LIAR

"You want to hit me? Then hit." The words sound like ashes in his mouth, and he feels cold, the whole world dwindling to the lash twisted in Simpson's hands, tighter and tighter. Clayton's right hand burns and throbs, with the memory of the gun clenched in it - the gun that lies away now, on the edge of the table, useless and forgotten.

Simpson is right, he is a coward. And now he is afraid as well. Simpson can hurt him - he did before and he will again. But it is not so much the fear of the fist, twined round with the lash, slamming in his face, even though Clayton knows how it feels.

The pain - it is not the worst.

But the blow never comes. Something changes in Simpson's eyes - ice cracking, and there is deep blue water instead - and Clayton thinks it is as if another man looks at him. And this man is even more dangerous.

"Hit you?" Simpson says, and his lips are jumping, quivering, in dismay, as if this thought hurts him. "Hit you? How could you say a thing like this?"

Like you have never done it before, Clayton thinks but he already understands, already knows what is coming.

The lash falls on the floor with a dull sound - and suddenly Simpson is there, his arms thrown around Clayton, thin and hot and steel-strong, and Simpson's skinny body presses against his. Simpson is everywhere, his breath burning against Clayton's neck and his whisper quick and feverish.

"Oh no, no, I never wanted to hit you, it's you who nearly made me do it, who always makes me do it. How could you point this pistol at me, you hate me, you do..."

Yes, I hate you, Clayton thinks. I despise you with all my heart.

But he doesn't push this thin, clinging body away, and he doesn't do anything to stop these pathetic, lying words wrapping him like a shroud, suffocating him - like Simpson's hugging arms are suffocating.

He feels despair wash over him and wonders how he could let it happen to him again. When will he make it stop?

"You're evil," Simpson whispers, his voice the voice of a needy, cranky child. A strand of his hair, feathery thin and soft, brushes against Clayton's neck as Simpson rubs his forehead over Clayton's collarbone. "What are you doing to me?"

And what are you doing to me, Clayton thinks. The words are lies and manipulations, he knows them for what they are. But knowing never saves him. Knowing, and guilt, and sorrow - they are just circles on the water, and he's underneath this water, he's drowned a long time ago and there is no way up to the surface for him.

"You hurt me," Simpson whimpers and Clayton feels the insistent tug of Simpson's hands on his shirt. But worse than that - where Simpson's face presses against his shoulder, it gets wet.

Oh you liar, Clayton thinks.

He's crying - Simpson is crying, and Clayton knows that his tears are a farce, but still something in him feels helpless against it, against the wet face rubbing on his neck, the small sobs he can feel, the hot gasps on his skin.

He thinks that maybe one day he will be able to push him away, and then Simpson won't have power over him. But not today. This day hasn't come yet.

"How could you want to kill me?"

He sounds so heartbroken. And Clayton knows he shouldn't believe it, there is no word of truth Simpson says. But his hands raise, awkward, as if separately from his mind, and he cradles Simpson against his shoulder, and the man's hair is so soft under Clayton's fingers. And then Simpson looks at him, with his eyes, sweet, melancholic eyes of a poet, a lover - and how long his eyelashes are, quicksilver tears hanging on them...

"Oh dear."

Don't call me 'dear', Clayton thinks. Please let me go. But something stronger than reason makes him reach, wipe these bogus, incongruous tears, make him whisper soft, nonsensical words that he knows Simpson doesn't need.

"Shh, it's all right, shh, I didn't want to kill you..."

"Ja-ack," Simpson whines. "It's my name, say it. I like when you say it."

And what can he do now but say that?

"Jack."

And then suddenly - oh, but wasn't he supposed to expect it, how often has it happened before? - Simpson lurches forward, his lips pressing to Clayton's, taking them - the taste still salty of tears but the kisses hungry and insistent and there is no way to avoid them.

Clayton flails ineffectually, whispering.

"Stop it, stop it, someone will see."

"No, they won't," Simpson says. His hands grip, greedy, fast, fumbling with Clayton's clothes, pushing them away, getting to the bare skin. And the lips follow them, burning and chilling at once. Clayton shivers and Simpson holds him tight. "They are busy with the little snotty. And they won't dare to come back."

Yes, Clayton knows it. They won't dare because they are afraid of you, he thinks. Like I am. Like all of us - except Horatio.

"Clayton, Clayton," Simpson chants, "my old love. For you I would even take that bullet."

But I didn't shoot, Clayton thinks. I wouldn't and you knew that.

Simpson's mouth clamps on his nipple, and they fall into a cot, their arms and legs get entangled, and even as Clayton clenches in shame, his body pushes forward, into more contact.

"Yes, yes," Simpson whispers, "I know you want it. Go for it then, damn you!"

He grabs Clayton's hands, squeezes them, yanks - like the limbs of a rag doll, puts them onto his hips. And Clayton can't resist, Simpson's puppet as ever, and pulls on the ties of the man's trousers, loosening them.

"Yes," Simpson whispers, his eyes glazed, and he catches Clayton's hand, brings it to his mouth, kissing. "Play me. Play me like you play your little fiddle, make music out of me."

It's the hand you have broken once, because I didn't know the tune you wanted, Clayton thinks. He still remembers sickening pain as his bones crunched under Simpson's boot. But even that wasn't the worst.

Feeling that he doesn't belong to himself is.

Simpson raises over him, straddling his hips - and then goes down, his opening around Clayton's cock hot, tight and accepting - and everything else fade, become distant and unnecessary.

Simpson thrusts onto him, his thin braid lashing over his chest with his violent motions, and Clayton thinks, this is what no one knows.

Oh they know something happens, hear the noises, can feel the smell, later. But they think Simpson is buggering him. How can it be otherwise?

And in a way, Simpson *is* buggering him. Even as his entrance clenches on Clayton's cock greedily. It a way Clayton thinks it would be easier just to be taken, on his hands and knees, without preparation, again and again.

Being taken is easier than being given to. He knows Simpson really doesn't give him anything, it is lies again, but he can't help it, he's pathetically grateful for this pleasure, even if he hates it.

"You should've killed me," Simpson says. His eyes, sad, innocent eyes of an abandoned child look down at Clayton - and his hands are claws, sticking into Clayton's chest, drawing blood. Pain and pleasure cut through his body, as Simpson slams onto him, wrenching the climax out of him. "You should've. But you won't kill me. And you know why, Clayton, oh do you? Because you love me."

He shivers, coming, and feels Simpson's come spatter his belly, and there is shame, and disgust, and oh-so-unbearable-pleasure. Be damned, he thinks, Simpson, you bastard, be damned.

And I'll be damned with you.

"You won't kill me," Simpson says, slumping down over Clayton, his arms a vice around him.

And closing his eyes, feeling a moist strand of Simpson's hair against his cheek, Clayton thinks, this is the truth.

THE END