Chapter Twenty-Three
“Him”
By Trevel Fenwick
Counting breaths, and the thumps buried beneath muscle and skin soft like velvet.
Each represents a moment of afterglow I’m basking in.
Could this be a dream? I’ll accept death over waking from it.
Sated, I lie in wait, and watch, and breathe. Gazing, enchanted.
Bound by the way he looks, and our beats like a mirror.
Slowed, we are calm now. Nourished, we’ve been fed. Cool water to the scorching tongue.
The way we moved was a wicked dance. A tango of muscle strain and primal chase. Searing licks of flames laid in the wake of greedy fingertips.
My temple offered as his sanctuary, on a silver platter of tangled sheets. We were consumed, from deep inside. A stretch, a burn. Push, pull. Cry.
Come.
Magic made in a bed of truths set free. On the outside, and within… I see. I feel, everywhere. I fall prisoner to that body and those eyes and this draw, while the tempo of my heart echoes but one word…
Him. Him. Him.
Him.
T here’s this phrase I heard once, from a colleague of mine when I was a teen working on the street.
I always worked alone, but I was aware that many of the kids my age were under the wing of someone— or an organization of someones . A union of sorts, I suppose… Still, I knew better than to ask questions, or get involved.
You tend to look out for one another on the streets; a bond formed in similar circumstances. To this day, I consider those kids the only real friends I’ve ever had, despite barely knowing anything about them.
One of them, a boy who went by Stitch, used to say this thing… “Check yourself before you wreck yourself.”
At the time, I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew I liked it, mainly because it rhymed.
Rhyming has always entertained me, hence my love of poetry— and no, poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme, but it’s fun when it does.
I like music with rhyming lyrics, rhyming jokes and limericks.
I remember loving the Mother Goose stories as a child.
Anyway, I was thoroughly entertained by Stitch’s words of rhyming wisdom. And it didn’t take much thought to figure out the premise…
Check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Stop and think about what you’re about to do, lest your actions become your ultimate undoing.
Over the years, this advice has popped into my head many times.
I’m a reckless person, always have been.
It’s rather difficult for me to see consequence as a reason not to do something, and I’m quite stubborn.
Once my heart is set, it’s virtually impossible to talk myself out of it, no matter how glaringly obvious the inevitable downfall.
So you see, whether or not I check myself… I still manage to wreck myself.
Right now is one of those moments.
Without a doubt, I should slow down and think about what I’m getting myself into before I wind up destroying myself, or more than likely someone else. But I just love the feeling of diving in headfirst, far too much to worry that there are jagged rocks beneath the surface.
Last night with Byron was single-handedly the best experience of my entire life, and that’s not an exaggeration. Good stuff has been in short supply in my life…
There are no words to adequately describe what occurred.
Here I’d thought I was dreaming; having one of those vivid unconscious dalliances I experience often, wherein my terrible memories merge with my deepest desires, and I wake up sweaty and sticky and flustered.
But as it would happen, I was actually being fucked by my hot newly-out bisexual friend I’ve been obsessing over since my arrival in the Pen.
Byron Kang fucked me in my sleep and was apparently so hungry for more that he immediately climbed onto my cock and humped the living daylights out of me. That’s right. I got to be the first person he’s ever come out to, and I took his bottom virginity! In the same night!
Check myself? After that??
No, sir. I’ll be accepting every single bit of this wreckage, thank you very much.
I expected Byron to pull his usual denial act— that whole, “ I’m not gay, it just feels good ” rigamarole.
But on the contrary! He’s good. A bit quiet, sure, but that’s his default setting.
Much less hostile and skittish than after the mattress-hole blowjob.
In fact, the only thing he seemed worried about was penetrating me while I was unconscious.
Naturally, I shut it down posthaste.
“Byron, there aren’t many things you could do to me with your dick that would upset me,” I told him while we drifted last night. “If anything, I’m mad I didn’t get to fully experience getting that dick for the first time. Being that I was asleep and all.”
He grinned with his eyes closed, face nestling into the crook of my neck. My heart felt like a hot-air balloon.
“Well, then… I guess we’ll just have to do it again when you’re awake, won’t we?” He said with sleepy movements and kisses on my pulse.
I was prepared to drag my reluctant self back up to my own bed. But then he whispered, “You can stay… if you want.”
I know. I’m fucking doomed.
Usually, Leo reminds me to check myself before I wreck myself .
He’s the voice of reason in situations like these, where I find myself ready to throw all caution to the wind in a way that could potentially ruin lives.
Then again, he also disappears during my most trying times, further proof that he’s a manifestation of my inner responsible voice.
I’m an impulsive, self-destructive lunatic when he’s not around, which is why I don’t stand a chance of playing it safe here. When it comes to Byron, I have zero bloody chill.
No clue where it’s gone, but it must be far away.
I like Byron too much, and it’s beginning to feel reminiscent of Alice…
There’s just so much about him that draws me in. Yes, his emotional makeup may be a bit wonky, but when he’s being honest, he’s actually rather emotionally stable. Just like Alice. He’s broken, but not more broken than me. That’s my sweet spot.
Depression is sexy, especially on Byron. And past trauma? Rawr.
There’s something so irresistible about a hot boy with baggage.
Something about him has been calling out to me since the moment we locked eyes in the showers. He makes me feel like a Leo , and I both love it and fear it.
What are the chances I don’t screw this up?
Rhetorical.
Waking up in Byron’s bed isn’t new, since apparently my sleep issues have been bringing me down here almost every night, one way or another. But this time is different. Because this time , he doesn’t seem appalled by me being here. Since he invited me and all.
“Good morning,” I say to his back as my eyes flutter open, but he doesn’t respond. Stretching out my sore muscles, I hum, “Fucking hell… Did last night really happen?”
Byron is still quiet, and it puts me into an abrupt and immediate tailspin of dread. Grabbing his arm, a gust of relief breaks from my lips.
He’s warm. Thank God.
Rolling over, he faces me, his drowsy expression inquisitive. “What’s wrong?”
“You weren’t answering…” I mutter, swallowing the lump of bad memories in my throat. “And I just… I thought…”
His brows lift, and I sigh, “Never mind. Sorry…”
I know I could tell Byron about Alice. Easily. In fact, he’d probably be the best person to tell, about all of it. He’s so calm and nonjudgmental.
But I can’t. Whether I can see him or not, Leo is still technically here, within the walls of my fearfully marred mind. And I can’t ignore the truth behind his precautionary advice.
There are certain things about you that no one will ever understand, Trevel. It’s best to keep those things to yourself. Because when you’re vulnerable with people, someone always ends up getting hurt.
There’s a curse on your heart; like Pandora’s box. The only way to protect yourself and those around you is to never, ever open it up.
“You thought what?” Byron asks, interested, and much less prying than I was with him, which makes me feel like a real knob.
Forcing a gentle smile to ease his mind—and hopefully change the subject—I brush my thumb along his perfectly angled jawline. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. After last night…”
I think it’s worked. Because his eyes widen, indicating that his attention is refocused on our sexcapades.
“I feel alright,” he murmurs, chewing on his lower lip. “I’m not sure if that means I am alright…”
“Well, that’s better than feeling not alright,” I hum. “Don’t you think?”
He stares at me for a moment, dark eyes softening as his lips twitch. “Definitely.”
Without another word, Byron scrambles out of bed.
There are so many things I want to say to him; questions I want to ask, words I want to speak and hear in return.
But I’m distracted from all of it by the sight of his naked body strutting around the cell.
Hard slopes and contours of muscle draped in creamy skin I could eat like butterscotch— my hands-down favorite ice cream topping, by the way —adorned with splashes of black ink that give him just the right amount of edge.
It’s remarkable to see something so physically stunning surrounded by rot and decay. Like a flower, sprouting up between a crack in the weathered pavement.
I mean, look at his ass… Look at it! All high and round, with those dips in the sides… He must do a lot of squats.
I still can’t believe I got to creampie that booty last night. Best DNA swap ever.
Byron grabs his pants and hops into them quickly, much to my dismay.
He seems a bit dodgy, which is to be expected.
This is new for him, I suppose—not just the bottoming, but admitting that he’s having sex with a man because he wants to, rather than pretending it’s out of prison boredom.
Just because we crossed another line, I don’t for one second think he’s going to abandon his aloofness.