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Reply to Lucy

Posted to the Rareslash mailing list May 5, 2001

Title: "Fluid"
Author/pseudonym: Lucy
Fandom: The Forsaken.
Pairing: Sean/Nick.
Rating: R.
Status: New, complete.
Archive: Yes to CKoS.
E-mail address for feedback:
Series/Sequel: None.
Other website:
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Sean's thoughts about the state of the universe and bodily fluids.
Warnings: Not beta'd, not much of anything. Just my take on what might have happened after the end of the movie - and this urgent need I have to slash Kerr Smith with anyone and everyone.

        Fuck, it's cold in here.

        I want to wake him up and ask him how he can sleep on that cheap-ass motel-room mattress, that feels to me like a couple of packages of dental floss strung over a barbecue rack, but I already know how he does it. It's all part and parcel of the same reason he doesn't feel the cold in here, even though it's about sixty-five degrees and I'm freezing my ass off. He's lying in a pool of his own sweat over there, and that means only one thing: The virus is flaring up again.

        He looks like shit - not that he was anything to look at on a good day - and he thinks I haven't noticed that he's just about doubled his daily drug cocktail over the past couple of weeks. I haven't said anything, although his escalating self-medication scares the shit out of me, because - well, what am I going to say? I'm terrified he'll accidentally overdose, but it isn't like I can just take him into the nearest hospital and ask to see the chief resident in charge of blood-borne viruses. Not for this, anyway. And, he could be dead tomorrow. I could be dead tomorrow, for that matter. So what the fuck.

        I haven't said anything about the morphine, either, although I walked in on him injecting himself in the bathroom one night. Not enough to knock himself right out, but the buzz he was on afterwards was unmistakable - and I know the pain was never that bad for me, not even at my worst. If it's that bad for him now, I don't even want to think about what it's going to be like in the weeks and months to come. I don't even know if he has months.

        The clock is ticking. I can't get the fucking radiator to spew out anything but noise and lukewarm, recycled air - there isn't anything even remotely resembling heat in this room, except what's coming off his body, in that bed. The first time we fucked, it was what I noticed most about him - how fucking hot he was. It was just like there was this incredible surge of heat inside him, and I don't think it was because of the virus. I think it's just part of who he is.

        I should go back to bed. He's so out of it that me climbing in beside him isn't going to wake him, and maybe if I wrap him around me like an electric blanket I'll start to thaw a little bit of the pit of ice in my stomach. Hell, I could fuck him now and I wouldn't wake him, but I think he'd kill me if he woke up and found out what I was doing to him. It isn't like he fights me off when he's awake, but his focus is all about the fluids - the ice-water baths he uses to cool himself down, and the bottles of water that he chugs with the drugs, and the constant need to stop and piss it all away again. And then there's the blood. The blood scares the shit right out of him.

        I cut myself a couple of days ago - slammed my hand in a door and tore a little bit of skin off, and when I started sucking the wound he treated me like I had the fucking plague. It's a normal thing, a thing nobody'd ever think twice about doing, but to him it's everything, now. He's afraid of it, afraid of wanting it. For me, it's all about what I can't have - the come - wanting to know the real taste of him. I know I want it, and I know wanting it isn't the same for me as it is for him.

        I'm tired of worrying about stuff like that. He knows how I feel - how I want him to take just me, do it and infect me again, so he can stop playing the martyr role in this relationship. It doesn't have anything to do with me having a death wish, because I'm not completely fucked in the head, but the truth is that I don't know how long he's going to live, and I don't think I can do this on my own if he dies on my ass somewhere out here in the middle of nowhere. I know, if he turns, if the drugs stop working and the virus gets him once and for all, he's gonna ask me to kill him. And I know if he asked me to I would do it, because I know where he's been and I've seen where he's going. But he's also my tracking device, the only one who can find this godforsaken motherfucker so we can get rid of him. I feel his dreams about it like they're happening to me. That is my quest - to find the bastard who did this to my friend and make it stop. If, as a result, he also never does it to anyone else, that's just an afterthought, an added bonus. Right now, it's all about Nick, and me.

        And sure, there's also the fact that, for all of our fucking, we never really done it, because he's too afraid he'll contaminate me. I mean, we've fucked, but the virus is always between us, and it's never spontaneous, never thrown up against the wall and just taken, never like it could be. I want to bare-back him so bad, feel his cock in my ass with no condom and no lube except for his spit and my sweat, and I want to fuck him so hard and not have to pull out before I come. I want to leave a part of me inside him, too. But he won't let me, and I know why. He woke up one day to find me sucking his dick - with no rubber, no nothing, just my throat muscles squeezing his cock, doing it just because I wanted to. I seriously thought he was gonna blow my head off when he realized what was going on, and the five minutes he sat there with his finger on the trigger and that gun pointed right at me were the longest five minutes in my entire life. It took almost a week before he'd let me touch him again, and only then after I'd begged, pleaded, and promised I'd wear a whole box of condoms if he wanted me to. Now, even when we fuck he watches me the whole time like he doesn't trust me - and, to tell the truth, I don't really trust myself around him.

        The truth - the real truth - is that I just want to close my eyes and forget that I ever knew that anything like this ever existed in the world. I want to go back to being young and innocent and naive, worried about everything in my life except what was really important - stupid things like whether nor not I'd get laid on a semi-regular basis, whether I'd have enough rent money at the end of the month, whether or not I'd get fired from my job, for Christ's sake. I want to spend more than one night at a time in one of these shitholes, sleep in the same bed for two nights in a row, fuck on the same sheets until they're worn out. I want fucking to feel nothing but good again, not like it's the beginning of the end of the world. I want to stop running away, and I want to stop thinking about death like it's going to happen tomorrow, or the next day.

        I'm too young for all this shit, and he's so old I don't even know if he remembers how young he really is.

        It's too fucking cold in here, and slamming my hand again and again against this piece of shit radiator may be making me feel better - and warmer - but it's still going to hurt like hell in the morning. I need to go to bed, go to sleep, because it'll be light soon and we'll be back on the road, hunting this sick motherfucking vampire bastard down. I know what you're thinking - even if we get him, there are still others. There will always be others.

        You know what? I don't even care about the others. Just this one. This fucking one is enough for me.

        He wakes up when I get into bed. Next to him, I must feel like a block of ice, and he wraps around me to cool himself down, like I wrap around him to warm myself up. I'm half-hard against him and not even really thinking about that - not until he reaches around and starts to stroke my dick. I don't even really want him to, not because I'm not in the mood or because it doesn't feel good, but because I don't want him to have to stop, reach on the night-table for the condoms, and then do what we can do to each other. It isn't enough for me, you know, but I don't say anything. How do you say 'stop' to something when you don't really want it to stop? I want it to change, but wanting something doesn't make it real.

        I want to fall asleep inside him, but part of our 'protective measures' means that I have to get out of bed and clean myself up, and get rid of the condom. When I get back in bed, he's got his boxers on again, and I'm angry that I can't even hold him the way I want him to, with his naked body pressed up against mine - but I can't tell him that, because he'll think I'm angry at him, and not at the virus. I hate the fucking thing, hate it with a passion, but even it could never make me hate him.

        He keeps telling me this isn't my fight, but it really is - maybe mine even more than his, because I want to be able to watch him start living again, instead of watching him die, day by day. We're driving fast, following the trail of our killer, and seeing the country town by town, postcard by tacky postcard. I keep thinking that we should pick up souvenirs along the way, memories of this great adventure. We stopped at the Grand Canyon, of all places, and stood on the edge, and for a moment I thought of just grabbing his hand and jumping off, taking that final free-fall into oblivion. What I really want to do is go back, after we've found Nick's forsaken one and sent him on his merry way to hell, and toss the bag with all of his drugs in it into that great gaping hole in the earth. Then, I'll be happy just to stand there, with his hand in mine, and watch that fucker fall till it hits bottom.


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