Work Text:
The bleachy scent of cum made his jaw tighten.
He didn’t move, listening keenly to hitched breathing and sloppy, hushed noises. He continued to lay in bed, frozen, pretending to be asleep as the rocks inside his throat became too heavy to ignore.
The side of his face stayed pressed against the old pillow in his childhood room, eyes fixed to the wall and the shadow of a man behind him.
His dad.
A wave of bitter nostalgia as chills went down his spine.
***
“Aren’t you going to invite him to the wedding?”
Christina turned the pages of the guest list, Orel hesitated. The wedding was up to the next month, yet he kept postponing the trip back to Moralton as he wanted to personally hand out the invitations himself; of course, he had tons of people living back there that he wanted to invite such as Stephanie and Reverend Putty, Doughy, Marionetta and Joe. Tommy and Billy, who moved from the town, had already received theirs. But he had a pending issue, a thought that kept ruminating constantly inside his head, a primordial fear he didn’t want to unearth, something unnamed keeping him in place and stiffening him up for what felt like ages but were just mere seconds.
“Do you think he would even want to come? You know he hates your family.”
He wasn’t even sure himself if he wanted him in. His relationship with the man was a complicated thing that he kept buried, undisturbed. he wasn’t even sure if he loved him or hated him but that was also a can of worms he absolutely refused to open as he wasn’t quite able to separate him entirely from his being. He had told Christina most of the story, the spankings, the alcoholism… the hunting trip; he had never been able to run the same after the accident but it was way too late to dwell on something like that.
“It’s been ten years, Orel.”
She held his hand and gave him a kind smile.
“Do you think you’re ready to see him again?”
Orel mimicked her expression, not really knowing or wanting to know what face would he make if he didn’t.
Maybe it was about time.
***
He feels like a dog about to be taken to death row but this time the betrayal isn’t concerned by the safety of his soul but his best friend’s self-interests. His chest stings as he recalls a vague memory of that time he learnt how to use a gun. Doughy was no longer the weak-willed chubby kid who was constantly trailing behind his steps, occasionally questioning his plans but following his lead anyways, there was something that looked off with the young man. He was the spitting image of his father; tall, red hair, high cheekbones, pointy nose with faint freckles on the bridge that refused to completely disappear after so many years; he was not as fit as the elder Latchkey at his age, but not as pudgy as he used to be ten years ago. He was almost passable as a normal-looking guy, but his eyes, exhausted, etherized to the reality of what is like to actually spend most of your time alongside a person like Clay.
In actuality, he didn’t get why Doughy would do something like that to himself, but then he remembered how the Latchkeys were on the brief moments they crossed paths and couldn’t really blame him for the outcome. He didn’t seem to have a choice.
A slight, incoherent guilt blossomed from the pit of his stomach, but he swallowed it up just like he did with every recent thought related to his father.
“Doughy?”
The redhead smiled, a soft, yet tired smile. The melancholy in his eyes had accentuated rather than dissipated after this long.
“Orel.”
There was no shock in his voice, he invited him in.
He had a mild idea of the reason Doughy was hanging around in his old childhood home, but he didn’t want to think about it. He would just hand out the invitations and leave.
***
The metallic apparatus made him forget his deliberate attempt of finishing his self-imposed task as fast as possible. It was fascinating, he felt like a kid again.
Doughy had put in two slices of bread and a piece of cheese, he closed the door of the plain metal box, gave a couple turns to the knob, and a sudden low mechanical hum began to emanate from the machine.
“Mom would be so happy if she ever got her hands on one of those.”
His friend looked at him with mixed emotions but they both turned upon the ring indicating the time had run out. Doughy opened the door and demonstrated the wonders of the new technology by lifting the top slice a few inches and showing off the melted cheese.
“Wanna try?”
“Of course!”
They both laughed as they shared the treat and put another one, this time ham and cheese, and Orel forgot for a second that there was a third person in the house, lingering between planes of being in his mind as the low rumble soothed his thoughts. As if innocence and wonder remained untainted by a man and the inevitable dread he carried with him everywhere he went, the dread he would experience mere minutes later as he began to finally register the hidden smell that subtly coated Doughy’s scent, an absent smell from his memories as his father used to smoke King Size’s back then, ‘the best money can buy’, he vaguely recalled.
And the lingering scent of Pure Gold from Benson and Hedges made him flinch slightly as it grew stronger alongside the steps coming from the hallway, it was another brand, another luxury cigarette, but the feeling was the same.
He swallowed unconsciously as his father’s visage made itself present. Doughy looked up, a bit of shame in his demeanor while his own tranquility dissolved into his bones and made his joints feel like tar.
“Orel?”
His dad smiled. The microwave ringed again.
***
“I hate you.”
His small body on the floor, unmoving, the warm blood slowly losing heat around the untreated wound. His father had just downed the rubbing alcohol some minutes ago and now had a cocky smile plastered all over his face.
He could see the outline of a body towering him, jerky movements as he accommodated his body around him. Orel groaned in pain as Clay’s hands tactlessly grabbed his cock. He wasn’t unfamiliar to the feeling of dick buried deep in his guts but the horridness of the situation hadn’t begun to creep in his back until fairly recently.
This was too much.
He sobbed and gasped when Clay thrusted in deep and fast, calling him a cheap whore while mumbling something about ‘hating away this cock’ while the puddle of blood coming from his leg made him dizzier and dizzier.
It was as if consciousness was trying to flee from his body through his knee, but he fought tooth and nail to keep his eyes and mind awake as he knew very well that sleeping the pain away would most certainly mean never waking up again.
The stars looked dim that night.
Maybe he should’ve fallen asleep.
***
His father looked almost exactly the same as he did when he moved in with his mom and her new husband, maybe a few wrinkles and a couple white hairs, but nonetheless remained unchanged.
“You switched brands.”
Clay smirks.
“It turns out these ones are the actual best money can buy.”
He winks. Orel can’t help but grin with the corner of his mouth.
Clay’s attitude also seemed unchanged; his caustic comments full of vitriol still hidden behind a thin layer of pleasantries. They began catching up on the stuff he had already briefed Doughy on, Christina, the marriage; there was a sour, disappointed expression in his father’s face when he made him remember the Posabules, he asked very intently if he had taught the girl how to pray the correct way and if he didn’t do it he would surely go to hell. Orel said whatever he needed to appease the man as he was too old and tired for this.
Orel eventually dismissed the whole wedding talk and changed subjects. He noted on Clay’s tumbler and the man cheered up, raised the glass and gave a nod to Doughy, who stood up and brought the bottle in from what he remembered as the door to the study.
“Let me tell you, son, the best thing the Irish ever did for this country was bring their Whiskey with them, Scotch is mere oak juice in comparison.”
Clay tapped Doughy’s leg lightly with his free hand, and the slight flushed glimpse he caught made him seem almost like a boy again. The redhead went to fetch two more glasses.
“Dad, I don’t drink.”
His father’s eyes became dark just before going back to his mild façade.
“Oh, don’t be a wuss Orel, I also didn’t drink at your age and now look at me!”
New ice cubes being poured in the glass filled to the brim with bronze liquid. Orel grabbed the stuff with a clammy hand and gave it a shy sip. This was a mistake.
“Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?”
The words weren’t quite slurred yet.
“I was just thinking on passing by.”
Doughy tensed up as he looked at his childhood best friend. Almost as if telling him to run and get out of here and never look back. A mesh of concern and mild jealousy.
“Your old room is still here.”
***
A sudden cry was the thing that actually woke him up. Some muted sobbing followed up by the loud sound of furniture being pushed. Two muffled voices having a heated conversation as finally the younger, raspy one came to a halt when the noise of a belt hitting tender skin resonated through the house.
A soft moan and a quiet whimper.
His heart shriveled up.
He knew. Honestly, he begun to notice it just at the time they were moving, the light blush his best friend had when Clay was mentioned in conversation, the very light marks barely covered by Doughy’s collar. He recognized them but when he tried to ask or talk about them the redhead would just look away and shrug nonchalantly.
Another thud and a series of pained whines, probably the living room rather than the study. His father’s voice calling Doughy a ‘good son’.
He felt sick.
The look of envy in Doughy’s gaze at the time, now a bit diffused but not quite.
Doughy calls his father ‘dad’ in a needy voice, something about not wanting to be loud. More sobbing and leather against flesh.
They were probably aware he could hear them. Clay made it seem intentional, he seemed too eager to break Doughy’s attempts at keeping it low.
It didn’t get quiet until his father made a particularly loud grunt and two uncoordinated breathings were the only noise left.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore.” Doughy whispered unsuccessfully.
A sloppy kiss made him hush.
“Liar.”
The noise of a man standing up and walking closer.
Ice cubes clinking against cured glass.
***
It turns out Doughy had moved to Clay’s as soon as he turned eighteen, he was basically living there before but now he grabbed all his stuff and made it somewhat official. It also turns out that his grandfather’s will made the boy the sole beneficiary of his fortune as soon as he was of legal age.
Doughy could’ve been vindictive and left his parents without a penny, but he wasn’t like that, he didn’t even have the backbone to respond to his dad’s intimidation tactics until Clay moved into the picture. He could tell his friend was grateful for that, even if he also knew Clay was doing it for himself. The change in cigarette brands and alcohol quality wasn’t by chance.
The young man smiles, a hint of decay in his demeanor.
They both sip their milkshakes at Sal’s, for old time’s sake. Doughy invites, he is a guest now, even if that house used to be his home at one point. His hand reaches for a cigarette, that habit had stuck to him, the same brand as his father’s too; he makes a gesture inviting Orel one, but he declines and looks at the pink substance on his half empty glass, bits of strawberry still visible. He hadn’t thought about Clay’s habits that deeply until he saw them mirrored on the redhead, he never actually noticed how much of a chain-smoker his dad was until moving; and now he saw that familiar face, glimpses of innocence still somewhere over there, taking drags of a cigarette almost compulsively, the ashtray nearby filling alarmingly fast.
It was a little sad.
“Are you sure you wanna sleep with us tonight?”
The use of ‘us’ made him light-headed.
Orel just looked at Doughy, doubt peeking its ugly head. He was cut off before he could answer.
“Forget it, it’s what he wants.”
The ginger exhaled, tired.
That sad smile again.
He didn’t know why it made him want to cry.
***
“I know you’re awake.”
Clay’s voice was noticeably slurred.
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to fuck you.”
He was a child again.
“I know.”
***
It didn’t feel as tight as he remembered, the bigger body accommodating against his also didn’t seem as big or towering, it was around the same size as him. He still gasped and dug his nails in his father’s back for support, the thrusting was just the same.
He looked at the ceiling, the door wide open made the light enter in a trapezoidal shape, he concentrated on the whiteness of the paint.
“Fucking whore.”
Clay grunted and his motions became bolder; he lowered his gaze.
His father’s expression was a combination of bliss and pain, eyes shut tightly as well as clenched teeth, the soft wrinkles in his face more evident up close. He looked like a sad old man. He couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him.
“Dad, I’m getting married.”
Orel spoke softly.
“Shut up.”
His voice felt damp, like choking on tears, there were few times he heard his dad’s voice like that.
The thrusting became harsher and he couldn’t swallow up a moan, the sound of the bed against the wall kept ringing in his ears and his own breathing became shallow, fuck, he was close. Clay grasped at his dick, feeling up the piercing he kept all those years, Orel whined as his dad rubbed the tip and his hips bucked against it involuntarily, lukewarm tears beginning to trickle from the corner of his eyes.
“You were always a whore; your wife will be married to a whore.”
Those words, acid corroding his skin. Orel couldn’t choke back a sob and felt small again.
The darkness of the room swallowed them up.
***
Doughy was sweeping the floor, a rehearsed, mechanical motion. He kept dragging the broom over the same spot, over and over again, there was a bronze-colored stain with reddish undertones in the middle of the rug, traces of broken glass already gone.
His friend seemed like a shadow of what he used to be.
He suddenly talked, not looking at him, eyes empty.
“I know.”
Orel swallowed.
“I know I’m not as smart or strong as you, or Clay, but I was lucky enough to get with someone like him so-”
There was a painful desperation creeping slowly over his friend’s face. They both knew Clay was a selfish and cruel man but they were both tied onto him in such a tangled manner even attempting to get an inch away would mean losing a limb.
“Just let me have this.”
A single tear fell down his cheek and made a wet spot in his pristine-looking shirt. He reached out his hand but Doughy flinched. Orel retreated.
“Will you come to the wedding?”
Doughy stopped sweeping and turned to him.
A wide smile with closed eyes and all; a brief, sincere bliss.
“Of course.”
***
He raised his fingers to look at the sticky substance against the light.
He felt like shit.
But now it was over, his dad got what he wanted and was now doing something over his study. Everything felt foggy, he could kinda hear someone talking over the next couple rooms until again, two familiar voices struggling and a smack.
“Orel!”
His dad called. He could already smell the alcohol in his voice.
He stood up quickly and put on his underwear, almost by reflex. A thick veil of numbness coated his senses as he walked down the hallway, he rubbed his hand against his thigh to somewhat clean it off.
His last step faltered as he saw a bare Doughy sat down at the old leather chair. His faintly bruised body shivered next to the fireplace. He couldn’t muster a word and just looked at his dad.
“Go wild, kiddo.”
He didn’t acknowledge the words. Clay sighed and lifted the redhead’s leg, his friend gasped silently and got visibly tense.
“I won’t let that girl be your first time putting your Johnston inside another person, so just use him instead.”
Orel stepped back; Clay frowned.
“I don’t think Doughy would be too happy about it.”
Something shifted in his father’s stare, he opened his mouth but no words came out, he raised his finger and made a wrathful smirk, the ice in the tumbler shaking violently.
Let me tell you something Orel,
It was just like that time.
Drunk is nature.
He saw himself, laying on the grass, two day sweat and white crust embedded into his pants. His feet moved on its own, walking backwards while his dad stepped forward, every time more unhinged, saying things that his brain didn’t finish registering before another sentence begun. The feeling of wetness in his face came back but felt nothing inside, he was scared of that. The man’s face was at this point a mess of deformed muscles and the anger, ache and disgust were blatantly on display.
He had backed off enough to feel the living room rug under his bare feet. Clay screamed something at him but could barely react when he heard the loud crash of glass breaking against the floor, he stepped back and groaned as a bit of red joined in with the liquor, it was the same leg that got shot ten years ago.
“Will you do as I say?”
It was helpless.
Doughy was still sitting in the chair looking at the void, the belt-shaped marks on his body became darker as the light died down a bit, he also noticed some pale cigarette burns, he felt ill. Orel limped forward, the sole of his foot leaving traces of blood every step of the way. He spread his friend’s legs and felt sick to his stomach, Doughy looked absent, he hesitantly took his dick out and stroked it lazily.
He remained limp, just like Doughy.
Clay walked over, looming over his shoulder, the lighting casting a hard shadow over his features.
“Can’t get it up.”
He murmured.
Clay frowned.
“Useless piece of sugar.”
He spat on his hand and slid it under the underwear, pushing awkwardly against his son’s hole. Orel yelped but remained in place as he could, knees wobbling and hands held tight onto the chair’s arms. Doughy was looking at him intensely, it made him shiver. Clay got tired and took off the thing completely, now pushing two fingers instead of one once he had better access. It didn’t feel good but he started to get hard, almost like conditioning. Fuck, he was really that messed up.
“I’m sorry.”
He muttered to his friend as he regained composure and began inserting his cock inside him. Doughy groaned and shut his eyes tightly.
“Hurts-”
He mumbled.
“Come on, go deeper!”
Clay slapped his butt as he took the fingers off.
“I don’t wanna hurt him, dad-”
“Don’t be a sissy, Doughy is a man!”
He pushed Orel with contempt, he wasn’t sure if it was for him or Doughy. Possibly both.
“AH!”
The redhead screamed loudly; his eyes noticeably wet.
“Dad, please, it’s hurting him-”
His voice faltered as he became more agitated, it was one thing when Clay used him but to see another person, his best friend, harmed in the same way made his ribcage tighten in pain.
“He is perfectly fine; he has taken worse.”
Orel whimpered as he heard his dad taking his own dick out, he had no need to stroke it as he was already hard. He remained in place until Clay grabbed him by the hips and forcefully rammed his cock inside him with enough roughness to move his own pelvis too, making Doughy cry again.
“Dad…”
Doughy sobbed.
“Dad… dad, please…”
A hiccup, Orel’s own tears began to fall down.
“Good boy, you’re such a good son Doughy…”
Clay groaned as he thrusted again, and again. He wasn’t stopping, each one faster and more violent than the last. His friend gazed upwards and clutched Orel’s forearms, Clay was the one fully in control, Orel felt like he was going to be crushed on both ends, his mind beaten into a mush, an unending cacophony of voices from his childhood. His body moved alone and he wasn’t looking at his friend either, it was as if he was transparent, he could only see green leather covering his vision. He closed his eyes and kept thrusting, he wasn’t sure if it was pure inertia or his own volition, he didn’t care, his dick was the only thing he kept track of, the sooner he came the sooner it would end.
He opened his eyes and came with a grunt, he felt like a deflated balloon.
***
The wedding reception was modest, yet charming. He had spent most of the party greeting guests and taking photos with his lovely wife. Christina had spent a few minutes over the gift room talking with someone and came running, excitement in her gleaming eyes.
“Orel, did you see what they gave to us?”
The newly wedded husband shook his head and smiled as his bride dragged him into the backroom.
“Look at this! The man who left it apologized because he couldn’t stay but wished us the best. It was a tall ginger guy; I think I remember him from when we had our first dance?”
He recognized the Radarange silver branding carved on a corner of the metallic box. It was a new microwave, the exact same model as the one back at home. His grin wavered, a crude bow on top of the device with a card attached, the names ‘Latchkey & Puppington’ scribbled inside with black ink.
“I see.”
He pretended to smile.