A/N: Some non-explicit sex in this one, just forewarning you. Sad, sad non-explicit sex. Also, ugly, ugly trauma. Read the next chapter immediately after, preeze, if you trust me in the slightest.

And Burn

Prowl was half in a cookbook and half in a pan, chopping broccoli rhythmically, when his housemate made himself known with a kiss to his exposed neck.

Prowl flinched, hand freezing on the knife. It was the same flinch he gave when the door opened every day, only deeper. The hope that Lockdown would pass on and go to the porch was quickly quashed as one kiss turned into two and three and a big hand snuck around Prowl's side, tugging him backwards.

Prowl's gut lurched immediately; the headache he had chased off in the last hour came back with a vengeance. He tried to break free with an intolerant noise, reaching pointedly for another ingredient, but it changed nothing. With the older man's predictable and maddening bulldozer pace, it escalated until Lockdown was finally pawing at his belt-buckle, rumbling at his back.

"Lockdown," he snapped at last, jerking away and stuffing his dress-shirt back into his khakis where Lockdown had tugged it out, searching for warm skin.

Gone were the t-shirts, the cotton pants, the ease. From wrist to ankle to neck, the young police officer was once more starched and fully buttoned. Or mostly buttoned, as Lockdown's fingers made quick work of his collar fastenings, pulling his collar wide enough to nip at his shoulder with a deep breath.

"Got a late shift. Now or never."

"There is tomorrow," Prowl said stiffly, ignoring the insistent press of the other man's toned chest at his back. His irritation spiked to incendiary levels when Lockdown tugged his tight ponytail out, sending his dark hair falling over his face.

"Late shift tomorrow, too." Prowl's lip curled when the dockworker reached forward and shut the stove off, growling into his back: "C'mon. It'll just take a second."

"I was not aware that was bragging material."

He sneered it as softly as he could, but even then, his voice shook. His control was slipping. He heard Lockdown murmur something gruff and entirely unconcerned into his neck, already too absorbed in his scent and his loose, soft hair to be swayed.

The more Prowl tried to gain control, the more it seemed to cruelly jerk away from him. Even as he told himself he did not want it, the urge to have sex was still desperately strong, all the more messy and ruthless for spending so much time beating it down—avoiding Lockdown's grasp, his eyes, his bed. There in the kitchen, Prowl was struck with the urge to turn around and be blessedly immersed: to wrap himself around the other man's warm body, to kiss and make it real with the guiltless rustle of sheets (just like before, it was so easy to do) but he was frozen.

He couldn't do that. He--himself, his tortured brain, swollen with searching for reasons why not—couldn't want it. Couldn't want it. Ego over Id. The very thought made him ill.

So what happened when the older man kissed him behind his ear was a dumb animal reaction, complete with a primordial rush of heat. A compulsive arch into the man behind him (immediately regretted, Prowl winced behind his glasses) was enough to acquiesce.

Suddenly, it was too far to stop; belts jangled and his heart slammed at his ribs, only worsened by the big, familiar hands on his chest and hip. Suddenly, weakened by some sort of hysteria that came from having Lockdown so close, Prowl turned and kissed the huge man as though he were begging him, hands pressing against his hard chest. It was a shallow relief—certainly not enough to sustain him when Lockdown pushed him back around and yanked down his pants, sucking all possible arousal straight out of his blood.

Uncushioned by lust, the act of copulation was jerky and crude and unclean and terrifying, as he had always known it to be. Sweating through nothing more than nerves, Prowl had to endure being crushed against the counter until the older man cursed into his hair. The two stood for a moment in the silent kitchen, Lockdown riding off the heat-wave with his face pressed into the young man's neck, Prowl long-cold with his hands clawed against the counter-top.

"Christ, kid," the older man rasped, breathing in slow and easy; his tongue slithered along the back of Prowl's burning ear with a chuckle, hand still heavy on his hip. "You should charge for that."

"Get off," Prowl heard himself say, chest tight as though he would die. He fought not to turn and push him away. Heavy. Far too heavy.

Lockdown planted one last wet animal kiss on the back of his neck and backed off. Prowl had to take several deep breaths before he was capable of reaching for his pants, then hissed to himself as he struggled with his belt, suddenly in a rage. Lockdown looked over at him with blank expression, big hands on his own belt. He started to open his mouth, to question, but Prowl yanked his belt tight, face bloodless, and reached for the still-warm pan. Gritting his teeth, he flung it into the sink with a sharp metal-metal clang then fixed Lockdown with a furious expression, lip curling.

"Disgusting. You are disgusting."

It hit the older man like a train—but before he could say anything or even curse back out of surprise, Prowl had stalked past him and into the hallway. Skin still prickling with shock, Lockdown heard the bathroom door slam shut, followed by the hiss of the shower on its hottest setting.

It ran for an hour, even after the water-heater went silent.

The next day, possibly just to escape the cramped house, Prowl walked his motorcycle into the dry field behind the ramshackle porch and spent an hour kneeling in the cold, hunched over a toolbox.

After wandering outside, Lockdown leaned against the porch and watched him, managing a dry smirk when the kid jammed his fingers with a wrench and clutched them for a minute. The young officer finally stripped his gloves off with two furious flicks and stared angrily at the open manual, whose flimsy and finicky pages he had weighted down with sticks. It looked like nothing more serious than a tune-up, but Prowl was actually attempting to take care of his motorcycle on his own—most likely because he was too furious at Lockdown to approach him about it.

It had been obvious for a few days: while it hadn't been easy lately, something inescapably heavy had settled between them, fueled by Prowl's relapsed ice-blue arrogance and something darker. Lockdown couldn't be paid to forget the other day. No, something had crawled underneath Prowl's skin and wouldn't leave, and it was fouling up every single thing he said and did.

Usually when that happened, a good, legit roll would cure him, but that hadn't happened either—and it wasn't much to do with screwed-up schedules anymore. It made Lockdown want to avoid his own house, which was genuinely fucked up.

A dozen meters away, Prowl snarled in the way Prowl always snarled when he dearly wanted to curse. Lockdown finally shook his head then straightened and began to meander over to the middle of the field. While it was nice seeing the kid try to take responsibility, it was the kinder thing to intervene—the poor bike needed to be saved from Prowl's ignorance and apparently he had something to make up for. God knew what it was, but Prowl's scathing stares made it real enough.

Damn the kid and his mood-swings.

"Doin' alright, darlin'?"

Prowl straightened at the sound of the dead grass underneath his heavy boots, then returned to his crouch. When Lockdown came to a halt a foot away and there was still no response, he asked slowly, "Any reason you ain't in the garage?"

Prowl muttered something about fresh air—the same fresh air that was turning his cramping fingers blue as he tussled with delicate mechanics he didn't understand in the slightest. Lockdown cocked his head almost patiently, one hand hooked on his belt as he looked at Prowl's hunched back.

"Got tools in there," he offered after a moment. "Heater, too."

"I am fine," Prowl said sharply, jerking his scarf tighter around his neck. At this distance, Lockdown could see his little bird body shaking in the cold and snorted—he wore nothing more than a t-shirt and his white skin seemed to reflect the constant chill. After a moment, Lockdown went to his knees beside his housemate, thoroughly invading the circle of resentment that vibrated around the other man.

"Can't say the same for your ride, if you keep pickin' at it like that."

Prowl didn't look at him, pretty eyes narrowed behind his glasses and locked on the maze of pipes and nuts in front of him, all poorly drawn in the manual pinned underneath his hand. He was holding the wrench all wrong, to boot. Lockdown looked between the uncapped bike and the glowering young man for a moment, then exhaled and ran his hand over his skull, trying to push down his irritation.

"C'mon, kid. It's cold," he said thickly, reaching out to put his arm across his housemate's hunched back. "You go inside an—"

"Don't touch me."

His hand was shoved away; the order came out quick and convulsive, like a vomiting reflex, and the next second Prowl was on his feet, wrench falling back into the toolbox with a splitting clang. A second of silence passed between them, where Lockdown stared upwards, his hand still raised in the cold air, and Prowl's fingers tangled helplessly in the clasps of his jacket, face white underneath his blue visor. Then the younger man turned and strode stiffly towards the house, slamming both the screen and the door behind him.

Lockdown stayed crouching in the dry field for a minute more, eyes locked blindly on his own white hands, then rose and kicked the engine cover shut and left the bike to rust.

It was only by the unluckiest of scheduling mishaps that they ended up climbing into bed at the same instant that night—by that same unfortunate occurrence, Prowl found himself half-pinned against the bed with a big hand turning his cheek.

Caught against Lockdown's chest in the silent dark, there was nothing he could do but accept the kiss, even as it turned his gut to stone. He didn't know whether he had the strength to bear the next fifteen minutes, but he certainly didn't have the courage to reject Lockdown so directly. Anger waited so close underneath the other man's skin and acting anything but normal—or what the other man had conditioned him into--wasn't an option.

Prowl turned his head away after one brush of their lips, unable to do more than lay back and close his eyes, trying to control his breathing. The heat of his body went straight to his head, making him hyper-aware of every inch of naked, unclean skin. Unbeknownst to him, Lockdown looked at him for a long minute before leaning down and kissing his shoulder, traveling lower with his rough hands on Prowl's side.

The younger man's breath caught once, then twice. Each touch or light kiss sent out ripples of heavy, choking nausea: the discordant result of feeling and trying not to. Exhaling sharply, Prowl dug his hands into the sheets to keep from shoving the older man off as every nerve screamed to do, but when Lockdown derailed his march towards the inevitable to rise and carefully kiss his neck again, Prowl couldn't contain himself.

"No."

Lockdown stopped; Prowl flinched away, looking up at the ceiling without thinking. In the end, throat tight, he said the first thing that would get that horrible white weight off of him.

"Just… finish it."

He knew immediately, even before it left his mouth, that he had made a mistake.

"Finish it?" The mattress squeaked roughly as Lockdown righted himself, suddenly looming over the young man, white arms glowing in the dark. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Prowl snapped instinctively, a 'caught' rush of heat prickling hard under his skin. He pushed himself to the side, heart pounding, words tangling on his dry tongue. Anything to defuse whatever was about to happen. "I do not… I am tired—"

"And I'm tired'a your goddamn excuses," came the growl above him. Prowl exhaled sharply when Lockdown grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him flat to the bed again, pinning him at the arms. "I asked you a question, kid."

"There is nothing wrong with me," Prowl grit out after a tense second, incapable of accepting the fact he was being restrained. Lockdown only glared, hands tightening.

"'Scept for the fact you look like you're about ready to crawl out of your skin whenever I lay a finger on you. You nearly fuckin' slapped me when I touched you outside. That the reason you've been workin' so late all the time? So you won't have to get it over with more'n you have to?"

"It is coincidence. Nothing more," Prowl responded coolly, moving his wrists only slightly before narrowing his eyes, full arrogance—a replacement for his glasses, now on the bedside table--finally settling on his fine features. "You are rarely present in any case. Now let go of me. I want to sleep."

"First you tell me why the hell you slapped me off today. I barely touched you."

"I did not—"

Prowl bit his lip before he lied. He had struck out against the other man, that much was fact—even if Lockdown had no idea of the instinct of it, the inexplicable fear. But why? He would have been within his rights if Lockdown had done something sexual, something outrageous and shameful, but he hadn't. It had been neutral at best and platonic at worst.

Try as he could, the only thing Prowl could remember about the moment before he struck out was the open road, right next to the field. Cars passing. People gawking.

"Anyone could have seen," he said at last, throat tight.

"And that's a problem?" Lockdown demanded.

When Prowl just turned his head, mouth shut tightly, the older man's expression darkened, uncomprehending. Then, in the wake of the kid's silence—he expected a quick answer, defensive at best—and the sight of his pretty eyes pinned on the wall, the full weight of it hit him. Lockdown's throat tightened immediately; he had to take a deep breath before he could speak.

"Fuck. I see how it is."

It was cute, at first. The way he'd hide himself in the sheets, embarrassed at everything from his rumpled hair to his sticky skin. Now, after spending afterglows with the kid's head on his cooling chest, the recent jerky turn-away into the sheets made Lockdown feel like there was an anvil waiting above him. Aloof nature be damned, he knew Prowl was avoiding what he'd just done. Avoiding him.

That pissed him off. He was nothing to be ashamed of. More so, this had happened to him before.

More than once, even, and always for the same fucking reason.

"I see how it is. All of this. You'll take it, but you won't ask for it. You're too good to admit it," he sneered, voice rough and growing rougher word by word. A dangerous heat began to rise from his skin. "You want me to make you roll over—I'm guessin' so you don't have to admit to yourself that you're a fag."

The word burned, igniting the panic that had built in Prowl's sore chest. His first thought, desperate and messy, was I'm not a—but the word was white-hot even in his mind and he short-circuited, whole body suddenly bursting with the fear of being pinned and captured. The space between him and Lockdown was small and hot with his rapid breaths. He was suffocating.

"I have no idea what yo—get off of me. Now," Prowl demanded, voice brittle.

"Now how do you wanna play this off? You wanna accuse me of makin' you gay, you go ahead and do it. I'm three fuckin' inches away from kickin' you out anyways--make it easy for me. Go on."

"Lockdown."

"Say it or I'm not movin'."

Prowl said nothing, focusing only on controlling his breathing and the burn of his neck; making himself invisible against the dark sheets like prey before a predator. The two stared at one another for a long moment before Lockdown snorted, face twisting in unfamiliar scorn.

"Nothin'? Then I guess nothin's wrong. Guess we'll just keep on," he growled thickly, eyes burning through him. "So what do you want me to do to you, kid?"

It was dangerously open-ended, but Lockdown's reddish eyes said what he expected more than his words could—and what he wanted was cruel. Lockdown wanted him to degrade himself, to verbally admit that he wanted something indecent. He would not. He could not.

Something would break if Prowl admitted that weakness, that sin. Patience spent, fear overflowing, the very idea made him push upwards forcefully enough that Lockdown grunted, but the push was returned so fiercely the younger man hissed. Adrenaline hit him like a cold-water bath when Lockdown leaned down near the side of his face, breathing as hard as he was.

"You don't hafta be gay to like bein' fucked," he rasped into his ear, grip so tight it made his tiny bird-bones creak. "So what'll it be? You want me to fuck you, kid?"

"Get off, Lockdown!"

His voice cracked and, for the first time, Prowl felt the other man's bulk for what it was: pure muscle and white threat. He twisted away with a cry when Lockdown squeezed hard enough to hurt him and roared inches from his face, rage tangible:

"Say it! What do you want me to do to you?!"

The noise—the words, the sound, the rage—stunned Prowl. In that moment, all the anger and all the heat seemed to mist upwards, leaving him with nothing—nothing—but coldness and nausea and shallow breaths. The room was utterly quiet, utterly dark; Lockdown breathed harshly above him, eyes locked on him. No escape. Prowl couldn't feel his arms anymore. Couldn't feel himself anymore, with all the guilt rotting him from the heart outwards.

Finally, feeling that emptiness crash with his exposed skin, Prowl closed his eyes and gave up.

"Please tell me that it isn't… sick to be this way."

His voice cracked again; he bit it back with a shivering breath and felt the prickling at his eyes, the wrenching urge to scream it out until it dissolved into sobs.

Please tell me this isn't wrong. Please tell me I can be happy with a man and it will be sincere, be real.

But it was more than that, much more. It was both a crushing fear and the only thing that could save him, redeem all of him. While he lay there, Lockdown's hands had gone loose, and that let Prowl open his eyes and swallow against his tight throat. It let him look up into the blank face of the man he loved, who was now looking at him like he didn't even understand why the shivering boy was in his bed.

"Tell me that you are not… using me for this. Please," Prowl whispered, shaking his head slowly. "That you—you feel something for me. Anything. Please tell me this means… something to you."

His heart throbbed once, painfully, having finally purged the real hurt—the question that had torn at him more than any moral dilemma. The pressure disappeared from his wrists, but his eyes were too wet to see Lockdown as anything more than a white blur as the older man backed away. In a moment he was off the bed, standing nearly against the wall; the distance lay dark and heavy between them, absolutely silent.

Prowl reached for him only once, hand outstretched, then crumpled onto the old bed, all strength gone to ashes as the hell of his life took him over.

There were no warm hands on his back, no more touch to keep him anchored to this world. The door creaked and Prowl was left alone to sob for the first time in years, drawing his knees up to his chest and expelling the toxins of a lifetime with gasps and chokes, vision liquid with warm tears. He sobbed until it hurt, small frame jerking with the force of it.

He cried because his last memory of being touched was by a young woman whom he had hurt, who played flute and wrote for the school paper and looked down with wet eyes whenever he walked by her in the hallways. He cried because of the way the older students had snickered at the arrogant look on his face, made clownish by the plum swelling of his eye—the injury no one, even his mother or father, had ever cared enough to ask about.

He cried because he had never had friends before, never had a safe place before, and he felt that emptiness threaten again in that dark room and its empty bed. He cried because he had never allowed himself to cry before and never thought himself capable of falling in love, and, now that he had, he was ruined.

Everything was ruined.

The porch door banged open, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet midnight. Lockdown stalked down the steps, mangled white body glowing in the dark. Feet planted on the frost-laced ground, he faced the empty field for a moment, shuddering, then turned and slammed his fist into the side of his house. Sucking in air through his bared teeth, he managed three more booming impacts before all strength left him, sapped by a sudden burst of freezing wind. Cut down to his bones, he slid down the wall, ending with his naked back against the prickling wood, dead grass biting into his legs.

After a few moments, Lockdown put his head in his hands and shook as wetness coated his black-inked cheeks.