AN: This piece is definitely a little skeevy, but probably not skeevier than the overall premise for the fic. It takes place not too long after the fourth chapter, which is interesting after the last chapter, which was meant as fairly far along in the timeline, at a point when Conrad was fairly comfortable with Luce's dysfunctions. Oh, little Conrad. You think about the weirdest things while you masturbate. The comic Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone; I am making no profit and mean no trespass.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

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.008. - "Family" - .Worlds to Meet.

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The door was locked even though Conrad's mother was out. Conrad had preferred to masturbate in his bathroom, but ever since... Ever since the cleansing ritual, he couldn't do that any longer. Instead he'd rumpled up the sheets on his usually pristinely-made bed, turned the lock on the door, and slipped out of his pants. Luce probably only would have them halfway off at this point, or if he'd gotten Conrad out of them already, would not be taking this much time about things. But this was Conrad's fantasy. He could say things went however he liked.

Conrad stretched out on his back, knees drawing up automatically, and reached for the small bottle of lubricant that was beside him on the mattress. He'd kind of taken that from Luce, because he knew he'd never be able to buy his own, not even out of the drug store where it could be maybe borderline acceptable. He knew Luce had at least three different bottles, surely Luce wouldn't miss just one? Luce probably knew it was gone and was laughing it up over Conrad stealing it. Oh well; oh well. Conrad could make himself forget about that. The low sweet smell of the lube when he popped open the bottle only added to the fantasy.

Conrad squeezed the gel slowly into his palm, just a little. Just enough to make the experience feel genuine. He didn't dare try and press even one slippery finger inside himself, could not surmount the mental block barring his way. He'd tried, just once, had bitten his lip and scrunched his eyes shut and /tried./ But it just... It couldn't live up to Luce doing the same exact thing with much more surety. Conrad would have to turn to other ends, would hope he could continue to circumvent the feeling that now Luce did this all better than him, that one day he would touch himself and it just wouldn't work, that the only avenue left would be Luce.

When the gel had warmed in his hand, Conrad slid his fingers together, wrapped them around himself and took a firm grip. Just like Luce, the same tight hold like he meant business. Conrad closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering just once, needing to cut off the view that showed him without a doubt that he was alone. With his eyes shut, he could act as if Luce was there in the room, could imagine Luce whispering to him filthy instructions even if he could not quite convince himself that the hand was Luce's own. He stroked up, flicked his wrist, squeezed tighter. He'd barely ever done this before Luce, and then only furtively, hiding from his mother in the house that was more hers than ever his.

Conrad should not have thought about it just then. But the one flickering thought, brought out in anger that he had to hide in the place that should have been home – he tried not to think it, but Luce's apartment almost felt more like home, or at least more welcoming – unlocked all the others. Oh, Conrad knew where his mother was then, but she should not pretend it was for him. She did not work her high-stress, high-stakes job for him, even if her income went towards their home, his food, things for his education and betterment. There were so many things she could have been besides an event planner, so many vocations that were less high-profile in those plasticine-fake society circles.

It was dressing a dog in a tutu and calling it a ballerina.

Conrad did not stop stroking, only slid his hand faster, the lubricant making things all the more obscene. He thought about being angry, thought about hating her. It was a far different flavor of emotion from what Luce brought out in him, but in a way it was good, made the flames fan higher. Maybe, this time, maybe he would make it, would be able to come without struggling and wanting Luce so that it hurt.

He knew on some level that maybe he wanted Luce because of some dearth here, because it was clear that there were things he just wasn't getting at home. He wouldn't analyze himself. He was currently breathing hard, panting, squeezing his eyes shut tighter so that he wouldn't look. It wasn't like Luce made him feel loved; he told himself that he knew better. What Luce got from him was some other creature altogether. Conrad did not pretend to understand. He wondered, sometimes, why Luce continued to parade him out, continued to spirit him away to that safe haven that was the apartment, where nothing could hurt him unless Luce let it.

Luce let it, sometimes, but miraculously Conrad only leaned into it, gasped out louder. He didn't understand it himself.

Conrad had thought it once, in passion, and maybe this was more of the same and he just couldn't trust himself any more. But he wanted family. He wanted people he could trust, could rely on. He hated sports and he still wished at times that he'd had a father to throw a ball around with. Wished he could at least lay claim to that experience, could pretend at some level of normalcy because at times he felt like such a magnificently foreign creature that no one could pretend understanding of him, not ever. He wanted family dinners, and holidays together, and the option to worry over which parent to ask about some tribulation because there was actually a choice and it wasn't just one massive dead end.

And the thought, the thing that Conrad knew was wrong, and he shouldn't think, but couldn't help. The thought that Luce was that family, so much more than his own mother. Luce was the person he wanted to tell things to, even when he knew Luce wouldn't listen, like you knew sometimes your parents just tuned you out but you talked anyway. Conrad imagined that it made everything even more messed up, imagined it even as his hips arched off the bed into the tight ring of his hand. He already knew Luce was older; he didn't want to imagine he was sleeping with his surrogate father.

But, well, Lamont could maybe be the father. Lamont would listen to some of the things Luce wouldn't, and sometimes Lamont had real valuable advice, like the kind an older man would give, when he was invested in the recipient. And maybe that made it even more fucked up, with the things they would all do together. But Conrad wouldn't give either of the men up for the world. They were the anchors, the hands that turned him on his axis. He imagined that they would shape the adult he became far more than the woman who had given him life could, not any more.

Conrad grasped at it with both hands, in his mind's eye, even as his one hand clenched tighter around his length because that was the edge. Fuck, no matter what he did, he couldn't come without thinking about Luce. He'd delve into all the pits of his mind and spread out the thoughts that felt like pitch, like contaminants, and still that tight longing was there. Luce was everything, and he wanted to hate it, even as he bit his lip and came over his curled fingers, over the bared expanse of his stomach.

He couldn't hate Luce, though, not any more than a child could truly loathe the parents turning their chin to the sky when they were feeling stubborn. What Conrad really hated was the fact that he could not bridge the gap. He had his mother, his legal guardian, the one person society would say was responsible for him and honor-bound to love him and do what was best for him. And he had Luce, the man who made him feel like he had more of a purpose than to be kicked around by jocks and just plain kicked down by the rest of the world.

And he could never introduce Luce to his mother, could never cause those two worlds to meet. His mother would never accept a man so many years older than Conrad himself, no matter what he said or how he pleaded or what desperation he could lay at her feet. He likely couldn't instill in Luce the patience for such a woman, anyway, couldn't get more out of the med student than a few terse words, a cutting remark to the woman who only wished to be a guest to one of her own parties. It was illegal and wrong and it hurt, even as he wiped up his stomach and threw his leavings away.

He'd never imagined how much he would give for just one family dinner, with his /whole/ family, each disparate person who he could not rationalize loving to anyone but himself. Even to himself, he'd rather pretend otherwise.