Chapter Text
Reno squirms in the seat. He’s been in this seat many times over the past few months, and it never gets any easier. It’s not necessarily that this therapy is work mandated, or that his stoic boss knows he’s here, or even that he’s seeing a specialized sex therapist. It’s that he’s been sitting in this chair, once a week for an hour for three months, and nothing has improved. Nothing has made a difference. Sometimes, he wonders if he’s getting worse.
Last night, at the bar with his colleagues, a man had placed his hand on Reno’s thigh as an opening move — rather than, you know, “saying hello and introducing himself” — and Reno had nearly broken the guy’s arm.
Reno doesn’t like to be touched. He doesn’t even like to touch himself. And the more he talks about it, the more self conscious he is about how fucked up his teenage years on the streets made him.
His therapist isn’t cold, but she struggles to get to the root of Reno’s issues. He doesn’t like to talk about them. He’s brought it up once or twice: what he did, for how long, what kind of clientele, how much he charged, what kinds of drugs he’d take to get through some nights. But after volunteering up one piece of information, he’d close up. Always something new, and never the ability to genuinely talk about it. The therapist knows he’s struggling; she’s mostly good at hiding the pity, but Reno can sense it. She’s touched his shoulder and he flinched more than was warranted.
And the latest infraction at the bar was putting Reno in a very compromising position at work.
“I know that we can make more progress, Reno,” the therapist is saying, and Reno’s trying to pay attention as he picks at his nails. “But there is something that might help you more than I can, in cases as…understandably difficult as yours is.”
Reno looks up, trying not to look indignant. “What, you callin’ me busted?” he sneers, since the self deprecation is one of the few ways he keeps himself afloat.
“You have trauma that we can work through, but I don’t think that that alone will help you with your physical responses. I have a colleague that is more capable of helping you work through the issues you’re having regarding touch.” Reno’s eyebrow jumps up. “You’d still be seeing me once a week,” she continues, “but you’d be adding this additional appointment in. Separate from me.”
“What exactly are you talking about?” Reno asks bluntly.
The therapist stands up and goes to her desk; she opens a side drawer, digs around and pulls out a business card. She puts it on Reno’s arm rest, and then returns to her chair. “He’s a surrogate partner. A professional at handling intimacy issues, if you will. He can help you regain some trust about touch, even if it’s just being able to have someone clap you on the back.”
Reno stares at the business card. He wants to recoil from it — it seems like something very sleazy, or worse, very weird. He reads the text with a wrinkled nose. Rudolfo González, Licensed Surrogate Partner. There’s a phone number and an email address. It’s a simple card, but elegant. Expensive paper. Embossed border. “Feel like I’m holdin’ a high class escort’s card here, doc,” Reno says, his voice fluttering with discomfort.
“I can assure you, Rude is not that kind of man. It’s not unheard of for a surrogate partner to help someone with the more extreme physical issues, but he has a way of helping men and women alike to feel more comfortable with basic, platonic touch.”
“Rude,” Reno says, tasting the name and still grimacing. “Are you making me do this?”
The therapist looks at him with an even gaze. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Reno.”
“Other than come here once a week,” he mutters.
“I think we can help you. Together,” she says.
Reno picks up the card with his index and middle finger, sighs at it, and flicks it into his jacket. “Whatever. What were we talking about?”
She smiles at him and opens her notebook, and Reno tries not to think about the card burning a hole in his pocket.
* * *
Reno sits on his couch and stares at his hands. The cellphone in one, the business card in the other. He exhales. This is so stupid. What if this guy is some creepy old man who pulls a ‘caring grandpa’ routine? What if this guy is some eccentric, flamboyant guy who pushes him too hard? What if this sets him back even further?
The business card quakes in his hand and he puts both down on his coffee table with an angry sigh. He wanders to the small buffet bar at the side of his living room and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. He takes one long sip and sighs. “You can do this,” he says, as though he actually wants to.
He… He does kind of want to, though. What if the guy is nice? What if he’s just a chill guy that Reno could feel comfortable around? He imagines sitting on a couch next to someone and touching knees, and he swoons despite himself. “Shit, you have to do this,” he tells himself. That fantasy on its own was too depressing for him to not make an effort.
He finishes the drink, plops back down on his couch. Unbuttons his stuffy dress shirt down to his belly button. Slides a hand through the messy spikes of his red hair. Picks up the phone. Exhales.
Dials.
The phone rings twice, and Reno almost hangs up when someone answers. “Rude speaking.”
Reno swallows his tongue. Or something like it. He croaks.
“Did Dr. G give you my card?” Rude asks.
“Yes. S-sorry. Uh… I’m, she gave me your card, yeah. And uh.”
Rude’s voice is even-tempered, like he’s had this awkward phone conversation a hundred times. Hell, he probably has. “You’re curious about my services as a surrogate partner, then?”
Reno shuts his eyes. “Uh. Yeah.”
“What’s your name? Can I ask?”
Reno exhales and it turns into a laugh. He gets the urge to tease the man, and forces himself to be good. At least over the phone. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s um. It’s Reno Miska. And… Yeah, the doc. She uh, suggested you might be able to help me with uh… Touch.”
There’s a long pause, and Reno feels the awkwardness start to fold on him. Then Rude clears his throat. “Reno… Sorry. Was getting a pen. Mishka?”
Reno repeats his name. “What exactly do you, um…”
“What I do is separate from what Dr. G can do for you,” Rude begins. It’s a practiced spiel, and Reno tries not to be embarrassed and focus on listening. “Your traditional therapy is there to help you root out the causes of your discomforts to help you confront those issues. Someone like me is there for a more hands-on, direct approach. A lot of what I do involves just getting people used to hugging.” He gives a soft laugh, and even though it’s short, it’s warm. “On rare occasions it can go into helping people with sexual trauma, but we can work out what helps you the most.”
Reno’s mouth works. Helping people with sexual trauma. He shifts uncomfortably on his couch. “I almost broke a guy’s arm,” he blurts out. He scrunches his eyes closed. “Cause he touched me out of nowhere.”
Rude hums. “I can assure you, I would never touch you out of nowhere. Everything I do will be fully negotiated, with your consent. None of what we do is your therapist’s business, though I will keep in contact with her to help monitor your progress. And if you can’t handle being touched for a while, that’s fine, too. We can just talk until you feel comfortable enough for more. And if you don’t, then we can cancel my services. Forcing you to be comfortable with me is out of the question.”
Reno smirks despite himself. “You get a lot of people who can’t stand to touch you?”
Rude chuckles. “It’s happened once or twice. No one’s feelings are hurt over it.”
“How uh…” Reno clears his throat. “How far do you, uh…”
“It depends on the client,” Rude says matter-of-factly. “Everything that happens is your choice. I’m just there to push a little. Coach a bit.”
Reno swallows. “How uh… How do you… Where would we…”
“Also up to you,” Rude says. “If you’d prefer I come to your home, where you feel most comfortable, we can work something out. But I have a safe, private and comfortable office, and, I gotta admit, a real nice sofa.” The smile is audible in his words.
Reno balks at the idea of this guy knowing where he lives. “So it’s just a regular office building?”
“Yes. You’d come over for an initial consultation, we can discuss what you’re looking for out of a surrogate partner. We can set a schedule, and move on from there.”
Reno’s face feels hot. This is… Humiliating. “This is all confidential, right?” he croaks.
Rude doesn’t laugh. “Of course. The same privilege your therapist has with you, I’ll have with you. I would never tell Dr. G what transpires, only if you seem to be improving or struggling in a particular area.”
Reno’s head falls back on his couch. “So… When..?”
Rude makes a soft affirmative noise. “Great. Ah…” He lists off a time and a date, and Reno accepts it. They say their goodbyes, and Reno hangs up. The business card is crumpled and sweaty in his hand, and he laughs.
“This is so stupid,” he says again. He decides he’s earned another drink.
* * *
Reno stares at the door. It’s an office building full of a myriad of different offices: a mortgage office, a temp agency, a dermatologist, and several specialists. Their title cards on the wall simply have a full name. No business name. He swallows and finds Rude’s office. Third floor. Second door. There’s a sign: Please knock!
Reno exhales nervously and knocks on the door. He came directly after work: he’s still dressed in his black suit and tie, tight dress shirt. He at least took his ear piece out and shades off so he doesn’t look as obviously…well… shady.
When the door opens, Reno is hit with a sense of desire to turn tail and run. The man in front of him is tall and broad and tan skinned, and he’d assume it’s muscles he’s hiding but it’s hard to tell because he’s in a big blue sweater. It looks soft. He’s bald — shaved, probably — with a finely manicured beard. His eyes are golden brown and disarmingly soft. Reno can’t look him in the eye.
“Mr. Miska?” Rude asks, and Reno nods dumbly. “Come in.”
It’s strange inside, like an apartment that had been rearranged to have a large lobby instead of a kitchen. The lobby is more of a living room, with the aforementioned nice couch, a loveseat and two arm chairs. There’s high pile rugs in burgundy tones, soft blankets thrown over the back of each seat. There’s unusual modern art that looks local and bohemian, and a smattering of statuettes that have a vaguely sexual theme. There’s a few bookcases, and further still wooden cabinets with expensive finishes. The whole place smells fresh and slightly masculine, rather than the oddly sterile smell his therapist’s place smells like, like there’s a post-appointment Lysol ritual. There’s two other doors, both dark brown wood veneer; one is open, and it’s a light-filled bathroom. The other is a mystery.
“Please,” Rude says, and gestures him towards the couch. “Sit. Can I get you a water?”
No, Reno thinks instinctively, and then he can’t help but feel his mouth instantly dry up. “Sure,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as dry as he feels.
Rude gets him a water bottle as Reno sinks down into the couch. Rude gets himself a water and sits on the opposite end. There’s a good six feet of space between them — it’s a big couch — and Reno still feels an itch of discomfort. Jesus, he’s got it bad. He has a feeling this isn’t gonna work out. Doesn’t even want to sit in the same room as another man.
“I spoke with Dr. G, but she didn’t tell me much, as she shouldn’t,” Rude says, gesturing with his water. “And basically said you just… Don’t like to be touched.”
“There’s a lot more than that,” Reno says with a wry laugh, and cracks open the plastic lid. He takes a short drink. “I uh… Jesus. I guess I could just tell you. The uh, the blunt parts.”
Rude frowns a bit. “Whatever you’re comfortable with—”
“I used to be a hooker,” Reno says, and it gets quiet. He sighs. “Sorry. I uh— I didn’t have a great childhood. So. I survived by turning tricks. And a lot of shitty shit happened to me, and now I don’t…” He presses his lips together and feels his eyes sting in embarrassment. Christ, he thought he wasn’t going to have to go through this again with another human being after his therapist, but here he was again. “Nowadays I can’t even get off and I don’t… Let people touch me.”
Rude is quiet for a moment; Reno assumes he’s waiting for him to finish. Reno feels finished. He takes a bigger drink of the water. “That’s why she sent me over. I’ve been in therapy with her for months and uh… It’s doin’ jack squat.”
Rude turns to face him, one leg curled under him. He looks so relaxed that Reno almost resents it. “What would you like out of this, Reno?”
“Honestly?” Reno asks, and gives a sad laugh. “I don’t wanna lose my job because I freak out on uh… anyone. And I’d really like to cum.” The words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to stop it, but what’s the point in lying? He’s seeing a sex therapist and now a sexy therapist—well, or something like it. “I mean, not just that. I want to be able to uh… Date.”
Rude’s eyebrows move up in question, his hands spreading. “What does that entail?”
Reno lets out an embarrassed huff. “You know. Get hard and fuck someone and cum and. Stuff.”
Rude nods. “And just therapy with Dr. G isn’t cutting it?”
Reno sighs with a chuckle. “She asks me a lot of uncomfortable questions that tends to send me down a one way trip to Memory Lane and I uh.” He glances around the room. “I hate it when my mind ends up there.”
Rude makes an agreeable sound. He’s certainly different from Reno’s therapist. No notebook or studied gaze. Not that Reno can take the time to look at his face. It’s a lot, in this private space. “Part of what I do,” Rude explains, “is just getting you comfortable with basic social niceties. We don’t have to talk about your past or your traumas, at least night right away. Maybe not ever, if it’s not necessary.”
Reno can feel Rude looking at him, but Reno still can’t meet his eyes. “So, Reno. What do you do?”
Reno bristles and then laughs. He didn’t expect that. He also can’t just say That’s classified, because living in the capitol, he could be any manner of government official, doing any manner of good or bad things. “I work in the state department,” he says. It’s intentionally vague. Reno turns to see what Rude thinks of that, and just catches Rude lifting an eyebrow at him.
“I only ask because of the suit.”
“God, can I take my tie off?” Reno asks, and is tugging it off without an answer. “I fucking—I hate dressing like this. But. It’s a good job. I get paid a lot. More than I probably should. And they let me have my hair like this, which is not normally kosher.” He unfastens the top button on his shirt. He wants to do more, but he’s still in public. In an office. At a therapy appointment. …sort of.
“But you have to wear a tie,” Rude fills in for him.
“Cruel world,” Reno says with a laugh. He sucks at his teeth. “Hate stuff around my neck, y’know?” There’s deeper reasons for it. It goes acknowledged, but unsaid.
“Wouldn’t know,” Rude says with placating ease. “I like a nice shirt and tie, myself. But it was a little cold this morning.”
Reno rolls his eyes. This is painful small talk. “You really show up to intimate appointments in a damn tie?”
Rude gives him a tiny smile. His soft lips are just barely curled up on one side. It’s charming. “It helps with the professional atmosphere. I’m not here to go on a date.”
Reno wants to make a joke, but isn’t sure he knows how to twist this into a punch line. “Well, more power to you. I fuckin’ hate the monkey suit,” he says. “At least it intimidates people.”
“Keeps them away from you,” Rude supplies. “Bonus.”
“Other than the ones with a death wish,” Reno says, and a mean little smirk curves on his lip.
“Reno, can I sit closer to you?” Rude asks, and Reno is somehow caught off guard.
“What, on the first date?” he asks, silently congratulating himself on getting his joke in after all.
Rude just looks at him with a wry smirk. “Just thought I’d ask. I get it.”
“No! I mean. Don’t… Not,” Reno says, and then groans. He puts a hand over his face. “Yes, you can sit closer to me.” I guess.
Rude scoots over more than half way, but there’s still about two feet between them. They don’t touch, but Reno feels his hackles rise despite himself. He glances up and sees Rude in more clarity. Rude’s face is devoid of judgment. Practiced. It almost pisses Reno off, but the last thing he should do is get mad at this guy, who he knows nothing about. “So what about you?” Reno asks instead. He folds arms. He knows he’s closing himself off, but he’s earned that right, he thinks. This shit is awkward. “How do you have such a nice office when all you do is uh…” Reno doesn’t want to finish the sentence.
“There are a few hazy legal lines about my work,” Rude says with a sardonic smile. “But, with enough reputation and qualified medical contacts, you can start to carve out a niche for yourself. Dr. G is one of about four therapists I know who recommend clients to me. And, the things that I do are quite specialized, so.” Rude shrugs, and one soft, sweater-covered arm rests on the back of the couch. His fingers are close to Reno now. “I charge a lot.”
Reno’s eyes widen, but Rude just laughs. “I already discussed that with your doctor, too. Sounds like whatever firm you’re working for is covering everything.”
“Probably wouldn’t if they knew what this was,” Reno utters.
Rude makes a low rumbling sound, and Reno looks at him to see that it’s a laugh. “What do you think this is?”
“I mean, you’re just an escort,” Reno says blithely. “You just bring in people and fuck ‘em.”
“I rarely go that far with any client,” Rude says. “It’s not as frequently needed. You could almost call me an intimacy coach.”
“I’m not gonna call you that,” Reno says, and rolls his eyes. His gaze darts over to Rude’s hand. It hasn’t moved. He’s not worming his way closer. He’s just relaxed, sitting there with an arm within touching distance but not doing anything. It doesn’t even feel crowded, but it definitely feels… Like crossing a boundary.
“It sounds like all I’ll be doing for you, at first, is getting you used to closeness. Touching. Obviously, people shouldn’t touch you without your permission, but with a little guidance, you might be able to tell a guy off, instead of breaking him.” Rude’s eyes find Reno’s and holds that gaze. “Though I’d like to see it.”
Reno sneers. “Listen pal, you don’t want to try anything with me.”
“I don’t want to fight you,” Rude agrees. “Just want to see you in action. Your work must be physically demanding.”
Reno shrugs. He turns, so that his back is just leaning into the back of the couch. He stares out at the paintings across the room and thinks about the strangely alluring scent of the whole place. “It is. I can at least have people spot for me at the gym,” he says.
“Do you let your colleagues touch you? Casually, I mean.”
“…no.” Reno sighs. “I let it get too bad and I’m just—I’m real fucked up.”
“Someone did that to you,” Rude says, “and it’s not your fault. It’s not like men are encouraged to enjoy touchy feely stuff anyway.”
“Why don’t your fuckin’ cards have that on there instead?” Reno scoffs. His eyes go to the ceiling. ‘Licensed Touchy Feelings’?”
“You sure know how to wound a guy,” Rude says, and it sounds just sad enough that Reno turns to look at him. The bastard has that small grin on his face again, and Reno can’t help but grin, too. Dammit. “Are you comfortable with coming here? Does the time work for you? Do you even want to proceed? Because I’d like to remind you, you don’t have to.”
Reno is quiet. He has to think about it. The whole idea of being pushed into touching someone feels like dunking someone into a tank of spiders. Only instead of spiders it’s someone touching him. Which is basically the same thing. Though he has to admit, if the spiders were all as handsome—
“Yeah. It’s all fine,” Reno says, choosing not to think about what his subconscious thinks.
Rude nods, and then pushes himself off the couch. “Great,” he says. “Let’s get some paperwork signed.”
Reno groans, and prepares himself for the next twenty minutes of legal and medical jargon. He signs his initials over and over, and then Rude carefully clips the papers together and files them. Then he steps up in front of Reno and says, “Reno, may I shake your hand?”
Reno rolls his eyes. He can shake hands. That’s basically the one thing he can do, since he does it for work. Only he forgets — after he agrees — that this is not business, and that he doesn’t have his gloves on. Rude’s hand settles into his for a perfectly normal handshake, and Reno still has to focus on not clenching his teeth. He’s embarrassed, though, and afterward pulls his hand back to slide it through his hair. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m kind of a lost cause.”
For Rude’s part, Reno can tell the other man is struggling not to touch him more. He can tell this guy’s modus operandi is ‘hug it out’, and knowing he can’t is just as awkward. “You’re not,” Rude says instead. “And we’ll take it at your pace. Whatever it takes, Reno.”
He sighs. “Sure, doc.”
“Please, call me Rude.”
“Sure,” Reno says, and watches Rude lift an eyebrow expectantly. Reno rolls his eyes. “Sure, Rude.”
Rude’s expression grows amused. “Good. I’ll see you next week.”
Reno leaves and feels goosebumps break out on the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him, but the door is closed. He exhales. Now, to figure out how to tell his boss about this experimental new treatment as euphemistically as possible.