddie was sitting he had the advantage. The guy’s black hair was shot through with streaks of blue and pushed back, just long enough to be held by his ears, but not long enough to keep a few errant strands from scraping the tops of his cheeks. A black cotton muscle tee hugged his body without clinging too hard, and black low slung denim jeans with a single silver chain going from one belt loop to his pocket showed he had some length, maybe even muscle. Wide chest, wide shoulders and narrow hips, his only decoration a black loop through his left nostril.
Eddie made his assessment of the not-so-tall stranger obvious, and the man waited patiently for Eddie’s gaze to come back up to his own bland expression.
“I don’t do straight.” Eddie said eventually, dismissive and sipping at his drink.
“Not straight.” The man said, his voice rough.
Eddie didn’t bother looking at him again. “I don’t do ‘closet gay’ either.” Which wasn’t strictly true but he really didn’t feel like dealing with next morning drama; Oh what have I done, I’m not gay, get out of my bed.
The man wasn’t put off. Instead he pushed himself between Eddie’s legs, casually moving them aside with his hips, then leaned down to Eddie’s ear so he could talk without shouting.
“Maybe I’m wrong, but you look like you’re here for a fuck. And I’m happy to oblige.”
Eddie couldn’t deny the goosebumps that raised along his neck with a rough voice so close to his skin. He glanced at him sidelong, and put his drink down. The man smirked slightly, triumphant.
“My my, aren’t you cock sure?” Eddie commented wryly.
“I bet you’d like to find out just how much.”
Eddie reached up quickly, pulling him close by his belt loops, his other hand catching his groin neatly as he lurched forward. The man hissed, looking angry.
“Not here. I have a car.”
“Just checking. And no, not a car. Pay attention honey, do I look like a back seat type?”
Up to that point, the man hadn’t removed his hands from his pockets. But now he reached out, slithered his fingers into Eddie’s hair and pushed a harsh, impatient kiss on him. He was shameless, scraping his teeth against Eddie’s and nipping at his tongue. Eddie realised there was more than just one person who needed an angsty, angry fuck tonight. Which suited him perfectly.
“Fine.” he said when the man let him go. “But I have a place.”
Eddie drove them to his flat, which wasn’t far. It was a waystation, a place Eddie sometimes slept, when he wasn’t crashing on other people’s couches or in their beds. Or on Christian’s couch. It wasn’t much of a home, since he didn’t really live there. His one night stand in the making looked around at it with mild interest.
“Who cares?” Eddie said before pushing him towards the bedroom with a kiss, where a large king size was waiting. Eddie had the house cleaned weekly by a service, even if he had no intention of being there, so the bed was made at least.
They shed clothes fast. Their mutual need for something hard and borderline brutal was communicated clearly, and wordlessly. It was rough, and Eddie had momentary concerns over the slightly smaller man’s limits, but they didn’t last long. He pulled and scratched and thrust as hard as Eddie wanted, responding to his grunted requests for more without hesitation.
Eventually, Eddie got up to shower. In the mirror he saw the angry raised lines where nails had recently raked across his olive skin, and several dark bruises forming on his neck and chest. He touched them delicately, as the hot spray filled the room with steam.
Don’t think of him, he told himself, stepping into the shower.
But he did. He always did.
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