Stockholm Syndrome 2- 17 Black and 29 Red (7 page)

"And you," she says. This would be so much easier if he could somehow get inside her without letting her see him naked, but she won't stop watching him.

"What's your real name?" he asks, but he suddenly remembers asking Valentine that very same question the first time they got each other's cocks out in that ridiculous stolen car and then he doesn't want to know. "No. Don't tell me, it doesn't matter, I don't care."

"I kinda told you already," she says anyway, a whispery whimper against the corner of his mouth. "Mary Jane."

"Pleased to meet you." She's so wet there's barely any friction at all slipping a finger down between her legs to stroke her in gentle circles. She makes a noise, half a gasp and half a laugh and holds his wrist until he's got two fingers inside her; he forces a third in and the noise she makes is so shocked and hungry he nearly falls apart.

"Do it ," she says, fierce and urgent. She starts laughing again when he can't unwrap a condom quickly enough, but somehow it's alright now, it's not
at
him, she doesn't seem bothered he's so much older than her or anything else. She's flushed and glowing and looking at him the way Valentine always used to look at him, like he was something amazing.

He kneels between her parted legs and takes a moment to calm down, just
breathe
. It's better after that.

 

"Hi," she says, quiet and smiling and shining. "So what's
your
real name?"

 

"You'll laugh." He starts moving, slow and deep, and she closes her eyes and sighs raggedly.

 

"You seriously think Mary Jane Blunt makes fun of other people's names?"

 

"Lindsay."

 

"Oh my god, that's so
British
."

"Not when you have to grow up in Bradford." He's holding her hand against the pillow, he didn't even realise he'd done it - fingers woven together, her small hand in his huge one. It's how he used to hold Valentine, even if they weren't playing rough. He always had to
hold
him there, pin him down like a butterfly so he couldn't fly away. He lets go hastily, but Mary Jane finds his hand again where he's pressed it against the mattress beside the pillow to prop himself up, stroking across his knuckles until he relents and goes back to how they were. She's got the other hand clenched tight in the hair at the back of his head, kissing insistently and not letting him move away, shifting her hips under his weight to ask for
more
, and when she comes it's with her mouth on Lindsay's neck muffling a guttural cry he might think she'd faked if he couldn't feel the pulsing waves of her orgasm right up and down the length of his cock.

"Don't stop," she says, laughing again, helpless and breathless. "Change places with me, don't stop." She comes again only a few minutes later, riding him hard and rubbing herself with two slick fingertips. That's enough to send him toppling over the edge as well, the shameless disgusting incredible view of this girl straddling him, fucking him, fucking her own fingers, arching her back, whining his name.

He feels drained after, completely exhausted like he could fall asleep in two seconds flat and never wake up again, but it's a good sort of feeling he's not had in ages. Empty fucks with anonymous women just don't work any more. Maybe he really is getting old, maybe he was spoiled by years of monogamy, but it's so much better being with somebody with a
name
, a face he'll still remember tomorrow, a sense of humour. The most unlikely friend in the world, some American kid with a pierced lip and pretty laugh who studies law and gives him coke.

Of course in the morning she's gone, with all the cash from his wallet
and
all the gear she sold him over the last few weeks that hasn't already disappeared up his nose. Lindsay packs his bags and flies to Japan in the afternoon. He always hated America anyway.

7.
June 2011

Waking up after a night out is always a struggle, but Pip drank even more than usual this time so he feels rougher than ever, dry mouth and the threat of a blinding headache thrumming just behind his skull. He kicked the sheet down in the night but he's still too hot - fighting sluggishly closer to consciousness, he realises there's another body pressed up close to his and that isn't helping at all.

"Get off," he tries to say, but it comes out in an incomprehensible mumble. Olly mumbles something back, just as unclear, and nestles in closer with his arm over Pip's waist and his face lost somewhere in Pip's messy hair. He feels lips press gently against the back of his neck, Olly's morning-hard cock sliding against his arse...

"Oh shit, it's you," Olly says, a sleepy little mutter right against Pip's ear so the breath tickles and makes him shiver. "Sorry. Serves you right. You shouldn't use girly shampoo, you smell like one."

"Sorry." He bites his lip to hold back a protest when Olly shifts away a little bit, trying to resist the urge to follow him and nudge their curves back together like spoons in a drawer. "Morning glory, innit? Nothing to worry about."

"I need a piss."

 

"Not in bed you don't, get up."

Olly laughs and staggers to the bathroom wearing only his boxers. Pip's feeling too lazy to move at all so he stays where he is, pressing his face into the pillow to make the inside of his head as dark as possible. He's not expecting to be disturbed again because usually when Olly gets out of bed he's out for good. There's always something that needs doing, screaming fights that need breaking up or breakfast that needs making or whatever, but now Pip hears the flush of the toilet and the tap running, footsteps on the carpet again, and then he feels the lurch of the mattress when Olly gets back in bed behind him.

"Ain't even six-thirty yet, what kind of fucking time is that to be up?"

 

"Really? Shit, I thought I was tired. Shut up, lemme sleep."

He rolls over onto his back, scrubbing at both eyes with his fingertips. They feel filthy, crummy with last night's make-up and sweat. He feels filthy all over, disgusting and grimy from dancing all night and not showering before bed. If it's already this hot this early, the day is going to be unbearable. He's just trying to decide whether it'll be cooler to kick the tangled sheet away from where it's wrapped round his calves or save the energy and just leave it there when Olly clears his throat gently and says, "You know you got a bit of a tent going on there, mate?"

"So? So did you." He turns back over onto his side anyway. He's not exactly embarrassed - they've known each other long enough not to be embarrassed by
anything
any more - but it's only polite. "I was having a wicked dream."
"You slag."

Pip's wide awake now, still so tired he could die but suddenly not at all sleepy. It feels like before, years ago, sharing beds as teenagers when they stayed over at each other's houses, only this time Olly
knows
he's lying there breathless and hard. He was always asleep before. It was like this massive guilty secret. Sometimes Pip would lie like this, his back to Olly's warm sleeping body so he could spin out late-night fantasies about him maybe waking up and touching him, furtively from behind because not looking makes it less bent or something. Sometimes he'd go further, carefully shuffling back until they were touching, and he'd go to sleep like that and pretend it happened accidentally in the night while they were both passed out. A couple of times Pip turned over and stayed there for ages like a creeper just watching Olly sleep, sometimes sharing his pillow, sometimes touching his hair or gently holding his hand. One time he kissed him, but Sleeping Beauty didn't wake up. Thank god. All those years of wanting it and it only ever happened in stupid games of truth or dare, or because boys kissing boys made girls at parties giggle and swoon. The one time it went too far when they
didn't
have anything to blame, Olly punched him and split his lip. Even that wasn't enough to put him off, not really. It dimmed when he met Lindsay, but it's crept back now and he didn't even realise. Funny how not-awkward it feels. Maybe that's the tiredness. It all feels woozy and slow, like it's a dream. He can feel Olly's knee nudging at the back of his, and the warm slide of his bare thigh as he fits their bodies together from top to toe, draping an arm over Pip's naked chest and kissing the back of his shoulder quickly as if he's not sure whether it's a good idea. Empty bladder or not, he's still hard.

Maybe it's a dream. It feels like one. Well then, it doesn't matter what he says if it's a dream.

 

"You can put it in if you want," Pip murmurs, and Olly's breath tickles his ear when he laughs softly.

 

"Yeah, I bet you say that to all the boys."

 

"No I don't."

 

"You do, you shagged half of Shoreditch."

"I wouldn't, if you told me not to." He finds Olly's hand and pulls his arm closer around, entwining their fingers above his heart. "I mean it. If you want. You can."

Olly sounds hesitant and completely unsure of himself, and that's not normal. "I don't know how."

 

"You're a fucking liar. As if them dirty slappers you go with don't do anal."

"In the drawer," Olly says after a moment. Pip has to let his hand go to reach over. He can't help laughing at the heap of condoms in there - maybe the idea of accidental conception only actually sinks in after it's happened four times, but it looks like he's not taking any more chances. Not that it matters now. Pip lifts his head just enough to turn the pillow over to the cool side and take his pants off, and then just waits there on his side with his knees up against his chest, hugging the pillow and listening - the faint metallic crinkle sound of the wrapper, wet spitting noises. He holds his breath at the first touch, Olly's hand on his arse spreading him open, and lets it back out in a long wet ragged gasp when he pushes inside.

"
Oh
..."

 

"Shh, my mum..."

She's been babysitting and they got back too late for her to go home so she had Pip's room, that's the only reason they're having to share. He's always loved her, but he's never loved her as much as he does right now.

"You could always gag me."

 

Olly laughs at that, quiet and breathless in Pip's ear. "Baby steps, princess."

 

"Alright."

Pip lets Olly move him about, turn him onto his front. He's drowsy from not enough sleep and a growing hangover that's really
not
helped by what they're doing. At least he's going slow. It's nice. It's wonderful. He's not even that hard any more but it still feels amazing, the sweaty slide of Olly's chest against his back and the way his breathing doesn't seem to make that much sense any more, patchy staccato gasps against Pip's ear and lost in his hair. He bites Pip's shoulder when he comes so he doesn't make any noise. It's hard enough it's probably going to bruise and for a moment the thrill of pain is almost enough to wake Pip right up, but the hangover wins in the end and then there's a horrific high-pitched scream from somewhere else in the house and he groans in agony and hides under the pillow, whimpering.

"DAAAAAAAD! OH MY GOD DAAAAAAAAAAAD!"

"WHAT?" Olly yells back. Pip wonders whether maybe something's on fire but he can't work up the energy to move and find out. He can hear Olly thundering round the room, presumably finding a pair of jeans or something, then the slam of the door hitting the wall and his bare feet thudding downstairs.

"DAISY'S LOOKING AT ME!"

 

"JESUS, I THOUGHT YOU WERE ON FIRE."

Pip smiles at that. People always did say it was like they could read each other's minds. He drags Olly's pillow over his head as well, muffling the rest of the argument, and doesn't realise he's fallen asleep until he wakes up again closer to noon, to a silent house and a knifing beam of sunlight cutting through the room where there's a crack between the curtains. The dull throbbing headache is still there but he doesn't feel tired any more, he's only going to feel worse lounging round in bed all day. Drinking a stomachful of icy cold water straight from the bathroom tap helps a bit, and a long cool shower. When he wipes the misty mirror clean he can see the purple mottled shape of teeth on his shoulder.

Olly's in the living room when Pip goes downstairs. He's asleep. He always sleeps in the day, he gets it out the way while the kids are at school so he never has to miss a breakfast or a school run just because he's tired after working late nights. Joe's sitting in his playpen, quiet and serious, turning brightly-coloured plushie bricks over in his hands like he's teaching himself the finer points of architecture.

"Alright, Joe-joe?"

 

"Alright, Pip-pip." He smiles then. He's got the best smile in the world, and mad hair that won't do as it's told. "Daddy sleeping."

"Yeah, lazy bastard, ain't he?" He goes over to lift the baby out - he's not a baby any more, really, he's two and a half and just lately he seems to outgrow all his clothes in seconds. He's got tiny combat trousers on and a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, both only a few weeks old, and they already want replacing. "It's nearly lunchtime, you hungry?"

"Nana."

 

"Banana, yeah?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Alright."

"No, Sian's having him," Olly mumbles sleepily. He sits up, wiping his mouth where he's dribbled and laughing at himself a bit self-consciously. "I never meant to fall asleep, sorry."

"It's okay."

 

"Yeah. Sian's coming round any minute, she's having him today. You gonna be good for your mum, mate?"

"Yeah," Joe says, but then he throws the soft brick he's still holding right at Olly's face, so it doesn't look likely. Olly cracks up laughing again and heads into the kitchen to start packing some stuff in a bag for him, and when he steps around Pip to get to the door he touches him lightly on the hip. No words, just a casual touch as he's passing. It's better than words, in a way. Nothing's changed. Nothing's weird or awkward.

Half an hour later, when Joe's gone and Olly's cooking them pasta for lunch while Pip makes coffee, Pip turns round from putting the milk back in the fridge and says, "You do know you owe me two now, right?" It's just to see what he says but he doesn't go for it, he just slaps Pip on the arm with a tomato-saucey spatula and tells him to shut up.