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Going Off
By : beautifulliar
Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Nine Inch Nails
Views: 837 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Nine Inch Nails. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. - Chapter List
- 1
The thin leather straps are unfinished on one side, the soft side, the side against Aaron’s skin where it wraps his wrists in figure eights, pulling them together, the underside of one against the top of the other, then pulling them both up against the headboard. His hands make a V, make wings, and the centermost wrought iron bar in the headboard comes down in the point of the V, between the outsides of his thumbs. Sometimes he presses the top of a forefinger or middle finger against another of the headboard’s bars; sometimes he cuts into his palms with his fingernails.
A vein stands out in his neck.
His neck is arched, his chin turned up—the crown of his head presses against the mattress.
His eyes are squeezed shut.
Sometimes he turns his face against the inside of his arm, his open mouth moving against it with Matt’s rhythm.
His calves rest on Matt’s arms—sometimes Matt pulls one up onto his shoulder, sometimes he grabs Aaron’s foot and pushes it forward until Aaron’s knee nearly touches his shoulder.
He’ll have bruises later, fingertip ones, in some of the places Matt’s held on to.
A trail of sweat makes its way down his neck, slow, like a hot Louisiana afternoon.
Aaron fists his hands and pulls until the leather straps bite hard into his skin. His upper lip draws back, showing clenched teeth. The sounds that bang against the back of his teeth are like gng, like grchh.
When people know your name, even when it’s not, say, the enormous fucking number of people that know Mickey Mouse’s name, for instance, but when a whole lot of people you’ve never fucking met know who you are (and probably have some opinion of you, one way or the other), you aren’t free anymore. (Though Aaron would just say free’s a state of mind anyway.) There are things maybe you like to do/want to do/think about doing that you aren’t easy choices anymore. (Aaron would ask if they’d ever been ‘easy’.) You can’t let yourself go with a groupie/a girlfriend/a paid worker in this way anymore—not if you don’t want to read about it on Blabbermouth tomorrow or next week or next year or whenever they get pissed off/greedy/psycho-whatever enough to drag your name through the shit. Or worse. This ‘shit’ puts you in a position where you could have cause to fear for your life/your testicles/god knew what.
This you had to do with, if you were fucking lucky enough to find this person, someone with as much to lose as you.
That’s the only kind of person you can trust with shit like this. (Aaron would say that’s the only kind of person he’d have ever have trusted with shit like this anyway.)
His jaw drops open and his eyes roll back. He grabs hold of the center bar with one hand hard enough, it seems like, to wrench it free—but it holds.
The ends of Matt’s hair brush his chest, like feathertips, like cool air.
His legs start to slip from Matt’s arms. He straightens one, then the other. There’s a pop, more felt than heard, on straightening that second one. “Ow,” he says between breaths—with a little smile.
“Y’old man.” Matt stretches beside him, elbow propped on the mattress, face propped on his hand. He gives Aaron a twisting little pinch in the side.
“Ow—quit.” Still smiling. He twists his wrists, his hands, his fingers—as if in the aftermath he’s suddenly figured out how to work himself free. He hasn’t.
He doesn’t ask for help.
Matt sweeps his hair back on his way to laying his face on Aaron’s chest. Listening to Aaron’s heart—Aaron listening to his own breathing and the curious sound-that-isn’t-a-sound of Matt listening to his heart.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes pass—and Aaron needs to take a leak, but he’s heading back out on the road in a couple days and what with this and that, this is the last chance for this. This. With someone he has more in common with than just having the same level of risk.—before Matt gets back up on his elbow and reaches to start undoing the straps.
Aaron clutches his hands into fists one more time and uses the straps for leverage as he lifts his head and licks, slowly—fleetingly—up the side of Matt’s throat.
It’s a taste he recalls often for many days afterward.
~fin~- 1
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