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The silken skin that wears his tongue like a robe, his lips like a sacrament, taught and turgid, langours now. Through every moment of Trent's own pleasure, it has been straining, reaching for absolution. But now. As he cranes his neck, as Ted's member in Trent's own body slips across the soft palate of his mouth, it falls soft. Trent understands immediately Ted is not losing himself. This is not the first time. There has been whisky dick. There has been depression. There has been anxiety so high that Trent has had to python his entire body around Ted until Ted could breathe again. Ted has lost it, and this is his confession.
Relishing the slow contact, Trent pulls off of Ted soundlessly, kissing him sweetly before tugging Ted's boxers over his waning shaft to rest at his waist. Trent rises to sit back on his heels and assess the situation. Trent does not understand the brooding furrow of Ted's brow in the moonlight, but he does understand that whatever is going on with Ted's body has started somewhere behind those darkened eyes.
"My love?" His voice barely above a whisper, Trent raises a thumb to Ted's brow and strokes outward and down his cheek. "Will you tell me what this is?"
Ted flinches.
They have been quiet. Trent didn't set foot in the flat until Dottie had excused herself to their bed for the night. Their love making has been secret, sacred, quiet and reserved until this moment. There hasn't been a moan or a whimper between them, nothing knocked over, the couch itself silent as the room black.
Sitting up himself, Ted pulls Trent in to hold him as tight as he possibly can and whispers.
"I'm going home, Trent."
And Trent thinks he might be mishearing. Perhaps misunderstanding. His pulse quickens and every artery, every vein in his body races hotter than a kettle. Trent nuzzles Ted's ear with the hope of his retracting those words. Instead, Ted's grip on his arms begin to cut, to hurt.
"I'll be gone as soon as the season's over."
Time stops. Except that now there is a ringing in Trent's ears. A panic he has never quite known before. Ted's voice gets stronger, but only just. Lest they wake the beast down the hall.
"If that's this weekend. If it's next. Regardless. I'm going home. I'll be in Kansas in two weeks."
Trent can feel the sharp cut of Ted's fingernails in his skin and he is not afraid. No. Trent is livid. But his mouth is broken as Ted's lips move strong, angry over his own. One of Ted's hands moves to the curls at the nape of Trent's neck and squeezes, slowly tensing until it is so painful a sob does escape and Ted has to bite it quiet.
Fistfuls of Ted's shirt are white knuckle tight in the vice grip of Trent's hands, his face screwed up with fury. His arm stings where Ted is still locked onto him. He can feel his own erratic heartbeat in his lip. He would let Ted tear every hair from his head if it meant any of this were a dream.
"Enough." He finally manages. Raises a hand to clutch Ted's jaw away from his face. Squeezes hard until Ted's eyes meet his. "Enough."
Brimming with tears and seething. Very literally baring his teeth. Breath shallow and short. Trent has never once seen this man. This indescribable, naked thing. This heavenly being. This paragon of patience and understanding and goodness. Trent has never seen a god – a man in all his life brought as low as this.
Ted sputters, "I have to. Trent."
In a blink, the fight is sapped from them both. Trent releases Ted's jaw and soothes over where his fingers pinched into Ted's skin, releases Ted's shirt, and places a wide palm on Ted's chest, staying him.
Ted closes his eyes and relinquishes his death grip, soothing the scalp at the nape of Trent's neck, rubbing at his arm. Trent cannot see if the tears escape.
Instead, he tips Ted's chin to his and kisses him in defeat. "I know."
Stepping away from his hold, Trent clears the couch, gathers his trousers and his shoes, and slips out the front door.
No whispered confessions. No sins forgiven. No "Go in peace."