Somewhere in Oklahoma, Charlie rolled down the window. It wasn't hot outside--barely even warm, with the wind generated as they barreled down the freeway--but the sun beat steadily down on the car, heating it, and the cool buffeting of the wind felt good on Charlie's face. Don had bought him sunglasses at a gas station in Missouri, but wouldn't let Charlie stick his head out the window even if he wore them. He stuck his arm out instead, and stared into the orange-red afternoon sun above the flat brown land.
Air flowed over his hand like water: fluid dynamics, he thought, concepts drifting lazily across his brain. Bernoulli's principle. Speed and flowing air were what let things fly. Beside him, Don made another tour of the radio stations and, just like the last dozen times, turned the radio off again after cycling through the dial a couple of times. Charlie didn't mind. He was used to silence, and the rushing wind and the growling engine and Don's quiet, solid presence in the driver's seat were more than enough for him.
They were rushing toward California at sixty-five miles per hour. Toward the setting sun. Toward the end of the earth. Toward whoever Charlie had been.
Lying in a bed in a motel room in Tennessee, with Don sleeping squarely between him and the door, Charlie had decided he wasn't scared. Whatever he found, whatever he learned, Don would be with him, and that was all he'd ever needed.
The freeway curved, and the wind took on a more vicious edge. Charlie pulled his hand inside and rolled up the window. After a minute or two his hand felt warm again, and the window glass was warm when he leaned his forehead against it. He reached out without looking, and let his hand rest on Don's thigh as he watched the world roll past.
Charlie woke up as the car slowed down. The sun was bright, slanting in the afternoon and shining straight into Charlie's side of the car. They were headed much more south than west, for the first time since they'd hit Memphis. Charlie squinted behind his sunglasses and said, "Don?"
"Little detour," Don said, without looking over at Charlie. His hands were on the wheel at ten and two, like the night they'd escaped through the fog, though the day was bright and clear and the road was straight.
Charlie tried to remember what had been on the map that they might be detouring around. "Do you have something against Albuquerque?"
Don smiled, and his hands relaxed on the wheel. "I just thought you should see the desert. Sun, sand, parabolic dunes..."
"Oh," Charlie said, and the image was there in his mind--not the flat desert around them but dunes, rippling hills of sand shaped by the wind, by fluid dynamics. Parabolic dunes, ends anchored by vegetation and their centers pushed into ever more extreme curves by the force of the wind; transverse dunes, migrating under prevailing winds, sand sliding down a concave face.
"Yeah, cool," he said, looking west to the horizon, the dunes rising in the distance and the gate approaching, welcoming them to White Sands National Monument.
Don parked in a nearly-empty lot by a small building labeled Visitors' Center, and Charlie followed him inside. Don paid the ranger, collecting a sticker for the car and a map, along with a number of stern warnings about park rules and how not to die in the desert. Charlie tuned out and studied the postcards and souvenir magnets. He trusted Don to know how to keep them safe.
Don tugged a lock of his hair, and Charlie looked up and followed him out to the parking lot. Don didn't look at the little map once they were in the car, just pulled out and headed down the only road leading into the park. The dunes got closer, taller, whiter as they approached, until they were into the heart of them, pale sand rising up all around the road. Charlie had his nose pressed to the window, tracing their contours as best he could from his limited perspective.
He hardly noticed Don had parked until Don touched his shoulder.
"Hey, genius, come on. You can see them better from outside the car." Charlie tore his gaze from the view and grinned at Don, then scrambled out. Don was still leaning inside, but a moment later he straightened up with Charlie's backpack slung over his shoulder, looking like it had more inside than just the bottles of water. Charlie adjusted his sunglasses and started off into the sand beside Don.
It was hard going, sand sliding underfoot, making him aware that the shoes he wore didn't fit quite right. Don took his arm, helping him along as they climbed, and at the top of the first dune they stopped and looked out across the sand. The dunes rolled away in snaking curves (not perfect parabolas, because the wind wasn't that tidy), anchored here and there by tufts of grass. The breeze was steady and cool up here, but Charlie was still warm from walking, from the sun and the reflected heat rising off the sand.
He shook Don's lingering grip off his arm and dropped to sit on the ground, untying his shoes.
"Charlie?"
Charlie looked up at Don, meeting his eyes as best he could when they were both wearing sunglasses.
"Come on," Charlie said, yanking his socks off and shoving his bare toes into the sand. It was warm on top, cooler underneath, the sand dry and fine against his skin. "Take your shoes off, make yourself at home."
Don shook his head, but he was smiling. Charlie tugged on the leg of his jeans, and Don heaved an exaggerated sigh and sat, unlacing his boots slowly, every movement meticulous. He tucked his socks neatly inside his boots and tied the laces together before he stretched his legs out, digging his feet into the sand.
Charlie leaned back with his hands braced behind him and looked out over the dunes. There was nothing as far as he could see but the pale sand stretching to the hazy blue horizon, blotted here and there with low dogged desert plants.
The wind blew steadily along the peak of the dune. Grains of sand skittered before it, over his hands and feet, tickling the undersides of his wrists and raising the short hairs on the nape of his neck. Charlie found himself thinking about the first time he could remember being outside, the sky as white as the sand he was sitting on, the ground frozen hard as knives under his feet. He'd been cuffed and drugged and terrified, clutching his blanket as Don dragged him along.
Charlie let his eyes drift half-shut. It wasn't so scary to think about now that he was free, sitting on a dune in the desert with Don still beside him after everything. Half the fear of that day had been the drugs, not letting him think when thinking was what had made him useful, kept him alive. He'd been as helpless as he ever was, so much at everyone's mercy, but Don hadn't taken advantage. Don had protected him even then, gotten him away from the shooters, into the woods--
Charlie's eyes went wide, his fingers curling into the sand, and he turned to look at Don, who was looking back over his shoulder toward the road.
"You were trying to take me away," Charlie said, and it wasn't even a question. "Weren't you."
Don turned to look at him, a frown creasing his forehead. "Charlie?"
"On the road," Charlie said, realizing even as he said it that that wouldn't narrow things down much after the last few days. "Before--when we were in the van, when you took me into the woods. You were trying to take me away from Williamson, weren't you?"
Don said nothing for a few seconds, and Charlie was tempted to reach out and tug his sunglasses away, to expose his eyes and see what they would tell him. Charlie couldn't move, his hands as locked up in the sand as they'd ever been in cuffs. He could hear the wind against the dunes, whistling along his ear. He could hear his heart beating. He could hear people back on the road, calling out to each other. Someone had a whistle, and kept sounding it every few seconds, getting further and further away.
Between one shrill sound and the next, Don nodded.
Charlie had to look away, feeling warm and unsteady all at once. Even then, Don had been trying to help him, trying to get him away from the people who had hurt him, would hurt him. He might have pulled it off if Charlie hadn't been so helpless--but Randy had found him there in the woods. And now Randy was dead, and so was Williamson, and so was everyone who had hurt him, and he wouldn't think about it yet, because it still made his stomach roll queasily.
They were all gone, that was all that mattered; they were gone, and Don was here with him, warm and alive on the sand under the bright wide sky. Charlie leaned forward, drawing his knees up and rubbing his arms, trying to erase the memory of pain on one side and the memory of recoil on the other.
He looked out at the dunes, the patches of grass and the lines of shadow. The dunes were shaped by the wind; they were maps of their own weather conditions. Charlie could almost see the vectors trace themselves across the landscape, ghostly chalk lines in his mind's eye. He glanced up at the angle of the sun, searching for an optimum solution to a problem he'd barely realized he wanted to work on, and when he'd finished he stood up and looked down at Don, who was watching him now.
"Come on," Charlie said. "Let's go somewhere warmer."
Don nodded and asked nothing but, "You want to bring your shoes?"
Charlie bent and gathered them up, shoving his socks into the toes and knotting the laces while Don stood up beside him, settling Charlie's backpack on his shoulders.
When Charlie straightened up, Don said, "Lead the way."
Charlie grinned and turned away, striking out along the ridge of the dune. The sand was almost hot underfoot, and his steps barely made a sound; he had to look over his shoulder to see that Don was following. Don was looking off to the north, away from the road, across the endless dunes. Charlie turned back to watch where he was going without saying a word, but a moment later Don's hand landed on his shoulder, and it stayed there as they walked.
When he reached the point he'd picked out, Charlie turned and started walking downhill, half-running as momentum pushed him along. Don caught up, skidding down the slope at his side, and Charlie started really running, trying to stay ahead of him. Don started running too, and Charlie laughed on his next gasp for breath, swatting at Don and trying to push him away, off course. Don pushed back, and Charlie caught at Don's shirt as their arms crossed, falling to his knees in the sand and pulling Don down after him.
The impact jarred him into silence, but Charlie stayed where he was, holding on to a fold of Don's shirt and grinning open-mouthed as he gasped for breath. They'd arrived: they were kneeling side by side in a hollow near the base of the dune, sunny and sheltered. There was nothing to see but the dune they'd come down and the rising slope of the next one, casting a shadow that covered most of the valley between the dunes. Charlie could hear the wind, but it was just a low shushing murmur, and there was no sound of other people at all, no sign of the road. Charlie stood up, looking at the tracks of their feet and the position of the sun, fixing the way back in his mind. When he looked at Don, Charlie could see him doing the same.
Charlie dropped his shoes to the sand and took off his sunglasses, squinting against the suddenly-brighter glare of the sun off the sand. His flannel shirt went next, dropped on top of his shoes, and then he pulled his t-shirt up and off. He turned his face up to the sun, letting the light and heat pound down on his skin, breathing the dry air.
He felt really warm. Not just not too cold, not overheated with panic, not huddled under blankets or clinging to Don for body heat, but warm, all by himself, for maybe the first time he could remember.
He looked over at Don only to find him standing perfectly still, watching. He still had his sunglasses on, and white sand clung to his jeans, and he had a small, tight smile on his face, like he was happy but something hurt.
Charlie took the two strides to Don's side, setting one hand cautiously on Don's hip. "Is your leg...?" .
Don still kept it bandaged, but Charlie had caught glimpses of the wound. It seemed to be closing into a scar, and he hadn't noticed Don limping in days.
Don looked down at Charlie, then took his sunglasses off and leaned his forehead against Charlie's. The hand holding the sunglasses came to rest on Charlie's hip as Don said, "My leg's fine. You're going to get a sunburn, though."
Charlie shook his head. "The sun will be behind the next dune in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. It's already past peak intensity. And I'm not that pale."
Don snorted, his breath rushing against Charlie's nose and mouth, and his other hand cupped the back of Charlie's neck, then slid down his spine to the top of his jeans. "You're pretty pale, Charlie."
Charlie grinned, ducking his head to kiss the side of Don's neck.
"So maybe I'll get a sunburn," Charlie murmured. "I've never had a sunburn. Come on, tempt fate with me." He tugged on Don's shirt. "I know you haven't gotten any sun in a while either."
Don let Charlie go, and pushed him gently back. When Charlie let go, Don shrugged the backpack off, dropping it to the sand with a thump, and tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. Charlie smiled even as his breath caught. The sun shone bright on Don's skin, the paleness at the inside of his wrists and the golden tan at the back of his neck, muscles flexing as he tossed his shirt down and then bent to the backpack.
Charlie shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at Don's ass, because he could, because they were alone and Don clearly didn't mind. Don straightened up, Charlie's blanket flaring from his hands in a flash of red to settle on the sand.
Almost as soon as the blanket was out of his hands, Don was undoing his jeans. Charlie stood and watched, mesmerized, as Don slipped them off along with his underwear, brushed the worst of the sand off, and then folded them and dropped them on top of Charlie's backpack.
Only then, naked and entirely nonchalant, did Don turn to Charlie and say, "This what you were thinking?"
Charlie swallowed hard, mouth gone dry as sand and his heart beating wildly. He could stay in the desert forever if Don would stay like this, sitting down on Charlie's blanket, squinting up at him in the sunshine with a teasing smile.
"You stand still all day and you really will get a sunburn," Don said, and leaned forward, lifting his jeans off Charlie's bag to retrieve a bottle of water.
"And you have to stay hydrated," he added, tearing the plastic off the cap and tipping his head back to drink.
Charlie kept watching for another moment, Don's throat working, his eyes nearly closed, the water in the bottle sparkling in the sun. He had to look down, to watch his clumsy hands unbuttoning his pants and shoving them off, his dick already starting to tent his boxers before he dropped them too. He stepped out of them and over to the blanket, nearly falling onto it at Don's side. He landed on his back, propped on one elbow. Don's eyes traced over him from head to foot as Don offered him the bottle, and Charlie squeezed it as he drank, water leaking from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.
Don leaned toward him, brushing the corner of Charlie's mouth with his thumb.
"Careful," he said, his eyes on Charlie's. "Wet skin burns faster."
"Mm." Charlie took a breath and offering the bottle back to Don, letting his hand hover near it even after Don took it and started to drink. He said, "Oops," at the same time he let his hand knock it aside, spilling water over Don's chin, down his throat and onto his chest.
"Careful," he muttered, running his hand over Don's throat, down into the hair on his chest, and Don settled back onto the blanket even as Charlie moved to kneel over him.
Don was grinning as Charlie kissed him, his breath almost a laugh. "That was smooth, Charlie. Really smooth."
"Yeah?" Charlie said, smiling right back, as exhilarated as he'd been running down the dune, his lips dragging against Don's. His tongue slipped into Don's mouth, and Don sucked at it until Charlie pulled away. The words tingled in his mouth when he spoke again. "The part where I spilled water on you, or the part where I jumped on top of you?"
"Neck and neck," Don said, and pulled Charlie down for another kiss, his other hand on the small of Charlie's back. Charlie lifted his head when he had to breathe, and let his mouth slide down Don's cheek, following the trail of wet skin to his jaw and down his throat. Don's hand slid up from the nape of his neck and into his hair, strong fingers and broad palm cupping the back of his head as Charlie licked water from Don's collarbone.
He slid down lower, sitting on Don's parted thighs, dragging his lips across the hair on Don's chest to one nipple, already drawn up tight by the coolness of evaporating water. He licked, and Don made a startled sound, his whole body jerking under Charlie's. Charlie smiled, braced a hand on Don's hip, and closed his mouth over the nipple, sucking soft and wet and then harder, scraping his teeth on the sensitive skin until Don's fingers clenched in his hair and his hips jerked up suddenly, catching Charlie off-guard and rocking him back.
Don sat up far enough to kiss Charlie, urgent and almost rough. His teeth ground against Charlie's lower lip, and he said, "Come here," and tugged on Charlie's shoulder and his head, and Charlie went. Don's cock was hard under his as Charlie settled over his lap, hot and straining, and Charlie rocked against him slowly. Don's eyes slid shut and he setlled flat on the blanket again, his head tipped back. Charlie wanted to kiss him but didn't want to sacrifice the sight. The touch of Don's cock against his, the sight of Don's face, slack with pleasure in the sun, the feel of Don's whole body surrendered to his, was all about as much as Charlie could bear.
Charlie moved slowly, looking down at Don, letting the bright light burn the image into his brain; everything was stark, the darkness of Don's hair against the red of the blanket against the white of the sand, his cock skidding against Don's--not enough friction to finish, just enough to drag the moment on and on and on. Don's mouth opened and closed, and Charlie could feel his cock jerking, his hips twitching up in tiny motions.
Don's hands slid up over Charlie's knees to rest on his thighs, his fingertips flexing back and forth in time to the slow thrust of Charlie's cock. Don's breathing was fast and ragged, like Charlie's own, and sweat glistened on his skin. Still, he didn't grab at Charlie, didn't so much as open his eyes to ask Charlie for more.
"Don," Charlie said, hoarse out of his dry mouth, and Don's eyes flashed open instantly, locked on his, dark in the bright day. Charlie couldn't get another word out, just slid his hand down his own thigh, tangling his fingers with Don's, pushing up to meet his. Charlie barely had to pull and Don's hand was pushing up further, circling Charlie's cock as Charlie started to stroke Don's.
The angle was awkward--their wrists and knuckles bumped, their rhythm was off--and then Charlie shifted his grip, reaching for Don's fingers again, and their hands joined, circling their cocks together, and that was just right, tight and hot and slow. Charlie's arm ached with the effort of not jerking them both off as fast as he could, and Don's fingertips pressed hard against Charlie's knuckles as Don stared steadily up at him.
Don licked his lips and Charlie had to lean down and kiss him, awkward and breathless, his mouth brushing the line of Don's jaw. Don tilted his head back, showing his throat--Charlie remembered dizzily that that meant he was safe, safe as kittens Don had once said. Charlie couldn't resist pressing his mouth to the bared skin, sucking hard enough to bruise, until Don grunted, his hips shoving up under Charlie's, his hand tightening. Charlie sucked harder and felt the vibration of the wordless sound Don made as he came, wetting Charlie's fingers.
Both their hands kept moving, and Charlie turned his face down, resting his forehead against Don's chest as he thrust down against him. He could smell salt and sex in the desert air, and the sun pounded down against his back, and Don was saying, "Charlie, Charlie," in a broken voice, and nothing could last forever. He kept his eyes open and watched himself come on Don's cock and his belly, his whole body rocking until Don's hands caught his hips and forced him to be still.
Charlie closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, and kept them closed as Don tipped him gently sideways. He heard a rustling sound, a glugging of water, and his lips parted even as he felt a cool cloth on his dick; Don tidying up. Charlie opened his eyes as Don tossed his t-shirt onto the sand and tilted his head back to drink. He looked down at Charlie with an easy smile when he was done, and held out the bottle. Charlie pushed up on one elbow and gulped until his stomach ached, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was finished. Don set the bottle aside and stretched out on the blanket, and Charlie lay back down beside him, stretching out on his back to expose maximum surface area to the sun.
The light was red through his eyelids, and the sand beneath him shifted when he wiggled a little, molding itself under his body. He felt warm and loose--nearly drunk on the sun and Don--and he drifted without thought, without so much as a number string making its way across his brain. He didn't sleep; he just was.
At some point, Don touched his arm and said, "Hey, Charlie, turn over for me."
"Mm," Charlie said. If Don wanted to fuck him now, Charlie would have exactly no objection, except that he might have to move. Everything was exactly perfect right here.
"Later," he murmured. "M'good."
Don snorted, and Charlie heard him move. He cracked his eyes open just far enough to see the shape of Don looming beside him.
"Fine," Don said, and Charlie could hear his smile even if he wasn't focusing his eyes well enough to see it. "But don't cry to me when your dick is too sunburned to touch."
Charlie's eyes flashed open, and the light was dazzling, almost blinding. He rolled over instantly, flinching away from the blanket in anticipation as he settled on his belly, but Don had warned him in time. It didn't hurt. He laid his head down and squirmed a little, pushing at the sand until it accommodated him again, and then settled with his head on his folded arms, face down with just enough clearance to breathe.
He could feel the movement of the air against his back, his ass, the soles of his feet, and somehow it made him more conscious of the space all around him, open and empty. If he wanted to, he could take off running in any direction he liked, and no one would stop him.
Well, Don would, because if Charlie went running off naked into the desert he'd probably die of sunstroke or exposure or some embarrassing combination of both. But that would be all right. He didn't need to run, so Don didn't need to stop him. It was all just a lot of free-floating possibility. Quantum states, running and not-running.
Charlie could hear Don moving beside him, but he was too comfortable to lift his head and see what Don was doing. If it were something important, Don would tell him. If it were something dangerous--
Charlie shivered suddenly, despite the warm air, and the space around him was full of more possibilities than just unfettered movement. Anyone could be out there. He felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck, his hands tightening into fists, and then Don's hand settled on the back of his neck, warm as the desert sun, steady and still. Charlie felt himself relax again under the touch, tension draining out of him like water disappearing into the sand. Don's hand started to move, down his spine to the small of his back, petting him like--like a cat.
There was something about cats, cats and quantum states; it glimmered on the horizon of his mind, but Charlie didn't make even the mental effort to reach for it. His body and brain felt heavy, hypnotized by Don's touch. Eventually Don's hand went still on Charlie's back, resting between his shoulder blades, and Charlie could feel it slide a little against his skin with every slow breath he took.
Very quietly, Don said, "I love you."
Charlie's head jerked up, his breath catching, and Don's hand was yanked away like Charlie had burned him. Don's eyes were wide and stunned, his face pale as the sand.
Charlie swallowed, but his throat was dry, and his voice came out as a scratchy whisper. "Nope. Not asleep."
Don's mouth twitched--something between a wince and a smile--and he looked away. Charlie searched his face for some sign, some way to understand, and eventually Don looked back at him. He didn't quite meet Charlie's eyes, his gaze fixed just to one side. As Don raised his hand, Charlie realized he was staring at the scar beside Charlie's eye. His eyes closed as Don's fingers settled lightly against his temple, and he shivered when Don's thumb covered the scar. Don had never touched him there, not since the bandage had come off.
"I can't say it to your face," Don said, barely more than a whisper, unsteady as the sliding sand. "Not--not after everything."
Charlie opened his eyes, and Don's hand pulled slowly away from his face, settling between them on the blanket. Don's gaze followed it, his eyes nearly closed as he looked down. Charlie leaned in and touched his mouth softly to the tight line of Don's lips.
"You don't have to say it," Charlie promised. "I heard you."
Don's hand shifted, settling on Charlie's side, and Charlie turned over, putting his back to Don. Don scooted closer, fitting his body against Charlie's, and Charlie closed his eyes. Don's words echoed in the silence, and the sun beat down.
Don woke Charlie when the shade tipped into dusk, the sky darkening into a deeper blue. The temperature was already dropping, and Charlie buttoned his shirt up to the collar while Don shook as much sand as he could from the blanket. There were stars visible in the east as they got back into the car, and Charlie was asleep with his coat draped over him before they were even out of the park. Don turned the car westward and drove on into the deepening darkness.
He shouldn't have said it; he'd had no choice but to say it. It was an awful thing to say--literally textbook manipulation by an abuser, he could see the page in his mind's eye--and it was true, for whatever that was worth when loving Charlie didn't stop Don from hurting him. But if Charlie ever needed to know, he deserved to. In all the lies, Don had to tell that one truth.
It was done, anyway. It was practically the last thing he'd needed to do. Don felt wide awake behind the wheel, calm and detached. They were maybe fourteen hours out of LA--no time at all compared to the last six months. They'd be there in time for breakfast.
Charlie stirred beside him, just past Deming, and said, "Dinner?"
Don took the next exit, and somewhere in the middle of eating a burger in a half-deserted truck stop, with Charlie sitting across from him asking the waitress about New Year's Eve like a tourist or an alien, Don's momentum deserted him.
They got a motel room a quarter of a mile down the road. Don stepped into the bathroom to piss and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his skin a little reddened by the sun, and one spot on his throat dark as a bruise. He felt suddenly gritty and sticky and grimy, and didn't rub at the spot, though it developed an instant stinging ache that was echoed by a slow stirring of blood in his cock. He took a quick chilly shower, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, wet hair dripping down the back of his neck, Charlie was sitting on the bed waiting for him.
He'd set up eight little candles on a piece of cardboard in front of him, and he had the cheap drugstore lighter in his hand, flicking the flint idly. There was no overhead light in the room, and Charlie hadn't turned on any of the lamps but the one in the corner that worked from the switch at the door. The bathroom light was still on, but the spot where Charlie sat was dim enough that the occasional spark from the lighter was startling and bright between his fingers.
Don didn't say a word, just walked over and sat down on the bed behind Charlie, peering over his shoulder at the candles. Charlie kept still for another minute--Don could imagine the frown of concentration, even if he couldn't see it--and then, just as he had every other night, Charlie gave up on remembering the words and lit the candles, all but one. He leaned back against Don, and Don automatically closed one arm around Charlie, holding him close.
Seven lights, but Don found himself staring at that one last cold wick. One more day's drive to LA. One more night. He looped his other arm around Charlie, tightening his grip, and watched the candles melt, leaving the last one standing in a pool of multicolored wax. When the last curl of smoke was gone and the wax had started to cool and Charlie still hadn't moved a muscle, Don bent his head and kissed the side of his brother's throat, down to the collar of his t-shirt.
Charlie slumped against him, hot and pliable as candle wax. He tilted his head to let Don keep kissing him, and Don obeyed. He kissed along the base of Charlie's throat, up to the shadowed spot behind his ear, down to the nape of his neck and along the bumps of his spine. Charlie's hair was getting longer, and it tickled Don's nose. He breathed in the smell, catching his breath between quick, soft kisses. He had to be careful. He couldn't leave a mark, not tonight.
Charlie made a low throaty noise and pulled away a little, and for a thoughtless instant, Don held on--not yet, not now, one more night.
Don realized what he was doing and let go, his arms snapping out to his sides, but Charlie only pulled away far enough to face him, one hand dropping onto Don's biceps, warm against his skin. Charlie was giving Don a searching look, and he had the light behind him; he could see Don's face better than Don could see his.
Don felt his lips part, but before he could say anything--or had any idea what he meant to say--Charlie shook his head. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Don's open mouth, holding so still Don could feel the breath moving between them. Don raised his hand to Charlie's hip, making cautious contact, and then Charlie moved, tilting his head and slipping his tongue into Don's mouth, kissing him softly but thoroughly, so sweet it ached.
Don pulled back and Charlie leaned after him; Don jerked out of range, tightening his grip on Charlie's hip, and Charlie pushed to catch him, hitting Don chest-to-chest, the buttons on his shirt hard points against Don's bare skin, his mouth catching Don's rough and off-center. Don forced himself to let go of Charlie's hip--couldn't leave a mark tonight, not a bruise, not a scrape, nothing--and leaned back again.
Charlie made an exasperated noise and shoved him flat to the bed, settling hard on top of him. His weight ground down on Don, and Don could feel Charlie getting hard. Charlie's tongue pushed into his mouth, strong and hot, and Don sucked and shoved his hips up against Charlie's. His cock was hard already, just from Charlie's weight on top of him, every muscle in his body quivering, and just this one last time, Don knew exactly what he wanted.
He yanked his mouth away from Charlie's again and breathed, "Fuck me," against Charlie's lips.
Charlie replied with another rough kiss. As soon as Don started to respond, Charlie shifted, mouthing his jaw with a scrape of teeth, sucking at his throat, planting his hands on Don's shoulders, and Don tilted his head back and groaned. Charlie understood, without a word, without really understanding at all.
Charlie was sucking at that same damn spot on his throat, teeth and tongue and lips, and Don's cock was throbbing. Charlie's hand slid down and in from Don's left shoulder, thumbing his nipple roughly and then pinching hard, and the quick twist of pain-pleasure wrenched a hoarse groan from Don's throat. Charlie was grinding down against him, and Don would come from this, come in his painfully-tight pants before Charlie got anywhere near his ass, if Charlie kept it up much longer.
Don closed his eyes and bit down on his lip and then said, "Charlie."
Charlie let up, licking softly at the stinging spot on his throat.
"Yeah," Charlie murmured. "Yeah."
He pushed up off of Don--pushed up by his hands on Don's shoulder and chest, compressing Don's breath half out of him. Don lay still, gasping, as Charlie knelt up and struggled out of his shirt. He was silhouetted by the bathroom light behind him, as he had been against the bright sky in the desert.
Don traced the lines of Charlie's body with his eyes, the wild soft curls and jutting angular shoulders and the ropy lean arms, stronger than they looked. Charlie dropped his shirt and unbuttoned his pants, and Don's mouth actually watered, wanting to be on Charlie's skin, Charlie's cock, to taste him again, make him feel good again, one more time.
Charlie went still, and Don froze; Charlie grinned suddenly, a wide flash of teeth, and said, "Don. Take your pants off."
"Yeah," Don said. He felt himself flush, like he shouldn't have been staring--or like he shouldn't have been staring any more than he shouldn't have been doing any of this. He yanked open the button his jeans and shoved the zipper down, his eyes on his hands, so that he was surprised when Charlie leaned down and pressed a fast hard kiss to his mouth before scrambling off the bed.
Standing at Don's feet, Charlie dropped his pants and kicked them away, and Don pushed his own pants down and off and rolled over almost all in one motion, thrusting his cock irresistibly against the cheap motel bedspread. The sight of Charlie--one more last sight of Charlie--was burned on his mind's eye.
Face down on the bed with his eyes squeezed shut, it was like his life was flashing before his eyes: his life with Charlie this last while, his Charlie who no one else knew. Charlie shivering and frantic the day Don found him; Charlie bruised and battered and barely conscious, lifting a washcloth to wipe his own blood from Don's face; Charlie tucked under his sleeping bag, jerking off with his eyes locked on Don, coming with a look of startled pleasure as their eyes met. Charlie jerking him off, Charlie coming in his mouth, Charlie fucking him. His Charlie.
He heard Charlie moving around, felt him get back onto the bed, his knees nudging Don's thighs apart, and Don folded his arms under his head and pushed up slightly, his weight on his elbows and knees and his ass raised. Charlie's slick finger pressed against him, familiar by now but still sending a shiver up his spine--but Don jerked and said, "Charlie, don't."
Charlie's hands--one dry, one with lube-wet fingers, cool on his skin--closed on Don's hips.
"Don?" He sounded confused, just a little irritated.
"Don't," he repeated, biting his lip. "Just--fuck me. Just like this."
Charlie had never done that, never not prepared him; Don didn't even know if he could take it like that. But he didn't want Charlie to be careful with him tonight. He couldn't leave a sign on Charlie's skin, but it didn't matter much what happened to Don. He wanted to still be feeling it tomorrow, and for as long after that as he could.
Charlie's hands tightened at Don's words, short fingernails digging into his skin. He heard Charlie take a breath--he could almost hear him asking if Don was really sure about this, but Charlie didn't say a word. All at once Charlie's hands were gone, and Don heard the familiar small sound of a condom packet being opened, Charlie getting ready. Don reminded himself to breathe, forced his body to remember this, to relax, and Charlie grabbed Don's hip with one hand and pushed his cock against Don's ass, a steady impossible pressure.
Don gasped and pushed back against it, and after a few desperate seconds something fell into place and Charlie was sliding into him, huge and shocking as the first time. Sweat broke out all over Don's body, his arms and legs going shaky and his head spinning--it hurt, but it was more than just pain, it was--it was Charlie's cock in his ass, opening him and invading him and changing him--
Charlie went still inside him, and one of Charlie's hands moved, jamming a knuckle hard between his ribs as Charlie said, "Fucking breathe down there," in a thready voice.
Don broke and gasped, hauling in one breath and then another, ragged and far too close to a sob. He shoved his fist into his mouth and breathed through his nose, pushing back against Charlie's cock as Charlie started to move. He pulled out torturously slowly and thrust back in faster, harder, jolting Don's whole body. Charlie's next thrust pushed him forward on the bed, knees and arms burning where they dragged against the bedspread. He felt Charlie's weight shift behind him, in him, and then Charlie did it again, pushing him up the bed with the next thrust, and the next, until Don had one arm and the top of his head braced against the wall.
Charlie settled into a steady rhythm, fucking him in hard strokes, not fast but merciless. Don felt the impact of every thrust up his spine and down his arms, his jaw clenching tight, teeth digging into his knuckles. But he kept breathing without making a sound, listening to Charlie's small gasps and grunts above him, and every hard jerk of Charlie's cock was evidence of how good this felt for Charlie.
It was almost too much for Don when pleasure started to thread through the pain; he moved, Charlie moved, and suddenly it was there, electric and undeniable as the force of Charlie's body moving against his. His dick went hard again, his balls tightening and every inch of his skin singing with the sensation, and the pain was there like it was in the second half of a long run, when he'd hit his stride. It was still real, but it didn't matter anymore, not when Charlie was thrusting into him, so steady, so good.
The fist in his mouth couldn't stop small sounds from escaping Don then. Charlie's thumb swept in a quick arc against the back of his hip--one small soft touch in the middle of a hard fuck, making Don shake all over.
He was getting close, light-headed and giddy with pleasure and hyperventilation, and if Charlie just kept fucking him--but even as he thought it Charlie's rhythm stuttered, his hands flattening on the small of Don's back and his thrusts going wild, uncoordinated. Don thrust back against him, trying to get the angle right just one more time, but Charlie slammed into him and gasped, "Don," and came in long jerking pulses.
Don bit back a whimper and waited; Charlie didn't move, only resting his weight harder against Don's back. Don shifted his weight, taking his hand from his mouth and reaching down to finish himself off, and then Charlie pulled out of him all at once, quick and rough. Before Don quite knew what was going on Charlie was moving, shoving him over onto his back. Don stared up at Charlie, blinking and half-blind--the bathroom light was dazzling, Charlie just a dark shape above him--and then gasped as Charlie's fingers shoved into him, Charlie's other hand closing around his cock.
Charlie's fingers twisted and curled inside him, rough and sliding slickly, and Don's breath left him as Charlie stroked him, pleasure like pain, intense and wracking. His eyes nearly closed, but Don forced them open, watching Charlie above him as Charlie's hands moved, off-rhythm and too fast. The sensation was too much, and Don's fists closed in the sheets, his mouth working helplessly as he gasped, his whole body shaking around and under Charlie's hands. Charlie said, "Don," and Don gritted his teeth and came, hips jerking, eyes finally squeezing shut as the world shattered apart.
He lay utterly still, legs splayed open, eyes closed, breathing harshly and fading fast. He wasn't sure he felt the press of lips against his chest until it was already gone.
Don's hand on his shoulder shook Charlie awake. Charlie grunted and rubbed his eyes, and then his neck, sore from sleeping in the car. Don didn't say anything, and Charlie was about to ask him what was going on when he saw the sign looming up in the distance.
Welcome to California.
Charlie stared and stared at it, and then shut his eyes tight as they drew even. He kept them shut until he was sure they were across the state line, hoping Don wasn't watching him, knowing it was silly. But when he looked again they were in California--where Don had grown up, where Don knew people who could tell him who he was--and the end of the road was that much nearer.
California looked a lot like New Mexico and Arizona, bright desert stretching away on either side of the road, but the difference was palpable inside the car. Don's silence took on a deeper quality, tense and waiting, and Don didn't shift in his seat anymore. Charlie didn't fall asleep again, though they kept driving for hours. Desert gave way to towns, then to city. The traffic around them got heavier, the land more built up, and the numbers on the signposts to Los Angeles kept getting smaller.
They stopped for dinner as the light failed, and Charlie thought of the last eight little candles, stowed in an outer pocket of his backpack. But after they ate Don just kept driving, the night lit up by the city around them, and Charlie said nothing.
Don took an exit off the freeway and Charlie's heart started to race, all the streetlights stabbingly bright, every street and every building they passed taking on enormous clarity and significance. They pulled into the parking lot of a motel that looked a lot like every other motel they'd stayed in over the last week, and Don turned off the car. Charlie's mouth went dry and Don didn't move.
Charlie said, "Is this--?"
Don shook his head a fraction, and something unclenched in Charlie. He realized that he felt relieved. He took a couple of breaths, oxygen rushing cool through his blood, and Don said, "It's late, I thought--we should sleep. In the morning..."
Charlie nodded quickly. "I've never known who I am. One more night won't make a difference."
"Yeah," Don said, looking down at the steering wheel, his hands still resting on it. "One more night."
Charlie stayed in the car while Don went to the office and got a room, and when Don came back with the key Charlie followed him down the row to their door.
Don went straight into the bathroom, and the sound of water running made Charlie conscious of how thirsty he was, his throat painfully dry. He reached the doorway just as the door opened, and Don was there, offering him a cup of water. Charlie grinned and took it, gulping it all down in long swallows.
He licked his lips as he lowered the cup, and they felt strange, numb and tingling. Don's hand landed on his shoulder and Don leaned toward him, looking him in the eye with a slight frown.
"Charlie," he said. "Buddy, I need you to remember that none of this was ever your fault."
Charlie blinked, and heard the cup drop from his slack fingers. Don's hand tightened on his shoulder and Don pushed him back one slow step and then another, and Charlie realized he'd been drugged, that Don had--
He tried to panic, to fight, but the stuff was acting fast, more brutally effective than anything Williamson had ever given him. Don pushed him down to sit on the end of the bed, and his body was leaden, helpless. He tried to scream and nothing came out but a paralyzed mumble. He tried to grab at Don's arm--tried to hit him--but his hand only twitched. Don didn't even seem to notice the motion, pushing Charlie flat on the bed.
"You're going to sleep a while now, Charlie." He could feel Don's breath against his ear, but everything was slipping away.
"When you wake up you'll be safe, and no one will ever hurt you again," Don said from a long way off, as his lips brushed Charlie's forehead. "Not even me."
Charlie was lying flat on his back, head tipped back to keep his airway maximally clear. Don sat beside him for a long time, holding Charlie's hand in both of his, monitoring the pulse in Charlie's wrist and watching him breathe. An adverse reaction to the sedative was likeliest immediately after the dose was administered, and he knew enough to have a little doubt about whether the drugs Eddie had sold him back in El Cajon were precisely what they claimed to be. He couldn't be sure whether the dose he'd calculated based on Charlie's body mass and a safe margin of error would be enough or too much. There was a phone on the night stand between the beds; they were in LA on a Sunday night, and Don had been re-certified in CPR last year. If Charlie needed an ambulance, help would arrive fast enough.
But Charlie kept breathing, and his heart kept beating, and his hand in Don's was warm and still. The effects of what he'd just done to Charlie wouldn't be anything as quick and clean as respiratory arrest. Don sat and watched Charlie, breathing against the enormous weight on his own chest.
This should feel worse; what he was in the middle of doing to Charlie was far crueler than fucking him. The bewildered terror on Charlie's face, fading into sedated slackness, kept superimposing itself over the still features Don looked down at now. He wasn't consoling himself now with the idea that it would be best for Charlie in the long run, that this way Charlie would get the help he'd needed. Don wasn't thinking much of anything--wasn't feeling much of anything except the ache in his chest and a terrible stillness.
The night his mother died had been like this: a still body on a bed and this dull weight in his chest. Charlie had been wild with grief, hysterical and half-crazed once Don managed to make him understand what had happened; his father sat by the bed and wept. Don had seen him cry before, once or twice, and it had always terrified him.
That night he didn't feel much of anything: not fear, not grief, not even the irritation he'd usually have felt toward Charlie. He'd had nothing except the knowledge that someone was going to have to manage the funeral, that he would have to call work and tell them he was taking some time off in the middle of a case, that he would have to tell Kim, that he would have to start telling family members, that Charlie really ought to be forced to sit still and calm down before he hurt himself.
Don had done everything he had to that night, all the time waiting for himself to break down, for the understanding of what had just happened to sink in, to feel real. It hadn't, not that night.
Not this night, either, he hoped. He had to carry this through to the end.
He laid Charlie's hand down at his side and backed slowly away from the bed. Their bags were in a pile on the floor, and Don picked them up to start sorting Charlie's things from his own. He checked them all methodically, and the third small pocket he opened stopped him short: it held a lighter and a box of birthday candles.
Don glanced instinctively toward Charlie, who was right where Don had left him, still visibly breathing. Tonight was the eighth night, the last night, and Charlie had faithfully lit the candles over the last week, sitting in silence with Don and observing the holiday as best he could.
Don picked up the candles and lighter and went back to sit beside the bed, beside Charlie, breaking the box into a flat piece of cardboard and melting the bottom of each candle with the lighter to stick them in place. When they were set, Don took Charlie's hand in his again, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and chanted out the prayers he'd learned as a little boy, the prayers he'd taught his baby brother, the prayers that he'd swallowed unsaid for the last seven nights.
When he'd finished he lit all eight candles, and watched their light flicker over Charlie's face until they were gone.
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