Hunger

by Angela

08-19-04

 

Author’s Note:  I don’t usually write lemons.  Though I love reading them, when I try to write them I get a bit flustered and “cut to the fireplace” way too soon for them to be called lemons at all.  This time I pushed a bit further.  I hope you enjoy!

 

----

 On our way to California we camped on the prairie.  I’d never seen land like that (fallow fields growing grasses as high as my chin) and I didn’t want to climb into the truck to sleep, even after Shorter said goodnight and Ibe-san steeped the fire.  I stared at the stars, which were the same as those over Tokyo, but visible to me for the first time I could remember. 

 

The night was wide and lonely; the grasses hummed in the wind and crickets chirped, but not loud enough to make me forget my thoughts.  I was mulling over the story I heard from Ash’s father.  I knew what it was to look at Ash with tightness and longing, and wondered if I was like the vile men who had hurt him.  I wondered if Ash would think so, if he knew. 

 

I stared at the stars and steeped in my own thoughts until my chest hurt.  Then, as if he knew I needed a distraction, Ash’s worn shoes crunched the grass beside me.  He crouched, offered a hand so I could stand with him.

 

We walked without talking.  My heart was pounding and I knew I’d have to learn to control my feelings if I didn’t want them to be obvious.  I breathed deeply, willing my heart to calm, my blood to cool.  He led me over a rise and into a hollow where a cluster of weak trees edged a tiny creek.  I peered back into the night, surprised that I couldn’t see the truck over the tall grass.

 

I was more surprised when Ash touched me, his hand flat on the small of my back as he pulled me against him.  He told me that he knew how I was feeling, that he’d known since our shooting lessons in his hometown.  He told me to relax.

 

His mouth was soft and warm and still full of secrets.  He coaxed my startled lips apart and slid his tongue around mine and it was a million ways different than I’d been imagining.  His hands pressed me close and bore me down across the grass and I wondered if I was just dreaming, if I’d fallen asleep while looking at the stars.

 

He smelled like sweat and campfire smoke.  His body moved and pushed against mine.  Against the hardness I was ashamed of.  My own body reacted, my hips thrusting and my hands scraping and scrambling for a touch of skin.  Fabric tore.  Ash cursed, leaving a trail of saliva down my chin and to my neck.  His teeth scratched my collarbone and I kissed the smooth skin beneath his ear.  Ash.  Ash!  I didn’t understand why he was touching me; I was terrified he would stop.

 

He asked me a question, sternly forcing me to look him in the eye and answer.  I barely heard his words over the hum of his voice.  I said yes.  For a moment he shifted away from me, leaving my chest and stomach (my shirt shoved up around my shoulders) bare to the sky.  I blinked, confused.  Until his hands came back, roughly tugging at the button of my jeans.  I sucked in my breath.  His hands were hot.

 

Ash?

 

He leaned over and kissed me again, his eyes flashing and low-lidded.  His eyelashes brushed my cheek as he pulled away.  He told me not to worry:  I promise you’ll like this.  He yanked my jeans open; the zipper split apart as he tugged the tight denim down my hips.  To my surprise he fell upon me, kissing my stomach and tracing his tongue just under the elastic waist of my underwear.  His hands slipped below me, cupping my rear and bringing me up to meet his mouth.  Through the fabric, Ash licked and nipped at me.  I moaned, clutching for his arm and getting only a handful of grass. 

 

He glanced at my face and smiled.  His hands curved up and pulled the thin cotton down and away from me.  I closed my eyes, a little mortified as my liberated penis sprang up, but too caught up in everything that Ash was doing to mind too much.  He commented appraisingly, citing his vast knowledge of the male anatomy to compliment me.  My stomach twisted and I wondered why he was doing all of this. 

 

But then . . . his mouth came down around me. 

 

I forgot to wonder.  I forgot that this might be a dream.  He pulled his lips tight against me, his tongue sliding up and over and around and I forgot everything.  My fingers clutched the blond waves of his hair, the stars swirled dizzily before my eyes, and before I could form thoughts to put the sensation into concepts I could understand, it came to a shuddering finish.  Ash pulled back at the last moment, wrapping his callused palm around the throbbing length of me and pressing his mouth (wet and musky) over mine to muffle my cries.

 

When he tried to pull away a second time, I wouldn’t let him.  I wanted him to feel the same thing.  I wanted to show him how I felt about him, but I didn’t know how to begin.  He looked at me with a question in his eyes.  My hands, shaking and uncertain, stumbled their way down his back and beneath his jeans.  His skin was smooth and firm.  He unbuttoned his own jeans and wiggled them down to his knees.  I was stuck, unable to move, to breathe, to look at him.  I closed my eyes.

 

He kissed me, and I peeked at him from beneath lowered lids.  His bright eyes were open and he smiled against my mouth.  His hand, slick and warm, grasped mine and he closed my fingers around his shaft.  Like this.  He whispered against my mouth, his nimble tongue darting out to trace my lips.  He moved my hand slowly in the familiar motion that every boy knows by heart by the time he’s fourteen.  His skin was smooth and slippery, and somehow different from my own.  I wanted to look at him but was too afraid; I kissed his neck and earlobe and whispered one of the fantasies that filled my head every night.

 

In a tight voice he murmured amendments to my fantasy, in language I barely knew and hadn’t learned in any phrase book.  His tongue and lips lapped at my throat.  His teeth grazed my skin.  He clutched me when he cried out, one hand bruising my arm and the other pulling my hair.  Even the pain felt good.  Finally spent, he collapsed onto the flattened grass next to me, his breath labored and steamy against my cheek.

 

He didn’t speak, so I worried.  I wondered what he was thinking--it couldn’t mean the same thing to Ash as it did me.  I remembered his father’s story of the man who raped him.  I remembered Marvin’s thick lips and eager hands in the warehouse.  My stomach knotted.  Was I in that category now?  Did Ash think I was just one more person to callously use his body for pleasure?

 

God, it’s good to get that out of our systems, huh?

 

His voice was shaking and he sounded too casual.  I looked over at him.  His eyes were firmly fixed on the stars. 

 

I looked the other way, at the trickle of water in the middle of the creek bed.  I didn’t understand how Ash felt, but I knew that this wasn’t the kind of thing I could just do and forget about.  I gathered my courage and tried to work out the words to tell him, but ended up agreeing instead.  We were both very quiet after that. 

 

It felt dismal, staring at the barely-wet creek, my pants still around my knees, knowing that a moment like this could never happen again.  Worse, that Ash didn’t seem to want it to happen again, and now it looked like I’d wasted my once chance to explain how I felt.

 

Wordlessly, we fumbled with our clothes and Ash walked over to the creek to wash up.  I followed a few beats later, crouching nearby (but not too close) to scoop water from the tiny stream.  Ash was splashing water on his face, not seeming to care that the spray dampened his t-shirt and jeans.  He finally cupped both hands in the creek and lifted them to his lips.  Water coursed over his jaw and down his neck. 

 

I hadn’t realized I was staring until he looked up at me.

 

Before I could think of any kind of cool remark or explanation, a question tumbled from my mouth.  I asked him why.  My voice cracked and I felt years younger than the boy in front of me.

 

He explained softly, his eyes dark and guarded, but still looking directly into mine.  It was standing between us.  Whenever we touched, whenever we caught each other unaware, it was there, this spark of tension that needed to be explored.  He said he didn’t like the hungry look in my eyes that I tried to hide.

 

What did that mean?  Did I disgust him?  I felt a deep flush spread upward from my neck and shoulders.  I didn’t understand what he was saying, and told him so.

 

He took a step closer.  He reached out and touched my shoulder.  He smiled.  He said I didn’t look hungry anymore.  Ash’s hand moved over my shoulder and up my neck until he was cupping my head, his index finger tracing the curve of my ear.  In spite of myself, I leaned into his touch.  Now you look sated. 

 

 That night we walked back slowly, never deliberately touching but letting our accidental bumps and brushes linger.  The scent of dry prairie grasses gave way to wood smoke and we heard Max whistling in the darkness.  His tune died on his lips as Ash and I trudged out of the tall grass.  His eyebrows shot up in a mute question.

 

We ignored him and climbed into the back of the truck, where Shorter was already snoring.  Trying not to watch Ash, I yanked my pillow from beneath Shorter’s shoulder and lay down on the tattered blanket.  I looked at the wall and wondered why Ash wasn’t going to bed.  After a while, I felt his eyes on my back.  I rolled over to look at him.  He was sitting on the floor against the far wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, his blond hair bright even in the darkness.  What is it?

 

He smiled ruefully.  Now I’m hungry.

 

I grinned and rolled back into my pillow.