so. this is it. last chapter. i thought about doing the epilogue as a 'bonus' little chapter, but decided to just include it here. this ties up the story, as well as ties in some references i made to these two in Wyatt. so, yeah. there's that.
thank you everyone who has read and reviewed this story. i hope its conclusion is just as satisfying.
also: this story is free. you're reading it, for free. please, please do not tell me that the way i have chosen to write it has somehow cost you something. that you have suffered some burden of loss. i'm not buying it.
and that is my passive aggressive note of the year. thank you, and please enjoy the conclusion of Self-Proclaimed Messiah.
25 august, 2012. 7:38 pm.
September 2004: Bo.
The sound of crunching slowly pulled me up from sleep, a numb hand coming up to scrub my face as I tried rolling over, only to have my feet blocked by something down at the end of the bed. Eyes blearing open, I saw Carlton sitting cross-legged at my feet, a book in one hand and a yellow apple in the other.
Even as I watched, he took a bite and turned the page, completely absorbed.
As irritating as it was that his apple woke me before I was ready, I didn't mind him eating it; even after nearly a month of stuffing food in him every chance I could get, he still harbored that slightly-underfed look from before.
"You should sleep some more. Only been five hours."
His voice startled me, his eyes never leaving the page of his novel.
"Mn. No, I'm awake now."
I pushed myself up on my elbows and he finally looked up, cool eyes taking in my mussed hair and face puffy from sleep, offering no censure.
I laughed a bit, lowering back down and running fingers through my hair with a yawn.
"Why're you sitting around in here?"
The page turned, a muted crunch and slurp making me grin a bit.
"John's home. He looks at me funny."
It was true that John had been looking at both of us strangely since Carlton showed up out of nowhere; I think the fact I'm with a dude kinda weirds him out. Not that he's against gay guys, per se, but that someone so…normal…could have been queer under his very nose is obviously more than he can handle.
It's ruining his 'safe little world'.
I turned onto my side, curling up a bit so I could better see him, and lay there, watching him eat the apple all the way down to the core; he even ate that too, and though just the thought sounded gross, I kind of found it awesome.
"I love you."
He looked up, staring with a growing blush.
I smiled; "You don't have to say anything."
"But the polite thing to do would be to return it…right?"
I felt my smile fade, his face growling mildly more disturbed; "I don't want polite. I don't need you to say it just to make me happy."
"…But it would? Make you happy?"
A blush of my own rose up, and I shrugged a bit, not trusting my voice if I tried to respond.
"I have loved you for a very long time."
My blush darkened, heat spreading from my chest and stomach, and I had to hide my face in my hands so he couldn't see my stupid grin. I felt him move and curled up even more, hiding like a dumbass. Honestly…I hadn't expected him to say it, had never expected him to say it.
He came and lay beside me, tugging a hand away from my face and smiling a bit at the spectacular redness of my skin.
"You're strange," he stated.
"For being happy?"
He hummed, pulling my other hand away so he could lean in and kiss me; his taste was tart and yet, still faintly sweet, a hint of apple on his lips and tongue. Far sooner than I wanted, he pulled back, sitting up and tugging his shirt from over his head. He was almost painfully skinny, torso covered in pale scars; his back still livid with scars from that last time his mother almost killed him; but he sat completely unselfconscious, his hand tracing the hardening length along the upper thigh beneath his shorts.
I swallowed, and he grinned, cocky as he tilted his head just so; "Get naked, Bo, so I can love you."
January 2004: Carlton.
Creaking footsteps came down the hall, stopping off in the bathroom and replaced with a moment of piss hitting the toilet bowl and then water in the sink before the footsteps continued the some odd feet to the bedroom door.
He tried to be quiet, tried not to wake me, but I'd been awake since I first heard the sound of the truck outside, my ears attuned to the unique sound of the individual engine; they say dogs can do it, so I sort of trained myself to do it too. I like knowing he's home before he even gets to the front door, I like that I can lay here with my arm slung over my head and listen to him kick snow off his boots on the steps.
John wasn't home that often anymore, having gotten himself a girlfriend almost as soon as I'd moved in; he claimed the two of us were enough to drive him nuts, gross him out. He stayed away most nights, regardless.
My bare chest rose and fell in steady breaths as I listened to Bo's fingers untying the gnarls in his bootlaces, listened as he sleepily undressed down to the skin because I'd already made the bed warm for hours. The floor creaked quietly as he padded across the stiff carpet on bare feet to the small bed we share; he lifted the quilt and prodded me to make some room, already figuring out I was awake.
I lazily obeyed, scooting closer to the wall and feeling his weight sink down into the heated dip I'd left behind, the accompanying rush of cool air at my back and the chilled bit of bed beneath me not very pleasant but bearable.
Fingers found the hollow of my underarm, warm for once and steady as he pulled in close for the warmth and necessity of not falling out of bed, as I'd done the first time we slept in the same bed together. I'd landed pretty hard on my tailbone, hard enough to bruise it for days; it still made me laugh to remember the blanching John had done the next morning as I'd winced sitting down. Bo still teases him sometimes for thinking the worst, but it had made me determined that I wouldn't wince when my ass was sore because of…that.
And I hadn't.
Of course, by that point, we were already comfortable enough with sex because it had taken me a long time before allowing Bo to do what he allowed far more easily.
I shifted a bit at the breathed word in my ear; "Still dark out."
"Mm…still morning. John home?"
I smirked into the darkness, smiling because he's so predictable. I used to wonder how on earth he could want to screw around so soon after one of his long shifts at night, but he's so consistent that I've given up wondering and come to count on it like clockwork. …I start getting turned on at the thought of him coming home, and I'm almost always half-hard by the time he's slipped into bed.
As it was, his hand slid from my armpit around to my front, my cock hardening against his palm as he melded his body closer, as though trying to get me to turn and pull him against me or something.
My arms encircled him as I rolled over, feeling his fingers running down my side, counting my ribs but knowing I'm slowly gaining meat on my bones; three steady meals a day seems to do that to a guy. When I don't eat he bullies me into it, even the few times I threaten to withhold sex; he knows I hate to deprive myself, so never takes the threat seriously. Thus, he somehow forces me to eat, and I force him to find a way to beg for forgiveness when I hadn't been hungry enough.
Food is an issue we fight over quite a bit, some of our spats turning ugly fast, but never physical.
Sometimes I pick fights just to see how angry I can make him, if he'll finally hit me again because that'd at least be something familiar, something I know. He never does, could never hit anyone like that, even when he's so fucking pissed that his face is sweating bullets and I can hear the grinding of his teeth even from across the room.
I always feel like a shit for getting him to that point and will stuff whatever he'd been asking me to eat into my mouth, chewing and swallowing despite that it usually makes me feel like I'm about to yak it back up anyway. His refusal to beat me is the reason I really eat when he wants me to, that I let him make me breakfast most mornings even though he'd only slept four hours by the time I needed to get up for work.
Our schedules don't always mesh well, with him having to work night shifts every other week or so; six at night to two in the morning; and me having to open or close the library in town depending upon who else is available. The pay is poor but I honestly like what I do, what I manage to bring home to keep us afloat.
I'm nineteen now, still able to wear most of the clothing I'd worn throughout high school, but I'm filling out, growing some.
It's been three years that I've known Bo, when he pretty much forced me to accept him as my friend.
He finally told me about his dad, told me the story I'd only had pieced together up to that point; about the meanness, the drugs and booze. He told me about the times he'd draw the attention to himself, got the tar beat out of him so his mother and Kelly wouldn't be hurt. He told me about how he stopped his dad for good, and it'd explained some of the nightmares he has, when he thrashes in his sleep and near-about knocks my teeth out.
I forgive him, though, because now I understand how he came to be who he is, how he's always trying to protect those closest to him, even from himself.
Why he did for me without wanting anything in return.
Sometimes, long after we've climaxed and he's dropped off into a hard sleep, I lie awake and try to acclimate myself to having this, to having this life. Of having someone so worried about me he wants to break something when I refuse to eat. Someone so deeply engrained to worry that on the mornings he doesn't wake up from the clock, he still won't let me leave the bed unless I've wiggled from his arms, trying not to wake him because he's always far too tired.
And while I can't say that I like that he does these things, that they don't piss me off…it's still a nice feeling, knowing that he worries so much because I'm important. It's how I remember that he loves me, loves me, as much as I love him.
I'm devoted, really, to my self-proclaimed messiah.
The speedometer was stuck on the truck again, frozen or just plain ol' busted, I couldn't tell. It was cold enough for it, that much I did know, but at least the heater spit out air hot enough to bake a guy to death; Carlton's always cold, because he's still skinny as fuck.
Sexier, though, with meat on his bones, so I've little room to complain.
Not knowing how fast I was going, I stuck to first gear as I drove through town, a yawn cracking my face in half even as I pulled up to the library. The lights were lit and a few cars littered the parking lot despite the late hour, one of them belonging to a kid head-banging to Guns N' Roses; the music blasted through the windows of both our vehicles, and I shook my head.
I cut the engine and got out of the truck, not bothering to lock it because there was no one around to steal it anyway. In a town like ours, everybody knows everybody.
Snow crunched beneath my boots as I crossed the lot, opening the door and letting myself into the warm, well-lit building. The smell of books assaulted me, that smell of pages and ink that sometimes gets caught within Carlton's hair and makes me think 'dirty librarian' thoughts.
My dirty librarian was leaning against a table, talking to a kid sitting alone, but his eyes caught mine as I entered, coldly burning and making me grin.
"Garron, yer brother's sitting outside waitin' for ya."
The kid turned, a comical look of displeasure on his face, and my grin widened.
He frowned when I sauntered over and tussled his hair, comfortable enough to smack my hands away before he started gathering his things together. Carlton pushed away from the table and went around to the others, quietly informing people it was time for the library to close and reminding them that all books must be checked out within the next five minutes.
"Was he listening to his music again?"
Garron's question broke my reverie, drawing my attention out of my pants and back to the present.
"Hm? Alex? Yeah. Surprised the ass doesn't go deaf."
He rolled his eyes, his grin one of the suffering even as he shrugged into his coat and pulled on a silly knit hat that made him look even younger than he was. It was the freckles; the kid was cute, though far too young for me, and I sometimes wondered why he hung around the library so much instead of with kids his own age. I mean, me and Carlton were really kinda boring, other than being the only open queers in town...which, considering the side-eyed looks I sometimes got from the kid, probably meant more than it should.
Carlton wandered behind the counter as a woman brought a small stack up to check out, and I wondered how cool he'd be if I was hidden beneath the counter and blowing him.
Garron's chuckle pulled me from the fantasy, his eyes knowing; "You've got that 'dirty librarian' look again."
I blushed, wishing I'd never confided in the kid how often I think about such things, and he laughed again. I cuffed the side of his head and he shrugged away, walking outside and was soon followed by the woman at the counter.
I remained where I was, watching Carlton walk to the doors and turn the locks before going around and straightening up the chairs at the tables, pushing them back into place with almost anal concentration. He then picked up the few books sitting in the return carts, walking to the stacks to put them away so there'd be nothing for the person opening the library in the morning; it was a courtesy not often paid to him in kind, and was just another reason why I felt myself lucky.
When he didn't return after a few minutes I sighed, leaving the tables and heading back to the shelves; I found him straightening books, pulling them out and putting them back in order, front-facing them in perfect rows.
He didn't even turn at my question, making a humming sound, and I couldn't help grinning a bit. I slinked down the aisle and came up behind him, kissing the side of his neck even as I pulled up flush to his back. He didn't respond other than tilt his head for me to have better access, his hands still busy until I let one hand travel down his front, fingers slipping just beneath the waist of his jeans.
His hands stilled, concentration broken, and I used my teeth on the lobe of his ear, pulling his hips back so he could feel my hardness pressing against his ass.
He copied my tone, amused and just as horny, and I hummed.
"Can't 'elp it, you're my dirty librarian."
"Shut up and use that hero complex of yours to get me off."
I groaned, letting him turn so I could kiss him, my fingers already jerking at the fastening of his jeans; once they were open, he pushed me down, his dick rudely sticking out until I'd pulled it deep into my mouth, loving his sighing moan as he hardened further against my tongue.
Looking up, seeing his grasping hand ruining the order he'd been so intent upon perfecting, smelling the lust of him and all those books we both love so much…it was almost too much.
Too good for someone like me.
He looked down and caught my eye, his face heating up even as that cold gaze burned white-hot, making me moan, and he grinned sharp as he held my head in place. He was too good for me, but who was I to argue?
I let him come while fucking my mouth and knew he'd be quick to return the favor, here between the shelves of his library.
My dirty, dirty librarian.