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Credence’s mental defences begin to thaw the first time Mr Graves gently lifts his downturned face and kisses him hesitantly on the mouth. A smile involuntarily crosses his features, whilst a little warmth kindles somewhere deep inside him where he’s only felt frost. He discovers that he is capable of making tears two months later – an ability he thought long lost under palimpsests of scoldings and scars. He’d held the welling tears in for Modesty initially, to save her fragile gasps of worry – and then he’d pushed them even further down to escape Ma’s refrain: “nothing but a blubbering boy.” He was sure it was all quelled forever, until he dreams one night of being black tendrils of smoke, ripping apart street children, and their screams rouse him into wakefulness.He comes to, beset with panic, to find himself safe in Mr Graves’ warm sleeping arms. He didn’t hurt anyone. A single tear wells in the corner of his left eye, but the rest of the flood remains welling inside. Mr Graves pulls him closer in sleep, and buries his face into Credence’s neck.
A little while later, he and Mr Graves, Percival, find out together that he can feel pleasures of the flesh, wonderful little buoyant feelings which make him feel guilty and a little strung out. He manages to admit, after hours of coaxing and little kisses, that he yearns for pain and instruction at Mr Graves’ strong hands; which Percival reassures him is “entirely normal, and completely acceptable – as long as Credence remembers he can stop it at any time with that little word.” To his delight, Percival seems to be as authoritative in the bedroom as he is in his profession, and what’s more, he seems to relish it, to glow with pride whenever Credence eagerly follows an instruction.
Giving Percival pleasure makes Credence feel bold and excitable, but he’s restrained when it comes to his own. Graves is as bewildered as a no-maj when trying to get to the heart of this reluctance in comparison with his young partner’s deep enthusiasms for pleasuring him, until eventually Credence confesses. In broken, shaky speech he explains that he can’t let go of the sanctuary of tense self-conscious control within him – it’s immovable as Long Island. Credence bows his head again and says in even quieter tones which Percival has to strain to hear, that even if he could leave that anxious sanctuary, he knows that the obscurus is always on the edge of his senses, waiting for an opportunity to hurt someone. Fear flashes in his eyes as he raises his gaze and states fervently that he doesn’t want to risk hurting Graves. Percival nods, gently kisses his temple, and says in hushed tones that “everything takes time, my boy.”
He realises that he’s momentarily completely forgotten about the obscurus’ presence a few weeks later. Mr Graves is moaning, fucking hard into Credence’s body whilst gripping the young man’s blunt, heavy fringe in the fingers of his left hand. Credence’s neck curves upwards under his firm hold, and his scalp burns and twinges under the pull – he feels like his hair might break from his scalp, but it doesn’t. Mr Graves, Percival, seems to know just how much to take, how much to press him without destroying him. He didn’t know he could feel like this, that his body could take this much physical pain without collapsing, without – he starts as he realises – without turning into the obscurus. He panics, realising that he hasn’t been keeping an eye on it this whole time he’s been lost in Mr Graves’ arms, waiting for Mr Graves’ brusque yet firm instructions, swept up in blissful physical sensations. He goes tense and still, and a little sound of agony escapes his throat. The body above him stills, the big hand leaves his hair to rest gently on his shoulder.
“Credence?”
“It’s – it’s”
“Slow breaths.”
“It’s not here.” he chokes out “The obscurus.”
Percival presses a kiss to the back of his neck – stubble and soft lips meeting sweat and a warm flush of heat.
“Everything’s okay. You’re okay” he murmurs, squeezing Credence’s shoulder, and slowly kissing the top of his head.
“Do you want to stop for tonight?”
“No, no!” Credence immediately pipes up, eliciting a huff of laughter from Graves, who moves his right arm from the bed to wrap it around Credence’s skinny chest in a tight hold, fingers gripping Credence’s ribs. He can feel Graves’ warm, solid form behind him – sheltering him, he thinks fancifully. He continues to fuck him, hard and determined, and Credence tries to banish his own lust, and the mounting tension in his groin. He searches for traces of the obscurus, but he’s interrupted as Graves comes with a loud, feral groan, right into Credence’s ear, which he kisses straight after, murmuring “thank-you, beautiful boy.” He sounds utterly wrecked, and Credence is torn between the hallelujah chorus of bright sunshine which engulfs his mind at the thought that he has done this to Graves, and the intoxicating sensation of the other man’s dick shuddering, of Graves’ seed filling him.
Percival lets go of his hair, decisively wrapping the hand around his achingly hard, weeping cock, and Credence hears himself let out a long, yearning whine. He wants to tell him that he can’t, he’s never been able to come, but the words stop on his tongue. He manages to voice an “I…” before it transforms into another long soft moan. He can feel himself holding on desperately to his sense of control, that cold, self-conscious place within him, the anchor to which he is now tethered. The little spasms of pleasure are coursing their way through him now, everywhere is sensitive and raw, everywhere is blossoming with need and want, racing towards the unknown.
“Percy, please.”
Percival murmurs an amused, “please what?”
Credence feels desperate and torn – Mr Graves doesn’t understand that this is too much, too soon, and he can’t handle it. He can’t let go.
“Mr Graves!” he manages “Please it’s too much. It’s too much. I can’t -”
He can feel Mr Graves’ tight hold on his cock begin to move faster, and the sensations are beginning to flood his body the same way that the dark feelings do when the obscurus takes hold. He’s panting, his breathing coming in little bursts, his heart hammering against his chest. His mind is desperate to make it stop, just as his body ruts into Percival’s hand.
“Please. It’s too much, please” he manages.
To his bewilderment, Mr Graves’ husky voice at his ear is completely calm: “I’ve got you, Credence. I’ve got you.”
His voice turns hard, authoritative: “Come for me.”
And just like that, at Mr Graves’ command, he comes, with his body convulsing and trembling, clenching around Graves’ cock still buried deep inside him. Torn away, the fingertips of his mind finally let go of his cold inner sanctuary.
His whole body is lost to him, aching with pleasure and relief, and suddenly from within him rises a wave of emotion suppressed under years of pain. and abuse and harsh Bible stricture. It’s such an unexpected feeling that his body tries to spasm away from it, but it’s too exhausted and blissed out to respond – and like bile, an ocean of tears pours out of him. Great wracking sobs escape the confines of his body, grief for his lost parents, for the bite of the belt against his skin, for the times he could hear Modesty being beaten and didn’t intervene, for all the times he prayed to God alone at night in the church and knew in his heart of hearts that his words were nothing but breath into a void. He barely notices Graves moving around him until his arms press Credence’s shaking form into the safety of his body. Gentle touches move his shuddering form until his face is pressed into the reassuring solidity of Graves’ chest, tucked under his chin. Percy’s voice is soft and deep as he slowly repeats “my sweet boy, my dear boy” over and over like a prayer, whilst he strokes Credence’s hair. Credence’s body is wracked with grief and joy, and he feels giddy and a bit nauseous, but soaring through him is the feeling that a huge weight has been lifted. He thinks of confession, but this is so much bigger and so much holier than that. He tries to grasp for the right words, but soon things feel foggy, and shortly he is fast asleep in Graves’ embrace.
***
When he wakes, it’s evening – the bedroom swathed in dark blue shadows, the duvet an arctic cavern crumpled up around his weary limbs. He’s alone, but not frightened by that; and he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Through the doorway, he can see Percy illuminated in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, clattering away with washing up dishes and glasses. The phonograph is playing some jazz tune, which filters lazily through into the bedroom. “Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, maybe Monday, maybe not…” Credence’s face lights up with delight as he realises that Percy is singing – his confident baritone blending almost seamlessly with the voice from the phonograph. He feels his mouth quirk into an unstoppable smile watching stern Mr Graves, his Mr Graves, in his shirtsleeves and braces, swaying with soapy dishes in hand. A bubble of warm joy blooms in his chest. He’d thought Mr Graves had taken him apart by force and remade him with kindness, but now he thinks perhaps, yes - they’ve resurrected each other.