Strumming My Pain

They're buried at the bottom of his jewelry case under hoops, rings, a leather collar or two, but they are there. He doesn't think about them often, doesn't pull them out to run his fingers over them except now and then. There are two of them.

The first is simple in its beauty, and made of silver that marked it as precious, hammered out. Semi-precious stones line the chain that holds it together, and he was told, often, what a precious family heirloom it was and that he wasn't to touch it until he'd cleaned his grubby fingers, and only then because it had been Kieran's wish that he have it, before his ungrateful demon-whore of a mother took him away from them all.

He generally leaves that one alone, but he won't give it away.

The other, he's more apt to pull out now and again. The arms aren't equi-distant, but of proper length, but a circle winds through them, and a lattice of knotwork runs up and across both the center and the arms. It had been lovingly carved in wood with such precise detail that you could almost see the man there, in the knots, though he blended in so well it was hard to be sure he was there. One thing was clear though, if you looked hard enough at the design. The dying man had delicate, butterfly wings. How he'd managed it with fingers knotted by arthritis and eyes going blind from cataracts, Devin had never known.

He had been five when the old man gave it to him, aching fingers ruffling Devin's hair and a sweet smile curving his lips. She'd scowled, and said it was sacrilege. He'd hushed her and squatted down beside Devin to show him the details, how he'd melded two worlds, two faiths, into one, for him. Like him.

There are two of them. One he keeps out of obligation to the man he never knew. The other, out of love, and when he pulls that one out from under the accoutrements of his life, he still finds himself murmuring the soft words of the prayer he learned sitting on those bony knees as its carved beads slide through his fingers.

Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir na mná agus is beannaithe toradh do bhroinne, Íosa. A Naomh-Mhuire, a Mháthair Dé, guigh orainn na peacaigh,anois agus ar uair ár mbáis.*


*Translation: Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

It galled him to be treated so, twisting his stomach into knots of bitterness. It was all well and good to joke about them all being five. It was all well and good to ruffle his hair and joke about him being a child compared to the others. But the truth of the matter was that he wasn't a child. Perhaps he wasn't thousands of years old, but he had nearly 150 years under his belt and despite hardships that had sometimes seemed overwhelming, he hadn't been overwhelmed. He was still here, and that said something in and of itself. He'd survived more than the Watcher. Far more than the actress or the mechanic. Perhaps not as much as the prince and princess, but really, what had Fergus gone through trial and tribulation wise besides having to take care of his Prince? The assassin...he could relate to, well, even if she had a century or two on him. They didn't treat her like a child, even when she sobbed about her baby being evil because of her father's blood or whatever.

With him, they fretted about balconies and they fretted about drugs and they acted like there was no way he was going to make it without careful watching. But where were they when he stood sobbing on the edge of a cliff screaming into the wind about what he'd done to Eileen? Where were they when Wilde had given him opium for the first time and he'd thought he saw her ghost mocking him for what he'd become? Where were they when he'd tried to cut the demon out and nearly found out whether he could heal before he bled to death? Well, all right, he'd been there then to sigh and patch him up and utter some seemingly profound nonsense about living and growing stronger and fighting another day. But they had not been. Not been born, not been twinkles in their grandparent's eyes, their great-grandparent's eyes even.

Just because they had categorized him as one of "them" and fine, they were probably right about that, did not mean that they got to treat him like an incompetent baby. Yell at him. Tell him he was being an idiot. Call him out on things. Be afraid for him. Of him. Any of those things, he could accept. But they'd reduced him to less than, or he'd allowed himself to be reduced to it, he wasn't sure which, but they both made him furious.

He didn't know when it had happened beyond the fact that it had always felt a bit like she was indulging him. A curiosity, and then perhaps a new pet. A new shiny. He'd let himself be that, because it was a convenient way to get what he needed, but it had gone beyond that now. He was not a glass doll destined to shatter without their tender mercies. He'd been doing quite fine, in point of fact, before they came along. He'd been happy, and if that happiness was a pale shadow of emotion compared to what he felt around Warren, no matter. He wasn't thinking of regret, or of wanting things back as they were. He wouldn't give up Warren even if it meant being free of their condescension. But, by the goddess, they needed to learn or remember what he was.

Devin sighed, kicking the chair hard enough to send it flying across the room. He was confused. He didn't understand how a real relationship would work. He was terrified Warren would leave, especially as he kept insisting he was straight. He was disappointed his fantasy, the one bloody thing he'd plotted and planned for and turned down a god for got cut short because of someone had to be sensible, and then they tried to orchestrate something else to ease him out of a sulk as if it were the act itself that mattered. All right. Perhaps disappointed was an understatement for pissed off. But it wasn't...gods. Running off and fucking in some other dressing room would not make the disappointment of Warren choosing to cut the first time short go away. He knew that, why didn't they? You lived with it, you accepted that things rarely turn out the way you think they will in fantasies, which is the danger of acting them out, and you can never get the first time back. If you were disappointed for a little while about that fact, sad even, perhaps, it was not the end of the world. You did not just try and re-do it, you didn't force it. You let it ease and you moved on. But sometimes it took time and that you needed that time did not make you a child. It made you, and he shuddered mentally at the thought, at least partly human.

He hated that his issue, and he knew it was his issue and it was his to get over, was transmitting to Warren, because it wasn't Warren's fault that he couldn't come out and say what was bothering him. And it wasn't Warren treating him like a child, not really. It wasn't even Warren's fault that he was disappointed. He hadn't told him how much it meant, to have something be a first time for both of them when so few things were for him after so long. He hadn't told him that he'd wanted it to be something more...mutual. Something more than Devin getting Warren off. It wasn't about the reciprocity, as Warren had reciprocated within, hell, a half hour. It had been about that...there...the two of them flushed and clinging in the space where they shouldn't have been, glowing when they came out, and...he didn't even know exactly. Just that yes. He'd never blown anyone in a dressing room before, and Warren had never been blown in one, so there. Fine. They'd had a first together. It just wasn't what he'd...had in mind, he supposed. But it was HIS to work out because he hadn't bothered to tell Warren what he'd had in mind. If he'd told him, he had no doubt Warren would have found a way to make it so, because Warren was not selfish and Warren wanted to make him as happy as he wanted to make Warren. So it was all his fault that he felt this way and HE had to get over it, not them, not Warren. And he didn't need to be babied about it. He needed to learn the lesson to speak up about what he wanted instead of just focusing on his partner. He needed to learn the lesson to ask if something was important to him instead of just assuming that Warren would pick up on the non-verbals.

And besides, Warren had his own issues to deal with about responsibility and being the good boy versus bad boy and not seeing that the world didn't really work that way outside of his upbringing in a world divided into hero, villain or sidekick. There was no middle ground in hero-land. Warren had been regarded as a freak because Alma fell in love with Baron Battle and had a son with him. How could a hero love a villain? Because outside the realm of the black and white thinking of the denizens of Sky High, the world didn't work that way. Baron Battle likely had good qualities in there. He loved his wife, his son. And Stronghold was a fucking idiot, so, there's your proof "good" isn't all good. But that was something he hoped to show Warren. That there were shades out there. That he could cut loose, be a little wicked without worrying that he was suddenly going to want to take over the world. That an admonishment from a store clerk or a police officer for public indecency was something to giggle over later and not the end of the world. That it didn't mean you were wicked and irredeemable. But how do you convey all that with a pout and a desperate kiss? That he wasn't used to asking for things wasn't Warren's fault. That it went against his very nature to ask for something when his partner seemed reluctant about wasn't Warren's fault. He...that reluctance would shut him up every time because it went against all he was to try and do something when someone was uncomfortable with it. Their discomfort translated to him, and made him uncomfortable and it was all a wash anyway.

But the being treated like a child after... The being forced...he hated that just as much. It was his fault that it wasn't spontaneous, and now he'd upset Warren by being reluctant. And maybe it was childish to not want to just find the nearest dressing room and try again when the disappointment was so sharp, but the memory of the ache of the disappointment could taint this one, too. Already had, and if he did explain it to Warren, Warren would blame himself, and it wasn't his fault, so that meant Devin needed to stay quiet about it. Because really, what could he say? "I don't want to have sex in the next dressing room we see because in my head it was all built up with the leather one and the smell of leather surrounding us and in the room and pressing into our skin and we had to buy a pair because we might have stained them, but they'd always be there as the memory of the pants we'd just pulled down recklessly because we couldn't wait to have each other until we were somewhere private, and I need some time to come down from that disappointment or the next dressing room with bathrobes in a department store with the smell of perfumes and makeup and the discussion of a father and his two year old in the next room is just going to seem off after the fantasy I'd built up for this morning." How could he say that to Warren? Make him think he'd done something wrong and that Devin hadn't enjoyed what they had done? Make him feel like he'd been selfish? No. He wouldn't. But he didn't know how to get around the second disappointment that such an encounter would bring, forever sealing and ruining the damn fantasy in his head. But simple reluctance had caused a near fight and now no one knew what was going on and Warren thought he'd done something wrong and he hadn't.

He'd slipped off tangent of the rant in his head. Children. Treating him like a child. That he felt all of this didn't make him a child to be coddled and fixed. There was nothing broken to be fixed, not here, not in this. And what was broken in him, what they could fix...didn't make him a child. It made him broken because of things done and said when he was a child. Because of things he'd gone through that left him battered and bruised. Because of walls he'd built that Warren was tearing down and leaving shattered around him and he wasn't sure how to be without the walls. That meant he was learning, that he was doing something new, that he wasn't as confident as he was in other areas, but it didn't mean he was a child. It didn't mean he couldn't take care of himself or that he couldn't take care of Warren.

He didn't know what, yet, or how, but something had to change. His eyes were far icier than they normally were when he glided out of the room.

The first couple of days had been like in a dream of pure joy. He still had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't actually dreaming, that it all was real. That more than just the fact that Warren was with him, that Warren loved him. That he ... even in his head he stumbled over the word, but he managed it...loved Warren.

There was fear there, too. Always fear, of what he could do. Of what he'd done before. That Warren would wake up one day and realize just who and what he was in bed with. That Warren didn't know the worst of it. The lives he'd taken knowingly. Purposefully.

That the full knowledge of him would burst the bubble of happiness they were floating in.

He pulled on his leather pants and shrugged into his silk shirt. Earring in, just one, shirt half unbuttoned. He added a touch of eyeliner, something to draw eyes to his. Nothing too elaborate. Nothing like what he'd paraded around in the years of Glam. But a touch. He was tousling his hair, adding in gel when his cell rang.

He glanced at the number and sighed. He almost didn't answer, but he finally did. He wondered how she'd known he was in town.

"Brenda."

"Devin, darling," her voice was always so chipper and yet refined. "You naughty boy, you didn't call and tell me you were in town."

( Read more... )

He wouldn't cry. It was a useless endeavor. Nothing had changed, not really. Warren loved the girl whether he was with her or not. He'd done his best to convince the boy he wasn't a danger to everyone who loved him, and if the parallels cut a little too tightly he wouldn't let it show. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Something.

He wouldn't cry. He'd shed tears over her. Shed tears over her as well. And over him, they'd already fallen, more than he would let anyone know, though Fergus had held him through some of them. He could say they were for something else. Say they were from frustration. Exhaustion. Wanting to go. Needing to go. Needing to stay.

He wouldn't cry. He didn't have it in him. This cold emptiness didn't lend itself to tears. He wanted to be warm again, but he couldn't reach into the warmth, fall into it. Into him. The whiskey just made it worse. Sent him spiraling down until he was as afraid as they had been that the balcony would be too tempting. He didn't need that. He couldn't do that to him.

He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't spend his time drunk. He had other options. Make the pain go away. Make him warm. There were pretty girls. Pretty boys. Two at a time. Three. Brief respite from the cold. And when that wore off, and the loneliness crashed over him again, there was his box.

He wouldn't cry. He needed him to be strong. To be there for him, and he'd never done that for anyone. He felt himself crumbling, unsure what was needed. The white powder hit his system hard and fast. Things weren't so cold and he could focus and he felt the troubles ease off just enough to let him be what he needed to be.

He wouldn't cry. He'd fly instead and try and hold off the crash for as long as possible.

I adored my mother and she me (I still do, though I stay away) but she was always flitting off after a new artist or musician or poet (it's her nature, can't fight it, we've talked about this) leaving me with his mother (my grandmother) who spoke of tainted blood (tried to drown me in Holy Water to drive the evil out of me). The brief visits just made the longer intervals without her darker, more frightening (winter and spring with nothing in between). I wasn't evil, she'd soothe, but the woman raising me said differently. (Spawn of a demon, no way to be saved) I tried very hard to believe Mother, but it grew harder and harder until she came. (Just like her, going to destroy everything good)

I remember her hair and her warm summer smile, I remember caressing so tender and mild

It was Beltane (sinful pagan nonsense) when she chose me (she chose me), pulling me to dance around the fire, flowers in her hair. She smelled of warm grass and the fresh flowers from her beloved woods, and I always associate the smell of a meadow with her. (Can't go in the woods, no matter what blood demands) Moss and flowers, a bower in her woods, my woods, our woods, was our marriage bed. I don't remember the cold (she drove it away). I'd never and neither had she and yet we managed, laughing some at the awkwardness. She moaned when I touched her, cried out when I surged inside, cries of pleasure that filled me with energy (so much energy, like nothing I'd ever felt) spiraling me higher into the night's air. She slept after (she slept for so long) and I watched her, smiling, tracing fingertips over her skin. It was their place to meet. Her parents wouldn't approve. (I was cursed, demon-spawn, so said my grandmother, who should know). I spoke of rings, but she just smiled and said there was time for that later (we had all the time in the world). But we were safe there, wrapped up in each other, clinging. Nothing but us. Even when she started to get pale, circles forming under her eyes, she still came (she was so thin). She said I made her feel well. She slept longer and longer, but she always smiled when she woke, warming me inside, until she didn't.

So much pleasure she screamed, marking me, nails shredding my skin as she shook, kissing me again and again. I felt her pass through me, into me, seeping into each pore and filling me with her, though I knew it should be the other way around, wrapping me in herself, safe and warm and home. My lips moved over salt slick skin in the glow after, nuzzling at her neck, fingers stroking over her chest. She buzzed in my head, and I felt drunk, sated, like I could do anything. I laughed down at her, nipping her neck. It was no time to sleep. But she didn't move (not a breath, not a sound). No soft moans. No murmur of my name, sleepy with a laughing protest. I shook her (I shook). She was limp in my arms (with a smile on her lips). Screams (not like hers) met with silence. Pleas (god, yes, no, please, now, again, more, enough) with no response.

Not safe. Nowhere safe. (I wasn't safe) Too much love and her heart gave out, (It should have gone on forever) the flicker of summer's glow extinguished as the leaves turned and the ground froze around her, locking her away from the sun (locking the sun away from me).

I ran (kept running), came back (who says you can't go home?), ran (all that you can't leave behind), until I didn't remember what I was running from (only from ghosts, or maybe myself). No more summer sun (just the heat of hell), icy heart (frozen inside, without your touch, without your love) a shrine to a dead girl, though I barely remember her name now (it was Eileen).

But around her grave I wander drear,
Sometimes in early morn,
And with breaking heart sometimes I hear,
The wind that shakes the corn.

I don't remember what safe feels like.

(It feels like summer)

They were his favorite pants. Cliché perhaps, no not perhaps. Definitely cliché. The bad boy rocker in his black leather pants. But it wasn't for the cliché that he loved them. It wasn't for the looks it got him, the hands reaching to touch, the heated rise in the room that was heady. The black silk shirt did that well enough, just enough unbuttoned to make them want to take it further.

Calculated seduction.

But the leather he wore even when he wasn't performing or prowling. He wore it in the privacy of whatever room he'd claimed as his for the night, the week, however long his stay in one place was. He wore them out to the forest, to the desert, to anywhere he went by himself. He thought it had all started as part of the image. He'd fit into their expectations of what he should wear, in order to better pull them into what he needed. But somewhere along the way they'd moved beyond that to become part of him. A second skin. One tougher, more resilient than the one he felt thrust into most days.

Soft, sensual to the touch, but a barrier to anyone getting too close, there in his mind even when he stripped them off and tossed them over a chair. Part of him, more than part of the persona. Armor in their own way. A reminder.

He zipped them up carefully and tossed a smile at the sleeping girl amid the rumpled sheets, then slipped out of the room and retreated back to his hotel.

It's such a simple thing, a touch of lips to lips. A promise, a breath. A moment where things could change, will change, even if they just falter and collapse.

Lips meet, slide against each other. Heat and friction.

He doesn't mean for it to be more. Just a taste, a frisson of energy along his spine.

But then she moans and he can't help it when his lips part hers, when his tongue coaxes hers to play.

A gasp, drawn out, and then a more visceral sound. Kisses move over skin bared by fingers practiced in the task.

Lips freed from the constraints of others on them, open to cry out, to gasp.

He meets them again, and she shivers, cries out, and then falls silent.

He kisses her again, trying to coax a response. That's what happens isn't it? A kiss to wake the sleeping princess? Even he has heard the stories.

But she doesn't wake up.