Chapter 7: The Morning After the Storm
The light came slow through the grimy windows, gray and uncertain, the way morning always arrived in this house—like it wasn't sure it was welcome.
Ender woke in pieces.
First his fingers, twitching against the rough weave of the quilt. Then his shoulders, stiff from sleeping on the too-small couch. Then the rest of him, all at once, a cascade of aches that weren't from Pete's fists.
These aches were different.
His hips throbbed with a deep, satisfying soreness. His thighs ached from being held open. His mouth tasted like salt and something else—something he couldn't name but recognized in his body, in the pleasant heaviness that settled behind his sternum.
He was alone.
The quilt was tucked around him, edges folded neat and precise. A pillow had been wedged under his head. His glasses sat on the floor beside the couch, folded carefully, lenses facing up.
Josh.
Ender sat up slowly, wincing at the pull in his lower back. The living room was empty, but the house wasn't quiet. From the kitchen came the sizzle of something in a pan, the low hum of the refrigerator, the clink of a coffee mug being set down on the counter.
And the smell.
Bacon. Coffee. Something warm and greasy that made Ender's stomach twist with a hunger he'd learned to ignore.
He pulled on his sweatpants—still on the floor where Josh had tossed them—and padded toward the kitchen on bare feet.
The linoleum was cold. Cracked. Peeling up at the edges like old skin.
Josh stood at the stove.
His back was to Ender, and for a moment, Ender just looked. Josh was shirtless, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he flipped bacon in the pan. His skin was brown, warm even in the watery light, but it wasn't smooth. It was a landscape. Scars crisscrossed his back—some thin and silver, some thick and raised. A long one ran from his left shoulder blade down to his hip, puckered and pale.
Ender had never noticed them before.
He'd been too caught up in his own damage to see anyone else's.
"Morning," Josh said without turning around.
His voice was rough. Tired.
Ender's heart stuttered.
"Morning."
The word came out cracked. Small.
Josh didn't move. Just stood there, spatula in hand, staring at the bacon like it held the secrets to the universe.
"I shouldn't have—" he started.
Ender crossed the room.
His feet made no sound on the linoleum. He reached Josh in four steps, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around.
Josh's face was a mess.
His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles carved beneath them. His jaw was tight, muscles jumping under the skin. He looked like a man who'd spent the night wrestling with himself and lost.
"I shouldn't have," Josh repeated. "You were—fuck, Ender, you were crying. You were vulnerable. I took advantage—"
Ender kissed him.
It was clumsy again. Awkward. His nose bumped Josh's cheek, and his glasses fogged up, and he didn't care. He pressed his mouth against Josh's and kissed him hard, fierce, desperate to shut him up.
Josh groaned.
The spatula clattered to the floor.
His hands came up, hovering, uncertain. He didn't touch Ender. Didn't pull him close. Just stood there, frozen, while Ender kissed him like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Then Ender pulled back.
"Don't," he said.
His voice was shaking.
"Don't tell me what I wanted. Don't tell me I didn't know what I was doing. I knew." He swallowed hard. "I've never known anything clearer."
Josh's eyes searched his face.
"You were crying," he said again, softer this time.
"I was crying because it felt good." Ender's voice cracked. "Because no one's ever—because I've never—"
He stopped.
The words wouldn't come.
Josh's hand finally moved. It cupped Ender's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, gentle as a breath.
"I'm sorry," Josh said. "I just—I don't want to be another person who hurts you."
Ender laughed.
It was a broken sound. Wet and raw and tired.
"You're not." He leaned into Josh's palm. "You're the only person who hasn't."
The bacon sizzled behind them. Neither of them moved.
Then Ender sank to his knees.
The linoleum bit into his bare skin, cold and unyielding. He looked up at Josh through his lashes—the way he'd seen in movies, the way he'd imagined but never done—and reached for the waistband of Josh's sweatpants.
"Ender—" Josh's voice was strangled.
"Let me." Ender's fingers hooked into the fabric. "Please. I want to."
Josh's hand found his hair. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just resting there, warm and steady.
"You don't have to."
"I know." Ender tugged the pants down. "I want to."
Josh's cock sprung free.
Ender had seen it before—last night, in the dark, in pieces. But here, in the gray morning light, it was different. Thick and heavy, already half-hard, the tip glistening. A dark trail of hair led down from his navel, and his thighs were strong, dusted with the same dark curls.
Ender's mouth went dry.
He didn't know what he was doing.
He'd never done this. Never wanted to. With Pete, the idea had made his stomach turn—the thought of being on his knees, of submitting, of giving that kind of power to someone who'd only ever used it to hurt him.
But this was Josh.
And Josh was different.
Ender leaned forward and licked the tip.
The taste was salt and something muskier underneath. Not bad. Not what he expected. He licked again, dragging his tongue along the slit, and Josh hissed above him.
"Fuck."
Ender smiled.
He took the head into his mouth.
The weight of it was strange. Heavy on his tongue. He didn't know how far to go, how much to take. He bobbed his head experimentally, and Josh's fingers tightened in his hair.
"Easy," Josh breathed. "Take it easy."
Ender didn't want easy.
He wanted to swallow Josh whole. Wanted to make him feel the way Josh had made him feel—wanted, desired, like he mattered. He pushed forward, took more, felt the head bump against the back of his throat.
And gagged.
His eyes watered. His throat spasmed. He pulled back, coughing, spit trailing from his lips.
"Hey, hey." Josh's hands were on him, pulling him back. "You don't have to—"
Ender pushed forward again.
This time he was slower. More careful. He wrapped his hand around the base—what he couldn't fit in his mouth—and worked it in time with his lips. Sloppy. Wet. He drooled down his chin, down Josh's cock, made a mess of it, and didn't care.
Josh groaned.
His hips twitched, a small, involuntary movement, and Ender felt a rush of something hot and proud.
"Yeah," Josh breathed. "Fuck, Ender, your mouth—"
Ender looked up.
Josh's face was wrecked. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back, his mouth open. The morning light caught the sweat on his chest, the scars on his stomach, the tremor in his thighs.
He was beautiful.
Ender sucked harder.
He used his tongue the way he'd imagined—swirling around the head, pressing against the underside, finding the spot that made Josh gasp. He hollowed his cheeks, took Josh deeper, gagged again but didn't stop.
"Ender—" Josh's voice cracked. "I'm close—you gotta—"
Ender didn't pull away.
He wanted this. Wanted to taste it. Wanted to swallow everything Josh gave him.
Josh came with a shout.
His hips bucked. His hand fisted in Ender's hair. Hot, bitter liquid flooded Ender's mouth, and he swallowed—once, twice, three times—until Josh was spent and trembling above him.
Ender pulled off.
He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. His lips were swollen. His throat was raw. He felt filthy and powerful and more alive than he had in years.
"I wanted to," he said. "I've never wanted to before."
Josh stared at him.
Then he moved.
His hands hooked under Ender's arms and hauled him up, spinning him around, bending him over the kitchen table. The wood was rough against Ender's cheek. The wobbly legs squeaked against the linoleum.
"Josh—"
"Shut up."
Josh's voice was rough. Hungry.
His hands yanked Ender's sweatpants down, exposing his ass to the cold morning air. Ender gasped, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table's edge.
Then Josh's mouth was on him.
Ender screamed.
Not in pain. In shock. In pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. Josh's tongue dragged over his hole—hot and wet and insistent—and Ender's legs nearly gave out.
"Fuck," he sobbed. "Fuck, Josh, what are you—"
Josh didn't answer.
He just kept going.
His tongue circled Ender's rim, teasing, pressing. His hands gripped Ender's hips, holding him steady, holding him open. He licked and sucked and probed until Ender was shaking, crying, begging for something he couldn't name.
"Please," Ender gasped. "Please, please, I need—"
Josh pulled back.
The sound he made was obscene—wet and slurping and filthy. Then his fingers replaced his tongue, slick with spit, pressing inside.
"You need what?" Josh asked.
His voice was hoarse.
"Tell me what you need."
"You." Ender's voice broke. "I need you. Please. Inside me. Please."
Josh didn't make him wait.
He straightened up. Ender heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of Josh spitting into his palm. Then the blunt pressure of Josh's cock against his hole.
"Breathe," Josh murmured.
Ender breathed.
Josh pushed in.
The stretch was different this time. Deeper. Slower. Josh's cock was thick, and Ender's body resisted, clenching against the intrusion. But Josh didn't stop. He kept pushing—steady, relentless—until he was buried to the hilt.
"Fuck," Josh groaned. "Fuck, Ender, you're so tight."
Ender couldn't speak.
He could barely breathe.
The feeling of being filled—of being stretched and claimed and held—was overwhelming. He felt every inch of Josh inside him, pressing against places he didn't know existed, hitting nerves that made his vision blur.
Josh started to move.
Slow at first. Gentle. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, pulling out just enough to make Ender whimper before pushing back in. His hand slid around Ender's waist, fingers splaying over his stomach, holding him close.
"You feel that?" Josh whispered against his ear. "You feel how good you are?"
Ender sobbed.
The bacon was burning.
Smoke curled from the pan, filling the kitchen with the acrid smell of charred meat. Neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared.
Josh fucked him harder.
His hips snapped against Ender's ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the cracked walls. The table rattled. The whiskey glasses clinked together. Ender's fingers slipped on the edge, nails scratching at the worn wood.
"Don't stop," Ender begged. "Please, don't stop—"
"I won't." Josh's voice was fierce. "I've got you. I've got you."
The words hit Ender like a fist.
He came with a cry.
His body convulsed around Josh's cock, clenching tight, milking him. Pleasure ripped through him—white-hot and blinding—and he felt himself spill onto the linoleum, felt his legs give out, felt Josh catch him before he fell.
"Fuck," Josh gasped. "Fuck, Ender, I'm—"
He buried himself deep and came.
Ender felt it—the hot pulse of Josh's release, the way his body shuddered, the way his arms tightened around Ender's waist like he was afraid to let go.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Afterward, the kitchen was quiet except for the hiss of the ruined bacon and the ragged sound of their breathing. Josh pulled out slowly, gently, and Ender winced at the loss.
Josh turned him around.
His face was soft. Open. That terrified look from before was gone, replaced by something Ender didn't have a name for.
"You okay?" Josh asked.
Ender nodded.
His throat was too raw for words.
Josh kissed his forehead. His nose. His lips. Soft, chaste kisses that tasted like salt and smoke.
Then he reached over and turned off the stove.
The bacon was black. Ruined. The kitchen smelled like burnt grease and sex.
Josh laughed.
It was a surprised sound, rough and genuine, like he hadn't expected to be capable of it.
"I guess we're ordering breakfast," he said.
Ender laughed too.
It hurt. His throat, his ribs, his heart. But it was good. Real. The first honest laugh he'd had in years.
Josh's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Ender pressed his face into Josh's chest and breathed.
"I'm not going back," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them.
Josh went still.
"To Pete," Ender clarified. His voice was muffled against Josh's skin. "I'm not going back. I don't care what he says. I don't care what he threatens. I'm not going back."
Josh's arms tightened.
"Good," he said.
Just that. One word. Simple and sure.
Ender closed his eyes.
And somewhere outside, the wind chimes started to sing.