Archive of Our Own

Simon doesn’t like his music. He’s a little metalhead. David’s apartment is filled with hip-hop, electronic and anything chill. The last time he let Simon bring his own CDs it completely fucked up the vibe. Not his thing. Sometimes David calls Simon a goth, which irritates the kid because it’s wrong. David thinks it's fun, because Simon is even cuter when he’s mad.

Currently, whatever track is playing’s put David in a vortex. Feels amazing, like he’s sinking into an ocean of tar. He’s limbless underneath a haze of weed, oxycodone and Delsym. Maybe it made Simon freak out. Maybe that’s why Simon’s been in the bathroom for so long.

… How long? The idea that he should go check on him crawls to the front of David’s mind. There’s a joint pinched between his fingers that might’ve been burning for days. He tokes one last time before setting it in an ashtray on the cluttered coffee table.

David shuffles to his bathroom and opens the door. Simon is there, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet.

Bright red something–

He squeezes his eyes shut. The image is there, seared behind his lids, and when he opens them again the small space is monochrome. Full black walls, full white scribbles, panting in a plastic cup. Pressed up against a burlap sack wrapped so tight around his head. Breathing through his mouth and feeling his heart slow down with each beat. David’s been able to understand when he’s having hallucinations again– most of the time. Sometimes. If he inhales through his nose and out his mouth and counts backwards from ten and says a prayer and bruises his knees down for God, who hates him...

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Simon jolts at the outburst. He freezes. David is blinking rapidly to clear his vision, rubbing at his eyes, face twisted into a snarl as he attempts to will his brain to quiet down. To sober up. To realize he isn’t there right now and it’s just his bathroom and it’s just Simon.

Slashing at his forearm with a pocket knife.

David’s eyes clear, tears forced out from the pressure wicking away at his lower lids. He can focus. Simon looks terrified, in part from being caught and in part from being shouted at; this is a side David has not yet revealed. His aggression. His violence, stirred up when he’s in the midst of a trip and happens to become afraid.

Like slamming Simon with his car, this is yet another thing David must make up to him. He inhales and then exhales very slowly.

“It’s okay, Simon. ’M not mad. I just got scared.”

Simon blinks, then seems to relax just a bit. He also seems stunned into silence. David doesn’t ask if Simon wants to go to the hospital. They both know that neither of them want that. The threat of cops getting involved and fucking up David’s situation means it’s not going to happen. Save it for when one of them’s on the verge of death, or don’t save it at all, because the drugs are worth more than anything.

“... Here,” David offers, stepping inside. He leans down to a drawer to pull out a small box full of individually wrapped bandages. Quietly, he opens a package and surveys the damage. Blood’s dribbling a bit, but Simon’s cut horizontally. It’s not a dangerous amount of bleeding. Still, it will need tending. Lots of gauze. David uses an entire roll of the stuff. He wraps it snug. He presses his lips to the edge like he’s sealing it. One look at Simon’s scowl aimed down at him from above tells him this addition wasn’t appreciated, but maybe it was, just a little bit. If only to calm him down from being cursed at.

He slides his arms around Simon’s waist and back, leaning forward to rest his head on his legs in a gesture that might be reverent.

David remembers, once, he tried to ask Simon about the self-harm. Simon met him with eyes full of hate and refused to give any reasoning. Since then, David hasn’t bothered to question it. “You need to stop doing that to yourself,” he hums. Wiser words never spoken. Nobody has ever explained to Simon that he should simply stop being depressed. David is smart and cool and has it all figured out.

He closes his eyes and nuzzles into his lap. His jeans. Simon seems resistant for a few seconds before his muscles unclench. They become a warm pillow for David to place his stubbled cheek upon. It’s easy for him to get touchy-feely when he’s stoned.

Simon is uncomfortable. Obviously. He sits with his arms limp, simply tolerating David snuggling into him. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Simon mumbles.

He needs drugs. David looks up and grins. Dopey, self-assured. His chin rests neatly on Simon’s thigh. “Hang on…”

Pills in his pocket. He keeps eighties around like a lifeline. One is plucked from the bottle and presented to Simon. Not too many, not too much. He wants him to be awake. Simon’s tolerance isn’t as high as his own. Without words, Simon takes it, and wills himself to dry-swallow. David watches, still on his knees. Lopsided smile. He observes Simon grimace, glance at the sink like he wants to slurp water, then power through it. David sits up and slides his palms higher.

“Lemme make you feel nice.”

There’s clear shock on Simon’s face, but he doesn’t protest. What nineteen-year-old would turn down a blowjob? “Uh…”

Thumbs hook into the hem of his jeans. Almost immediately, Simon presses his fists down against the toilet seat and lifts his hips. Anxious. I knew you wanted it. David tugs both pants and underwear down just enough to allow access to what he wants. Denim just above Simon’s knees. The sight is not shocking anymore, but it does cause a knot of sympathy in David’s stomach as he gazes at the mess.

Slices long and short, pink and red line Simon’s pale thighs. There are fresher marks. Cuts that weren’t there the last time he sucked him off. After a pause, David trails his lips along each groove, which makes Simon’s legs tense up.

If only he could kiss it all better.

David’s eyes drift upward. “I’ve been to heaven, Simon.” Endless torture rooms. Secluded prisons. A smell of blood and rust so thick your nose could never adjust. The rasping breath and the chains and the darkness spreading out into infinity. Walk forever and find nothing at all. Five seconds dissociated on his couch becomes a hundred years in there. “I’d rather be right here with you.” Is it still sweet? Maybe it sounds nice to Simon even if it’s through his teeth. The reaction he gets is a dissolving glare Simon’s been aiming down at him this entire time. No words. Simon’s not very eloquent when he talks to David. It’s fine. He doesn’t need to say anything.

He angles Simon into his mouth, heavy eyes rolling up to watch the reaction. Truth be told, David likes men and women, and he likes sucking dick. Won’t take it up the ass, but a cock in the mouth is nothing. When he’s high, the idea is especially appealing, and he doesn’t even mind that Simon hasn’t returned the favor yet. All Simon has to do is sit back and make those little bitch-noises that get David hard. It feels like a power move when the kid is writhing and whining, reduced to a fucking puddle.

“Mm– ah–” Starved of touch, let alone sexual attention, Simon’s squirmy already. With his free hand, David dips past the waistband of his own trackpants to get himself off.

Taking Simon to the hilt, David’s nose buries into black bristles and he holds his breath. Simon’s cock isn’t impressive, but it’s perfect, and makes it easy for David to hold him in his entirety. The tip of the head divots into the back of his tongue, just barely tickling near the back of his throat as David lazily strokes his tongue across the underside. Simon’s leaking more precum than usual, and David, with a near-nonexistent gag reflex from years of pill abuse, lets it drip like syrup right down his esophagus. “Mm–” There’s an approving rumble as he watches Simon raise a hand to his face and uselessly chew at one knuckle.

When he needs to breathe, David pulls back. Simon’s length slides back out with a gentle pop. He licks his lips, catches his breath, and goes back down, starting a steady head-bob rhythm while stroking the base nice.

“David…” Such a faint whisper that the blood rushing in his head could drown it out.

Simon’s hand is raised, edging toward David’s temple with uncertainty. When he closes his eyes, his fingertips land like feathers on David’s scalp, then dig hard into his hair. This is Simon giving in.

David’s sucked him off a few times now, and Simon doesn’t tend to last long. He wants to try something new before the kid blows. If nothing else, it’ll distract him even more from his cut-fest. Using one hand to keep jerking him off, David trails his tongue past the base, the balls, and down to Simon’s ass. With some authority he presses his palm under one of those scarred thighs and hefts it upward to expose a dusky-pink hole, most certainly never touched. David changes that. He traces around in a circle a single time.

“Oh– oh ffuh–”

The reaction is immediate. With a violent spasm, Simon seems to stiffen harder than he ever has prior, and he’s shivering like he’s about to cum, too. God damn. “You really liked that, huh?” The comment makes Simon’s toes curl in his socks, scraping on the bathroom tile. David takes that as a yes. And he’s going to push further.

After swirling around at that pulsing hole for a few seconds, David wets his index finger and eases it past an incredibly tight ring of muscle, right up to the first joint. Simon gasps and jolts backward.

"David! Stop! Fuck!"

A defensive shove to his forehead. Alright, too far. “Ha– sorry…”

He goes back up. Sucks hard on the tip and jerks at the base hard, rough, fast.

Simon whimpers and his hips buck up when he shoots, his cockhead hitting with the softest punch to the back of his throat David’s ever gotten. This is a good one. Must be the intense stress of the whole situation coupled with the drugs and a desperate search for some relief. With a growl, David presses his face into the crosshatch of scars on one of Simon’s inner thighs. He manages to reach his own climax, his load blown around thirty seconds after Simon’s solely by imagining fucking that tight little ass as he inhales his scent. Simon sits and waits, to watch his friend finish himself off, melted into a satisfied slime. Once David recovers, catching his breath in time with Simon’s, he looks back up.

“You all good now?”

David can tell Simon wants to be surly about it, be mopey and act like he’ll never know happiness again. But even Simon can’t hide it when he’s open-mouthed, panting, sweating, slumped back against the tank.

“... I guess.” Simon’s voice almost cracks.

David grabs a towel, haphazardly tossed on the floor and forgotten about, to gently wipe Simon clean. Then himself. He rises from the floor, and the room reels enough to make him reach out and brace a hand on the wall. “... Shit.” The aura’s been disrupted. The two of them should leave. Yeah, they should get out of here for awhile.

“C’mon, let’s get you some fresh air. Go for a drive.”

“But, uh, aren’t you fucked up?” The looming threat of the way Simon’d bounced off the bumper, his hip bruised for weeks and head trauma upon their first meeting, is quavering in his voice. David tries to smile in a way he feels is comforting.

“I’ll go slow. Don’t worry.”

Simon shoves his hands into his pockets and wanders toward his shoes, kicked off at the door. He’s obliging. It’s not like he has anything else to do. Any other people to hang out with. Why wouldn’t he want to be David’s passenger?

David leans in to kiss the light hairs on Simon’s jaw, the shadow on a face that can’t yet grow a beard, much as it wants to. It’s a move that he figures Simon will flinch at. But he must be content, because he doesn’t react with anything but a simple question. “Where are we going?”

David grabs his keys and a lighter. “Somewhere far.”