Chapter Text
It’s better this way, Noel says. For both of them. Oscar agreed—agrees. It is. It’s better this way.
The room is not very dark at all. It’s deep into summer, a hazy late July, and the window has been left open, letting in streetlight. There is a painting of a boxer on the wall, which Oscar studies. His left arm is reeled back, his stance strong, fluid. His expression is focused. Noel says it steadies him. Reminds him of who he is, when his nightmares have made him forget. The man’s shirtless, his muscles defined, magnificent, dripping sweat.
Noel sighs. They’ve done this enough that Oscar knows that, were he to glance over, Noel would be touching himself, his fingers skating along his scars, his throat, dipping under the sheets to stroke his thighs. He pauses, now and then, to tweak and flick his nipples. Oscar still hasn’t seen Noel’s naked thighs. He’s not sure he ever will.
He wants to.
Noel shifts. His bed is big enough for the both of them, but sometimes, his elbow grazes Oscar, or his foot, or knee, or the blankets lift enough that Noel’s heat gusts over Oscar. This time, when he shifts, it’s not enough to touch him. Oscar prickles with yearning. Oscar’s hand sits motionless on his chest. The tips of his fingers almost brush his nipple. Should he move, pleasure would pulse through him. Just the friction of his shirt is enough, when they do this.
He stays very still.
It’s better this way. This way, Oscar can keep his vows. He can protect Noel from his demons.
Noel’s becoming aggressive, yanking his nipples, dragging his nails across his skin. Oscar’s seen the marks he leaves. Noel is always careful to keep the blankets about his hips, protecting their modesty, but inevitably lets them drift and bunch about his stomach. Oscar stares at the boxer. He doesn’t need to imagine Noel when he’s looking at that man; their bodies blend over one another in his mind, though, of course, Noel is bigger, his stomach a lovely swell, his pectorals soft and covered in hair.
Noel gasps. His back arches. Oscar doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it: He looks. The blankets are halfway down Noel’s stomach. Noel bites the meat of his palm as his other hand twists and twists a puffy nipple. Oscar could lean over and touch it with his lips. He would do so gently. He would replace Noel’s angry fingers with a tender sucking kiss.
Noel’s biting isn’t enough to suppress the soft noises riding up his throat.
His hand shoots under the covers. Oscar averts his gaze. He doesn’t need to see what happens next. He can hear it clearly enough, the slick and frantic thudding of Noel working himself. His legs spread. His knee brushes against Oscar’s leg and they both startle and edge away from each other.
“Sorry,” Noel pants. But the sounds speed up, wet and vulgar. Oscar shuts his eyes. “Oscar?”
”Yes?”
Noel’s elbow lifts, and Oscar knows that what he’s doing is raking his fingers through his hair. Pulling. “Say somethin’.”
“Something.”
Noel laughs, and then, abruptly, says again, “Sorry. You don’t gotta…”
Oscar’s heart pounds in his chest. Between his legs is insistent need. He tightens his hand on the covers. He swallows. “I killed a man,” he says, “in the war.”
He’s told Noel this one, before. They both know it’s not true. Noel’s breath comes in shallow, each exhale edged with a moan. All the sounds of his body are unsteady, arrhythmic. “Yeah?”
“They didn’t let me have a weapon,” he continues, tracking the lines of sweat on the boxer’s back. “But the men, they worried. They insisted I carry a knife. And, one day, the Germans, they made it into the trench where I was hiding, and one of them—he should have known I was a chaplain, perhaps he did, I don’t know—but he came at me, with his long bayonet, his face all shining with sweat, a terrible mask of wrath. He would have had me. Noel. Slow down.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. As a matter of course, he does not directly address what is happening.
Noel obeys. The noises lag. He groans. His hips buck, rocking the bed. It’s enough to cause friction on Oscar’s nipples, and his cock, which jerks.
“I don’t know how,” Oscar continues, slowly, “I did not get speared by him. Suddenly, I was on him. My body was hot with rage. The guns sounded all around us…my knife was in my hand.”
“Yeah,” Noel whispers, “yeah, yeah.”
Slower. “I touched the tip against his soft body. I looked him in the eyes. He knew, then, that I was going to take him. He thrashed under me. He moaned.” Noel moans, too, as if given a command. “My knife entered him. In that soft place. I pushed inside of him, slow, at first, or it felt slow, at the time. In and in. I was inside of him, Noel, and his blood was hot and wet on my hands. I pulled the knife out and drove it into him again, faster, faster, again, over and over again; I was a beast; I wanted it; I wanted him under me; his blood sprayed onto my face; I could taste it, the salt and copper, and he couldn’t help but scream as I pierced his body, and—.…”
He stops. Noel’s body rocks helplessly as he orgasms. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his broken moans. Oscar’s cock throbs. Noel’s nostrils flare as he sucks down deep breaths. “Fuck,” he says, a moment later. The hand between his legs drags up his stomach. His spend shines in the orange light. If Oscar were to lean down, he could press a tender sucking kiss to his skin and take it away on his tongue.
He does not.
It is, after all, better this way.