Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: No idea if anyone is even reading this one anymore. It has been awhile. This past month, the only thing I could write was poetry (which I'm not complaining about). This may read 'poetically' and does not follow any particular writing style guide out there. I am playing with words and conventions. I don't even know if this fits this story...hoping that it does. There is a lot of deliberate repetition, and undoubtedly poor grammar in a number of places. Poetry does that. This was written with the Cotton Candy Bingo prompt - skinny dipping - in mind. It's not very fluffy until the end.
Juice doesn't realize that he's not wearing any clothes until he feels a body pressed up against his, arms seeking to hold him, wrapping around him from behind. He doesn't fight them, doesn't protest the hardness that pokes into the outer edge of his thigh.
His head's above water. He keeps it there, even when warm breath bursts out over his collarbone, making him shiver.
Hands grip him tightly, fingertips touch sensitive skin; make him hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut against the memories that touch – any touch – elicits.
Sweat.
Stench.
Pain.
The memory of being stretched out into nothingness – molecules of air too thin to breathe – like a balloon about to pop.
And it doesn't stop there.
He drags in a ragged breath, sputtering, choking on chlorine, because he swallows when he should've spit.
He knows better than to do that.
He's been taught the art of swallowing.
Wait until it's over.
Turn your head, and then spit.
He knows better.
Knows better!
No.
"Hey, take it easy," words spoken breathily into his ear, make Juice swallow a one worded protest.
His lungs are filled with cement.
He's drowning, though his head's above the water – the cold, night air is a cloak that engulfs him in its inky darkness.
The hardness shifts until he can no longer feel it. Relief floods him.
Cool water spools his body like gentle, groping fingers, caressing, lifting, lifting, lifting.
Hands – strong, solid, sturdy – grip his own.
He's numb, can't grab hold of the salvation offered him.
And he's slipping.
Sinking.
Drowning in a pool of regrets.
He laughs.
I'm a fucking poet, he thinks, maybe says aloud, swallows water that decides to tickle and tease a spasm from his lungs.
"Shit, grab him."
"What the fuck you think I'm trying to do?"
And he recognizes that voice.
Chibs, his mind sluggishly supplies.
It's Tig holding him, pushing him, shoving him toward the pool's edge, and Chibs, when all he wants to do is drown. It had been Tig's dick digging into his backside moments ago.
"C'mon, Juice," Chibs says. "Give us a little help here."
"Thought water was supposed to make people weigh less," Tig grunts, and Juice shoves backward, away from the edge of the pool, or at least he tries to.
He doesn't want to be saved.
"Just gives 'em buoyancy," Chibs' voice is a beacon that Juice shies away from.
"Fucking asshole," Tig breathes out the warning against Juice's cheek when he struggles to get away, and Juice stills.
He's already swallowed Tig's dick once. Tasted the man's come. It had felt a lot like this – like suffocating. Had tasted nothing like the chlorinated water he's consumed.
"Grab him," Tig says, hands beneath Juice's armpits, hoisting him up, out of the water.
Other hands – warm, dry, rough – clutch him, lift him, drag him from the water and wrap him in a towel.
"Fuck," Chibs' voice comes to him through a tunnel, and Juice wonders why the man's lips are twisted.
"Tired," he manages to push the single word out past his lips.
The sound of splashing, followed by a grunt, accompanies the surreal feeling that he's floating, though he's fairly certain he's no longer in the water.
No longer swimming.
No longer drowning.
No longer remembering things that he doesn't want to remember, because the drugs have finally kicked in, and he's become the water he sought escape in.
It's peaceful.
And he's floating, carried by a man stronger than he can ever hope to be.
"He gonna be okay?" Tig's voice trails behind them, and Juice wishes he could open his eyes, see the look on the other mans' face, because he thinks, but isn't sure, that he can hear something like concern tingeing the man's voice.
It's laughable.
Tig doesn't do concerned.
"He will be," Chibs says it like it's a certainty, but he's no Nostradamus, and Juice's head is spinning.
"Good," Tig's voice is strained, and Juice wonders why.
"We need to get him warmed up."
He's already warm, though. Doesn't need the added warmth that Chibs is suggesting.
"Warm," he says, or at least he thinks he says it. Isn't sure, because he's ignored.
"You got him?" Chibs' words make no sense to Juice until he feels Tig grab hold of him, hears the pounding rhythm of the shower, and feels the heat of water engulf him like flames as he's handed off.
It tastes coppery and fresh, like a mouthful of pennies. He chokes and sputters and opens his eyes. Tig's holding him, straining to keep him upright.
"Stand still," he warns.
Juice complies, stays beneath the thawing spray; lets Tig wash him. There's nothing intimate about any of it. Rough, almost abrasive strokes with the washcloth take away a chill Juice hadn't even realized was there; leave a tingling sensation in their wake.
It almost hurts, and Juice wishes that it did. That it would hurt enough to tear his mind away from the memories that the drugs he's taken have failed to wipe away.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Tig mutters.
Juice keeps his mouth shut.
He hadn't been thinking anything in particular.
Had been drowning in too many thoughts that he couldn't piece together. Like mismatched puzzle pieces from half a dozen puzzles.
Nothing about him fits together anymore.
He's broken.
Tig shakes his head, and the water shuts off. He's wrapped in a towel, pulled from the shower, and he's floating again. Carried out to a bed.
Hotel, he remembers. On the way to New York.
He doesn't want to go. Doesn't want to face the past he's left behind.
Doesn't want to lie down.
Doesn't want the covers pulled up to his chin. Wants to go back out to the pool and let the water take him away from everything.
"Stay on your side," Chibs says, and there's a hand on his shoulder, making it impossible for Juice to disobey.
The bed dips, and he's sandwiched. Tig's body is a wall of warmth behind him; Chibs' is like brick – solid and impenetrable. Nothing will get to him through them.
"Sleep," Chibs urges, reaching out, resting a hand on Juice's shoulder.
Tig tosses a hand on his hip.
They're like anchors, holding him down, these two men, keeping him from floating out into waters too deep for him to handle on his own.
His eyelids flutter. Chibs' face swims in and out of focus, and Tig's breath is warm against the back of his neck.
"Close your eyes, Juice," Chibs says, thumb rubbing a pattern across his collarbone. "Don't fight it."
He's tired of fighting.
Tired of floating.
Tired of trying so damn hard to drown himself.
He closes his eyes.
Surrenders.
Lets Chibs and Tig hold him together for now. Just until he can manage to do it himself.
Please let me know if you're reading this...review. Thanks.