Don't     Don't

 by Adastra

   

"Don't." 

Though it sounded weary, Beecher's voice was edged with a hard warning,
and Keller slid his hands out from under Beecher's shirt, the back muscles
stiff under his fingertips. 

Lights had been out for hours, but Keller had gotten no sleep and he knew
Beecher hadn't either. Beecher hadn't slept in days. Fuck, I can't blame
him. Kids kidnapped. Son's hand cut off. Fuck. Beecher had wailed, had
cried. Every night he had done those things, but not last night. Not
tonight. That seemed somehow worse. 

"Toby..." 

"No." 

"You can't go on like this." 

When Beecher didn't respond, Keller placed his hands on the edge of the
bunk and leaned forward to whisper, lips just brushing Beecher's earlobe,
"Baby, come on..." 

An elbow connected hard, but awkwardly with Keller's chest, and he stepped
back as Beecher flipped over and sat up. "The fuck do you want from me,
Keller?" 

Keller, huh? Not Chris. Secretly, it pleased him to hear anger in
Beecher's voice, to see his eyes glaring. It meant Beecher still felt
something; anger was better than emptiness. 

"Well?" Beecher growled. "You wanna fuck? That it?" He grasped his gray
t-shirt and jerked it over his head. "Then let's just get it over with." 

Shit, Tobe, that's not what I want. Keller glanced down at Beecher's right
hand, which gripped the shirt. The hand was trembling with hate, with
sadness, with weakness; Keller couldn't really tell. Maybe it was none of
the above... maybe all of the above. 

"I wasn't..." *Jesus, what am I supposed to say? Maybe I did want that.
But not just that.* "It's not what you think." 

Annoyed, aggravated: "Then what?" 

"I don't know," Keller replied, matching Beecher's tone. "I want there to
be something I can do." 

"There's nothing." 

They stared at each other, communication seeming at an impasse. Keller
sighed, leaned with his back against the wall, and watched Beecher
silently. Beecher closed his eyes and after a few minutes, said softly, "I
wish it were you." 

"What?" 

"I wish you had done it because then you could confess it to me and I
could hate you and hurt you... I'd probably try to kill you and you would
try to kill me. One of us would succeed and it would all be over." Beecher
gave an unhappy laugh before opening his eyes. "If that's not a fucked up
fantasy, I don't know what is." 

Christ, for once here's something I haven't done. I can't do anything
about it, can't fix it, and here you are wishing it were me. That wish
twisted tight in Keller's heart; blood rushed to his face, hot and angry.
The fuck kind of thing is that for you to think anyway? Keller clenched
his jaw and took a deep breath, trying to quell whatever feeling was
rising in him. 

Cool. Calm. Control. Those were the things that Keller could understand.
Unpredictability was much more difficult, and Beecher was a master at it. 

Slowly, carefully, Keller said, "I don't know what to say." 

"I know you don't." 

Why does that sound like an accusation? 

Silence, again, and unflinching desperation. Maybe Beecher wanted there to
be something Keller could do just as much as Keller wanted it. Maybe in
some strange way, Beecher had expected that Keller could do something.
Maybe because Keller had said everything would be okay, and it wasn't. All
I can do is be with you and, shit, that ain't enough and I know it, but
what else have I got? 

Keller approached Beecher again, but did not touch him. Instead, he leaned
his left elbow on the bunk, rested his chin on his fist, and looked up at
him. 

"Everything about this is wrong, I know," Keller whispered. "But you can't
go on like this." 

"I have to." 

Keller shook his head. "You gotta fucking survive, Toby. Jesus, you don't
eat, you don't shower, you don't cry. You get up, you shave, you crawl
back into bed. That's all you do. That fucking routine has got to stop.
Don't fucking do this to yourself." To me. 

A little lost, a little confused: "I took a shower yesterday." 

Keller reached out to one Beecher's calves dangling over the bunk, and
gently, barely touching, ran his fingers up it. "Three days ago." 

"Three days?" 

"Yeah." 

Beecher slid off of his bunk, his legs wobbling slightly as his feet hit
the ground. Keller moved to steady him, but Beecher's muscles tensed
again, and Keller left him alone to steady himself. 

Raising his t-shirt to his nose, Toby sniffed and wrinkled his face.
"Smells like three days." 

Keller took the shirt from him and brought it to his face, closing his
eyes for a moment. "I like the way you smell." The way you taste, the way
you look, the way you sound, the way you touch. 

Beecher said nothing and moved to the sink. He did not turn on the faucet,
but leaned with his hands on the edges and looked at himself in the
mirror. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." 

Keller placed a hand on one of Beecher's shoulders, but Beecher jerked
away and snarled, "Keep your fucking hands to yourself." 

They made eye contact via the mirror. Beecher's eyes were hard, bitter.
Keller spoke softly to him. "Toby, let me touch you." 

"No." 

"Why?" Keller reached out and grabbed onto Beecher's forearm. 

Beecher tried to shake Keller off, but Keller only gripped tighter and
pulled Beecher toward him, forcing him into a hug. Beecher struggled
briefly, but then gave up on resistance to stand limply with Keller
holding him. 

"Tell me why," Keller insisted. 

Barely audible, Beecher answered, "Because I don't want to feel
anything... can't feel anything." 

But you do feel it. I know you do. 

Keller whispered, "No, Toby, when we got nothing else, what we feel...
that's all there is." He stepped back a little, slid his hands down
Beecher's arms, and brought one of Beecher's hands to his chest. With his
free hand, Keller pressed one of his own hands against Beecher's chest,
feeling his heartbeat. 

"And we got each other," Keller said and squeezed the hand he held against
his chest. "You feel that?" 

Beecher's brow furrowed, his lips frowned, and his eyes looked down.
"I..." His voice halted, but he nodded. 

You're lying. 

"Look at me," Keller said, squeezing Beecher's hand just a little harder.
He demanded more urgently, "Look at me." 

With a shaky sigh, Beecher looked up into Keller's eyes. 

"Now," Keller said softly. "Tell me you can feel it." 

"Please... please don't ask me again." He pulled away from Keller and
turned, placing his forearm against the glass and resting his forehead on
it. "Just don't." 

I can't take much more of this shit, seeing you like this. 

"Fine," Keller said, impatient. "Do whatever the fuck you want. You want
to pretend you can't feel anything, go right ahead." 

Keller sat down on his bunk, knowing there was no point to lying down. He
wouldn't be able to sleep, couldn't. Now what? 

Beecher spoke. "Gary's dead. I know he's dead. A little boy, he can't
survive a wound like that. Tears can't do anything for him. They can't do
anything for me." 

Beecher's shoulders started shaking. His voice breaking, he said, "Oh God,
I can't make it stop. I don't want to feel it!" 

But you have to. 

Keller stood up and came to stand behind him; this time Beecher turned to
him. 

Almost a plea: "Chris..." 

Keller pulled him close again, wrapping his arms around him. "I'm sorry.
Baby, I'm sorry." He repeated the words over and over as he held onto
Beecher. 

A hack came by and Keller made direct eye contact with him over Beecher's
shoulder. 

Just keep walking, motherfucker. 

The hack looked away and continued his round without another glance. 

Keller felt a warm, wet sensation at the bend between head and shoulder:
Beecher quietly kissing, licking. Keller ran his hands up Beecher's sides
and then took his face in his hands. Closing his eyes, Keller kissed
Beecher, soft and brief, but delicious. 

He drove Beecher gently towards the bottom bunk and pushed him to sit down
and lean back. Beecher reclined, his head and upper back pressed against
the glass next to the bed. 

Keller leaned forward against Beecher and kissed him on the lips before
trailing down his throat, his shoulder, and his right arm, kisses gentle
and quick. When he got to Beecher's hand, Keller sucked on the fingertips,
faintly salty from sweat, and tangy from the orange Beecher had crushed in
his hand earlier. God, Toby, I love your taste. 

He turned his attention to Beecher's torso, trailing his tongue up his
side, relishing the musky flavor of his body. Beecher's breath quickened
as Keller sucked on one of his nipples, swirling his tongue around it.
Keller returned to Beecher's lips and this time kissed him deep and long
while at the same time reaching with one of his hands to massage Beecher's
crotch. 

Pulling out of the kiss, but lips barely away from Beecher's, Keller
whispered, "You feel that?" I know you do. 

Ragged: "Yes." 

Beecher's cock was hard in his shorts, and Keller slid down the length of
Beecher's body, feeling that bulge press against him. Beecher's hands were
on his head, gripping either side, and a sob came from his throat. Keller
paused at the sound. 

Christ, you even want this? This is fucked up. What the fuck am I doing?
You didn't want to do this. But you have to, you have to feel something. I
need you to. 

"Toby," Keller panted. "You want me to stop?" 

Voice choked and broken, but firm, Beecher pushed Keller's head further
down. 

"Don't."   Please send feedback to Adastra.