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Torn

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Saturated quiet of the room grips his hands, while the traitorous dark prepares the shackles. Anxious ants march down his spine, carrying small pieces of anticipation.

He lies there, breathing, waiting.

When the door opens, creaking faintly, he doesn’t need to see to know who it is. It is their ritual, after all, and all of this is practiced – a routine that’s never quite the same. A routine in the routines of the days, of the weeks and months, and tomorrow will be here when they decide to claim it back. The world will greet them, hail them and then forget them for another night, and for that night, in the measure of bourbon and guitar strings, they will be here once again.

It is a destination he has come to yearn for.

Another moment, and then a hand strokes his chest, its warm weight resting there, before it moves to cup his cheek. He feels the cigarette-scented breath on his face. The other’s lips are close, so close that he can feel their feverish warmth.

The bed heaves slightly under the new weight.

“Missed you.” The sound of the husky voice, rippling through the dark, pools in the pit of his stomach, its dizzy energy warring with logic, and he fails to reply, his thoughts occupied only with touching that mouth with his own.

Against the drum of the blood in his ears, against the expectations and the need that burns inside, the kiss is soft, and as the other’s hair falls to frame it, he realizes how much he’s craved this, even though the last time seems not too far away.

“Kurt,” he gasps as the other’s hands find their way under his shirt, the contact incendiary and inevitable in its own accord.

“Dave.” The short reply comes with a small chuckle, and he has to smile too, overwhelmed at the proximity, leaning into the caress.

Sliding his hands up under Kurt’s tee, he returns the favour and feeling the shudder, he pulls at the shirt, wanting it off. But Kurt doesn’t let him, grabbing at his hands, pinning them to the pillow above his head, and the protests are silenced by another kiss, and this one is anything but soft. As Kurt’s tongue invades his mouth, kissing back becomes more important than breathing, more precious than life itself. Fighting back, clawing at his shoulders, he feels a hand slide in between them, and knowing what this entails, he can’t suppress a moan, enticed and amazed, like every time. The hand moves and having pulled at his boxer shorts, it grasps his cock, stroking it in tune with Kurt’s tongue fucking his mouth, and he screams, arching into the touch against the sensory overload assaulting his nervous system.

God is the hand bringing him home.

His lower lip is bitten, and a wave of pleasure, spiked by the chilling pain and the tangy taste of blood, blooms, the strokes never failing in their secret rhythm.

Faster, harder, stronger, now.

Moaning, giving in, wanting all, he thrusts into the faithful hand, the treasured name never far from his lips, even if he is unable to voice it, torn by sensations.

Fierce, raging, burning, here.

Coming, spilling himself, he screams again, unable to hold back, blissful paralysis of the orgasm claiming him for a few eternal moments.

When he opens his eyes, almost diving out, his senses slowly returning, the room is not as dark as it was before, the streetlights are intrusive and unceremonious and the generic hotel covers do nothing against the chill.

When he opens his eyes, he is awake, he is alone, and realizing it is suddenly harder than it had ever been before.

When he opens his eyes, it’s 1997.

There’s no tomorrow for them. There could never be. Not even in a dream.