Product Placement
Chapter 28 - Mad Dash
It was late. He should have gone to bed by now, but he was busy looking through a book, underlining words and names and numbers. He wasn't sure why, but it was important, and he needed to find one more name before he fell asleep. He felt tired, but it had to be done, something would happen if it wasn't done and wasn't done right. But then he heard knocking. It was probably nothing or no one, so he ignored it, until he looked up and heard it again and knew someone was at the door. He put aside the book and bookmarked his place with the pencil he'd been using and got up and opened the door.
Francis was standing there, shirtless but in his coat, staring at the door expectantly and paused mid-knocking motion. He smiled sheepishly and bowed his head. Butch stared, looking directly at his bare chest.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Sure."
Butch stepped aside, letting the other man into his room. Francis looked around, but neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Then Francis slipped the coat off his shoulders, letting it hang on his elbows, watching Butch intently. Despite the stare, Butch was content, glad to see him, but somewhat confused. He felt like he should be doing something. Something important.
"Can I use your shower?"
"Where's your shirt?" Butch asked.
"Lost it. Spare one?"
"Okay."
Butch shrugged some and pulled the shirt off his back. Rather than handing it to Francis he let it drop to the floor. He didn't feel anxious despite his scars and the windows and the flimsy door. He was too busy watching the other man. Francis let a smirk pull over his lips and suddenly he was a lot closer than before without moving and his coat was gone. He slid one arm around Butch's waist and the other up into his hair, bending his neck back. Butch suddenly felt warm, hot, a familiar welling building inside him and spreading though all of his limbs. He smiled.
"Can I use your shower?" Francis asked again.
"Uh-huh."
"Thank you." The hustler bowed his head and almost but not quite kissed his neck, breathing over it hotly instead "Join me."
"Nngh- yes. Okay."
Francis purred or hummed or made some noise that made Butch shudder and gape in his hold. It was hot, burning, perfect. He felt wrapped up in it and breath washing over his skin and his pulse flying through him while the hustler almost but not quite touched and kissed and felt him. This almost, right before the brink drove him insane with want and he could barely keep from arching up and squirming and throwing his head back with a moan, just short of the searing burn left by lips and fingers. Butch shuddered again, surrendering, giving up. He was sure there was something he should be doing, but dammit this made him ache and whatever it was could wait so long as his want was satisfied.
He felt sort of light, as if he might fall, and Fran growled at him to stay upright. So he tried, wanting badly not to disappoint him. But it was too good. He kept bending back farther and farther, stretching out of his skin and trying to hold onto the air until he finally slipped free of Francis' hold and fell back into a pit that opened up in the floor, devoured by cold grey panic.
With a short jolt, Butch hissed and arched, flopping on the bed as if he'd fallen some great height, suddenly staring at his television on standby and his room still lit by the table lamp he forgot to shut off. Is breath was labored and he shivered, twisted up in his blankets. Shifting in his bed sheets, Butch hissed and shuddered for another reason, then groaned and pressed his face, defeated, into his pillow. After a moment to assure himself he was in his room, safe and sound, Butch swung his legs over the side of his couchbed and stared hard at his lap, glaring until he wilted under his own hatred in and of himself.
This wasn't the first time it had happened. It sure as hell wouldn't be the last, either. And it was all Francis' fault. (Something had to be his damn fault – Butch had already taken the fall of most of the shit that had gone down lately). In the wake of it all he really only felt traces of want and a lingering notion he had something important to do that he was forgetting. Butch ignored both and put his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't fair. He was tired. He had tried to be good. He went to bed early. He didn't eat anything weird or drink too much or watch anything before bed. Butch just wanted one halfway normal night, but no such luck.
Without thinking about it he put on his shoes and grabbed a coat too light for the cold air and clamored out his basement window. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care – so long as it was away from his thoughts. The caught up to him walking, cantering, even jogging, so Butch had no choice but to run.
Despite logic determining Butch would absolutely suck at running for any length of time due to his smoking habit, Butch ran with the best of them. The best of them being by himself, in the middle of the night, for no real reason other than to think or escape or kill off some energy. He was actually quite good at running, even if it did make his lungs and legs ache and feel like they were being cleaved off of his bones. He couldn't remember when he started but it was one of those things he had to do from time to time. He'd get restless and run and then feel better. It was a guilty pleasure of his. No one knew, and he never bothered to tell.
Much like Francis.
Butch ran harder, trying to evade his thoughts, failing miserably. They kept pace and surpassed him so he was blind sighted, running headlong into them and stumbling. He nearly fell, but he kept on, not quite closing his eyes but not seeing anything anyway.
That dream hadn't been the only one lately. They'd gotten worse, more frequent, and a hell of a lot racier. Butch blamed it on himself and his suppressed confession, but he'd much rather deal with this privately than fuck up everything else. He'd already almost ruined it. He'd rather not deal with it again.
But these damned dreams!
All in all, Butch was glad this one made some sort of convoluted sense. Linear progression, like a narrative. That was cool with Butch – a story he could follow. A fantasy. The last couple had just been drop-in scenes. Either he was watching the hustler strip or he seemed to regain consciousness mid connection. He wasn't complaining per say. It just bothered him there was no story.
What bothered him more was that when he finally slowed to a stop he was looking at Francis' house. He sneered at his legs and kicked himself, literally. His subconscious was trying to kill him, or at the very least drive him totally insane. So for a while he stared at the house, angry with it and himself and just the present moment. But after a time he wandered over to it, hi breath calmed some, and proceeded to break in. It wasn't hard. Francis ahd givein him the information not too long ago, and apparently had forgotten to change it. He slipped in without incident, locked up behind himself, and walked the dark halls.
It was a bit more difficult to navigate in the dark. Butch felt like the house was a million times larger, hidden in shadows and silent as death. He twitched at his own thought and kept looking over his shoulders, sleepily wondering if Francis maybe employed ghosts as backup security. He'd think the idea was stupid in the morning, but for right now he was moderately afraid, and crept as quickly as he could to where he thought Fran's bedroom was. Butch pushed open a few doors and was relieved to find a large lump in the middle of one of the beds, the center of it raising and falling with breath.
He shut the door behind him and the figure stirred. Undeterred, Butch shed his coat and shoes and rubbed his arms, finally registering how cold he was. He shuffled over to the bed and stood for a moment, watching Francis half sleep, shifting around in bed, clearly disturbed by something. Butch almost reached out and smoothed down his bedhead, but he was wary of receiving a broken arm by way of retaliation. So he rubbed his arms and shifted his feet and then finally spoke up, stage whispering to the other male.
"Franny, move over. I wanna lie down." The body hissed, stiffened, and finally woke up.
"Butch?" Francis slurred "Issat you?"
"Yeah it's me. Chill."
"How did you –"
"Magic."
Butch deadpanned, trying to work his way onto the bed. Francis lifted
his hand to halfheartedly push him away, annoyed despite being confused.
Butch ignored it and said "Go back to sleep."
"You're breathing hard. And you're damp. And cold."
"Thanks Capitan Obvious. Shove over."
Reluctantly, Francis did. Butch clamored into bed beside him, curling up under the covers and sighing against him. He scooted over into the space left by the natural arc Francis slept in. Once Butch took his place the hustler shifted and conformed to him, which was kind of pleasant in a really weird way. Butch quieted his mind and tried to stop any more thoughts. He just wanted to sleep. Francis probably did too by the way his shifted under the blankets, burrowing into them.
"Are your parents going to flip out?" Hustler asked suddenly, a passing thought.
"Maybe."
"Butch-"
"Chill. I'll only stay a while. Until I get my breath back."
They both knew Butch was going to spend the night. Francis merely solidified the fact by shifting and settling back into bed, putting his arm around the heavily breathing storyteller and pressing his face into his neck. Despite having his house broken into he was actually pretty alright with having Butch here. However, he was slightly less alright with the dampness and heavy breathing and slight pressure against his thigh. He wasn't sure if Butch came here with the intention for sex (which wasn't happening) or for his bed but either way he was being distracting and he needed to stop.
"You need anything?"
"No. M'good."
"Oh really? What's this then?"
Butch gasped, feeling Francis' hand wrap around his cock. He hadn't bothered to remove the flimsy fabric, stroking right along with it, making it bunch and pull at him. In all honesty Butch was more than ready to just sleep, but if Francis wanted to then he would oblige. He didn't even notice he'd somehow gotten half hard – had that much of a pattern developed? Butch had little time to think about it. After a few strokes Francis removed his hand only to pull away his sleep pants and slide his hand inside, touching him anew. Butch bit his lip and figured that, if he was going to be like that, then he had no complains, and reached out. But Fran batted his hand away when he tried to reciprocate.
"Mmnn." He mumbled, "Don't."
"But you're-"
"I'm not. Tired. Don't start me up I'll never get back to sleep."
"But-"
"Shh."
Butch quieted down, shutting his eyes and exhaling. The hard on he'd run away from came back full force, throbbing wantonly in the other male's careful hold. Butch felt kind of bad letting him go without, but Francis stubbornly bowed his head and arched his body away, moving his hand in a familiar rhythm. Butch was simply left to swallow and shift, pushing against his hand and pressing his face into the mattress. It only took a blissful few minutes to come.
He shook, trembled, exhaled quietly into the bed. His usual mewls and screams seemed out of place, even his heavy breathing rattled the strange quiet spell in the room. It was only afterwards he noticed Francis was speaking. Speaking might have been pushing it. He was murmuring half words and phrases, gently withdrawing his hand and pressing his moving mouth to his neck. Butch felt oddly warm and really content despite the other male's grumbling.
Francis rolled over while Butch basked in his afterglow to clean off his mussed hand. Once he was done with that he remained on the side opposite Butch, facing the other wall. He shut his eyes and mumbled goodnight and figured that was the end of that.
Butch, on the other hand, blinked blearily and stared, waiting for Francis to turn over. When he didn't Butch shifted a bit and tried not to be moody, but continued to look at the hustler's spine and quietly hope that he'd turn around. It didn't work, and for a long time Butch just lie there waiting, determined not to be the one to break. But eventually he did. He squirmed as quietly as he could, pushing himself upward and over. Since Fran was being a dick, Butch would just have to spoon him awkwardly. Settling his face into the hustler's neck and throwing an arm over him for good measure, Butch finally figured it was okay for him to fall asleep.
Much to his surprise, Francis reached up and tugged his hand forward a little more, pulling the rest of Butch right up close and muttering under his breath. Butch smiled against his skin and shut his eyes, almost immediately falling asleep.
