fugue - Oblique Publications

JANE BARON ˆˆˆˆˆ
FUGUE
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him. “Please believe that, at least. I never meant
to hurt you.”
Avon yielded to the pressure as Blake
pulled at him, shuffling a quarter of a pace back
so that only their upper bodies were in contact.
His head still sagged forward, and Blake coaxed
it up, one-handed.
“Avon. Please let me make it stop hurting…”
Avon’s moan was the sound of defeat, of
despair, and there was no resistance left in him.
His eyes were glazed, half-slitted. And Blake
took his mouth gently, so gently, because it was
the first time. The sourness, the scald of bile he
encountered, were the taste of a sick man, a man
who’d been ill a long while. Blake drank it in and
stroked Avon’s tongue with his own. He drew
Avon’s hips to him, felt that hardness again
pressing low into his belly. When he rocked
Avon’s pelvis, he made that gentle, too.
A new scalding met his lips, and he felt
Avon thrust helplessly back at his tongue.
Avon’s hips had taken over the flexing motion.
There was another sound, a broken one. And
Blake realized suddenly how close Avon was,
about to orgasm just like this, standing on his
feet, fully clothed in Blake’s arms. His whole
body was rocking slightly back and forth in
rhythm with his breathing. His face was burning
with blood, his eyes shut.
Oh, yes…Avon, do it, Blake thought.
Come for me, spill yourself. Prove it was you all
the time.
Dazedly, as if in a dream, Avon continued
to pleasure himself, as if he had forgotten the
existence of anything but his need and the means
to fulfil it.
And Blake simply held quite still and let
him, let everything go but the feel of Avon
against him. He wanted so much for Avon to
achieve release this way.
Just a little longer, he thought. You’re
almost there. Almost…yes. Now. Now, if you
try; try and it will be so easy…
The taste of Avon’s mouth changed
again, unmistakably. Through the moan that
went up and up, just before the peaking of
passion, there was a peaking of fury. Of repudiation
and bitterness and pain beyond endurance.
Blake was careening backwards before he even
grasped that it was Avon who had sent him
flying.
Uncomprehending, vertiginous, he
stared at that familiar face, now unfamiliar in its
dreadful weltering of emotions. Avon’s lips
were swollen with kisses, Avon’s face was feverishly
flushed. But the eyes that should have
been yearning and heavy-lidded were poisoned—blazing
too bright with anger and anguish
and hatred.
“You will never use me again,” Avon
whispered raggedly. The rejection was complete.
“Not even if we both suffer?” said Blake,
reaching out to him, trying to bridge the chasm
between them.
“Not if we both die of it,” said Avon
harshly, as if completing a curse. His face altered,
the sensuousness twisting and freezing,
becoming cruel and bitterly hard. “This is the
end, Blake. We will never speak of it again.”
He turned to the door.
Blake had one last chance, and nothing
left to lose. “Avon.”
Avon did not turn back. But he was
listening.
“In all the time that I have known you,”
said Blake, carefully, deliberately, weighing
each word, “I have never known you to be a
coward.”
Avon came near to striking him a third
time, even with the perils of such close contact
fresh in both their memories. But he was fighting
again, he was facing Blake once more. “There is
absolutely nothing further to be said.”
“Oh, but there is, Avon. We were in the
midst of a discussion. I had just pointed out to
you that you did know me. And that’s what’s
unbearable, isn’t it; not just that you loved, but
that you loved me. That you love—”
“Nothing,” Avon hissed.
“Why should I be so important, so threat-
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ PÆAN TO PRIAPUS ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ
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