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Every rose has its thorns |
Continued from Every Rose Has Its Thorns
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Every rose has its thorns |
He thinks he knows me, they all do -- especially Buck -- but they don't. They know what they see now, but none of them saw what I was. After. After the fire. Not even Buck. He tried -- he looked -- but I kept it from him, because it was mine and it was all I had left of them.I didn't care if I died, and I didn't care who I took with me. The whole world could have burned in hell -- innocent and guilty -- it really wouldn't have mattered to me. I only cared about one person, the person who killed them, the person who set the fire that burned my life to the ground. I didn't even care about why it had been done.
It's not like I've lived a saintly life. It's not like I haven't killed men. Never innocent men, but who among us is truly innocent? Eventually we all break the laws of the land ... of God... of nature, because no one is that strong, that self-sacrificing, when it comes right down to it.
But I lived, because I knew how to shoot, fast and straight. Not by choice, not because I practiced, but because I just seemed to keep on living and every day brought some new reason to draw my gun.
So, I killed. Again and again. I killed men without ever seeing their faces, even if they were standing right in front of me, staring me down. They might as well have had their backs turned. When I realized that, I came to a decision. I had to look at them; I had to know whom I was killing, because I wanted them to know who was doing the killing. Because I still didn't know who killed my family.
You don't shoot no one in the back. I actually said that to JD, first day I met him. I'd barely decided it myself and there I was, teaching it to the youth of America. Vin heard me say it, but he didn't say anything about it. Not then, not later, not even last night.
I've seen Vin Tanner shoot more than one man in the back. A guilty man is still guilty, even if he's running away. That's probably what Tanner thinks; it's likely what all bounty hunters think. Five hundred dollars, dead or alive. And the authorities never care how the wanted man was killed.
But at least the bounty hunter knows all his kills are guilty men. Even when they're not. Like Vin Tanner. He's innocent, or so he says, and I believe him. But his name is still on a wanted poster; there's still a price on his head. Anyone who shoots him down and hauls his body in for that reward money will only ever know what's written on that poster, and that man will go to his own grave someday with the belief that justice was served.
Only, that's not my brand of justice. The truth is we're all guilty; we're all innocent. I think Josiah would probably agree with me. We kill or we're killed, or our families or friends are killed, or some stranger is killed. You can't save them all. You can't even try. It all comes down to picking your battles, saving who you think is worth saving.
I think Vin is worth saving.
And I don't give a damn about that boy in the alley behind the saloon, his blood leeching into the soil. I don't care who his is, where he came from, or why he drew on Vin. He wasn't some innocent farm boy, standing on a street corner with a sack of sweets in his hand. He loaded that gun, he drew it, he cocked it, and he pointed it at Vin.
I watched Vin's face as the boy crumbled to the ground. I saw shock and relief and something akin to sadness. But all I could think about were the droplets of blood that had splattered onto Vin's face and clothes, and how I was glad it wasn't his blood I was seeing. In that moment, it occurred to me that I never had seen his blood. Bumps and bruises in abundance, but never blood. And I wondered how in the hell a man like Vin Tanner, with every thing we'd gone through since meeting up, had never been wounded severely enough to bleed. I'd never seen the man's blood, not even last night.
He took me, all of me, deep -- not with ease, not like he spread his legs for every goddamned cowboy who rode through town -- but he took me and he didn't bleed. He didn't even cry out -- well, not until he came. Then I thought he was going to bring the rafters down around us. I had to stop him; I had to shut him up; I had to kiss him. I wanted to. I wanted to come with my lips on his, with his tongue in my mouth. Even though I didn't know I wanted any of those things before last night, before he came to my room and just stood there, leaning against the closed door, staring at me and not saying a word.
He had this look on his face. I could see it in the fractured moonlight that snuck in through the window beside the bed. It was the same look he wore now as he pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon and then just stood there for a moment, not surveying the room but surveying me. Then he came forward and I knew what that look meant. He had questions; he wanted answers.
Why did I shoot that boy in the back? Why had I chosen to save his life? Why didn't I kick him the hell out of my room last night? Why hadn't I invited him there sooner?
These were my questions, but I could only imagine from the look on Vin's face, from the glint in his eyes, that these were his questions as well -- at least some of his questions. Maybe he had more, I wasn't sure. It was difficult to think when he looked at me as he was looking at me now. He didn't do it very often. Usually we understood each other, shared similar philosophies, similar ideas and strategies. He backed me up in ways Buck never did, in ways Buck never could. Of course, that doesn't make Buck any less of a good friend. I wouldn't mind him at my side in any fight -- covering me, watching my back.... Buck does all those things well. But we don't always see eye to eye on things.
That had never been the case with Vin. Even when I'd killed Eli Joe, Vin understood. He didn't like it -- it wasn't what he wanted -- hell, it wasn't what I wanted -- but he knew I had to do it. And he knew I hadn't killed that son of a bitch. He knew I shot to wound him, incapacitate him, cause him a good deal of pain. Nathan should have been able to patch him up, enough so that we could have dragged his pathetic ass back to Texas to clear Vin's name, gotten rid of that bounty on his head. But apparently, that murderous bastard was determined that Vin go on being wanted. Eli Joe should have fallen forward; Vin should have been able to catch him before he slipped off the gable. But Eli Joe pitched backward, beyond Vin's reach; he tumbled from the roof and broke his own neck rather than waiting for the hangman to do it for him.
And now Vin would be wanted forever. Wanted by bounty hunters who saw only money. I don't doubt that's what that boy wanted. Of course, I could be wrong: I don't know Vin all that well. Could be a lot of sin in that man's past. God knows there's a lot in mine. Could be that boy wanted revenge, personal revenge, for something Vin did to him or his family. Maybe something to do with a bounty Vin had once been after. Could be a hundred reasons.
But I didn't think about any of those things. I wouldn't have acted if I had, and then it would have been Vin lying face down in the dirt. And I can't let that happen. I've already let too many people in my life die and I'm sure as hell not going to stand there and just watch.
And I can't sit here and let Vin speak his peace, say what he's come here to ask. Whatever it is, I'm sure this isn't the place. I know if I leave, he'll follow me. I don't know how I know, but I know. And he does. There's the jail across the street, but JD is sitting outside on the boardwalk, whittling. I don't want to deal with him right now.
There's only one place we can go. And I doubt Vin's going to like it -- though, this I'm not sure about. But he keeps following me, walking just an inch or two behind and to my right, casual enough so that no one takes any more notice of us than usual. As long as there's no trouble, folks generally leave us be. None of us seem to mind, me most of all.
Upstairs at the boarding house and Vin still hasn't said a word. Neither have I. That's not unusual for us. We talk, but only when there's a need, when the moods on us. I only notice this, though, when were alone. Other times, when we're with the other fellas, they're doing enough talking for all of us and I don't pay it much mind.
I have to wonder, now that we're inside my room, if Vin's going to say something about last night. I can imagine the different scenarios, but I stop myself from doing so. It's pointless and I don't like to be distracted when my gut tells me to pay attention to things at hand.
So, I just stand there, looking at him. It's last night all over again: him, leaning against the door, staring at me, only this time I can see him clearly, not some piece of carved marble in the moonlight. I can clearly see his hands; he's not a nervous man, not ever, but right now, the fingers of his right hand are picking at the fringe on the bottom of his jacket. He's looking at me, staring straight at me, and I can't believe I've never noticed how blue his eyes are; they're vivid, lit, like the blue portion of a candle flame. I don't usually notice things like that. But the sun is angling into the room, and I can't help but see it.
He's just standing there. I know he's got words to say; I can see that he does. But, I don't care anymore. I don't want to hear them. Mostly because I know I probably don't have the answers, at least not the ones he's looking for.
I only have one thing for him and I hope I'm not reading him wrong; it's possible, it's always possible, however unlikely. Still, it wasn't this difficult last night. Then again, he'd made the first move. Hell, I suppose that meant now it was my turn.
So, I step toward him. He doesn't move away; he just keeps on staring. I didn't realize that I like it when he stares. I wonder if he does it often; if I've just never noticed, though I think I would have noticed.
He tastes like he did last night -- maybe a little less whiskey, maybe a little more chaw, but pretty much the same. I like the taste of him. It's like ... I don't know ... something familiar and yet something different all at the same time.
He was gone this morning when I woke up. I wasn't even sure he'd been there, that it hadn't been a dream. But the sheets smelled like him, smelled like us -- that's the only reason I knew for certain that it had happened. He shouldn't have left. It made this more difficult, more awkward.
I hate fumbling, and that's exactly what I was doing with the Goddamned buttons on his shirt. I nearly took to rending the fabric, but then he kissed me and stilled my hands with his. I've felt velvet, many times -- curtains, pillows, women's dresses -- but it doesn't compare to the softness of Vin's tongue against my own. I want to feel that tongue elsewhere. Everywhere.
I put my hands on his shoulders, encouraging him to kneel. His hair is so soft, running through my fingers like water. He's working away at my belt, at the buttons on my trousers. I can't believe he's on his knees, willingly.
Oh God! It's incredible. It always is, but this is different, because it's Vin's mouth on my dick. I wanted to die inside, knowing he's this good because he's had practice -- lots of practice -- but I can't, because I refuse to think about it. Whatever he's done, it's all been in preparation for this moment, for me.
His hands are on my thighs, pushing my pants down, rubbing over my skin, cupping my balls, slipping back and fingering my hole. He pushes inside, but I don't want him there. I want to take him again, like I did last night. I want to hear him groan as I push inside; I want to feel him writhe beneath me as I thrust into him. I want him to scream again, because of what I'm causing him to feel.
I can't wait any longer; I've waited too long already. This has to stop, because I need to fuck him. The bed is too far away, five or six paces across the room. I push him down, onto the hardwood floor. He's lean -- practically skin and bones; I'll bruise him, I know, but I don't care, because I know he won't care.
In moments, I've tossed his boots aside and I'm yanking off his pants. He still has his coat on, and his shirt. I'm not sure if I can wait for him to take them off, but I want to look at him, all of him. I want to see his skin as he sweats. Our hands collide, fingers tangling, as we both tug at the layers of fabric -- too damn many layers, Vin, like you doesn't want anyone to get near you. But he's letting me, helping me, like he was saving this just for me.
I don't have anything to ease the way this time, so I spit into my hand and then reach down to stroke him. He's hard -- long, but not overly thick. I wonder what he'd feel like inside me. He's staring at me as I move my hand over his flesh. I can tell he likes this; that he wants this; that he's wanted this for as long as I have, since that first day. I wonder if he knew it all along, or if he only figured it out when I did: last night, when I gunned down that boy, when we watched another die in Vin's stead.
His hands are on his chest, caressing his skin, pinching one nipple and then the other. He's not embarrassed that I'm watching him do it. It's making my cock ache even more. I can't hold out much longer. I need to fuck him, hard and fast.
He's biting his lower lip; he's licking his upper lip; he's breathing fast and slow, shallow and deep. He's close; I can tell just by looking into his eyes. They're darker now, bluer, if that's even possible. No one has eyes like Vin -- no one.
He's quiet as he comes, and somewhere in the back of my head I'm disappointed, but it doesn't stop me -- it doesn't even slow me down. I rub his come along my length, then over his hole, and then inside, coating it as far up as my fingers will go. He's pushing against me, clamping down, wiggling his ass. I fuck him for a few moments with my fingers and he loves it.
Then, I'm inside of him, in one long, quick thrust. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips my arms; he's holding his breath. I don't wait for him; I know he doesn't want me to, so I start thrusting, long and slow at first, but when he starts breathing again, I increase my pace.
His legs are on my shoulders and I lean into him, changing the angle for deeper penetration. He's getting hard again. I can't believe he's getting hard again. I want to suck him off, to taste him, as he tasted me, but I'm not that flexible -- I don't suppose I ever was. Vin doesn't seem to mind. His hand is on his dick, playing with himself, stroking over the semi-hard flesh. I pound into him even harder, even faster.
He throws his head back and the thud against the wood floor echoes in the room. I've hit something inside of him, something he likes, something that makes him moan. I want to do it again and I do. He groans louder this time. I didn't hit this spot last night; at least I don't remember him reacting this way. His eyes are scrunched closed; his nose wrinkled up as he bites his lips. He's in the most incredible Goddamned pain of his life and I'll never not fuck him like this again.
He's working his dick hard now. I wish I could do it for him, but it's all I can do to just keep thrusting into him. He's fully hard again, looking as hard as I feel. I want to make him come. I know he just did, that he probably can't again, but I want him to, because I like to watch him come. I didn't know that I would.
I try to slow down; I try to drag this out until he's spilling his seed, but it's impossible. Everything caves in on me and I suddenly can't do anything except fuck him; I can't do anything except think about my dick inside of him, feeling the tight heat surrounding me. In my mind, I see my juice as I come; I imagine it filling him, coating his insides; then I imagine it dripping from him, down his legs when he stands, and I want to lick it off his thighs. But he hasn't come again, and I want him to.
I keep thrusting. I don't know how, but I've and yet I'm still hard. I know it won't last, so I push his legs forward, angling his ass, and I ram into him. When he gasps, I know I've found that spot again. I rub over it, slowly, repeatedly. He's panting and I'm still hard. I push in again and he moans; he's still pulling his pud, milking himself for me; he knows I want to see him come again, as much as I know he wants to come.
He's pushing against me with his legs, supporting my weight, so I reach up with a hand and cover his mouth. I want to hear him come, but I can't last any longer. His eyes go wide and he stares at me -- there's a mixture of panic and excitement on his face -- then he's coming and I let him scream.
I come to. I don't know how, but his ass milks another spasm from me. And then I'm lying beside him. I've never been so sweaty in my life, as if I've just ridden hard for days. I can't breath. My lungs ache, my muscles are threatening to cramp. Vin's going to kill me the next time. I'm going to have a heart attack and keel over dead, but Goddamn if I'm going to let that stop me. I know I'm going to die one day, and this seems a hell of a lot better than dying the way I killed that boy: a bullet ripping through his back, tearing into the heart, spraying blood on the man I love.
Vin's somehow found the energy to move. He's pressed full against me, his head resting on my shoulder. He's staring at me, and I can see how heavy his eyelids are. I know he still has questions -- so do I -- but I know I don't care what the answers are anymore. I only care that the questions got us here, and I know Vin will agree, as long as I keep fucking him like this, like it matters, like it's the only thing that matters. Because it is.
The End
March 2003Comments would be most welcome if sent to: C.V. PuerroPlease do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The story itself belongs to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.Props to Queer As Folk, The Rules Of Attraction, Kurt Cobain, and Nirvana for putting me in this mood.