Disclaimer: I don't own HBO's "The Last of Us" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This was inspired by Bill's comment of: "there was a girl, a long time ago," in 1x03.
Warnings: period typical homophobia, self doubt/hatred, emotional baggage, angst, drama, romance, emotional hurt/comfort. Brief mention of a teenage heterosexual experience, coming of age, loss of virginity, mild sexual content.
Tristful
"Have you ever done this before? …Not with anyone?"
"With a girl a long time ago, but…"
There had been a girl.
She'd been nice enough. Pretty even. She wore her long brown hair tied back, except for Valentine's Day. That day she wore it down and brushed till gleaming.
He remembered because when she'd turned her head to look at him there'd been a smirk on her face. No one else seemed to notice. But he'd been trapped by it. Feeling something strange hitch in his throat as he stayed frozen at his desk. Sweaty palms wanting to reach out and touch. Just once.
She was probably dead now.
Maybe she'd been dead long before the world ended.
Hell if he knew.
But her hair wasn't what'd caught his attention. It was her hands. She had practical hands. They were large for a girl. Wide and already rough due to her daddy putting her to work salvaging cars since the time she could walk.
Something about her hands had done it for him. The callouses and scarred up knuckles had been traps for the eyes. She'd gotten teased for it. The girls called her 'man hands' and other shit that'd stuck in his craw even then. Still, he figured he wasn't much better, considering the reason he liked them. But that realization had only come in retrospect. And took a lot longer to accept.
It had taken months, but somehow, he'd risen above the terminal shyness that ruled his life and asked if she wanted a ride one day after school. She'd taken it from there. In fact, things only got as far as they did because she'd been the one calling the shots. That and his mama, who'd been so grateful he'd brought anyone home, no less a girl from a decent family, she was practically the third wheel.
It probably should have been a clue, considering he'd appreciated the interference. Not wanting too much time where it was just the two of them and that wicked gleam in her eyes. Realizing that if anyone was dragging their feet, it wasn't the girl.
Still, he liked her hands.
They were the kind of hands where if he closed his eyes, he could almost believe-
Some truths weren't meant to be faced at the time.
But then again, some were.
Which was why there'd been no one since. Why they'd only gotten as far as her hands on his cock before the moment fractured in a way he hadn't expected. Laid out and angry when he realized the pitch of her excited breaths and the sweet smell filling the back of the car was the opposite of what he wanted.
"I'm gonna start with the simple things."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Frank's hands were similar magnets of interest when the awkward chuckling suffocated into sloppy, purposeful kisses. Nearly coming out of his skin when Frank's hands cupped his face. Promising that feeling he'd been chasing ever since her and the backseat of his mother's Chrysler.
It wasn't her fault. But he'd been young and desperate to lie to himself. Faking it and never talking to her again seemed like the only option at the time. He'd even blocked out what she'd said to him behind the school days later. Still getting that hot rush of guilty mortification when the memory rose to the surface like just another ghost.
But it wasn't the only option.
Frank was proving that in real time.
And it was the best thing he never thought he could have.
The sweat between them was humid when Frank draped over his side. It threatened to edge into overstimulation, but he was too exhausted to move. Ignoring the fact that they didn't know each other. That Frank was leaving in a few days. That this couldn't possibly go anywhere.
But somehow, it didn't feel like they were pretending.
It felt real.
More real than what he'd done with her all those years ago.
More real than the familiar weight of his cock in his hand.
If he was being honest, that was the worst part. Because now that he had it, now that Frank was breathing slow and rubbing his fingers into the crease of his inner thigh, the lack might just kill him.
He wanted to hate him for that.
Not like he'd hated her.
This was a mature sort of hate.
He wasn't a philosophical person, but if he had to put a label on it, it was the type of thing that came along with finally accepting a difficult truth. Then making room for it. All in one go.
Wherever she was, he hoped the girl with the big hands had found someone who'd been able to give her a tenth of what a stranger had given him today.
She deserved that much.
Maybe they all did, come to think of it.
A/N: Thank you for reading. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
- Tristful: deeply yet romantically melancholy.