Disclaimer: Victorious is very rightly not mine.
You toss and turn in your bed, but you just can't sleep. You've already put Rex to bed in his drawer, eye pillow covering his eyes. He never has any trouble sleeping. Sometimes you're envious of that, but then you wonder, why would he ever have any trouble sleeping? He doesn't have to live inside your head.
Beck's sleeping over, just in the next room. You spent all afternoon watching movies, just hanging out and joking around, and it was perfect. Beck makes you feel like you're not such a nerd, that you're not such a loser. He makes you feel cool. He makes you feel like a man. Even when you'd quoted every line to Galaxy Wars, he just put his hands behind his head, laid back on your bed, and smiled. You don't feel like such a klutz when he's there.
You roll onto your back, sighing, your curls pillowing your head. There's no point in trying to sleep. You know what's coming, what's always coming, what you always give in to. Your hand snakes down, under the waistband of your boxers, and of course, you're already hardening. You glance over to where you know Rex is sleeping, biting your lip, and it's wrong, you know it is, it always has been, but you don't have a choice. It's the way Beck makes you feel, and it's not all in your head. If it was you could push it aside, could cast it off. But you can't forget.
You've known Beck most of your life, you practically grew up with him. He got tall and so did you, except he kept going, kept filling out, kept getting broader, and you just stopped. You're like his stunted shadow, lesser in every way. When the two of you were kids, it was just normal that Beck would hug you, would tickle your ribs until you choked with laughter and begged him to stop. It was just fun. Beck even used to sleep in the same bed, the two of you curled up like puppies, arms and legs entangled, because when you were with Beck, he wore you out. You ran races with him, even though you always lost. It was worth it to see his smile, his laugh, his face lit with sunlight when he slowed down at the finish and let you get close, breath steady while you heaved and gasped. So it didn't seem all that strange when his lips started to ghost over your neck, when his hands would skim your ribs and the hugs got longer, when your bodies melded together, and the tangling became a lot more deliberate. You were on the cusp of adolescence, still kids. It made you feel funny, but Beck always did. It felt like a good kind of funny, and you thought that was just what friends did.
Until you saw him doing the same thing to Jade. His lips on her neck, whispering things, and you wondered if he was whispering the same sweet words that he did to you. You wonder if Jade ever listened, and held them close. But he still held you when he slept over, his lips still stained your skin, and filled it full of words you couldn't help but read. That's around the time Rex came into your life. He was like a little brother to you, at first. He was always by your side, and even though everyone looked at you strangely, you stuck up for him. You were friends.
Beck's touches, his lips, they started to affect you more and more, and you hid it as best you could, but it's a hard thing to hide, especially when Beck's hands drift lower. You stiffened when he brushed you that first time, breath catching in your throat, and you hoped he wouldn't go back, that he wouldn't notice, because it changed what this was. Whatever it was. It was more than friendship, but so much less than a relationship.
He'd noticed.
His hand had been gentle, had stroked along you, outside your boxers at first, slipping under the waistband when your breath got heavy, when your hips started to tremble and push into his hand. You'd come with a soft shudder, and it sounded a lot like shame. You'd crawled out of bed, breath still unsteady, whispering that you had to clean up. And you didn't just mean the mess in your boxers. You'd meant the invisible marks he'd left on your skin with every touch, like a dozen hands still planted on you, holding you down.
Rex changed after that, or maybe it was you that changed who he was. He wasn't like a little brother anymore, he wasn't like a friend. He was like another part of you, the part you wished you were, the part you were supposed to be. The part that flirted with girls, and was suave, and funny. The part that whispered faggot, queer, homo to you when you were alone. Part of you realises the irony; words like that coming from a puppet with your hand up it's ass, but you already know you're a hypocrite. You know it's you saying those words, it's you who's infected Rex with your poison. You know what you should be; Rex is just a reminder. Girls. You like girls, every guy likes girls. And the guys who like guys make you nervous, the way they swoop around you. You're different enough already, you couldn't be one of them too. Beck doesn't make you feel like that, you feel safe with Beck. He doesn't make you feel like... like you're wrong, like you're different. And that's all you feel when you're alone, Rex whispering words that carve into you, obliterating the ones that Beck's written across your skin. Rex is just a shield, a defence, a hope that people will see him and think that's the biggest thing that's wrong with you, that that's why you're a freak. He's a shield whose grip is coated with spikes, but it's better than facing the world alone.
Rex shuts up when Beck's around. He falls silent, and you come to life again, and you like to think that Beck does too. Sometimes you think that Jade is Beck's Rex, that she keeps his spine straight but his head bowed. Because they both make you what you're supposed to be. They both make you what you aren't. You know they've slept together. A night came when Beck's arms circled around you, and his breath was sour against your neck, and he smelled like her. He smelled like decay, but his words were still sweet, and his hands were still sure. But he wanted more, and you'd felt him, hard against your back, hot and pressing into you, and he'd worked your boxers down, fingers exploring you. This is gonna hurt a little, Rob. You'd been shaking too hard to say no, to say stop, to say that there was no coming back from this, to say that you weren't Jade, and this wasn't right.
He'd been gentle, but it had still hurt. And it felt good, so good to have him moving inside you, skin sweating against yours and soft grunts whispered into your hair. Doing what he'd done to Jade, hands hard on your hips. It's like he was trying to clean her off, to wash his skin with you, but all he'd done was spread the stain, and by the end, you smelled like her too, and sweat had stuck you both together. And you hurt. You ached, and as always, you forgot the pleasure so quickly, and all you were left with was pain. All you were left with was traces, because Beck wasn't there. He was with Jade, he always went back to her, and left you alone. Maybe you're his Rex; maybe you're all just a bunch of Russian dolls, one inside the other.
You asked him to start sleeping in another room after that.
It's agreed between you two, that you never speak of it. You've never, ever talked about what happens in the dark, like they're just dreams, or nightmares. He's never kissed your skin in the daylight, his hands have never roamed while the sun is up. It's like a game of hide and seek, and he hides within you. You're always searching for him, searching for the real Beck, and it's always too dark to see. By the time the sun rises again, he's gone. He's just Beck, your friend. He's just Jade's boyfriend. Maybe there's nothing to find.
It hasn't happened since that night. Since the morning when you stuttered over your cereal and said maybe he should sleep in the spare room, since there was more room and all. He could have a bed to himself. His dark eyebrows had tugged down, lips parting. He almost spoke of it, and your body throbbed in memory, spoon clattering in your bowl, but then he'd grinned, hands relaxing on your table, and said it was fine. It wasn't fine.
Your hand moves forcefully, trying to eke out the same pleasure Beck's hand did. It's never the same, even when you shut your eyes tight and try to pretend, try to feel Beck's breath on your neck. It's not working, even as you pump harder, grunting. You can't feel it tonight, even with Beck's name on your lips, and it's almost desperate, the way you keep trying. You need it. You need the release, to get rid of this frustration. This frustration that's built all day, from being so close to Beck, from having his arm slung around your narrow shoulders, and his smile warming you. His eyes like knives piercing your ribcage, slipping into your heart.
Light spills into your room, your hand stuttering and stilling, blood rising in your cheeks. But it's only Beck, silhouetted against the light coming from the hall. You still can't see him, can't see his face. Just his shape, his broad shoulders, his bowed head. His strong hands, fingers so fine, almost delicate. He shuts the door behind him as he steps into the room, shifting uncomfortably, and you think it's the only time you've ever seen him ill at ease. "Rob." He rubs the back of his head, like he's searching for the words there, like they'll spill out of his hair and talk for him. You already know what he wants to say, what he wants to ask.
Your voice shakes when you tell him to close the drawer, pale hand pointing at Rex. He just nods, drawer squeaking when he pushes it shut. You can't see his eyes, but you can feel them running over you, plotting points for his hands to follow, and you wonder if he heard you whisper his name before he opened the door. You wonder if you woke him up, or if he couldn't sleep either.
You shift over, Beck pulling the covers back and easing in. He strips off his white cotton t-shirt, tugging at the hem of your faded Galaxy Wars one, and you let him lift in over your head, trying to find his eyes. It's hard enough when you have your glasses on; impossible now. You just wish you knew what he was thinking, what brought him here, what's making him do this. You wish you could talk about it, because it feels so right when you're doing it, and so wrong afterwards. His fingers trace over your narrow shoulders, marking out the bone, sliding down your bicep to tiptoe over your chest, and you hunch your shoulders forward, knees pulling up, a soft breath escaping. You want him, and you wish you didn't. You wish you had the courage to tell him to stop, to say that he has a girlfriend who he says he loves, and that friends don't do this. That you don't want to be friends, you just want... you just want him. All of him. But you're scared, because if you make him choose, you're not sure that you'll win, and you can't stand to lose him, to have no light to banish away all the dark things that Rex says when you're alone. To have no one who can shut Rex up, and make you feel like a man, like you're not some awkward, fumbling teenager tripping over his own feet. No one to make you feel like you're worth something.
He smells like cologne and toothpaste, lips hot on your neck, and he says your name in a voice edged with whisper, his low tones almost disappearing in his breath. Rob. You feel your heart echo it as his fingers trace your ribs, playing them like keys of a piano, masterful, strings on a harp, and you wonder how he can find such beautiful music in you. How he makes all your discordance come together and sound right. And then he's rubbing over the front of your boxers and making you jerk, and his name drops from your mouth like a stone, bruising your throat on the way up. It's hard to breathe when it feels like he's crushing you, when he's making your nerves snap and jump and your body twitch like... like you're the puppet. Maybe he's been playing you all along, making the words he wants come out, and you've just been flapping your lips all along. Maybe this is why you can't resist him, because his hand has always been controlling you, and you never even had a choice.
You can feel him jutting into your back, heat radiating even through his boxers. He's whispering that he needs you, lips dampening the curve of your shoulder, hand still making you shudder. His other hand fumbles behind you, his chest pressing into your back, muscles hard against your spine. Don't move. And like a good little puppet, you obey, stomach shivering and bare, waiting for Beck to hurt you again. You whimper when he guides himself into you, and his touch is gentle, and he moves so slowly, but that only prolongs it, and you swear you're a sheet of paper he's ripping in two, tearing slowly down the middle evenly. Cleanly.
You twist your fingers in the sheets, knuckles strained white, and Beck kisses your neck again and asks if you're okay. You want to say no, no, you're not, but you're scared your voice will break and Beck will pull away, will you leave you alone, huddled and cold. You don't want him to go, but you're not sure you want this to be the price of him staying. You don't know how long you can keep paying it. You've only got so many pounds of flesh left to give. You give a little nod, eyes shut tight, and Beck starts to move his hips slowly, breath shuddering out against you. You wonder if you feel as good as Jade to him, or if it's different. His hands are bruising your hip bones, and he starts to move harder, grunting, thrusting into you, and you manage to slip a hand down to rub over yourself, hand frozen and jerky in it's strokes. It feels good, so good, and you can lose yourself in it, breath hitching and body moving with Beck's. It's just sensation, it's just Beck's hands and Beck's lips and just Beck. All of Beck. It's his voice that's swearing softly in your ear, his skin that's sticking to yours, his hips that are rocking into you.
You come with a muffled sound, teeth tearing into your lower lip and pinning it down, hand catching whatever mess there is as it throbs through you, rattling your bones and shaking your breath. Beck doesn't take long either, sweat sticking his chest to you, muscles tensing against your spine and hands twitching on your hip, slipping to your stomach as he groans, with a few last hard thrusts before he relaxes, breath cool on your flushed skin. The pleasure fades so quickly from you, you start thinking again all too soon, and you wish you could just lie in his arms for a moment and pretend. But you already feel dirty, sweat starting to cool, and you shift away from him, already preparing to get up, to go and try to wash the stains he's left on you.
Beck catches your arm as you pull away, and you hesitate. He's never stopped you before. "Rob, wait." You roll back to face him, and you wish now more than ever that it wasn't so dark, that you had your glasses, because all you can see are his broadest features, and any nuances to them that there might be are lost to you. His fingers lift your chin, his breath warm on your face, and then he's kissing you, lips soft and tasting of mint toothpaste. Your toothpaste. He's never kissed you on the lips before. The words he whispered on your skin flood into your lips, shoot straight to your heart, and it beats so hard and fast you're scared he'll taste blood, that it'll burst right out of your throat. His fingertips leave your chin, and his lips part with yours soon after, and even in the dark you can make out his easy grin, teeth white.
When you go to the bathroom, you realise how futile it is, staring at your pale, blurred reflection, hands pressed to the sides of your sink. There's not a part of you left that isn't marked by him, not an inch of skin that he hasn't touched. Your lips were the last. He's all over you, and you're hesitant to wash it away. Part of you wants to keep him there, to keep his sweat mixed with yours. You watch your reflection raise it's hand, touching the blurred red area you know is your mouth. He kissed you. Beck's never done that, and somehow it means even more than the fucking, that he kissed you on the lips. That he faced you, that he looked at you, and he kissed you. It makes it so much more real to you, and your fingers tremble where they touch your lips. You don't know what this is, and you're so afraid to ask, but you realise you're prepared to spend countless hours in the dark with Beck. You can't give him up, he's marked you and you're his. You'll gladly be his puppet, as long as he keeps his hand inside you. And maybe someday you'll be a real boy to him, and he'll hold your hand, and you'll see the Beck he is in the dark lit by the sun. You can't let go of your hope, you can't scrub him off you. He's tattooed all over your skin. You're stained. You'll never say a word, not unless he tells you to, and it doesn't matter what Rex calls you, it doesn't matter what everyone else thinks of you, it doesn't matter that Beck doesn't defend you, that he just looks with sorry eyes, arm around Jade. Because at least you have him in the dark. At least you're staining him too.
A/N: Please do review if you enjoyed it. Review even if you didn't. Review if you were really looking for a story where Robbie and Beck take a short trip to Barcelona together, and you somehow thought this was it, and were sadly disappointed. Review if you thought this was an article on wood staining, and a part of you still does.