I fall, exhausted, onto the cushions of the couch, my apartment a disaster around
me. The scent is stronger here, as if his sweat and semen is part of the leather
itself. I know what he's doing and why he's doing it. And it's working. If I
were to see him now, I don't know what I'd... I wouldn't be able to stop myself.
I'd grab him and pull him up from the couch. Tell him that if he's gonna jerk
off without me around, he's not gonna do it on my couch. Then I'd proceed to
fuck him unconscious. Hold him close to me. Slap him.
The couch is the one place I could sleep since... him. And now he's ruined it.
I won't sleep at all tonight. I've been restless since I told him to leave, but
I'd at least get an hour or two of shut-eye in the early morning hours. I tried
to sleep in my bed after he left, but I can't—not without him. I guess I need
the narrowness of the couch to remind me that I'm alone. The empty expanse of
bed kept reminding me of who used to lie there—and the fact that he wasn't
going to be coming back.
I'd lay awake all night replaying that morning in my mind. Over and over. The
flash of hurt in his eyes, quickly covered by a screen of indifference. The dip
in the mattress as he slid off. I closed my eyes because I couldn't watch him as
he dressed, didn't want to see his scarred body standing bare beside my bed.
When he was naked, he seemed vulnerable. And I didn't want to remember him that
way. I wanted to think of him as the strong man I had always known in the day,
not the tender person that was mine in the night. The man he had shown to me,
given to only me. I wanted to hate him.
But I can't pick and choose what to remember. I can't push those memories away.
I think back to nights I'd spent with him. Simple pleasures. Just our bodies
responding, one to the other. It was almost primal, animal in its simplicity.
Hands groping, tongues soothing, our breath mingling as we sought to find each
other. We didn't need to talk—clipped, breathless single words conveying all
we needed to know. "Yes." "Now." "Here."
We'd lie wrapped together until the morning, finding each other at night finally
in sleep. I'd wake up, savoring the last few minutes of feeling him before it
was time to go. He'd slowly pull on his clothes and I, my robe, each
unconsciously making the moment last, loathing the time to say goodbye. If we
even talked at all. Depending on my mood, I either kissed or cursed him. But
the last times we were together, I started to kiss him more and more. And
started regretting that he was leaving, wanting him to stay. That's when I knew
it had to stop.
I found out a couple of days ago that he's been around here. My neighbor asked
me if I had a brother or cousin or somebody visiting. Said a tall, dark-haired
guy had been coming and going from my apartment for a while now. Damn him, he
must still have the key.
And it's been so much harder to just... be... since I heard that. It was hard
before, but at least I could still function somewhat. Now, I sit around and
stare at nothing. Scully thinks I've finally lost it. She pokes me and prods me
and all I can say is, "I'm fine." And stare some more. I do my work,
eventually, but it just doesn't interest me like it used to.
Running my fingers slowly over the smooth surface of the leather, I imagine his
taut body stretched over the couch, his eyes squeezed shut while he imagines
me, touching himself as if it were me. I whimper. The smell and my vision of
him is making me hard. I unzip my pants, and I as I touch myself, I try to think
it's him. But my mind is not cooperating—mental pictures just aren't enough
anymore. I move my hand frantically along the length of my cock but it's not
working. I need him to take me over the edge.
I cry out and curl into a tight ball on the couch, wrapping myself in his smell.
I'm frustrated and tired and angry and sad. I inch my hand under a cushion and
pull out his tee shirt—the only thing I have left of him. It's just an
undershirt—dingy, sweat-stained, and ripped at the neck, but I just can't get
rid of it. I tuck it under my chin, imagining that instead of the soft cotton
against my neck, it's his hair. I sob, quietly, for a few minutes, feeling sorry
for myself, then I sniff and absently wipe the moisture from my face on the
shirt.
When he came here that first night, he seduced me. Not like it was that
difficult, but... he initiated it all. After he kissed me, leaving me panting
and wanting more, he backed away from me, his eyes dancing, and said, "I can take
you there, Mulder. You know I can." I barely heard him through the lust haze
that had surrounded me, but at the time it seemed like a dare. A threat. And I
was never one to not take a dare. I had to. That was all it took and I was gone.
I couldn't get enough after that. And now I realize—he was just stating the
truth. God, the truth. He's the only person that can take me to that edge.
He's the only one who can touch me now.
I'm waging a war in my mind—it's me against me. I'm trying to hold on to what
I believe, and I'm struggling to find room in my life for what I really want.
All my thoughts are broken, fragments that I'm trying desperately to piece back
together. And I'm ashamed—for what I'm feeling, for what I want, for how I
turned him away. Does Alex feel the same? Does he have a place in my life? Can
I make one for him? Do I have it in me to do that? In my mind, I can see it
all. How good we could be together. But in reality, could it work? When I
turned him away, I'd already blindly decided that it couldn't—but now, I can't
decide so easily if the possibilities are worth the risks. I just know what I'm
feeling and what I want. As I lie here, letting the night pass me by, the hours
ticking away, a clear picture forms from the pieces of my thoughts. I see him
and nothing else. And I know what my decision would be if I he came to me now.
Just as I'm drifting to sleep, at peace at last, I hear a quiet knock. I smile as
I stand up and walk to the door. I know who it is. And I'm ready.
Trust
by Susan
I walk into my apartment and immediately smell him. I don't know whether I'm
going crazy or if he's really been here or, God willing, he's still here. So I
ransack the place, looking for him. Or any trace that he was here. But I find
nothing. Except that unmistakable smell of him and sex hanging in the air.
