Those Words I Dread (Tales of the Tuath Dé #1)

8

Trent shut the door to his apartment with a slight sigh as he saw Ciaran still on the couch, a pile of candy wrappers and dirty plates on the coffee table in front of him. He had put on a shirt at last, and his illusion was long gone; the man that lounged on the sofa had regained his pointed ears.

The fairy looked up as he heard the door. “Welcome back,” he said with a grin that showed sharp eye teeth. “Did you see your lady friend home safely?”

“I didn’t see her home at all,” Trent answered. He dropped his bag on the sofa and sat down a polite distance away from Ciaran, and for a few moments they only sat watching Trailer Park Boys . “But you were right,” Trent admitted after a moment.

Ciaran snorted out a laugh and sat up straighter on the cushions. “She make a move on you, did she?” He felt an unpleasant tug in his chest, but he attempted to sound cavalier. “Or did you make a move, perhaps?”

“She said next time she came over she wanted to see my room.”

“Ah, the shy approach. Meant to draw your mind to all the things you might do to a timid young girl alone in your bedroom, no doubt. And you said?”

“I blew her off,” Trent shrugged, and Ciaran’s shoulders suddenly felt less tense. He didn’t know why exactly he didn’t like the idea of Trent and the girl being alone in a bedroom, or why it was any of his business at all, but he smiled faintly just the same.

“It’s just as well,” the fairy shrugged as he got to his feet. “She hardly seemed your type, after all; I wouldn’t take you for the sort that chases shrinking violets. No doubt you’re wanting to focus on your studies in any case, hm?”

“What do you know about my type?” Trent scoffed, but he wouldn’t meet Ciaran’s gaze. He could still feel the fairy’s weight against his back, his soft breath warm on his ear.

“I suspect I know the sort of thing you like, a chara,” Ciaran teased. He stretched his arms over his head, a smirk curling his lips as he caught Trent’s eyes move to the low waistband of his jeans. “I’m going to have a shower. No peeking,” he added with a sly smile, and Trent clicked his tongue at him.

Ciaran invited himself to Trent’s bathroom rather than the guest room, but Trent only protested until the fairy was standing in his bedroom unbuttoning his jeans, after which the younger man scowled and shut the door in a rush. This bathroom was nicer than the guest one, and the shower was a glass standalone beside a luxurious bathtub, rather than the unsatisfying two-in-one Ciaran had used thus far. He abandoned his clothes in the doorway and turned on the water, letting it run cool against his skin until it warmed up. He had felt an irritating anxiety in the pit of his stomach ever since Trent had left the apartment with the girl. He didn’t know why he had teased him about her; Trent had clearly had his own life before Ciaran showed up in it, so he shouldn’t have been surprised even if the girl had turned out to be his girlfriend.

Despite knowing all of these things, the memory of the hard muscle of Trent’s back as he leaned against him lingered at the back of his mind, and he could still smell the citrus body wash on the other man’s skin. Ciaran was used to going a long time between lovers—he tended to fluctuate between the mild guilt he felt whenever he got a woman caught up in his magic and the demands of his libido. He could avoid poisoning his partner by choosing a man, but that option came with inevitable disappointment as soon as he told them the truth. If they weren’t asking him for favors, they were telling him how the whole thing was ‘too big’ for them, how they couldn’t deal with him not being human. Only a handful of them through the years had known the full truth about him. It was easier not to get that far.

More often than not, it came down to greed. Even if they pretended to be his friend, even if they slept together, even if everything seemed fine—it was always so that they could ask him some favor. The women he’d known at least had the excuse of his toxin, but the men were worse. They feigned friendship or even love, and in the end all they wanted was for him to give them his pot of gold or grant them their three wishes—too ignorant to even know the difference between a gean cánach and a leprechaun.

Trent would do the same if he let him. The boy was clearly attracted to him, whether he was ready to admit it or not; it would only be a matter of time before he spoke up. It was fine to tease him—Ciaran got a special thrill out of seeing that scowling face whenever he got too close—but much better to keep things simple.

Ciaran tilted his head back to let the water run down his neck and chest, his fingertips idling over his stomach as he touched the tender mark there. It needed to stay simple. Any feelings Ciaran might have had about Trent’s potential relationships or lack thereof could be put down to attraction and passing curiosity. The boy was good-looking, no argument, and the way his mouth turned down into that growling glower made it next to impossible not to want to kiss him. A man like that—brooding and bad-tempered and snide—Ciaran could hardly be blamed for wanting to fuck that look off of his face, to see him panting and open-mouthed.

He felt a tingling heat pool in his stomach and a familiar twitch in his groin, and he gave a soft chuckle with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. He could picture the look Trent would give him if he knew how the fairy thought about him. Flushed and angry, with that crease in his brow, telling him for the tenth time to get out of the apartment and still not really meaning it. Ciaran had seen the way Trent looked at him when he got too close—uncertain, holding back. He was curious at the very least. What would Trent do if Ciaran told him what he wanted ?

Ciaran’s hand drifted down his stomach, and he hissed a sharp intake of breath as he slipped his fingers around his insistent erection. Trent would shout at him, irritated, but a little embarrassed, perhaps. Ciaran would kiss him, unbutton his shirt and leave it on the floor at the foot of the bed, and the younger man’s protests would grow softer. He would ask him if it was his first time and promise to be gentle, and Trent would snap something rude at him that would be cut off with a kiss. Trent would give in the moment Ciaran touched him.

The fairy leaned one hand against the cool tile wall of the shower to steady his weight, and his eyes slid shut as he stroked himself and imagined it was Trent. He could picture him face down on the bed, all frustration and hesitation gone, his hands fisted in the blankets as Ciaran took him, drawing helpless, mewling moans from him in between gasping breaths.

Ciaran let out a soft, strained groan of his own as he moved his hand faster, picturing Trent’s flushed face and imagining his desperate pleas for release. He would tease him, bring him to the brink again and again, denying him until he begged with a dry, breathless voice. Then, finally, he would touch him again, his forehead against the younger man’s back as he pushed into him over and over, both of them climaxing and falling into a sweaty heap in the disheveled blankets.

Ciaran grit his teeth and held in his quiet grunt as he finished on the shower floor, staying still for a few long, steadying breaths. When he opened his eyes, he slowly straightened again, letting his breath out in a slow sigh. He told himself it could still be simple. Sex could be simple. Maybe all he needed was to get Trent out of his system and move on.

It would be fun to try, at any rate.

He finished rinsing off and turned off the water, snatching Trent’s towel from the nearby bar as he stepped beyond the glass door. It smelled like him. Once he was dry, he left the towel in a pile on the floor and slipped back into his jeans with a bit of a bounce. He picked up his shirt and frowned at the crusted black blood stain on the torso, then left it on the floor with the towel and opened the door to Trent’s closet. It was a walk-in so large that it had a turn in it, lined with blue jeans, khakis, and dress pants organized from black to blue to grey. He must have had well over a dozen shirts to match, as well as blazers, vests, cardigans, and two or three expensive overcoats along the back wall.

“Must be nice,” Ciaran chuckled, and he pulled a simple V-neck shirt from a stack and slipped it over his head. It was a bit large for him, so the sleeves looked too long, but he wasn’t picky.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, Trent was sitting on the sofa with a black controller in his hands, slouched against the back cushion and actually looking fairly relaxed. An empty plate was on the table in front of him; he must have eaten dinner while Ciaran was in the shower. His eyes were on the television screen, but he briefly glanced up when Ciaran moved to sit next to him. “Is that my shirt?”

“Aye; were you using it? Seemed like you had a few spares.”

“Just don’t get anything on it.”

Ciaran settled beside him on the sofa, watching the game on the television. The front end of a gun bobbed along the bottom of the screen while people with red names above their heads passed to and fro. The gun occasionally lifted to fill the screen with a crosshairs, firing in time with a quick movement of Trent’s hands. Voices sounded from the television speakers, two or three different men shouting at each other.

“What’s this then?” Ciaran asked, gesturing between the controller and the television.

“ Call of Duty ,” Trent answered without looking at him. “Just a war game. It’s mindless.”

Ciaran sat quietly in the dim room for a few minutes, watching. “So you just...run around and shoot people, and they shoot you, but then you come back to life so that you can shoot more people?”

“Pretty much,” Trent murmured, and as he fired a shot that hit another player in the head, the television erupted into swear words and shouting.

Ciaran pointed at the screen. “That’s other real-live people, then? You’re all playing together?”

“Never seen an Xbox before?”

“Never been much for video games, myself. Do you know these people? ”

Trent shrugged one shoulder. “They’re just randoms.”

“But he’s talking to you, isn’t he? Can he hear us?”

“Not without the headset. There’s no point in talking to these people; all they do is bitch. I don’t bother.”

Ciaran hummed a vague agreement, but when Trent fired off another shot from his sniper rifle, the stream of cursing that came from the television’s speakers made the fairy frown. “You’re going to let him talk to you like that? Didn’t he just call you a fag?”

“So what? I don’t even know that guy. He’s just pissed that I shot him.”

“Where’s this headset, then? I’ll have a chat with the lad.”

“What? No. I don’t need you defending my honor from preteens on Xbox Live.”

“You don’t ever want to give them a bit of their own back? Come on. Have some fun.”

Trent hesitated, but then he gave a short sigh and gestured to the cabinet under the television. “In there.”

Ciaran hopped up to fetch the headset, and Trent allowed him to plug it in to the bottom of his controller. The fairy settled the headset over his ear and fiddled with the microphone while Trent played, and he sat close to the other man to better see what he was doing. He pointed out players running by underneath Trent’s sniping spot and laughed when they dropped. Then the screen jerked, and they were treated to a quick replay of Trent’s death at the hands of another player who had snuck up behind him.

“Ah, gobshite,” Ciaran swore, grunting in annoyance and gesturing at the television.

“How’s that you fucking sniping faggot?” the other man’s voice sounded into Ciaran’s ear.

“Ná bí ag caint cacamais!” Ciaran cut in. “You talk shite to me boy and I’ll put the fucking smile on the other side of your face, you hear me?”

“What the fuck?” the voice answered with a laugh.

“Go on then,” Ciaran said, nudging Trent with his elbow. The younger man was staring at him. Trent shook his head to clear it and carried on once he had respawned. He only half-listened to the banter going on while he played, but the colorful language coming out of the fairy’s mouth was hard to ignore.

Ciaran groaned the next time Trent died by the same player. “Ach, ya aiteann ya,” he laughed. “Come out in fucking front instead of sneaking around, you fucking cocktrough ya.”

Trent got shot in the head for his trouble, and he let a faint smile touch his lips as he looked at the man next to him. “What’s an aiteann?”

“Not for your delicate ears, a chara,” Ciaran grinned.

Trent chuckled, and he listened to Ciaran insult teenagers in a sometimes incomprehensible mix of English and Irish for another three rounds. The fairy seemed mildly disappointed when Trent turned off the game, his headset still attached to Trent’s controller by the thin wire.

“You’re pretty excitable,” Trent muttered as he held his hand out for the headset. “Get it all out of your system now?”

“Aye, mostly,” Ciaran answered with a smile, and he slipped the headset off and returned it to Trent’s waiting hand. He didn’t let go of it right away, making Trent pause and look up at him at the resistance. “But I think there’s one more thing I’d like.”

“You can get your own food. It’s late.”

“Not quite what I had in mind.” Ciaran leaned close to Trent, causing him to move back in an attempt to keep the same distance between them. “So, the girl. Your friend who fancies you. You didn’t want to keep that option open, let off some steam with her?” Ciaran shifted to rest his elbow on Trent’s shoulder, their faces drawing closer. “You seem a bit wound up.”

Trent frowned at him, his stomach tightening at the fairy’s touch. “I’m not interested in—letting off steam with her.”

“No? Perhaps she’s not your type,” Ciaran chuckled. He tilted his head with a sly smile. “Something else you want, maybe?”

“Get off of me,” Trent growled.

“Ask nicely, now,” the fairy murmured, finally releasing the headset to let his hand slide over the other man’s thigh.

“I said get off!’ Trent snapped, and he shoved Ciaran forcefully away from him and got to his feet. Ciaran fell back against the couch cushions, but even in the dim light he could see the rapid movement of Trent’s chest and the redness on his face. “Don’t touch me again, do you understand? I’m…I’m going to bed. So just shut up and leave me alone.” Without waiting for an answer, Trent turned and shut himself in his bedroom, leaving Ciaran on the sofa with a patient smile on his face.

Trent stood just inside his bedroom door, eyes shut tight as he caught his breath. Too close. Far too close. He had let his guard down, sitting on the couch beside Ciaran like it was normal to have him there. He had felt comfortable having him there.

He shook his head and changed into a pair of sleep pants, scowling at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. It didn’t matter that Ciaran’s smile made his chest tense up, or that he wanted to touch a kiss to every single freckle on the fairy’s cheekbones every time he got close. Soon Ciaran would be recovered and out of his life, and there was no point making things difficult for himself in the meantime.

He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, then dropped his glasses on the night stand with a careless clatter and crawled into bed. He could still see Ciaran’s green eyes, wickedly close, and he could still feel his touch on his thigh. A little more, and he would have—no. Trent hid his face in the pillow and let out a frustrated grunt, trying to ignore the aching tension growing in him. For just a moment, he toyed with the waistband of his pants, but then he bit his cheek and stuffed both hands under his pillow to keep them from straying. No more. If he gave in to that, he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else the next time he saw Ciaran, and that would only make things harder. He could ride this out. He had to.