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Peace of Mind

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except one very sick personality that makes me write stuff like this.

Warnings: AU (Alternative Universe, but in this case, more of an Absolutely Unbelievable or Antirational Uber-absurdity ^^; ), slash (yup, gaysex), angst (a lot of… all my stories kind of seem to slip into that…), RPS (kind of), semi-semi-semi-non-con (meaning actually consensual, but with… um. Issues.)

Pairings:Ares/Michael Hurst, mentions of unrequited MH/Kevin Smith

A/N: Surprisingly, written without influence of hallucinogens, after one suggestive phone call. Beware…

As you will notice, in this universe Michael Hurst isn't married. Yeah. I can't help it, I don't like corrupting happily married guys, loving husbands and great dads into misunderstood, depressed gays. So there.

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Michael hung up the phone and stared into the blank whiteness of the wall. He always thought that if something like this happened, his whole world would turn upside down, but he knew now the worst part was that the world would continue like usual. Some people would cry a little, especially one freshly widowed woman, but mostly, they would continue working, getting drunk, struggling with debts and doing other absurdly normal things they would usually do on a day like this.

Except that HE wouldn't be able to do any of those things ever again. HE was crossed out from the life of living just a while ago, and even though Michael knew it was probably the best decision, that Kevin wouldn't have wanted to be kept alive merely by a few machines, he couldn't help feeling bitter.

He swallowed, because his throat seemed to project the dryness he felt in his chest, and closed his eyes for a moment. It didn't change anything – when he opened them, he was still in his apartment, staring into the same wall, and still couldn't comprehend the weight of what he had just been told. Just a few weeks ago he saw him, hugged him, heard the energetic liveliness in his voice as he told Michael about his new movie… and now he was dead. An image of a body covered with a white sheet came unbidden to Michael's mind, vivid as if he had seen it, and he felt his stomach squeeze. Grabbing the edge of his phone table until his knuckles turned white, he squeezed his eyes shut and willed the images away… but they stayed, persistent as some completely different images in Michael's head had once been. He always managed to keep THOSE away from his mind and now he couldn't regret anything more bitterly, because there was no way to know what would have happened if he had the courage to try. Now, he could only wonder about the answer forever, and that was ten thousand times worse than the dreaded refusal could ever be.

Michael managed from his hallway to his living room, not bothering to turn on the lights. It had been a disgustingly sunny day and he needed a little darkness to match the darkness that was creeping into his mind with every question of 'why', 'how', and 'what if'. Silently, as if in a daze, he opened a drawer near the door and pulled out a gun.

He chuckled bitterly when he realized how it could appear to anyone who'd be watching him. But no, he wasn't yet out of his mind to the extent of trying to kill himself. That only happened in silly, melodramatic and exaggerated TV shows, and he hanged around behind the scenes too much to be that theatrical.

The gun was just a replica, a very good replica at that, capable of shooting small projectiles that wouldn't hurt anyone for real, or maybe only a little, from really small distance. Michael didn't really know how it worked – what mattered was that it had been a gift, a prize he won during a game of poker when Smithy had already lost two hundred dollars, his wristwatch and his sunglasses. The big guy had just laughed then and pulled out the gun Michael was holding now – he could still remember how his eyes went wide when he saw it for the first time. Kevin used it in the show he was shooting then, something about police and criminals, and Michael remembered vaguely how Kevin complained the day after that, because the propman was bitching at him for losing the studio's property.

Michael felt himself smiling a little – he was sure that Kevin would want everyone to remember him as that strong, active guy, but it was a little hard right now, when he looked at the gun that was a reminder that indeed, Kev used to exist, and even more that he didn't exist any longer.

"Rest in peace, Kevin Todd Smith," Michael muttered into the silence of his living room, his voice hoarse with emotions he dreaded to let out, "the greatest War God in existence…"

"I feel offended."

Michael jumped up and on instinct held the gun in front of himself, cursing his own stupidity for not turning on the lights, or locking up properly and setting the anti-burglar system. His mind had been too preoccupied with calling the hospital, and now he was going to pay for that.

"Who the fuck are you?!" he spat in the general direction of that voice, and stepped back so his back was turned towards a wall. As he squinted, he could make out a dark shape of a man in the doorway, and felt his heart drum against his ribcage. Fuck… the guy was big, definitely a lot bigger than Michael, and even if he did learn some fighting moves during Hercules, both funny and cool ones, they all required an opponent willing to cooperate and let himself be thrown over a shoulder.

And Michael seriously doubted a burglar, or whoever the guy was, would be willing to cooperate in getting his ass kicked.

The man took a step forward – Michael gripped the gun tighter.

"Don't move! I'll shoot!" he yelled, and regretted not having much room to step further back.

The guy didn't seem to care, and came closer – in the faint light from the window Michael could make out leather. Lots of leather, dark and creaking and decorated with iron ornaments.

He knew that outfit.

"What's this, some kind of a sick joke?!" his voice shook and cracked and even to Michael's ears it sounded a little bit hysterical. Okay, he had seen some fans do ridiculously accurate impersonations of Xena, Hercules, Ares and even himself - Iolaus… but that was all on conventions.

And not ten minutes after he had found out Kevin Smith was dead, in his dark, empty apartment. All he wanted was to deal with his grief and regrets, not with burglars or crazy fans.

The big man inched closer, ignoring Michael's warning gun-waving – maybe because from where he stood, he could see Michael's hand shake violently.

"Go away or I'll shoot!"

Another step closer, and then the guy's face was illuminated with the light from the window and Michael gasped, his hand with the gun dropping a little. He knew that man. The high cheekbones, the full lips, the dark brown eyes under thick eyebrows that could be so expressive…

"Fuck…" he whispered as the face of Kevin Smith stared at him, and thought that he was either going to suffer a heart attack or go crazy – if he wasn't mad already. Kevin was dead, dead, DEAD, for God's sake, and this guy looked like him, and Michael could feel his brain going on overdrive.

"Are you a ghost?" he asked, trying to sound rational, but how the hell could ANY question like that be rational?! His gun went up again before he could think about it. He was scared shitless, and he wanted that burglar/ghost to go away desperately, even if it WAS Kevin's soul or something.

The big guy chuckled, and the deep, thick sound seemed definitely real. Too real for Michael's liking, especially when it was followed by another step forward. The man who resembled Kevin so much could touch Michael's hand with the gun if he tried, and that was FAR too close for Michael to be able to control his fear. Fear of that touch – he couldn't quite decide if he'd freak out more if he felt warm, real skin, or the cold breeze described in horror movies as the touch of a ghost.

The man smirked and took another step forward, and Michael's finger pulled the trigger.

He didn't realize he squeezed his eyes closed until he opened them, dreading the moment he'd see a very real body with bleeding forehead – the gun shouldn't be able to do any real harm, but he couldn't think clear and felt as if it was some twisted way of fate to surround him with death everywhere in his life.

When he looked, though, the guy was still there, smirking, and the little plastic bullet hovered in the air a few inches in front of his face. Michael blinked, sure that he couldn't see properly, that it was just a shadow – but the light of the street outside was suddenly too bright for him NOT to see.

His hand dropped, no strength left in his muscles, and the gun fell to the carpet with a soft thump.

"Who…?" he asked weakly and pressed himself against the wall as firmly as he could. What was this… a crooked dream? Did he fall asleep on that couch, holding Kevin's gun, the only thing he had left after the man except sweet memories and bitter regrets? Were these the consequences of him NOT taking that plane and not flying to that fucking hospital when Kevin was still alive, though on life support and beeping, but ALIVE?

Was he going mad?

The bullet finally obeyed physical laws and joined the gun on the floor. The man stepped closer, and Michael could smell leather – but nothing else, no sweat, no soap or shampoo or beer, nothing that normally lingered on every human being. Just leather, and his own fear oozing from his pores and sliding in little salty droplets down his sides.

"Ares, God of War, at your service," the man finally said something, and at first it was a relief, that it wasn't a vengeful, cold ghost coming to haunt Michael's mind with its silent presence. But then, the meaning of those deep, rumbling words registered in his brain and he had a sudden urge to pinch himself to know he wasn't dreaming. Maybe this WAS some residual regret showing in his dreams – or nightmares; memories of times spent fighting in front of a camera and just living, never thinking of all the negative 'what if's when the cameras were turned off, memories of grins exchanged as make-up girls fussed over them… maybe those memories materialized in this form. Came to wage a war against Michael's sanity.

He snickered, even though he didn't really find it funny.

"Yeah, sure."

The man just raised an eyebrow and kept silent, challenging Michael with that look of 'try me' that reminded Michael of Kevin so much it made his head dizzy for a moment. When the black spots from his eyes vanished to take in the man in front of him, Michael took a deep breath. If this was a nightmare, he could as well get on with it. He'd get haunted, tortured or killed in this hallucination, then wake up and get smashed in some local dirty pub with loud music and louder people that'd make him understand life didn't end for the entire fuckin' planet.

"Why are you here?" he asked, and this time it was the 'God of War' who snickered.

"Why do you think I'm here?"

Michael stared. He had a few ideas about that.

"Because I'm going mad…?" he tried, and the man just grinned, in that disconcertingly Smithy-like way, complete with a small gap between his front teeth and full lips framed by his dark beard.

"Try again."

"…to let me do something I didn't have time enough to do…?" Michael asked quietly, and THAT thought was a little more scary than believing that this 'Ares' guy was here to torture or kill him. Because facing what he felt was something Michael was trying NOT to do for the last few years, and it got easier with time to pretend he didn't feel anything, infinitely easier than admitting to himself that when Kevin patted his shoulder or pulled him into a tight, friendly hug, Michael cherished that touch a little too much.

'Ares' just burst into laughing, leaning back and looking up just in that crazy way Kevin always did when acting out some of the War God's mad stunts.

"I'm War, not Charity," the raised eyebrow was back, and another step taken, which practically pinned Michael to the wall in his attempt to keep more distance between them. This guy apparently didn't give a shit about things like letting people have some personal space.

"War?" Michael repeated – he had never met any fan seriously believing that he – or she – was a character from Hercules or Xena. Not that he had ever met a guy THIS alike to Kevin.

If he had, he probably would… his mind stopped before finishing that thought just from the habit of stopping anything that would make it unable to live in blissful denial.

"Yes. I told you: Ares. One would think it'd ring a bell, considering your acting career."

The irony was biting, and oddly refreshing. It was almost too tempting to let himself fall into the role of Iolaus and throw back some spiteful remark at the hated War God.

Only Michael didn't really hate Ares, considering he definitely didn't hate Kevin, and the soft carpet under his bare feet, as well as the hi-fi set to his right, told him very firmly that he was no Iolaus and this was no filming set.

"So I'm supposed to believe there is a God, and an ancient Greek one on top of it, in my apartment," Michael said slowly, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow back at 'Ares'. After all, it was HIS dream/nightmare/hallucination/regret trip; he could do whatever he wanted in it, right?

"Why not?" 'Ares' shrugged and looked around, as if suddenly reminded by Michael's words that indeed, they were in Michael's apartment, and wanted to have a good look at his living standards.

"This is 21st century. And America. Meaning not Greece. And you look terribly like… a friend who just died," Michael found it too difficult to voice Kevin's name, and for some reason 'friend who just died' sounded far more general and unreal than saying a name that would soon be carved on a tombstone.

"Oh yeah. HIM," 'Ares' said, in a weird tone between contempt and disinterest. His dark eyes returned to Michael's face to gaze at him intently. "I took his form."

That left Michael gaping.

"Why?"

"You don't know much about how gods work, do you," this time contempt was stronger than other things mixed into that thick voice. "We look how our believers think we look. Human mind is stronger than you mortals think."

Michael couldn't help but stare at the 'God'. Not only he looked like Kevin, his voice was very similar, if not the same, too… though his tone was a little more arrogant.

"You know," the 'Ares' continued, "it fascinates me how you mortals play gods. How you create whole new worlds in that," his hand waved vaguely towards Michael's TV set at the opposite end of the room, "gather believers, live off them… it's really intriguing. You make yourselves believe that you need no gods, that you're as strong as us..."

Michael listened with a vague sense of familiarity. This 'Ares' talked as the War God Michael knew, the Ares from TV, his script written self-confident, superior, and just a little delusional. But hearing the ancient War God talk about TV production was just too absurd even for Michael's mind, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"So that's what made you come to me? Curiosity about television?" Michael asked, a grin still on his lips – this whole situation was so bizarre that he actually tried to remember whether he had something to drink before he apparently fell asleep on his own couch, having this dream.

"No, no, no," 'Ares' drawled and invaded what was left of Michael's personal space, radiating heat and power and smelling of that mixture of leather and iron Michael remembered as Kevin's scent after they had spent hours on the set. "What drew me to you is the way you were – are – drawn to the image of Ares you mortals managed to create. Or more specifically – to that guy who kicked the bucket today."

Michael's eyes widened and his hands flew up to push the man away from him – hearing someone talk so casually about something he has not yet even accepted in his mind was too much, and all he wanted was to run away from this man who knew a little too much to be just a burglar. No one knew Kevin had died yet – after all… he'd been alive just a few hours ago, and no media got hold of the sad information yet. Except Michael, only Kevin's wife knew, and of course 'Herc' Kevin and Lucy and probably Ted… there was no rational way Michael could think of for some outsider to know about Kevin's death.

Then he realized that despite the fact he pushed with all his strength, the guy didn't move. It was as if Michael tried to push away the wall behind him, and his eyes widened. Kevin had been strong, after all he was a big guy and all those muscles did count for something, but he wasn't… this. Unmovable, like a mountain stood in front of Michael.

He could feel fear squeezing his throat again as his hands fell to his sides and 'Ares' smirked down at him.

"Who are you?" he whispered, and the guy rolled his eyes impatiently.

"Should I throw fireballs around for you to believe me?"

An image of his couch going up in flames flashed through Michael's mind, and he tried pushing himself into the wall to create some space to think. He would've never thought he'd believe something like this… and he wasn't very sure he believed it now, either, but – okay, it MUST have been a dream. Gods in general didn't just appear out of nowhere in people's houses, claiming to be interested in television. And ancient Gods who had no real believers even in the country of their origin didn't appear, period.

"I believe you," he said, though he didn't – well, a little white lie couldn't hurt. At least it would get the conversation to more important things, like… "Now what do you want?"

'Ares' raised an eyebrow – Michael thought for a moment that the man – or God, okay – saw through his lie and would attempt to persuade him with said fireballs, but nothing like that happened. He just completely ignored Michael's effort to get away and got so close that Michael had to try very hard at the wall-merging to not feel the guy's body pressed against his. A hand suddenly came up and caressed Michael's cheek with rough knuckles.

"What do YOU want?"

The 'God's' voice was throaty, quiet and vibrating with the dark, ugly things Michael had been trying to bury deep down within himself anytime Kevin had been near for the past few years. He shivered at the touch and fought not to close his eyes at the sensation – oh he remembered it alright, even though there was nothing to remember, because this guy WASN'T Kevin Smith, and even if he was, Kevin never touched Michael with such unsettling, straightforward tenderness, never had quite such fire in his gaze when he looked at Michael, even though Michael's mind added all kinds of meanings to insignificant things and then tried to forget them desperately.

He sucked in a breath and forced his head to turn away from the touch, even though his skin itched to lean into it.

"I want you to leave me alone," he said, and was glad to hear that his voice came out firm and decisive, not weak and shaken as he feared it would.

"Really?" a raised eyebrow and full lips quirked with skepticism almost made Michael shake his head 'no' – but he didn't, he COULDN'T, not even in his dream, because it would bring more images into his head he didn't want to have, not now, not when he knew that he had been way too cowardly to admit what he felt even to himself, not to say to the object of those unwanted desires. Too afraid of a flat out rejection – though right now he'd be happy if he had a memory of Kevin punching him and saying he was disgusting, because there wouldn't be that small, kindled spark of hope that he had kept through the years for unknown comfort and that was now blown up into a full-grown fire that burned away his sanity.

"Really."

A hiss slid past his lips as the knuckles came to slide down his neck, stopping at the collar of his shirt, and he took deep, steady breaths, not knowing whether he wanted to persuade this 'Ares' or himself that he wasn't weirdly excited by the touch he had craved against his will.

"So you tell me you've never been hard for him? Not once?" fingertips teased his collarbone, a warm hand half-closed around his throat. It felt oddly thrilling, and Michael couldn't bring himself to look in the man's eyes – not from the fear that he'd know Michael was lying, desperately lying, but from the fear – and knowledge – he'd find Kevin in those eyes, that face. Kevin whom he longed for, terrified to admit it even to himself, Kevin who wasn't there anymore to tell him he was a freak. Kevin who just had to say a word and Michael would… he didn't even know what he'd do.

And the guy continued, mercilessly, painfully slowly, in that voice that Michael remembered so well saying his name… but without the aftertaste THIS 'Ares' left behind with every word.

"You tell me you never wanted him to kiss you? To just bend you over and fuck you, hard and painful, because you're a freak for wanting him at all… you wanted to feel his teeth sink into your skin and leave aching marks so you'd know it happened… you woke up in the middle of the night hard, dreaming of him naked, and then you jerked off feeling dirty and trying hard to not remember anything in the morning… but oh… you did," 'Ares' smirked, and Michael could feel his breath, his chuckle, run over his sensitized neck, just below the jawline. He didn't even register when the guy got so close, leaned down and now it would be enough just to turn his head and their lips would…

Michael blinked furiously as his eyes began to sting. He wasn't sure whether it was sadness, realization or humiliation, or the mixture of all, coming from what this weird, screwed-up nightmare of flesh and bones said, rolling every word in his mouth slowly as if he drew immense pleasure from torturing Michael.

And it seemed like he did when he drew his lips over Michael's jaw to his ear:

"You're dirty."

"Yes," he heard himself whimper, and tried to push 'Ares' away from him again, just for the feeling that he resisted, that he tried to overcome the need to take what he couldn't take, what he shouldn't even want. The 'God' didn't move, and Michael turned his head back to tell him eye to eye that he wasn't interested, tell him to fuck off and leave him alone with whatever was rearing its ugly head from the depths of Michael's mind.

Then 'Ares' was kissing him and Michael sighed into his mouth, his face contorted into a grimace of suffering as he screwed his eyes closed and kissed back, knowing full well this would cost him dearly when he woke up, that this was some punishment his subconsciousness decked out for him, because he blamed himself for not taking that damned plane and not going to see Kevin while he still breathed, with the help of a machine but BREATHED… 'Ares' breathed, and the puffs of air against Michael's skin were warm, making his nerves tingle.

His hands came up from pushing at the 'God's' chest to his hair, short and a little rough, just like Kevin had kept it for the past few years and Michael hissed in delight. Oh how he longed to do this, especially that one evening when they were out fishing, and had a great time, and Kevin's hair was wet when it started raining and Michael wanted to-

Surprisingly, 'Ares' gave in when Michael pulled at his hair to break the kiss. His eyes blazed with something Michael always tried to see in Kevin's looks, and his lips glistened with Michael's saliva, making his blood boil.

"You're not him," he whispered, but with his hoarse voice it came out as a growl, and 'Ares' leaned closer, pressing him against the wall and grinding their groins together. Michael nearly cried out, but held it in defiantly.

"No. I'm not. But I want you. He didn't."

Those words stung, because this guy seemed to know more about Michael than he allowed himself to know, and in Michael's mind it somehow seemed logical that this 'Ares' knew the order of other things as well.

Not that Michael didn't know this one. Kevin never wanted him in his bed, that much was painfully obvious, and Michael had always been torn between looking for any signs it was otherwise, and trying to tell himself he was just imagining things if he actually persuaded himself he saw some hints.

It was all too complicated, and 'Ares' seemed to offer much simpler logic.

"Don't you dare barbecue my ass with a fireball if I cry out his name," Michael captured the full lips in a hot, angry, possessive kiss and that sudden explosion of honesty towards this 'Ares' and towards himself as well made his chest fill with rising panic. He pushed it down and focused on the kiss – oh he could imagine it was really Kevin easily. He looked like Kevin, smelled like Kevin, felt like Kevin and talked like Kevin – or more like talked in Kevin's voice about things Michael needed and feared to hear.

"You won't," 'Ares' muttered into his mouth and pressed them together harder. The feeling of being squeezed between a wall and a guy who could as well have been another wall was exquisitely claustrophobic, and before long Michael didn't mind at all when rough, agile fingers pulled at his shirt and weaved their way to his bare skin. In fact he hissed with pleasure and bit Ares' lip – he was beyond the point of telling himself this was just a dream. He didn't care. If it was a dream, he desperately hoped it would last until the 'God of War' managed to stick his cock up his ass so he'd feel it at least once – his usual dreams only contained naked Kevin, never Kevin all over him, INSIDE him, and Michael wanted to feel it at least once, the pain of being depraved and dirty, just as this Ares told him before.

And well, if it was reality, which it wasn't, he was beyond the point of giving a shit about some ancient God fucking him. That phone call to the hospital had felt a lot more unreal and distant than the possibility of an actual deity taking interest in certain TV shows and certain directors/actors with twisted desires.

His shirt was pulled up to his chin and his mouth left infuriatingly empty when Ares shifted his attention to Michael's chest, finding a nipple and licking it lazily, slowly, before his teeth sank into the hardening flesh. Michael cried out and tried to use Ares' hair to pull him away, but this time the God didn't even notice, and bit and sucked hard until Michael was grunting and hissing – and not only from pleasure. It hurt and it drew tears to his eyes, and he glared at Ares when he drew away finally and kneeled, looking up at Michael with an odd satisfied smirk.

"Hurts," Michael squeezed from between his tight lips, and got just another wide smirk in return.

"But that's how you want it."

He was turned and pushed face-first into the wall before he could gather his wits enough to respond. He placed his hands over the wall to give himself some room, but that only made it easier for the kneeling God to pull his pants and briefs down to his ankles with one swift move.

"Handy, this elastic," he felt the amused voice ghost warmly over his buttock and squeezed his muscles tight from the weird feeling. His buttocks were forced apart by strong hands and when he felt a hot tongue lick up the crease of his ass, Michael yelped and squeezed his eyes shut. Okay, he wanted this; he had wanted it secretly for a long time. But the actual, real feeling was something completely different from his wildest fantasies he allowed himself from time to time, ashamed and afraid as if someone could actually see inside his head, avoiding Kevin for a few days afterwards every time he jerked off to the image of naked Smithy.

And now, that very tongue he so wanted to feel sliding against his own was licking his ass, and if he thought about it rationally it was pretty weird, and warm and wet and kind of disgusting, but his legs shook anyway and Michael breathed out 'more' before he could stop himself.

Hands squeezed his buttocks as if in response, and the tongue dipped into his hole unceremoniously, making Michael squirm. He'd instinctively try to draw away from the alien touch but there was a wall in front of him and that meant no room for maneuvering, so he just bit his lip and curled his hands into fists against the wall.

Then the tongue was gone and even a warm breath over the saliva-slick skin made Michael shiver as Ares' voice down there made his cock fill with blood, because it was KEVIN's voice, for heaven's sake, Kevin's lips just barely touching his ass as he whispered:

"You've never actually imagined it this far, did you…"

Michael shook his head, then reminded himself Ares probably couldn't see him, and strained to answer:

"Not really…"

It didn't sound as casual as he'd like, and when one hand left his buttock to slide around his body and squeeze his cock, he whimpered, feeling like a dirty whore. Fuck… was he really just having sex, or very close to having sex, with a man, or God, or dream, who looked like his friend who just died? Kevin right now was probably just being pushed into a refrigerator, with other corpses around, unmoving, his heart still, his flesh beginning to decay even if it wasn't visible yet… and even those damn horrible images that made Michael's tears turn bitter with mental pain instead of physical one, couldn't make his cock NOT harden when a rough, large, warm, living hand closed around it.

"Fuck me," he groaned quietly, his nails digging into the wall as he hated himself with burning intensity at the moment, hated the fact that his body was responding as usual to his depraved thoughts even at a time like this, when he should be mourning and crying… but… he couldn't cry. He couldn't cry when he hung up the phone, when he took out that gun and looked at it to give himself some memories, some push over the edge to just cry the pain away and feel better afterwards… so he needed it like this, he needed this Kevin-lookalike to fuck him hard and raw and painful so he'd cry from the physical pain and pretend that those were tears of his mourning. He needed that kind of release more than an orgasm, and the God, the Nightmare or whoever the fuck it was licking his ass, seemed to understand.

Leather pressed against his bare ass, concealing a hard dick from the feel of it, and Michael squirmed deliberately to make it quicker. But the God seemed to have another idea as he covered Michael's half-bare back with his leather-clad chest, the iron pins in his vest sliding like droplets of something cold against Michael's skin. Lips touched his neck again, moving with torturous sluggishness, and Michael felt his throat tighten at the tenderness. No, that wasn't what he needed. No gentle touches, no long, hot looks, no. He wanted it hard and painful, a punishment he deserved so he could free himself of whatever it was that sat heavy on his chest.

"Fuck me," he repeated, not caring that the strained need in his voice was all too audible as it echoed through the room.

"Yes. I will," Kevin's voice taunted him, right against his ear, "I'll give you your atonement. But first…" Kevin's lips – Ares' lips – was there a difference? – touched his earlobe and Michael held the sob that was threatening to escape his throat inside, "first I'll give you the sin."

With that, he was turned again, a ragdoll under someone else's control, and kissed, slowly, gently, lips pushing against his, teeth nibbling, a hand in his hair ever so tender and Michael felt hot, wet trails down his cheeks, spilling from his eyes like from an overflowing glass and seasoning their kiss with salt.

He sobbed loudly into Ares' mouth and frantically pulled him close with his arms around Ares' shoulders. The warmth tore away at something inside him that had long been cold and abandoned, and he had intended to keep it that way until a few seconds ago. Then, the dam broke and he couldn't just hold it as his tears spilled, bringing twisted, masochistic satisfaction to his soul.

"Tell me," mouth against his neck again, and he wished they'd bite hard as well as he wished they'd never stop just lingering there, barely touching, breathing over his skin, "tell me what you'd tell him."

When Michael hesitated, Ares stopped kissing his neck and looked him in the teary eyes.

"I'm Kevin Smith. This is your chance. Tell me, Michael Hurst."

The use of his full name, of the name that was supposed to carry a personality different to the mess he was now, made him draw in a sharp breath and squeeze his eyes.

"I can't."

"Oh yes you can. And you will, lest you wish to rot in the shit you couldn't say aloud."

It wasn't pretty, but it made Michael stop squeezing his eyes shut to the point of pain, leaving them just barely closed as warm tongue slid over his Adam's apple. Letting his head fall back, he breathed deeply before he tried to find whatever was left to rot, just like Ares said, in the depths of his mind.

"I wanted you to fuck me."

"That's not it," a bite at his collarbone, "you can do better."

"I wanted you."

"No. Again."

It was as if Ares had settled in the midst of his crazy, wild thoughts and was sorting carefully through them, dissecting each of them for a tiny, translucent grain of truth.

Michael gasped when a hand caressed his hip and mouth sucked on his throat. He wanted to feel that mouth suck harder, but Ares didn't seem to react to the fingers trying to grasp his hair and push him closer.

Michael groaned in desperation:

"I often thought about you naked, touching me, I jerked off to the image of you, and I tried hard to push those thoughts away… ah," Ares' mouth finally relented and sucked and bit, and the thought he'd bruise was giving Michael weird satisfaction, "because I couldn't have you… you were hot, and beyond my reach, and I was scared you'd think I was disgusting… because I was – I am…"

He had to stop talking, because he had enough difficulty breathing when Ares pushed hard against him, bringing Michael's naked cock against his leather trousers and making him completely hard with just a few sways of his hips.

If Michael expected some polite assurance that he wasn't disgusting at all, he never got it. With a start he realized that it was just what he was made to believe by his own fear of the merciless public eye – that he was disgusting – but that he never really believed in that. He had just craved to be told otherwise.

That insight was strangely liberating and Michael moaned openly when Ares reached down and jerked his own pants open. Suddenly his cock was enveloped in that large hand, along with Ares' own, and Michael couldn't help but tighten his embrace for support, because his legs seemed to shake a little too much.

"Is… that… all?" Ares breathed over his ear in time with the tantalizingly slow strokes of his hand, and Michael's breath caught. He wanted to say that yes, that was all he had ever wanted to say to Kevin, but it dawned on him at that moment, with his cock sliding in and out of Ares' palm, pressed tight against Ares' cock, with Ares' mouth sucking on his earlobe and Ares' other hand squeezing his butt again and Michael didn't know what to do except grin, because allowing himself to release what he had tried to kick to death and bury for a few years felt… divine.

"I loved you…. I love you… and I'd do anything to have you back-ah! – to be able to tell you… even if you'd kick my ass… I'd tell you…"

Michael wanted to repeat it a lot more, because it felt as if he was cleansing himself from a thousand-year-old mud and digging out the ancient relics that were once his heart, but he didn't have enough time as he was slammed against the wall, hard, and strong hands came to raise his legs around Ares' waist. He obeyed without any thought, encircling the God's hips – now he was sure it WAS a God, who else could manage to break him like this – and pressing his calves against the sharp edges of Ares' belts. It wasn't comfortable, but that was nothing compared to the feel of something slick inside his ass. Before he could decide what it was, two of Ares' fingers were in him and Michael yelped, pressing himself closer to Ares' chest as his arms tightened around the God's shoulders. He felt small and insignificant, but freed of a heavy burden he wasn't even aware of carrying and he silently sobbed for the chance he had wasted away – because a small portion of heaviness remained firmly in its place, coming from the knowledge that he'd never have the chance to tell the real Kevin, the Kevin who'd kick his ass or laugh at him or stop talking to him, but he'd KNOW and now he couldn't know, and because of that Michael would never be completely free.

The fingers in his ass stretched him uncomfortably, connecting with the remaining heaviness inside him and Michael didn't even protest, though it didn't feel good at all.

After all, he wasn't doing this to FEEL GOOD.

The fingers withdrew, and Michael took a deep breath – even though he had never fucked a man, and never took interest in how gay sex was performed, he knew enough to be sure what was coming next.

He practically howled when Ares' cock slid into him – it was too big, too thick, filling and stretching him too much and he could almost feel his body tearing. It hurt like hell and he dug his nails deep into Ares' leather vest and into his shoulder, but the God wasn't affected at all and kept pushing Michael's hips down, even though he was desperately trying to clench his legs around Ares' waist enough to keep himself off that big cock.

Didn't work, and when teeth clamped down on Michael's neck, he wailed in pain. Just a thought of Kevin being like this, unmoving, inconsiderate, causing pain, made Michael's stomach turn and he whispered 'stop' into Ares' ear. Even that damned earring was the same as Kevin used to wear, the one with the sword.

"No," Ares hissed back, "this is the atonement."

Michael wanted to snap back that he noticed, but Ares wouldn't let him as he pushed all the way inside and Michael was too busy gritting his teeth to not cry out aloud.

"If you can't do a thing to change it, stop worrying about it," Ares growled, and slid a little bit out before pushing back. Michael yowled.

"And never let go of something you want," Ares hissed and then, there was a warm tingle where it hurt most, and next time the God thrust his hips, it hit something inside Michael, he wasn't capable of thinking coherently enough to name it, because it brought stars before his eyes and Michael moaned aloud, throwing his head back in pleasure.

Ares fucked him then, fast and hard and as intensely as Michael could take it, biting his throat and shoulder and ignoring when Michael scratched at his skin, abandoning himself in the God's arms completely, and groaning loudly when he came, the God's cock pulsing inside his ass, his heart drumming madly in his chest and his semen staining Ares' vest as his cock rubbed against the leather.

When Michael unwrapped his legs from around Ares' waist, he couldn't stand properly, so he slid down against that wall, to his soft carpet that now carried the evidence of both his sin and atonement, the replica of a gun still lying there along with the discarded little plastic bullet. When he looked up at the God, Ares was perfectly neat again, with no semen over his vest, his pants done up and his hair unruffled, unlike Michael's own.

"Remember it," Ares said, and he was gone in a flash of light. Michael blinked a few times – he saw it on TV so many times, but in reality it was so much weirder – and got up slowly, his legs still shaking quite a lot.

He crawled into bed without a shower, getting a kick out of feeling sore, dirty and deliciously raw, because that was a proof it happened – like that gun on the carpet, left there as the memento of his cowardice.

Michael was sure there would be no dried semen on his thighs in the morning… but some things were worth trying. He had learned that the hard way.