AN Apparently I need to be writing several things at the same time. And as I can't get away from the gorgeousness of 'Superman', this is a short-ish (3 or 4 parts) prob fic set around then. Hope you like.
My breath is coming only in gasps and gulps, my heart pounding to a new, frighteningly fast rhythm, droplets of perspiration falling down my body and gathering in pools at the base of my spine. I am pressed so hard against the wooden door that I can feel its grain impressed on my back, but there is no way my weakened legs can support my weight. My knuckles are blanched white as I grip the bag of sugar so hard I fear the contents will soon fall onto the floor. I glance around, hoping to orient myself, but nothing seems right, my vision is blurred and the familiar surroundings are suddenly anything but. Shutting my eyes again I seek refuge in the darkness and try to think of what Syed told me, the stuff he found. Concentrate on your breathing first. I hear Syed's calming voice in my ear. I feel his hand on my arm. Relax, take your time. There's no rush. And slowly my breathing steadies and with it my taut muscles begin to relax. This time when I force my eyes open I see my flat properly. My flat, my sanctuary, my prison. I look around and no longer feel safe. I want to leave but taking those steps outside just fills me with a senseless terror. I love living in a city, love the noise, the hustle bustle, the excitement of it all, but just now, outside, I felt like my lungs were collapsing in on me. The noise, the fumes, the people, all crowding me, smothering me. I hate this. This isn't me. This isn't Christian Clarke. I want me back.
It caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting it. The last time it happened I spent a few days moping around, complaining to friends about the uselessness of the police, got drunk and got over it. One of those things. Pulled some other bloke a week later, invited him back without even a second thought. But this time it's different. Don't know why I'm surprised really. Since I met him everything has been different so why shouldn't this? I tried to pretend at first. Told myself that I didn't need to go out, I quite fancied eating pasta and….well whatever that random stuff was at the back of the cupboard. I had all those DVDs that I hadn't got round to watching. I was just taking a bit of a break, having a bit of 'me time'. Plus I had Syed coming round. It made a change just to be able to talk, without worrying about other people or work or whatever. For a couple of days I think I nearly believed it. That I could leave any time I wanted. Syed, well, I guess he has a better understanding of denial than most people.
Then it struck me harder and I couldn't pretend.
I woke. But didn't feel awake. I felt like my body was detached from me and my brain was too slow to function. I thought about having a shower but it took 20 minutes to be able to move. Once I got to the bathroom I stared at my face in the mirror, looking at the cuts and bruises. I couldn't see me. I could only see those empty angry eyes as he punched me. My stomach filled with bile and I barely reached the toilet in time, retching and crying. I curled in a heap on the floor and sat there, motionless, thoughtless, helpless. I was there for minutes, hours? I don't know. Until the buzzing of the intercom startled me from my catatonic state. Shuddering I attempted to ignore its shrill intrusion into my inner retreat but it kept on and on. When it finally quietened I bit my lip, wondering, fearing, who was on the other side of the door. My mobile rang, the vibrations resonating through the bedside table. I waited. It stopped. My flat phone rang and I waited for the answerphone to kick in. My own voice spoke, filling the flat with a confidence and sureness that seemed to be purposefully mocking me.
"Christian…..it's me. Syed. I'm outside. I thought….you said… Yesterday you said I could come round for lunch. Could you let me in?" His voice woke something in me and brought my leaden limbs to life. For a split second I had imagined staying here, remaining in my safe space where no-one could touch me, but the thought of not seeing him shook me more than I wanted to admit and before I had the chance to tell myself otherwise I had buzzed him in. I hadn't realised until then how much I relished seeing him every day. Working side by side, chatting about inconsequential matters, or just in companionable silence. The unexpected friendship that I never imagined is now the one thing I am craving more than anything else.
Syed entered the flat, his gorgeous smile faltering when he registered my dressing gown and unshaven face. I saw his thoughts filter onto his face, and I turned round to avoid seeing sympathy or even worse, pity.
"Shall I pop the kettle on?" To my relief, he merely moved to the kitchen, pulling cups from the cupboards with an unexpected but very pleasant sense of familiarity. Even from the sofa I sensed his movements halt, and I realised he was face to face with the evidence of my recent retreat from the rest of Walford. "Christian?" I turned round, cautiously, wondering what he would say. "I think you're out of milk….How about I go to the Minute Mart, get some more. And something for lunch." I continued to avoid his eyes. "And if you lend me your keys then I won't have to buzz to get back in." I grabbed the spare set and passed them to him, finally daring to meet his gaze. He knew. And he looked at me, not with pity or shame, but with a tenderness that nearly made me cry. He took the keys, left and I slumped on the sofa.
And since then, he came every day, my knight in tight t-shirts. Letting himself in, restocking my shelves, talking, caring, kissing, occupying my space in the most pleasant way possible. Until today he had avoided raising the most obvious issue, just quietly trying to fix things behind the scenes. Until today when he decided to push me, to orce me to confront my fears by offering me the most tempting of rewards. I am more grateful to him than he will ever know but yet... That brief trip has awoken some unpleasant thoughts that I usually tried to repress and suddenly my senses are overwhelmed by unwanted visions, the calmness of my flat transformed by someone else's hate. I slam the sugar down onto the kitchen counter and force other, better, images to replace them.
The bitter, rank smell of alcohol, panting over me as I lie grounded….No, cumin. Earthy, deep, cumin, my favourite spice, the one that dominates the Masala unit. Fresh coriander, fragrant, tangy, irresistible, the scent that lingers at the end of every working day. An empty kitchen, pots and pans crashing around but the smell of cumin and coriander still in the air as he enters, still filling my nose as he looks at me, the last scent I sense before his lips press tentatively onto mine. Paint, cheap acrylic paint on an old painting, the smell of teasing or provocation or both or nothing or more so much more. My shower gel, a familiar smell in an unfamiliar setting, my nerves tingling as stands in front of me, a towel round his waist, droplets of water edging their tempting journey over his stomach, his scent occupying my every cell as lean into his neck and inhale.
Metallic tang filling my mouth, the taste of blood overwhelming the peaty malt from before, the last thing I remember….No, him. The tangy sweet taste at the back of his mouth, the taste that left me wanting more before the first kiss was even over. Warmth, the taste of summer, my tongue working its way down his body, my tongue desperate to leave no inch uncovered. The taste of his cock, filling my mouth, his come hitting the back of my throat. His sweat, salty, enticing, dripping into my mouth the first time he gave himself to me in my bed.
Fist, knuckles, cracking into my jaw, my cheek, my eyes. The feeling of the floor rising to slam against my head ….No, fingers. His fingers stroking my hair, curving round my ears, smoothing down my neck. Me touching his face, the pinpricks of his stubble sending electrical pulses around my body, increasing my desperation for him. His lips, pressing onto mine, so so soft, working their way gently down my body, hesitantly, then passionately, cravenly, wantonly. His tongue licking me, rolling around my balls, flicking quickly across the head, slowly grazing down the length. My fingers stroking his hair, gripping the locks tighter, feeling the thick waves tickle my palms.
A look of disgust, loathing, revulsion. Hatred. Pure hatred, chilling my spine…..No, his eyes. Dark depths of desire within, staring at me when he thinks I'm not looking, when he knows I am, when he wishes he wouldn't, when he can't help but to, when he needs to, when he wants to. Lust, pupils dilating as he looks at my naked body, watches my hand work at his. Tenderness, looking over my bruises, caressing the damaged skin with his eyes. Happiness, satisfaction, delight, fear, all displayed for me, all because of me.
Angry, hatefilled words echoing in my ears as I lie, bitter sounds, Scum, Sick, Disgusting…..No, gotcha. The sweetest of laughs, the happiness of friendship found in unexpected places. Okay, the tentative agreement to return, to relive the beauty that we found, to take it all further. Christian, the way he says my name, like no-one else ever has, rolling it round his tongue like it is something special, like I mean something to him, something more than we can find the words for. Yes, his sighs and moans when I kiss him, when I stroke him. Oh, the sweet gasp when I take him in my mouth. Please, the sound of cries and pleas when I fuck him. Superman. I think you're superman. Shit.
How can he still think that? How could it be possible, now he's seen me beaten down, petrified of my own shadow, lost? Well he can't think it anymore, after watching me run in fear across the square, jumping at the slightest touch. He can't….can he? I want him to want me, I want him to look at me the way he does when he is teetering on the edge, the desire coming off him in waves, the electricity shooting between us. I fear his pity, his sweet kindness has left me nearly in tears sometimes, but it scares me still, to be so weak in front of him. But yet…..I'll spend the night…..the whole night. The memory of his words bring a genuine smile to my face, the thought of our shared bodies all night, waking to see his face in calm repose, not fearfully running away from me, from us. I've never been so excited about sleep before, but meeting Syed has done this to me, made me grateful for things I took for granted so many times before.
My mind is awash with emotions and desires. I want to make this evening, this night, fantastic. Take us both away from the reality of my isolation, make it just about us. Syed Masood and Christian Clarke.
I'd better get ready.