Remember this, if you're enjoying this at all: This story is not over until you read the words "The End". Keep it in mind... The Continuing Saga of Mort and Bain contains bad language, violence, and m/m sex, not all of it consensual. If these things bother you, hit the exit button. (I figure anybody who's still with me knows all this already.) The NC-17 version of this story (which has italics!) is on my Live Journal, username melodywilde.
If these two belonged to me, a lot of unpleasantness would've been avoided, but they don't. They only talk to me. (Scary, eh?, that two crazy men are talking to me?)
Love and hugs to Miss Becky for the betas, for calling me evil several times, and for pushing me along.
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 8
"Bain?"
Mort hesitated at the top of the stairs, peering nearsightedly down into the darkness below. He'd forced himself to crawl out of bed when he couldn't ignore Nature's Call any longer. He'd been encouraged by the aches that walking into the bathroom had roused—and oh boy, how far gone are we when hurting like this is a good thing—and by the livid bruises he'd seen on his body when he'd finished and had looked at himself in the mirror.
Bain did that. Those bruises are real. The pain's real. So maybe I'm not totally crazy. Oh wait, not so fast there, pilgrim. We saw bruises on our arms after Shooter grabbed us, didn't we, only we know Shooter's not real, so a few bruises don't prove anything. Maybe the pain doesn't prove anything either, no matter how much it hurts.
He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice wavering. "Bain? Are you down there?"
No answer.
He was shaking so hard he was almost afraid to start down the steps, afraid his legs would give out and he'd fall and break his neck. Maybe I should just go back to bed and wait. See what happens...or doesn't. No, no, not good. I need to know, one way or the other. Come on now, easy does it, hug the wall, one step at a time, we can do it, he's probably asleep on the couch and didn't hear me.
The couch was empty.
He took a deep breath, then shuffled toward the kitchen. Okay, okay, let's keep calm. No need to get upset.
Empty. The countertops were clean, the dishes put away, the table bare, everything neatly in place.
"Bain?"
He circled, glancing into the half-bath, then opening the door to look out onto the closed-in porch, even though by then he knew it was pointless. He's not here. If Bain were anywhere in the house...assuming Bain even exists...he would've heard me. He would've been here. He wouldn't have left me alone. He would've...
Mort dropped onto the end of the couch, overwhelmed with an exhaustion that was more than physical. All right. For whatever reason, he's not here. It's just me and me. And I think it's time for us to face some facts. Only I wish to hell I knew for sure what is a fact and what's just...just...
The tears were starting again, leaking slow trails down his cheeks. Amy and Ted are dead. That's a fact. I've made myself believe they weren't, because thinking they were dead meant I'd have to wonder who killed them. But now I know. I killed them. I can...I can see their faces. What was left of Ted's face when I was finished. I remember Amy trying to stop me, trying to make me realize what I was doing. But by then it was too late. Way way too late.
He pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his head against his knees. Pieces of his dream—his nightmare—were coming back. His victims, circling him. Their accusations, their anger, their questions. They were right. Okay, maybe I had a reason with Amy and Ted, but.... Why the hell did I kill Tom and Ken? They didn't do anything to me. They didn't deserve what I did to them. It was just me being...
Crazy.
This time, the word didn't make him feel like laughing. And what now, now that I know the truth? Turn myself in? Go knocking on the sheriff's door and tell him that good old Dave was right about me all along? And then where will I end up? Innocent by reason of insanity, locked away in a nuthouse for the rest of my life? Guilty—guilty as hell, your honor—shut up in prison for the rest of my life with men who are just going to love getting hold of a famous writer and...
He couldn't complete the thought. The idea of being the star of either of Shooter's scenarios was unbearable. His stomach twisted. Unbearable. Unthinkable. But so is what I did. I killed them. Killed them killed them killed them. And now I'm going to have to pay, one way or the other. I deserve to pay.
His body began to rock from side to side. He ground his forehead against his knees, trying to drive away the images that paraded before him. All these months—years—I've lived here alone, but I've never felt as alone as I do right now, right this minute. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. I can't stand it. He heard himself whimpering again. I'd rather be dead than...
Something went still inside him.
I'd rather be dead.
A strange, unnatural calm swept over him. Yes. Well, yes, why not? They are; why shouldn't I be too? Why not end it all, take care of it myself instead of letting the state decide if I should go to jail or a funny farm. It shouldn't be a problem. I've already killed four people. What's one more?
The corners of his mouth curved slightly upward. It wouldn't be so hard to do. Run the tub full of warm water. Have a few drinks to dull the pain. Then get in and cut my wrists open and lie there and bleed to death. It wouldn't be so bad. It wouldn't be nearly as bad as my other options. I wouldn't suffer as much as they did. A little blood, a little pain, then game over, kids. End of the line for...
"Mort!"
The slam of a door. Light, quick footsteps. A hand on his back. I'm not going to look up. Not going to look at him. He wasn't here. He isn't here now. He's not real. My mind just conjured him up to keep me from killing myself. It won't work. It won't stop me. It won't.
"Christ, you're freezing."
Clatter of shoes on the stairs, up, back down. Something warm—the quilt from the bed—wrapped around his trembling body. Gentle hands straightening him, settling him back so he could be more securely tucked in. He resolutely kept his head bowed, refusing to look up.
"I am sorry, my friend. I thought you would sleep for a while longer. I should not have gone out and left you alone."
"Where..." No. Wrong. Don't ask. Don't talk to him. He isn't real. I'm not going to pretend he is.
"I walked down to the lake. I needed to get some fresh air and think about...things. I thought you would be all right without me there."
"You're not real." I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to talk to him.
"What?"
The surprise in Bain's voice made him open his eyes and, finally, look at the other man. "You're not real," he repeated. He sure looks real, though, doesn't he?
Bain's head tilted to one side, his eyebrows rising. "Oh? What makes you think this thing?"
Oh shit. He's acting real too. And this quilt feels real—I know I didn't bring it down with me. But...
Mort shivered. "Shooter...he isn't real."
"The man who accused you of stealing his story."
"He was...he was standing by the bed. Laughing at me. But you didn't see him. And then I knew...I knew..." Deep breaths here. Don't go hysterical again.
"You knew he was not real." Bain insinuated himself onto the couch, lifting Mort's legs across his lap. "Because I did not see him."
"Yes."
"But..." Bain's eyebrows came together, as if he were in deep thought. He moved slightly closer, snuggling against Mort. "Does this hurt?"
It did, but only a little, where Bain's hipbone was pressing against a tender spot. More than the hurting was... It feels good. Warm. Real. He feels real. But he always felt real, especially when he was...
"Mort?" Bain's voice, calling him back. "Does this hurt?"
"No."
"All right then. Let us analyze this. You believe that Shooter is not real because I did not see him by your bed. But if I, also, am not real, I would have seen him, would I not? Two not-real people would see each other."
"Yes. No. I mean..."
"This is not making much sense, my friend." Bain looked as if he were on the verge of smiling.
"Why should it make sense," Mort whispered tiredly. He pulled a hand from beneath the quilt and ran it through his hair. "Nothing makes sense anymore." Nothing but the idea of dying. That makes a lot of sense. "I'm not sure why I'm talking to you anyway. I'm probably asleep on the couch having a dream within a dream within a dream within a..."
"Shhh." Bain leaned forward to lay a finger across Mort's lips to stop him. "You have had so many very bad things happen to you, Mort Rainey, and I am more sorry than I can say to know that I am responsible for some of them. You have been so hurt. By your wife. By Shooter. By the people of this town and the sheriff who should have protected you. And then..."
Somehow, Bain managed to move even closer. "And then I came along, with my fondness for you and my lust for you. But instead of caring for you and helping you, as I meant to do, I hurt you too. Hurt you so badly, in so many ways. It is no wonder that you are in this state, unsure of what is real and what is not. You are tired. Hurting. Confused."
Three for three. And you know what. It doesn't matter. I just want it all to go away. I want to go away.
"What are you thinking, Mort Rainey?"
"That I want to die."
"No!" Bain's hand slid down to circle his wrist, but the grasp was gentle, not restrictive. "Oh Mort..." There were depths of sorrow in Bain's voice. "You must not feel this way. You must not die. You are too important."
Important? To who? To whom? His agent, undoubtedly, oh yeah, he loves that money rolling in. His fans, maybe, but only a maybe, and some of them were even crazier than he was. But nobody here. Nobody real. Nobody he could touch. Nobody who would hold him and love him and tell him it was going to be all right. There wasn't anybody like that, not anymore, not in years. Not since Amy took up with Ted and...
"Mort." Bain's eyes had gone as soft as his voice. His fingertips began to work gently against the soft inner flesh of Mort's wrist. Mort caught his breath.
"What?"
"I am thinking..." Bain lifted the hand to his cheek, brushed his lips across the knuckles. "I would like to show you how sorry I am for what I did. I would like to show you that you are important—so important. To me. Would you allow me to pleasure you?"
What? Pleasure me? What is he talking about? Oh shit, he isn't going to...
Mort's expression must've conveyed his sudden anxiety for Bain shook his head quickly. "No, no. Not like that. Not the hurting. I do not want to take from you tonight. Instead, I would like to give to you, give you pleasure. I would like to touch you. I would like to make you tremble with desire, not with fear or pain."
"You want to..." I can't believe this. I fucking can not believe this. This isn't real. Well, yes, that's one of the issues here, isn't it, whether or not he's real, what's real and what isn't. And does it matter? Little Mort doesn't care, and damn, has he ever perked up. He shifted slightly, the sudden pressure making his position uncomfortable, and Bain smiled.
"You want this, yes?"
Yes. No. No! What am I thinking? I don't want to hand over my body to him again, do I? Let him do things to me again? Do I?
"May I do this for you? Please?"
I don't want to...to...oh hell... I do. I want to be touched. I want to feel loved, even if it's not really love. Even if it's him. Even if I'm taking a chance that he'll forget himself and...
"Please?"
Mort swallowed hard, then nodded.
"Ah. Good. Good." Bain eased him backward so that he was lying down, his head resting on the arm of the couch. "This is comfortable?"
"Yes."
Bain slowly peeled back one side of the blanket, then the other. His hand skimmed across the bulge in Mort's sweatpants and his teeth flashed briefly in a smile. "Ah..."
"Please...don't hurt me..."
"I swear." Bain slid from the couch and knelt beside it, bending forward to rest his cheek against Mort's. "I swear I will die before I hurt you. May I kiss you now?"
Mort nodded again, then closed his eyes. He felt Bain's lips slide sideways, across his mouth, the pressure gentle, a kiss one might give to a child. Oh god, that feels good. It's been so long...
Bain didn't linger, moving onward, fingertips walking sideways down his chest, almost tickling...only not...a trail of moisture from a tonguetip following in their wake, circling one nipple, then the other, down, down...
He shifted his hips at Bain's urging, and felt himself freed from the constricting material. Fingers closed around him, exploring gently, then not so. Oh god, just like that morning, in bed. He knows just what to do, just how to touch me...I can't believe I'm letting him do this...I don't want him to stop...
Mort threw back his head with a groan when Bain's mouth engulfed him, arching mindlessly into the sensation. Oh sweet Jesus, I want this to go on forever. I want...I want...I need...
With a shudder, he exploded. The sensation seemed to throw him upward, then drop him back down in a limp, gasping heap, incapable of thought or movement. He felt Bain gently cleaning him. Felt Bain cover him again, then wrap him in the blanket and turn him gently onto his side. Felt Bain's lips close to his ear and heard a soft laugh.
"I believe this was good for you, sí?"
"Sí..."
Bain carefully fit his body onto the couch behind Mort. "I am grateful that you chose a couch with such a wide seat, and that we are not wide men." He snuggled, chin resting on Mort's shoulder. "Is this all right?"
"Sí." Mort struggled, and finally managed a breathless, "Bain...thank you."
Bain kissed his earlobe. "There is no need for thanks. To do this was an honor for me. Sleep now. Rest."
That sounds like an excellent idea...