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Nick was used to being let down, expected it even, but still it stung.
Keith was married, of course he was. Nick didn't know how he'd not figured it out. The secrecy, the rejections, that look he'd had after they'd fucked.
The older man had tried to explain things as he put his clothes back on but Nick could barely hear it from how his head was swimming. Still dazed by the alcohol in his system that usually gave him so much comfort and clarity now just made him sick.
He was a pathetic naive fool. He'd thought Keith was different from the others, but of course he wasn't. He was just another middle aged cunt looking for a willing hole to shove his cock in.
And Nick and come slobbering to give him exactly that.
All his fucking daddy issues all packaged up in a solid chest, round stomach and goatee. How safe it felt nestled in those arms, the fingers stroking his unruly curls, breathless voice telling him he was gorgeous and perfect and worthwhile and-
He swallowed down sobs because he was too fucking old to start crying like a little child.
(Thoughts of his father's looming figure sprung up unwanted in his head, breath reeking of knock off Jack Daniels, tearing up a a drawing he'd done, yelling at him that real boys went outside to play football! Boys in the playground laughing at small weird Nick with his mismatched features and bizarre fascination for all things magical. Finally finding like-minded people in university, sharing a passion for folklore, only to feel the distance growing with every year that passed since graduation. Everyone else finding their niches, starting families, growing into their careers. And Nick, unable to see a life for himself that didn't involve opening his mouth up for whatever Tom, Dick or Harry wanted him that night.
Then he thought of that latest client, grabbing fist-fulls of his hair as he rutted into him hard and dry, fingers painfully tight on his hips, sneering cruelly when Nick tried to plead with him to stop. The man eventually pulled out only to connect his fist with his face, large disgusting globule of spit falling down to add to the tracks of tears and snot already covering it. He'd left, throwing a couple fivers down on Nick's foetal form.
Maybe he was never a real boy, maybe he'd never be a real man.)
Keith was dressed and looking at him like he was in pain (good!), phone hung limp in his hand. He'd sounded worried on the phone, the tinny sounds of a woman's voice in the background though she wasn't loud enough for Nick to catch what she'd been saying.
He muttered something about his son, something else that sounded like an apology and a 'I'll see you next week' before walking out of Nick's flat with barely a backward glance.
Nick collapsed onto the bed, finally allowing himself to cry. The disgusting feeling of congealed come tangled in his chest hair, the remnants of Keith still inside him, the way his body reeked of day old deodorant and stale sweat, none of it was enough to make him move. He couldn't sleep, could barely even breathe from the way the sobs coursed through his body. Could you die from crying? Would he choke on the mucus in his nose and throat and be discovered weeks later, a naked rotting corpse? He imagined Keith coming with some new co-worker to clear his flat. Shoving the shirt and pants he'd carefully peeled from his form with such gentle reverence into a black bag, taking back the book, readying it as a gift for someone else (his wife, perhaps? Or more likely some other pathetic loser he picks up and pretends to dote on).
He'd have to be missed to be discovered, though, and Nick had a sinking feeling that no one would ever miss him…
God, he wished he had some booze…
Eventually he blinked away the last remaining tears his body could muster, peering blearily at his surroundings. It was still night, though the sky had a lighter glow to it telling him it wouldn't long be dawn. He rubbed his eyes aggressively, throat impossibly dry, finally making the decision he needed to get up and get a glass of water at least.
The book Keith had bought mocked him from his bedside table. He'd been reading it, relishing in all the little details he remembered from his course (and plenty others he'd forgotten). One night he'd even fallen asleep with it clutched in his embrace, lines from the jagged edges pinching into his skin when he woke up in the morning. A far cry from Keith's warmth and softness, but it was at least a reminder that someone cared about him.
He'd not lied when he'd said it was the nicest thing anyone had ever given him. Presents had been few and far between, his parents claiming money was far too tight for such frivolities (and yet his father's liquor cabinet always seemed to have a steady supply of product).
Picking the book up now, it fell open to the last chapter he'd been reading. The Trickster Hare. A creature of cunning that would grant you wishes, but every one came at a deadly price.
'Things usually did' He muttered to himself bitterly. His voice, hoarse from his crying, echoed dully in the small space.
He traced the little illustration of the hare, its big ears seemed to perk up like it was listening to him. He longed for it to leap from the page and into his palm, there to grant him every wish he kept deeply locked within himself.
But none of those things were fucking true. He knew that, he wasn't fucking delusional!
He knew it was all a load of superstitious nonsense invented by people hundreds of years ago who had nothing better to do than tell each other silly stories.
He told everyone who said they cared (or at least pretend to) that his swallow tattoo was for luck, a reflection of his love for all things folkloric, when in actuality it had been a fucking drunken dare.
Get a dumb tattoo or down this pint of definitely-not-paint-thinner.
Nick had opted for the swallow because it was the one choice he could spin into something that was less dumb that reality. He could still remember his parents reactions when he'd come home with it.
His mother had been stoic, pursing her lips and lamenting that he was going to have an even harder time getting work now. His father had had a more… Extreme reaction…
Sometimes he could still feel the bruises on his back.
He snapped the book shut, shoving it unceremoniously into his bottom drawer, finally peeling himself from his self-imposed grave.
The rest of the weekend melted away like ice cream on a window sill. All that was left was a pale and translucent puddle, dribbling down the plug hole (once Nick was able to stomach the shower).
Monday rolled around and Nick was filled with dread. He was tempted to call in sick, tempted to give in his notice, to run for the hills and never come back. Anything rather than having to face Keith again.
He came in anyway, of course. What other choice did he have?
(He couldn't go back on the streets, he just couldn't)
The saving grace was that Keith looked as shit as he felt. Beard more unkempt than usual, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a stain across his T-shirt (stretched tight over his stomach tantalising and- Fuck, Nick really needed to get a grip!).
Vindication turned sour when he noticed the shiny glint of gold on his finger that had definitely not been there before.
Reminding him that Keith wasn't his, and never would be.
The bitterness twisting in his gut is perhaps what made him bring it up when they were out on a job.
'Finally dug that out from under the sofa, then, did you? Sick of keeping up the bachelor pretence?'
Keith looked constipated.
'Nick you have to understand that-'
'Oh I understand it perfectly well, you fucking cunt!' He hissed. 'You didn't want me finding out your dirty fucking secret! You're not the first married man I've fucked, you know, and I'm sure as all hell you won't be the last!'
The older man looked like he wanted to argue, but Nick had already stormed off. The house was only small, though, and he was still on the job, so it was a more performative action than anything else.
If Nick was totally honest with himself, he didn't really care that Keith was married. That had hurt in it's own way, even if he was used to it.
But it was how Keith had pretended to actually care about him. His sweet expression after that first night, when he'd brought up Nick's tattoo, had stayed with him. He'd listened, actually listened. He'd bought him a book (an expensive one at that, Nick had spotted it for sale in the shop with a frankly obscene amount on the price tag), every tiny gesture that chipped away at his carefully put up walls only to bring them down with one tiny little lie.
He was moodily scrubbing at a persistent blood stain on the linoleum as he sense Keith arrive behind him.
'Nick'
He ignored him.
'Nick, please'
Sighing, he turned round to look at the other man. His eye line was (fortunately or unfortunately depending on your perspective) with Keith's crotch, he swallowed and moved his gaze up.
'I don't want there to be bad blood between us' Keith placated.
Nick rolled his eyes. He was too annoyed to even make a joke about the puddle of blood at his knees.
'Are you just going to refuse to speak to me forever?'
'What do you want me to say, Keith?' He struggled to his feet, still feeling tiny and insignificant next to him but at least no longer making eye contact with his genitals. 'You lied to me, remember?'
'I didn't lie to you' Keith frowned.
'You lied by omission!' He retorted hotly.
'You could have asked if it bothered you that much'
Nick scoffed, folding his arms, 'Oh so it's my fault? I should have asked for your marriage certificate? And perhaps your passport and your national insurance number? When did you want me to do this, by the way, before or after you'd shoved your cock down my-'
'ENOUGH!' Keith's voice boomed and Nick went quiet. The skin on his back trembled at the force of his tone. 'I have never wanted anyone the way…'
His voice broke. He took a shallow breath and continued.
'But it doesn't matter what I want because it shouldn't have happened. And it can't happen again. Ever. That night it… It was a mistake. We were both drunk and- and neither of us were thinking straight!'
'Don't put fucking words into my mouth!' Nick seethed. 'You just want to be able to blame something other than yourself!'
He took a step forward.
'No one made you pick me up from the side of the road, no one made you give me your number or offer me a fucking job, no one made you kiss me or fuck me or pretend to care about me or-' He broke off with a choking sob.
Keith reached out, brow knitted in worry, and Nick held out his arms in defence.
'I don't want your fucking… Anything! I-' Breathing through his nose to try and calm himself down. 'I don't want to argue with you for the rest of however long we're both going to be stuck doing this sodding job, Keith!'
'Neither do I!' Keith sounded relieved. 'I do care about you, Nick, I just… I have to do what's best for Charlie'
Nick bit back an angry retort, 'I know' is what he said stiffly instead.
'My marriage isn't… I love her, I do, or I… I think I do, I-' He pinched his brow. 'It's complicated'
'It always is…' Sighing, he looked down at his hands, wrapped in uncomfortable blue rubber, traces of some old man's blood across them. How many times had he heard that line?
(When would he get to finally be someone's first choice?)
He looked back up at Keith's expressive eyes, the piercing blue of them that almost glowed in the gloom. Why couldn't he be his? Why was fate so fucking cruel?
'I feel like we did everything the wrong way round' Keith said around a sad smile.
'I've always felt like I've done everything the wrong way round' Nick sighed.
'Would you be willing to give me a second chance? Start things off the right way?' Keith held a hand out. 'Hi. My name's Keith'
Nick snorted, glancing between his hand and the strangely hopeful expression on his face, chewing on his lip before breaking into a genuine grin.
'Alright then'
He took his hand in an overly formal handshake and added, 'I'm Nick, by the way'