A/N – This is a standalone fic inspired by a kid I saw in the hospital. The idea stuck and this is the travesty that resulted. I guess it's good for Rusty that I didn't see anybody in a full body cast.
A/N – The title comes from the Peter Murphy song of the same name. Actually a lot of my Rusty head canon is inspired by this song as well.
When he was 13 years old, Rusty Ryan fell out of a tree and shattered his wrist. At first the pain was so excruciating he thought he was going to throw up. But then, just for a moment, right before he passed out, he felt euphoria.
It was a bad break. It took 9 weeks to heal. Practically the whole summer ruined. No bike riding, no baseball, and he didn't feel like swimming if he couldn't jump from the high dive.
So he haunted the public library, where it was cool and quiet and where he would watch the young curly haired librarian dab at her breasts with a hanky scented with cologne she kept cold in the staff icebox. For the rest of his life he'd feel a frisson of sexual delight whenever he smelled Windsong or saw a redhead with cats eye reading glasses.
During the day he read Ian Fleming and biographies of Mohammad Ali and Neil Armstrong. At night he would sneak books out of the library. Something to read at home. Something secret. Something forbidden.
The night he smuggled Leaves of Grass out of the library was hot and humid. A storm had building all day and Rusty had to jog the last 2 blocks to avoid getting caught in the hail.
The power was already out by the time he got home. The house was dark; his mom worked the night shift at the ER; he was alone. Rusty filched a bottle of beer from the stash his uncle kept at their house and went upstairs to his room. Despite the storm he threw open the windows, letting the wind lash at the gauzy cotton curtains.
The wind helped cool his attic room down, but it was still hot. He stripped off his shorts and tee shirt and lay down on the bed wearing just a pair of thin cotton boxers.
It was awkward, propping up both the flashlight and book with just his good hand. But Whitman captivated him and he forgot about the awkwardness. He read I Sing the Body Electric three times quickly, breathlessly.
By the time he put the book away and reached down to touch himself, the storm was raging. He closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face, heard the thunder booming and felt the electricity building in the lightning outside. He felt it building within his body.
He came just as lightning struck a tree across the street and the crack made him flinch. He banged his broken wrist against the headboard and the pain crested along with his orgasm...and he once again felt euphoric.
It was easier once the cast came off. The doctor warned him that it would probably trouble him for the rest of his life. The doctor was thinking about a re-break or early onset arthritis, twinges when the weather changed. Rusty just smiled and thanked him for the care. It was worth the trouble.
He soon discovered that if he pressed his wrist against his hip bone as he was masturbating that he could come very, very close to reliving that incredible explosion of light and heat.
It was better if somebody else held his wrist tightly during sex.
It was best when Danny was the one doing the holding.
But then there was Tess and the holding stopped. And Rusty said of course he didn't mind. And he didn't, not really. Because more than anything he wished for Danny to be happy. A little pain shouldn't matter.
And there were always men and women who were more than willing to take Rusty to their beds. Plenty who were thrilled to tighten their fingers around those eight delicate bones and squeeze.
If Danny sometimes stared at Rusty when the sleeves of his shiny silk shirt rode up revealing dark, ugly bruises, or if Tess whispered about what she saw to her friends, well, maybe that's what that long ago doctor had meant by trouble.
But Danny and Tess found trouble of their own. And that trouble ended with Danny in prison and Tess filing for divorce. It found Rusty alone. The loneliness ached like the arthritis the doctor prophesied more than two decades ago. It was bone deep. It was chronic. It hurt.
Rusty tried to escape from the hurt. But he couldn't...not even in the iron grip of a beautiful policewoman in Rome.
He found some measure of relief one unseasonably rain soaked night in Mexico City. He was walking back to his hotel, when the neon light of a tattoo parlor caught his eye. He stood at the window and watched a tiny woman with a shaved head work.
Rusty was captivated by the art that was wrought from flesh and blood and ink. But even more than the gorgeous results, he was captivated by the expressions on the customers' faces. He watched them closely as the needle worked into their skin. They all were experiencing pain to some degree or another.
Some bore it stoically, the price of beauty. Others grimaced, or yelped, their discomfort expressive and vocal.
But a few... a few sprawled in the chair, eyes closed savoring the experience. Rusty knew that feeling. Euphoria.
He stood outside on the rain until the last customer left. Then, cautiously he entered. He returned every few nights for more than a month. Each session eased his hurt a little more. When the tattoo was complete, he felt like he'd come back from a long illness, like he had been blessed with a period of remission. And for a while, it was enough.
Seeing Danny sitting among the young starlets at the poker table hit him like a lightning strike. It took every amount of will power Rusty possessed to appear unaffected, calm, cool. But inside, that summer storm from his youth was swirling and churning and Rusty wanted to howl along with it.
Danny felt it too. Rusty could tell. He could always tell. He did get some petty satisfaction watching Danny try to avoid staring at the tattoo. And if Rusty let his sleeve slide up a few inches above his wrist just to see Danny's quickly indrawn breath, to see him bite his lower lip...well it had been four long years for him too.
As soon as they were back at Rusty's Santa Monica condo, Danny had him pinned up against the wall, arms raised above his head, his leg nestled possessively between Rusty's thighs. It was good. It was very good, but it wasn't what Rusty wanted. So he thrust against Danny, forcing him back, legs tangling together, crashing to the floor. Danny flipped him over and once again grabbed both wrists.
Yes. Yes this was what he wanted. He kept his arms above his head as Danny unbuttoned his shirt. But instead of the quick fuck that Rusty was wanting, expecting, craving, Danny became unexpectedly tender. He drew Rusty close, kissing him softly. He kissed him on the lips and then moved to his jaw. He nibbled his way down Rusty's neck to his shoulder.
Then he lifted Rusty's arm and kissed every centimeter of the tattoo. By the time he reached the wrist, Rusty was moaning. He was melting. His insides felt molten. He felt hot and electric. With each kiss, Danny drew the aching pain of loneliness out of him. With each kiss Danny told him he was loved. There was no pain, just love.
Afterwards, when they'd managed to stumble to the bed, Danny couldn't keep his hands off the tattoo. He'd walk his fingers up and down its length while Rusty talked about old friends and colleagues. He was especially drawn to the ink that covered the small protruding bone right below the thumb. The place that was most sensitive from that long ago break. Danny couldn't leave it alone. Petting and kissing. Stroking and nibbling. He'd press Rusty's wrist to his lips and just hold it there, gently, like Rusty was some precious thing. Which, maybe, just maybe he was.
The End.