Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (7 page)

Lindsay can't help laughing. The kid tries to glare, but it turns into giggles.

"Help me, I'm fucking stuck again." He waves his foot at Lindsay, five inches of fabric hanging off his toes from his own failed attempt.

"Don't try and multitask, you'll only hurt yourself." He tugs at the sock and drops it to the carpet before starting on his own buttons. He doesn't think he's ever undressed under such intense
pressure
before – Valentine's watching him intently, almost hungrily, eyes dropping lower down the V of bared skin until the shirt buttons are all slipped through their holes and Lindsay drops it with the kid's jeans.

"You're gorgeous," Valentine blurts out suddenly, like it's vomit, like he can't stop himself. "You are. Let me-" He cuts himself short and crawls to the end of the bed, kneeling there just when the covers drop down to the floor and unfastening Lindsay's jeans for him, sliding the zip down and slipping his hand inside. Lindsay bites his lip to keep a pathetic little noise inside his mouth where it should stay. He doesn't know quite what to do with his own hands, until Valentine reaches out and brings Lindsay's fingers to twist in his hair. "Tell me what to do," he says. He sounds a bit desperate, as he shoves Lindsay's clothes down around his ankles and swings his legs over the side of the bed to get closer, to get a better angle, swiping his tongue wetly around the head and speaking quietly so his words buzz against Lindsay's heated flesh. "I like it when you tell me what to do. Tell me what you like, yeah?"

"You're doing fine," Lindsay says, in a strained, shaky voice.

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"I don't wanna be fine, I wanna be the best you've ever had. Teach me how to make it good, okay?"

He feels a sudden, sickening stab of panic. "You
have
done this before, right?"

That makes the kid laugh. The tension shatters like a mirror, Lindsay feels like he can breathe again. "Yeah, I'm already corrupted, don't worry. I just.... ain't done it with
you
before, have I? I mean, in the car, yeah, but I can do it better, I swear, if you say how you like it."

"I thought you wanted me to..."

"Fuck me?"

"Yeah."

"Oh god,
please
." A final sucking kiss, and he shuffles back on the bed, sprawling there against the pillows like some lounging little prince. Lindsay sits on the bed to remove his shoes and socks and the clinging heap of denim trapping his feet together, but hesitates a bit before doing anything else. It's late, but it's the height of summer and the sky's dim but nowhere near dark. The curtains are open – the window's still open, too, from earlier – and there's more than enough light to see by. He's not so used to this – or he's more used to sleeping with people his own age or older, with the same silly hang-ups about weight and wrinkles and grey hairs, and
not
skinny beautiful little nineteen-year-old boys with smooth white skin and addictive kisses. He turns round, just his head so he's looking back over his shoulder, and when he sees the way Valentine's looking at him – astonishingly open, pleading, needy – he takes a few deep breaths and tells himself to just get over it.

Valentine laughs into his mouth when Lindsay slides up the bed to kiss him, resuming those touches from earlier, the brush of his hands over every single part of Lindsay he can reach. "You gonna turn over?" Lindsay says, when 55

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he manages to find the bottle and wet his fingers ready, but Valentine presses his face into Lindsay's neck and shakes his head.

"I wanna kiss you. No, I wanna
see
you."

He's already wet from his own attempt earlier but Lindsay does it anyway – and clearly better, from the way it's making Valentine arch his back and spill a babble of gasping swears at the gentle touch of a circling finger. He puts his hand on Lindsay's wrist, urging him on impatiently, but he tightens his grip the second Lindsay presses his fingertip inside and whimpers, "No, fucking hell, I'll come, just gimme a minute, okay?"

Lindsay laughs, breathless, and moves his hand away. "You can come,"

he murmurs, right against the kid's ear, kissing down his cheekbone and tugging at the lobe with his teeth. "You're young, you'll be ready again in two seconds."

"You ain't helping." He's laughing as well, though, pouring out more lube and slicking Lindsay's cock for him, wriggling around under the press of his body until Lindsay leaves his ear alone and sits back on his knees to stare at him, the ladder of his ribs and the hollow at his throat and the way he so slowly and beautifully starts to blush when Lindsay doesn't look away. He seems pleased rather than embarrassed, holding the eye contact easily through the blond bits of fringe falling into his face.

"You are," he says softly, and Lindsay doesn't know what he's talking about until he continues. "You're gorgeous."

He's never been any good with compliments, feeling suddenly gawky and out of place, doing his best to ignore the silly fancy that the kid's burrowed inside his mind and stolen his own words to throw back at him. "Flattery gets you nowhere, you know."

"It's got me this far, ain't it?"

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"Well... yes?" Lindsay's inside him easily, dragging the kid a little way down the bed and sort of into his lap. Valentine whimpers again, something happy and unintelligible, and flutters his eyes shut when Lindsay starts moving in gentle, delicious thrusts. "This is okay?"

"It's... pretty stellar, yeah." He's still got his eyes closed, still smiling, and he reaches a hand up above his head to wrap his fingers around the bars on the bedstead, holding his cock with the other. He's not really stroking, he's just got his hand there, like he's concentrating all his energy on really
enjoying
what Lindsay's doing to him. It's making Lindsay feel a bit dizzy and light-headed –

the surreality of it all, the way Valentine's acting on like Lindsay's the best thing that's ever happened to the world and the contrast with the last man he fucked in this bed, somebody he's been sleeping with off and on for fifteen years; there are no mysteries left there, only mutual blackmail and comfortable friendship.
This
, though. This is crazy, unreal, like a dream or a Chinese whisper that happened to somebody else.

Valentine opens his eyes suddenly, and the green is so clear even in the dimming after-sunset light. "It'd be okay if you went a bit harder, too," he prompts, a bit hesitantly like he doesn't know if Lindsay's going to mind him saying it. "You won't break me, I can take
anything
."

Funny, how all the times he's thought about fucking the kid since the moment they met have been like that – hard, vicious, pounding into him and coaxing blossoming bruises from that pale neck with his teeth. He's slightly afraid of this tempting carte blanche, but only for a second; a harder thrust, another harder thrust to doubly make sure, and then he's slamming into him and pressing angry marks into the kid's skinny hips with his fingers, because the strangled cry he makes is like a turning key or a flipping switch. Valentine's using his grip on the bedstead as leverage now, rocking his hips hard against Lindsay's, and in minutes he's choking on his own breath and coming over his hand, over the concave line of his stomach. Lindsay's not far behind, feeling sick and thrilled at the feeling of bare flesh on bare flesh – and there's more of that 57

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when he collapses next to the kid after and Valentine immediately rolls closer, pressing as much of himself as possible against Lindsay's body and kissing him fiercely, on his chest and neck and cheeks and eventually his mouth, over and over until Lindsay's laughing and begging to be allowed to breathe.

"If my penis rots and falls off now I
will
empty my gun into your face."

"Likewise. Except I ain't got a gun, I'll have to... sand you down with a nail file."

"Ouch." He's laughing without meaning to, breathless and exhilarated, and Valentine kisses him again.

"You ain't really making me sleep in the spare room after that, are you?"

"What?" He can't stop laughing, he has to make a real concentrated effort. "You're not my
wife
, get out. I can't sleep with someone else in my bed."

"What, seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Fucking hell." He doesn't seem too bothered, though, especially after he's kissed Lindsay again, long and slow, said, "Alright. Thanks for the party, then. Can we have it for breakfast, too?" and been promised a vehement
definitely
.

***

In the pitch-black early hours of the morning, Lindsay wakes and senses somebody in his room, the gentle click of the closing door and then a figure coming from the door to the bed. He acts on instinct, whipping a gun out of the drawer in the bedside table and tackling the intruder to the floor with the barrel rammed up under his chin. He only remembers too late that he's not alone in the

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house any more, and then he feels stupid.

"Oh fuck, I think you broke my ribs."

"Yeah, lucky I didn't shoot you in the face. What the fuck do you think you're doing, sneaking around like that in the middle of the night?"

"Can't I sleep in here? There's weird noises in the other room."

"What weird noises?"

"Like... whooshy noises."

"That's the
sea
."

"And different weird noises. Sounds like your house is farting."

"It's just the floorboards settling, you idiot," he says, but he's laughing again now and he already knows it seems stupid to be holding a gun to someone's head when you're laughing so he moves it away, he gets up onto his knees so he can reach to put the revolver back in the drawer then holds his hand out to help the kid up. "Get lost, go back in your own room. I told you I hate sharing my bed."

"Didn't hear you complaining earlier."

"I mean I can't
sleep
with people."

"Come
on
, have a heart. I just let you put your cock up my arse, least you can do is let me
sleep
with you after."

Standing now, still with hands clasped from dragging Valentine to his feet, Lindsay dressed in pyjama trousers and Valentine wearing nothing but a borrowed shirt, Lindsay has this startling epiphany that there's nothing in the world he wants more than to wake up in the morning smelling the kid's shampoo.

He's a bit disgusted with himself. He
has
to fake reluctance.

"Tonight
only
, do you understand? You can go to sleep with headphones on if you don't like noises but this is
my
room."

"Okay, only tonight, yeah, okay."

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"Right." He drops Valentine's hand abruptly and goes to sort out the mangled covers, waiting for him to climb in before pulling them up and getting in next to him. "Listen, let's set some rules. If you snore, you're out. If you nick my covers, you're out. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. Don't fidget. Don't wake me if you get up for the toilet."

Valentine nods his head earnestly and crosses his heart like a child.

He ends up doing all of the things Lindsay told him not to – and the next night, he sleeps there again.

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The third week in August is the hottest he can remember. It feels like there's no oxygen. Even the sea doesn't seem to be helping. You can smell it in the air, salt and seaweed, but the air itself feels hot and still, clinging like a blanket. Lindsay's trying to read, but he can't get comfortable in his chair. He's got a glass full of ice and water and he's wearing the thinnest shirt he owns, but the linen is sticking to his skin and the ice is melting faster than he can top it up.

Valentine isn't helping. He's stretched out on his back on the sofa flicking incessantly through the music channels, wearing only a black vest and his big flared jeans rolled up like fat denim doughnuts around his knees. His blond hair is damp and dark with sweat, scraped and bobby-pinned back into a ponytail so he can get the full benefit from his makeshift newspaper-fan on his glowing face.

"Is this how you live?" he says. "You sit round all day reading
books
?"

"It's too hot to move."

"I'm getting another ice pop, you want one?"

"No."

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He's clutching two anyway when he comes back from the kitchen, rubbing them over his sweating face and making happy sighing noises until he's slung himself back on the sofa and lifted his vest up a bit so he can lay the red one across his stomach. He rips into the plastic wrapper on the blue one with his teeth and makes obscene slurpy noises around the end, sucking up the melted juice first before he pulls a piece of the ice in between his teeth and bites off a big chunk. It's like a ritual, the way he eats these things. He does it the same way every time. Lindsay should know; he's watched him eat fourteen over the last two days. His brain's been counting, entirely against his will.

"I opened all the doors and windows down here," he says, playing the diminishing bit of blue ice around his mouth with his tongue. "Can't fucking breathe, I'm going out my mind." Surely he's got to know what he's doing.

Nobody
else
in the world seems to make sucking ice lollies a demonstration of blowjob techniques
every single time
. If it is on purpose, he's doing a pretty good job of acting innocent. He's not even looking at Lindsay, he's completely engrossed in his ice, now snapping bits off all the way down the plastic wrapper and tipping it up to let them slide and melt in his mouth, one by one. "Best get more of these next time you're shopping, we're running out. Or – no, get Fabs.

Do they still make Fabs? Them red and white ones with chocolate and bits on?

They were wicked. Or, you remember that swirly one, what's it called? Zoom or something? No, ZAP. Zaps were stellar, do they still make Zaps? Or the twirly twisty one, the pineapple helter-skelter one." He tips the last of the melted blue e-numbers into his mouth and leans across to chuck the wrapper onto the coffee table, and immediately gets stuck into the next one. There's only a thin stick of ice now, bobbing around in the unnatural chemical-red where it's melted from his body heat. Of course he spills it on himself when he bites the wrapper open, laughing and swearing and drinking down what's left so he doesn't make any more mess before lifting his hand up to his stained mouth and chasing a long drip with his tongue, from his knuckles right down to as close as he can get to his elbow.