Being Human || Lashton AU - boyxboy

chapter eight.

"Fuck, fuck." I hiss, shoving open the door and dropping the half-smoked cigarette into the mud, before booking it around the car to his side. I open the door that he's pushed himself against, but he scrambles across the seat away from me, and I look at him, frantic, shocked and confused. I'm not the enemy. What's he running from me for? "Hey, hey! Biondo, come here!" I yell as loud as I can, because fuck, that screaming is deafening--even louder up close than it was the day I found him, but he doesn't come. Instead he sits there, kicking and screaming and crying, looking like he'd do anything to just disappear as he wraps his arms around his torso so tightly I almost fear he'll break a rib. I reach towards him, earning a few kicks to my arms and one right into the center of my chest, knocking all the wind out of me, but I don't let it stop me. I grab tightly onto his hips and pull him out of the backseat and on top of me, where I lie now cold and wet on the ground, but he doesn't stop.

Laying on my back in the mud with a seventeen-year-old kid kicking and screaming on top of me, wishing I could be anywhere but here right now, I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, crushing his arms against my chest so he can't hit me anymore. His efforts to hit me anyway still hurt.

"Tesoro, Tesoro, per favore!" I scramble, and then he freezes up, his arm falling limp at my sides, clinging desperately onto my Henley, and his legs stop kicking to rest across mine. His head lowers to the crook of my neck, his lips half-pressed to my jawbone just beneath my ear, and his breaths are slowly evening out, hot against my skin. Goosebumps run up and down my arms and legs despite the sweat now dripping from my hairline, and my breaths are long and heavy. His legs fall from their spot on top of mine, his knees hitting the ground on either side of my hips. There's mud all down my back and now on his legs. I force myself to think of what I can do about that, to come up with a solution, so that I don't have to think about his breathing on my neck or his hands on my sides, or the way our hips are pressed against each other's, because that's all I can seem to pay attention to despite the overwhelming wave of nausea that hits when I realize I can't force myself to stop.

"Luke..." I whisper. His name feels mechanical and wrong in my mouth, but now hardly seems like the appropriate time for nicknames. His breath hitches in his throat, fists tightening in my shirt. I don't want to say it again.

His breathing picks up its pace, shallow and short, choppy, almost, like ocean waves in a thunderstorm. I can feel his heart pumping harder and harder, faster and faster, and then he moves his head the slightest bit, his lips tickling my neck, chills racking my whole body, and then his lips make full contact with my skin just beneath my jawbone, and my breathing halts altogether. The wind is cold, whipping so hard it feels like papercuts all across my exposed skin, and my back is pressed into cold water and mud, but I can feel myself sweating despite it all. He's under my skin, breaking my back, making me sweat. I can't even move.

And then the grip on my shirt loosens a little, and he lifts his chest off of mine just the slightest bit, crotch pressing against mine with the slightest friction, and I feel like I can't move, like I'm all rusted out. And then he pulls his head back only centimeters, and he gasps quietly, so quietly, and then his lips press back against my skin, the slightest bit more confident this time. It feels so wrong, and I want to push him off of me, but I can't move from beneath him. I feel frozen in my spot, but, in the smallest way, I don't really want to move, either. He takes a deep breath in, fists tightening in my Henley again, and then his teeth scrape against the skin just beneath my ear. I haven't looked him in the eyes--haven't gotten the chance to try, even, with his head shoved into my neck like this, but if I could, I'd bet his eyes are all dark, pupils dilated like they'd been the first time he heard me speak my father's language.

My right hand finds its way slowly from his hip to his hair, where it rests for what feels like hours until I find the nerve tighten my grip ever so slightly, tangling my fingers in it. My eyes never move from the stars to look at him instead, because I'm terrified that if I look at him, I can't pretend this isn't happening. Dad would be so angry with me.