Harder to Breathe

by Veuki

The moment I sink tiredly onto the sofa, I know it's going to be one of those nights.
Sola's gone to the firing range. He'll be there all night; you can set your calendar by
him. Every Saturday, he goes to practice his marksmanship and returns at dawn. I
could almost envy his dedication if I weren't entirely swamped, though I'm not
complaining. Haney and Bee announced they were going to see a baseball game
and stay overnight, which means that they're driving to the nearest motel to
experiment. I don't even have to check their credit logs. If I had any incentive, I'd
confront them and put a stop to it, but that's the problem. I don't.
Jake left earlier to go visit his family. I feel something that almost resembles a pang
of wistfulness; he has people he loves and cares about, and in return receives the
same warmth. For a moment, I wonder what it'd be like to have that, but dismiss the
thought as quickly as it had appeared. I need to make it clear to Jake that things are
over between us, because I can still feel the tingle from the last time his mouth was
on me. He's getting attached, and that's the last thing he or I need. Jake needs to be
coddled. I can't even see myself initiating a comforting embrace. I'm too cold for
Jake. Hell, I'm too cold for the fucking freezer.
I'm not wallowing in misery, I tell myself flatly. There's no room for arguments
between the sensible part of me and that tiny voice in the back of my head that I
firmly try and keep closed off. I'm not. I won't. The familiar boiling, churning feeling
starts low in my stomach. My face remains expressionless, but my nails dig into my
palms until I feel my pulse jump. I'll have welts in the morning and won't be able to
make a fist for days. I'll make a fist anyway, though, and quietly submit to the tiny
splinters of pain that'll dart through me. Maybe I'm masochistic.
The only way I'd be masochistic is if I locked myself in a room with Calyx Starr, I
think, which brings my thoughts to focus on one of the newest members of the JC2. I
still for a moment, feeling rather than listening for any movement coming from
upstairs. Silence. I allow myself a tiny sigh of blessed relief. He's probably enjoying
the high from the Bliss tab I gave him earlier, or he's snuck out to go clubbing. Or
other. My instincts as the team's leader tell me to go check on him, but I feel a wave
of exhaustion wash over me at the very thought. Knocking on his door guarantees
me a verbal sparring match, wherein he dishes out a variety of clever insults, along
with repetitive usage of that stupid nickname he has for me. Which, of course,
results in him trying to paw me just a little more insistently at my every refusal. I
won't deal with his bullshit tonight. I can't and I won't. Instead, I focus on tracing the
leather seam of the sofa with my fingertip while glancing periodically at my PRU. I
sincerely hope I get called to a job and soon, because at the moment I'm floundering
around aimlessly and I have no idea what to do with myself.
I'm suddenly aware of footsteps, someone lightly descending the stairs. I stiffen, my
spine lengthening until I'm almost bending backward, and immediately begin to tuck
away every thought and emotion into the crevices of my mind. It's exhausting,
though, and I know Starr will be able to feel me. The thought makes me want to dive
out the window, pull out my gun and start firing blindly, curl into a ball with my face
buried in my hands. But I do nothing, simply remain motionless with my clammy
hands pressed to my jeans.
Starr enters the living room, his hair swaying like a pale curtain behind him. I keep
my eyes focused on a smudge on the wall, gaze blank and unseeing. Maybe he'll
think I'm braindead and leave me alone. I wish, I think dryly. He'd probably molest
me to death if he thought I couldn't fight back.
His voice brings me out of the haze I'm beginning to slip into. His eyebrow is arched,
one hand on his hip. "Interesting things you're sending me, Darkness."
I feel a cold spike thread through my heart. Why is he able to see past my shields? I
already know the answer to that question, though. He's reading me because my
emotions are simply too strong. I needed this night to decompress and he's ruining it
for me. I know he feels my anger when I see the corner of his lips quirk. Don't laugh
at me, I want to shout, I'm not a joke, and certainly not your joke. "I'm winding
down," I manage. I want to bite my nails, but I'm not a nail-biter. I don't know why
Starr does to me what he does, makes me feel the things I do.
"By 'winding down,' you mean bottling everything up inside?" Starr asks, dropping
gracefully onto the sofa. He's too close for my tastes and I purposely edge away
from him. He doesn't bat an eyelash. "In case no one's told you already, you're
going to explode one day if you keep that shit up."
"Thank you, Dr. Starr. Your go at psycho analogy was most refreshing."
Starr laughs, clearly amused by my poor attempt at humour. I wouldn't really call it
humour, though. Maybe rusty cynicism. "Sorry, but I don't fuck my patients." He
pauses for a moment, regarding me intently. "Though I'd make an exception for you,
sweetheart."
My head is beginning to hurt. I can't concentrate on keeping my mental shields
together and trying to repress this overwhelming myriad of emotion. I don't think I've
ever had this "I can't" line of thought so violently before, but then again, I hadn't
been around Starr. Things have been so different ever since I met him and I hate it.
I've always favoured routine and order; the little taste of it I got, anyway.
Starr is regarding me differently, now. His eyes seem to glow, pushing through
night's resilient blinds to peer at me. "Why do you do this to yourself?" he asks
softly. "Why do you hate yourself?" His pupils dilate, mouth going slack. He's forcing
his way into my mind. My eyes fall down to his hands. I can almost see slim fingers
snatching up my thoughts, no matter how I try and hold onto them.
It's too late. His face registers and he inches toward me. Stop, I think, panicked. You
can't handle me when I'm like this.
"You can hit me if you want," Starr says. His voice is quiet and open, honest. "If it'll
make you feel better."
Why is Starr provoking me like this? I feel like sinking to my knees in defeat. I don't
want to hurt anyone else. I need to recover from this blinding pain alone, and god
dammit, he won't let me.
"Not the same on punks like Riddy, is it?" Starr's voice is dangerously soft. It makes
me nervous, and being nervous puts us on the same footing. I don't feel like his
superior anymore, and that rattles me. "You can bust the drug dealers until you
collapse, but you're dismayed to find your frustration's still there, aren't you?" I can
smell his breath, light citrus and something minty-sweet, not at all unpleasant. It's a
contrast to the memories that are currently threatening to suck me under.
I have to let him know what he's asking. He couldn't handle it. I'm not even sure
what I would do, and yet I am. I'd lose control completely; that I know for certain. It's
what Starr wants me to do, but it's the last thing I want. I think my mouth's gone dry.
I should stand, run far, far away from Starr until I'm out of his vision, but my legs
won't move. "You have no idea," I say steadily. My voice betrays me. "You don't
know what you're asking. Stop this, Starr."
"But I do know," Starr says, plucking open the folds of my shirt. "I want you to hurt
me." He trails a cool finger down my throat, skipping over my collarbone. "I want you
to take all those interesting feelings you have churning up in there--" He gestures to
my head with his chin. "--and take it all out on me."
I should knock his hand away, but I'm frozen. "Why?" I whisper. I know he can feel
the minuscule tremors that run through me. I shouldn't let him see me like this, but
he's tearing away every single one of my defenses. I don't want this, not from Calyx
Starr.
"I'd take all of your pain in a heartbeat if I could, Darkness," he says, letting a
fingernail settle against my nipple. When I remain still, he continues. "Do it,
sweetheart. Give me everything." My limbs have turned to ice. He digs his nail into
my skin until I feel burning moisture well to the surface. He's pulling down every
single curtain I've shrouded myself in shadow with, and I feel almost naked without
my cover of mystery. "It'll be our little secret," he drawls lowly. I know that tone of
voice. It haunts my nightmares, rings in my ears every morning when I bolt upright.
Our little secret.
Something inside me crumbles, shatters into a thousand pieces before my eyes. I
don't know whether he put words to my emotions or read my mind, but I'm too far
gone to care. My fist makes a loud crack as it connects with his cheekbone. I watch
him sprawl on the floor, legs folding underneath him like a doll's.
(hands on me touching me)
"Get off!" I reach down, one hand twisting in polyester mesh. I back-fist the figure I'm
holding, and hear a guttural groan. My fists land repeatedly, swiftly, deadly on what I
realise to be his face. I hope you look in the mirror after this and cry, Captain
Dickerson, just like I used to. "Get your hands off me!"
(sliding down lowerlowerlower)
"I'm not your whore!" I slam my boot into ribs that easily give way underneath my
touch. "I don't belong to you!" I pick up the figure by his collar, executing a swift judo
throw that took hours to perfect. As he hits the wall and slides to the ground, I notice
the blood covering his face, slick first colour of the rainbow. It pools in the hollow of
his slender throat, staining my hands crimson. I barely notice it, though, as blows
batter down like rain upon the slim form beneath me, until I realise that he's
not
Dickerson.
(please stop please)
Starr's hair clings to his skin, dampened slightly by the blood on his face. My finger
brushes one of the gashes criss-crossing along his ribs. He doesn't flinch, even
though he should. "Starr," I whisper, trying not to let the urgency I feel seep into my
voice. It's clear the second time. "Starr!" His shoulders are limp in my hands. I shake
him as gently as I can. "Starr, can you hear me?" His head lolls back as my hand
cradles his neck. I'm panicking, trembling as I frantically shift my fingers on his wrist.
Why can't I find his pulse? "Starr!"
His eyes finally flicker open. I never thought I'd be glad to see those familiar emerald
irises, but I am. "Darkness," he rasps. "You gave me everything." He coughs. Blood
trickles past his lips and down his chin. "Thank you," he continues, his voice lower
and quieter this time. More intimate.
"Shut up," I mutter. My voice is unusually hoarse as I stare at the bruises marking
him. Oh, god. I did this to Starr. I stagger away from him, swallowing the bile that
rises in my throat as I manage to stumble into the kitchen. Wetting a rag under the
faucet, I snag a bottle of water from the fridge and return to the living room. Starr's
watching my every movement through heavy-lidded eyes, and I try and pull myself
together as best as I can.
Opening the water bottle, I prop Starr's head against my thigh as I listen vaguely to
the sound of the plastic seal cracking. I bring the bottle to his lips, urging them to
part, and they do. His tiny adam's apple bobs slightly as he drinks all I give him. The
colour starts returning to his cheeks, from what little I can see through the blood
painted across his face, but he chokes after a minute and turns his head. I set down
the bottle and begin sponging his skin. The slow, repetitive movements are soothing,
but not nearly enough to calm me.
I have to squeeze out the rag a few times before the scarlet smears have completely
vanished. Setting the soiled cloth, I hesitantly let my eyes rove over Starr's features,
pale and loose. I think he's gone to sleep, because his eyelashes rest against his
elegant cheekbones. They flutter in tandem with his breathing. I bite the inside of my
cheek when I see the bruises marring Starr's skin, like a string of black pearls wound
over and over around his body. I don't deserve to even look at Starr.
I'm such a monster, no better than Captain Dicker--
Starr jerks violently. His hipbone strains from its leather confines as he bucks, and I
have to hold him down with one hand flat against his stomach. "What is it, Starr?" I
ask, managing to swallow back the pain and checking his pulse again. His hand
flails, twists out of my grasp.
"Stop it!" he chokes, his eyes bulging. "Just... oh, stop... please..."
The words chill me. They rang in my head when cold, grimy hands slid below the
waistband of my jeans, persisting when I refused, insisting when I cringed. I don't
want Starr to beg me, plead with me to stop, voice what I never could. One of my
thumbs brushes a tiny crimson droplet away from his mouth. I can't believe I did this.
I want to retch violently, take every one of Starr's wounds and multiply it onto my self
by a thousand times. I want to suffer for the pain I just put him through. I'm sickened
to look down at my own hands, stained with Starr's blood.
Starr whimpers in the back of his throat, the sound like eighty-proof agony, drink that
leaves me feeling ice-cold instead of hot. "Please... please stop..."
I quickly remove his wrist from my light grip, but he just moves closer to me, rocking
back and forth. He trembles like a leaf caught in a forceful breeze. "What is it?" I
ask. Maybe I've injured him worse than I thought I did. The very speculation makes
another wave guilt wash over me, so terrible that I make a strangled sound in the
back of my throat. Starr's choked gasp eclipses my own.
"I can... I can feel you," Starr manages. His smooth forehead is creased with worry,
eyebrows furled tightly. "Your... your guilt, your pain... don't. Sweetheart, I asked you
to, remember?" Despite the blood I wiped off of him, the bruises I dealt to him, his
own pain, he continues talking to me as if I'm a child. Despite the obvious effort it's
taking for him to speak normally, his voice is gentle and low. "You... you have to
leave, you have to give me Bliss, something--"
"No," I interject, "I'm not giving you another Bliss tab. You had two today." I know
Starr's in pain, that I'm the source of Starr's pain both mentally and physically, but I
can't do it. Bliss is what I'm fighting against. I've seen people squander their lives
away, and I'm not about to see one of my men die because of it. I can't give Bliss to
Starr. It hurts him, even if he doesn't realise it.
I think you do a pretty adequate job of that yourself, pipes up that tiny voice from the
corner of my mind.
Starr clasps the sides of his head again, his rocking motions becoming more violent.
"Put on a Bliss tab!"
I feel like a knife is ripping apart my insides, scattering them so far I'll never be able
to find the pieces again. Starr, I'm so sorry, I think, as I watch a scarlet rivulet roll
sideways off his throat, dropping onto the carpet. His unraveling. "I can't," I say
simply, self-depreciation pounding from the inside of my ribcage. I have never been
able to put the seemingly inconsequential tab behind my ear, and now is no
exception. I know I'm being selfish, ridiculously so, but even after what I've put Starr
through I just can't. It steps over lines that weren't meant to be crossed.
Something in Starr's eyes tell me he knew what the answer to that request would be
all along, but then he jerks. His fingers tighten where they're pressed against his
temples until they become an obscene shade of white. "Then you've got to leave,
sweetheart," he gasps, "because I can't..." He begins rocking back and forth again,
his words dissolving into incoherent mumbling.
I'm utterly lost for words. I've never seen Starr this unraveled. He's fast rolling on this
descent to madness that I started, and I know exactly how to stop it. I'm not going to
put on a Bliss tab, not going to give him one, not going to leave Starr writhing on the
ground, bruised and in pain. I won't and I can't, not when he gave me an option to
leave. Starr, who I thought would pout like a child and insist that I stay, or insist that I
let myself be molested. He did neither, simply gave me a way out. I'm stuck between
a rock and a hard place, and choosing the hard place. Figuratively speaking.
I do the only thing I can do. Out of desperation, I squeeze my eyes shut tightly,
letting down my guard. My fingers slip past my torn shirt. I try and coax my nipple to
pebbled stiffness, but nothing's happening and I feel utterly helpless. Unbidden,
images of Starr fill my mind. Starr doing this to me, Starr doing terrible, wicked
things, and I groan.
Starr's eyes shoot open and his spine curves, ever-so slightly. It gives me courage
and hope, makes the guilt dissipate just a little, and I do it again. "Darkness...
Darkness, what--?" His words are abruptly cut off as my fingers slide lower. His eyes
are riveted to my hand, moving down my body. Starr's surprising me. I thought he
would have given into it by now, but he's clearly trying to give me another way out of
this. Why are our roles reversed? I firmly end that train of thought; I don't even want
to think about playing the part of Calyx Starr, so instead I undo the button of my
jeans. "Darkness, what are you... why are you doing this?"
"I hurt you," I say. "I can't leave you here, and I won't let you suffer from my guilt." I
let my fingers dance along arousal, obscene waltz. "I'm doing... the... the only thing I
can."
"My Darkness," Starr breathes, letting a damp hand rest on my thigh. "So self-
sacrificing." I continue, trying to block out any emotion but pleasure. "Heroic." Not
Captain Dickerson. "Brave." Not Captain Dickerson, not Captain Dickerson, I repeat
endlessly. "Intrepid, even." His voice becomes lower, sensual, and I feel the rush of
blood straight to my groin. If I tried to say something like that, I would sound like a
complete moron. It serves to remind me how Starr and I are paradoxes in the
extreme, and a thousand reasons why I should pull my hand away and leave Starr
here. "I want to see you."
I know what he means. Letting my hand fall away, I awkwardly struggle out of my
clothes until the moonlight filters in from the blinds, makes my skin gleam silver. I
close my eyes in embarrassment, but Starr doesn't laugh. I feel cool fingers slide
around the back of my neck, urging me down to lay across the length of his body
and kiss him. I do, lips going slack against his for a moment until I remember where
we are and what happened. "Starr," I gasp, tearing my mouth, bracing my weight on
my forearms, "I... we can't do this, you're hurt, not like this--"
"So make me forget," Starr tosses back easily, lips gliding along the skin behind my
ear, "make me," and then his hands are everywhere on my body and all of my
thoughts incinerate. Everywhere he touches, he leaves a burning trail of fire that
makes my knees buckle and my head spin.
Starr's palms glide over my jaw, behind my thighs, the small of my back, my inner
wrists. When his lips replace every path his fingers have taken, I gasp, "Starr!" This
only seems to encourage him, and he curls fingers around my cock and strokes
firmly. His pace increases with each shudder of my body, each breathy gasp. When
he starts flicking his wrist in a way that makes red spots blur my vision, I know I have
to stop him or I'm going to explode. "Starr," I manage, and sigh in relief when he
stills, "you... you have to stop--"
"Got something else in mind, Darkness?" His teeth graze the side of my neck, hands
still continuing to slide teasingly along my skin. I can't think when he does that, I
realise faintly. His question sinks in, finally, and I feel gooseflesh rise. I'm not about
to fuck him, bend him over and maul him like an animal. Not after what I did to him. I
know Starr's going to use my guilt against me from hereon out, whenever he wants
something; simply recall this and I'll immediately give in. God help me, I don't care.
"I want to feel you," I whisper, flushing brightly. I feel shy and gawky, but his searing
gaze coaxes me to feel otherwise.
"Say my name," he commands huskily, nipping gently at the juncture of my throat
and collarbone. "I want to hear it." He urges my legs to fall around him. I feel
uncomfortable straddling Starr, but I don't move. I let him move me where he wants
me, a clay figurine made for playing.
"Starr--"
"Say it," he bites out, growling quietly in the back of his throat. His eyes shimmer
intensely. I feel like I've liquefied, like my bones are jelly and muscles have
atrophied. Starr was the only one who ever made me feel this way--"Calyx," I gasp,
"Calyx," as I feel his fingertip press at my most intimate place.
"God, Darkness," he groans, and then suddenly he's inside me. I don't even
remember when he grabbed any lube, but his cock feels surprisingly slick inside me.
The pain scissors outward, lashing in technicolour ribbons, but I don't cry, scream,
grit my teeth. I rest my palms against his taut stomach and wait, shuddering as
bizarre colours stab at my eyeballs.
It's only Starr.
(stop hurting me please stop)
Not Captain Dickerson.
Only Starr.
I realise he's waiting for me to adjust, to let him know I'm okay with him. His
eyelashes vacillate, teeth gnawing on his lower lip as he tries to remain still. This
isn't about me, though. This is about him, and I let him know this by raising my hips
and then pushing my body down, riding him. He cries out, his back arching
gracefully. "Fuck!" The pain's slowly dissipating, becoming an odd ache, and that
unexpected relief allows me to move faster. When he reaches up, fingers digging
into my hips so hard I know they'll bruise and twists his hips, I cry out sharply.
"Oh--" I gasp, fingers scrabbling for some kind of solid ground and finding only
(calyx)
Starr, only Starr. Then he's thrusting, and the only thing I can do is push back on him
and settle into the rhythm he's set. I'm spiraling higher, coming undone so fast that
everything's a white haze around me. I lose track of everything, time slowing to a
halt as he takes me.
"Let go for me, Darkness," he rasps, "let go," and I do, and feel him as well. His nails
dig painfully into my hips, creating five, ten, twenty starbursts of pleasure as he
gutturally groans my name. I gasp his name, too, as I feel liquid heat sweep through
me and seep out through every pore in my body.
"Darkness," he murmurs tiredly, once the rapid beating of my heart has stopped
sounding in my ears. I try and touch one of the bruises marking his cheek, but he
impatiently pushes my hand away and smiles at me. "I think you've more than paid
your debt, Darkness. No guilt." His pupils dilate, and he feels me for just a moment.
"No guilt," he repeats, his eyes alight.
Every instinct in my body protests against this. I should push Starr away, rise and
wash myself until there's no more traces of the pale-haired man covering me. I
should throw up my mental shields, bandage his wounds, do something, anything to
wipe this incident from our memories. I simply relax against the carpet, drawing one
leg up to rest against Starr's and cover my eyes with my hand. It wasn't glorious,
mind-blowing, earth-shattering and enough to make my universe explode, but it
made me forget, for just a little.

The End