Razor

Ellis liked to have the television on when he went to sleep.
His blue eyes were closed, not that Nick could see them even if they were open from where he lay across the room in his own softer-than-expected cot. The redneck had long ago turned his face in his sleep, nose to the wall and arm up over the pillow, obscuring most of his profile and ear in its positioning.

The hick didn't care what was on the flickering screen so long as there was a constant hum of sound—be it voices or music or even gunfire, much to Nick's chagrin. Not that the older man couldn't fall asleep to it; eventually he always did. Years and experience taught him far better than to refuse oncoming rest in the face of harmless obstructions. As far as he was concerned sleep wasn't guaranteed anymore, not with that all-too-familiar curtain of chaos ready to fall at a moment's notice.

That didn't mean he had to like it, however. If he had it his way the only sounds accompanying the night should've been a fan or even more preferably panted, heavy breaths.

Ellis didn't allow the latter as often as Nick desired, however. Instead he drowned the empty yawn of silence and the overbearing aura of lust with scripted, precise programming—predictable and fake.

The hick said it was because the silence worried him. Because in silence you could hear anything. In silence they had heard everything. And they could very easily hear it again.

A truck had barreled past their makeshift, assigned dorm-like room one night, full of solders with medicine, food, and weapons. It's rumbling, bouncing bed and gritting tires had been enough to send the dead-asleep redneck into a panic of arching fists and snapping legs.

So in the face of losing his balls Nick h ad let him sleep with the television on.

And, yeah, he bought the excuse but he'd bet the entire amount of conned money he'd ever won that there was far more to it.

For instance, they had never had sex with the television on. None of that was the northerner's fault, mind; Nick could get his dick upright and attention with a background of Barney songs if the kid ever felt the mood to bend over in front of multi-colored, puppet dinosaurs.

But he hadn't. When Nick had tried during some science show he was sure the mechanic didn't even understand he'd been shrugged away under the pretense that the host looked too much like Ellis' grandfather or some bullshit like that.

It had been as such for the last three months.

Three goddamn months since he'd had sex (which had only been the third time with Ellis) since a year ago when the shit had hit the 'fan' enough to splash gore, horrors, and scars on everyone who'd lived through it.

There was no way to escape that splattering, either. They'd had to slip through the blades to survive and even if you were quick enough to do that you were going to get blood on you—yours or somebody else's.

Basically, chances had been slim. The chance to live, to breathe, to smile, to fuck, would probably never happen again—a sort of mantra as such had chanted within the card shark's mind each time he and his teammates had prepared to leave each and every saferoom.

And when they'd crossed that bridge and hope actually returned—because he didn't care what the others said, not a damn one of them had hoped—it had all been spoiled. Because Nick had been right.

The foursome had been rounded up and shoved into a cramped, cold, cement room. They'd been stripped of their ragged, stained clothes and washed with harsh, biting blasts of water from too-long hoses.

Rochelle had cowered in the corner, the only vulnerability they'd seen from her at that point.

Coach had yelled and yelled until a jet him in the jaw, effectively shutting him up for the remainder of their bath.

And Ellis had closed his eyes, unsure of how to react to such a betrayal of human or maybe even American rights.

Nick had just waited for the bullets.

Instead they'd been attacked by needles, pinching and sucking. And when the results had come back their team had been split in half: he and Ellis were left watching a disappearing Coach and Rochelle, ushered back through the only entrance/exit.

And Nick had been half tempted to call their experimenters racist assholes but the hick's actions—throwing his nude, bruised body at the uniformed men—spoke volumes enough for the both of them.

And when the bullets didn't come again—only clothes and food and beds—Nick wondered how long he and Ellis had before they'd join their companions out in the 'compost' pile he'd seen when they'd first pulled up to 'safety.'

He had chosen not to tell the kid, who'd taken to the two beds, desk, and small television waiting in their new home immediately, maybe as an anchor back to some ho-hum life he'd lived before.

But he figured Ellis had known, guessed, something because it was hard not to. It was hard not to realize that those soldiers, researchers, and scientists wanted a cure, an end to the virus once and for all. A couple more lives were worth that.

And that next night, with the T.V. off and the sounds of soldiers patrolling, Ellis got on his hands and knees and let Nick take him. Because, he had said, Nick was right—they weren't trying to save those who had already been exposed.

Why the southerner had equated this revelation with gay sex Nick didn't know.

And being the good guy he was the gambler had taken full advantage of the offered backside. Though, he'd had the decency to at least flip the boy onto his back first.

He didn't know Ellis' excuse.

As for himself, it would've been a big-ass lie to say he didn't find the kid attractive—that he hadn't long before being propositioned. He'd been looking at Ellis more readily than their only female member while fighting zombies for fuck's sake. And it was probably because of those zombies that he didn't give a flying shit.

He was going to die anyway, what had been the harm in looking? Besides the abject disgust on Ellis' face when he'd finally caught the older man, anyway.

Needless to say he never expected an occurrence of actual sex to develop between them, let alone in such a wanton offering.

So what had Ellis been thinking?

Because his heart, so to speak, sure as hell wasn't in on the actions.

And now neither were either of their bodies.

Nick rose and crossed the small space of their room, from one bed to the other. He sat along the edge, dipping the cot down with his weight. His roommate didn't stir from his slumber nor turn to face him.

None of it made fuck-all sense to the conman because he was good. Anybody who can make a Catholic redneck cum during his first gay experience had to be.

And the kid had looked just as good, hips cocked up in the air, arms up, and face trained on the one above, breathless wonderment fatiguing his voice as he whispered about how green Nick's eyes were.

What had he been expecting from a hillbilly, though?

Fear had lulled him into a frenzied, lust-filled security, one that would have never been considered otherwise. That fear was decreasing every day, much like their chances of being killed.

They had only been tested upon three times and never since in the now-three months. It was as close to 'safe' as they were going to get.

And even Nick started hoping again.

Hoping for normality—for the bad dream to finally fucking end. With its ending, though, would come far too many realizations for the two men—the murdering they'd done, the bonding Nick had allowed, and the monstrosity Ellis had instigated.

Because even if the boy came, even if their sex could wipe out memories of most-likely-dead friends and family, useless religion and taboo, Nick wasn't going to forget that initial disgust.

The gambler leaned and reached down the bed, towards the desk that rest at its foot and the small television that rested upon that. His finger just managed to connect with the power button hard enough to send the small screen into a darkness that slowly deepened from its odd, unnatural glow into non-existence that rivaled the black of night around them.

When he sat back up Ellis had turned his face and opened his eyes.

Nick guessed he couldn't be pissed about the situation. Twenty-some years of being taught that fags burn in hell because they're immoral, hedonistic sinners wasn't going to change quickly. Hell, he was sure somebody was going to blame the entire apocalypse on the liberals for encouraging the growth of minorities and fags sometime soon anyway.

And Nick could place a bet that it would be some hillbilly, thick-accented retard.

So, yeah, the kid was bound to feel guilt over the 'exploitation' of his body for the unholy carnal desire he'd let himself experience. Because weren't hardcore Christians and rednecks and all of them afraid of that sort of thing anyway?

For fuck's sake, Nick was probably the Devil's right hand man in the mechanic's blue, blue eyes.

Sure. Great. Chalk another soul up.

Not that he was offended or anything. You had to believe in something to be offended by it, he guessed. Besides, Nick didn't exactly have the cleanest record or anything. Nor had he possessed the cleanest intentions when Ellis had first offered the sex.

"Somethin' wrong, Nick?" Sometimes Ellis' voice could be just as thick, although less ragged, as Nick's upon waking.

The older man shook his head, sure the motion as visible, and lifted the slight covering labeled a blanket from over the hick so he could slip underneath.

Ellis didn't comment, his eyes just switched to the quiet television and then back up.

Nick just returned the stare. When he had looked at the mechanic those three months ago he'd seen a fuck-buddy. He'd seen a submissive, eager to please (misconstrued as that was) pretty,
young kid. A kid he could trust. A kid that was stuck with him.

And now the first benefit, three months dead, mattered less. Did he still want it? Yes. Was he still going to take it? No doubts there. But the things that had driven them closer in the first place, in the start of it all—that trust and loyalty—became just as comforting as plowing into Ellis' tight hole would've been.

He wasn't sure when these aspects of his partner's attitude began to matter, especially when the sex—deliciously necessary—should have showcased the 'best' (or at least all that Nick had cared about) of the younger survivor.

Delicious as it was, to devour the only shyness the boy had left, more of those defining, kind qualities were easily the best of Ellis' character. Unfortunately all of them, shared so easily when fighting for each other's lives or clinging to the only thing they expected to feel again, meant nothing against a procured future and deeply-grooved southern lessons.

Ellis flinched when Nick reached out and pressed his palm, flat and heavy, against the curves of his stomach. But he didn't pull away.

Nick wasn't sure he'd see those former qualities again, not anymore. He wasn't sure he'd see the sexual ones either. Not against that constant backdrop of animal calls and car chases and finally white noise, anyway.

Everything he'd seen seemed to have sealed back up and he wasn't sure how to change that, how to reorder those characteristics, that mind, into something reminiscent and yet lacking past, bigoted knowledge so that any guilt could dissipate.

There just wasn't any room for shit like guilt anymore and hell if the ex-con was going to divest any of his questionable time left working on it.

Though Nick wasn't sure how to measure up against any of the Ellis he had never known—the worker, the bassist, the good son. That Ellis had been carved and sculpted by so many influential fingers already that there was no more room, not even for fine, minute detailing.

So if he couldn't mold or shape the boy he'd have to cut into what already existed. He'd have to cut into that mind, that body, and—cliched—into that heart so that he could shave away everything that concealed the raw, workable material underneath.

Because he had no intention of losing support or sex or the television in the late of night.

And the sooner he cut himself a path the sooner the healing and rebuilding could begin.

Nick leaned down and pressed his mouth to the hick's and upon finding no resistance deepened it and took the action no further.