Chapter 93: Chapter 93
The silence after Cassian left was a new kind of silence. It was not empty. It hummed with the memory of his weight, the phantom ache in Felix’s body, the sour-metallic scent lingering on the sheets. Felix lay there for a long time, sticky and cooling, until the streetlights outside his window dimmed with the approaching dawn. He slept fitfully, waking to the flat gray light of afternoon, his mouth tacky, his body a symphony of specific sorenesses. He showered, the hot water stinging the faint, gritty abrasions on his hips from Cassian’s hands. He scrubbed, but the memory of the smell—that worked-in, industrial stink—seemed baked into his sinuses.
Three days later, the soreness was a dull echo. The memory, however, had crystallized into something sharper, more persistent. It wasn’t just the fuck. It was the way Cassian had filled the doorway. The weary sound of his voice. The terrifying, solid reality of him. Felix scrolled through their sparse chat history on WhatsApp: a string of location pins and times, followed by his own drunken “here” or “door’s open.” It looked like what it was: transactional, desperate. A hollow feeling opened in his chest, wider than the one Cassian’s cock had filled. He tapped the screen, his thumbs hovering.
Felix: Hey.
He waited. An hour passed. He made a terrible pot of coffee and burned some toast.
Cassian: Hey.
The single word knocked the air from Felix’s lungs.
Felix: You working today?
Cassian: Off today. Tomorrow at 5am.
Felix: Oh.
Another pause. Felix chewed his thumbnail. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Felix: Want to get something to eat? Not here. Like, out. A burger or something.
The typing bubbles appeared. They disappeared. Appeared again. Felix’s heart thudded against his ribs. This was a different kind of terror.
Cassian: A burger.
Felix: Yeah. Or whatever. I’m just. Hungry.
Cassian: There’s a place on 9th. Marty’s. They’re open late.
Felix: Ok. What time?
Cassian: I’ll pick you up at 8.
Felix stared at the message. Pick you up. It implied a car, a journey together, conversation that wasn’t just prelude to getting wrecked against a wall. He swallowed, his mouth dry.
Felix: K. See you then.
Marty’s was a dive with cracked red vinyl booths and a smell of ancient fryer grease. Cassian was already there, slid into a corner booth, a bottle of cheap beer in front of him. He’d showered. He wore a clean, dark henley that stretched across his chest, and his hair was still damp, combed back from his forehead. He looked younger, and also more tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced under the fluorescent lights. He gave Felix a small, tight nod as he approached.
“Hey,” Felix said, sliding in opposite him.
“Hey.”
They ordered burgers and fries from a waitress with tired eyes. The silence was thick, awkward. Felix rubbed a thumb over a fork’s tine.
“So. Docks,” Felix finally said.
“Yep.”
“You like it?”
Cassian took a pull of his beer, shrugged one massive shoulder. “It’s work. It’s loud. It’s dirty. It pays the bills. Lets me buy burgers for kids.”
“I’m not a kid,” Felix mumbled, heat rising to his cheeks.
Cassian’s eyes, a flat, cool gray, held his. “Yeah. You are.” But he said it without malice, a simple statement of fact. “But you’re buying your own burger, so maybe you’re learning.”
The food came. They ate. They talked in staccato bursts about nothing—the rain, a band on the jukebox, the terrible coffee Felix made. It was clunky and real. Felix learned Cassian had a dog, a mutt named Bolt he’d found near the yards. Cassian learned Felix wanted to maybe study photography, but wasn’t sure. It was the strangest, most nerve-wracking hour of Felix’s life. It was also, somehow, the first time he’d felt seen in weeks.
Cassian paid for his own meal with cash. Felix fumbled with his card. Outside, the night had turned cold and misty. Cassian’s truck, an old Ford Ranger with a primer-gray door, sat at the curb. “Get in,” he said, not a question. “I’ll drive you back.”
The cab smelled of cut grass, motor oil, and the clean, soap scent from Cassian’s shower. The radio played a muted classic rock station. They drove in a silence that was no longer awkward but felt heavy with something unspoken, a mutual acknowledgment that the script had been torn up.
At Felix’s door, Cassian put the truck in park but left it running. Felix’s hand was on the door handle. “Thanks. For the ride.”
“Sure.”
Felix didn’t move. He looked straight ahead at the peeling paint on his apartment’s exterior. “You want to come in? Not for… I mean, you don’t have to… the truck’s running.”
Cassian turned the key, killing the engine. The sudden quiet was absolute. “I know what the truck’s doing,” he said quietly. He looked at Felix, his face half in shadow. “You sober?”
“Stone cold.”
Cassian nodded once. “Alright.”
Inside, the apartment felt different. Smaller, with Cassian in it not as an invading force but as a guest. Felix turned on a lamp, its weak light pooling on the floor. “You want a beer or something? I have shitty beer.”
“I’m good.”
They stood there, in the middle of the messy room. The space between them hummed.
“This wasn’t a booty call,” Felix said, the words tumbling out.
“I know.”
“So what is it?”
Cassian ran a hand over his jaw. “I’m thirty-four, Felix. I get up before the sun. My back hurts. My hands are fucked. I don’t do dates.”
“But you just did.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Cassian’s mouth. “But I just did.” He took a step closer. The clean, soap smell mixed with his own deeper, essential scent. He didn’t touch Felix. “If I stay, it’s not gonna be like before. Not gonna throw you around because you’re drunk and asking for it.”
Felix’s breath hitched. “How’s it gonna be?”
“Slower,” Cassian said, his voice a low rumble. “If you want that.”
Felix closed the remaining distance. He pressed his body against Cassian’s solid frame, finding an astonishing comfort in its immovability. He tilted his head up. “Show me.”
This kiss was nothing like the others. It was searching, deliberate. Cassian’s lips were firm but not demanding. His hands came up to cradle Felix’s face, his thumbs stroking the arches of his cheekbones with a roughness that was now tender. Felix melted into it, a soft noise escaping his throat. He was being kissed, thoroughly, for the first time since Cassian had entered his life.
They undressed each other without tearing fabric, a slow reveal. Cassian’s body in the lamplight was a mapped territory of muscle and old scars, a history written in keloid and sinew. Felix traced a long, silvery line that bisected his ribcage. “Arc flash,” Cassian murmured against his temple. “Don’t ask.”
They fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs, but a purposeful one. Cassian laid him down, covering him, his weight a welcome anchor. He kissed Felix’s throat, the hollow of his collarbone, his chest. He took one of Felix’s nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, then more firmly, until Felix was gasping and arching beneath him.
“You’re so soft here,” Cassian murmured, his mouth moving lower, across the gentle swell of Felix’s stomach. He nuzzled the trail of hair leading down. “Everywhere.”
Felix trembled. This attention, this worship of his softer body, was utterly new. Cassian took Felix’s cock into his mouth, not with savage hunger, but with a devastating, slick thoroughness. He worked him with his tongue, deep and slow, his hands smoothing up Felix’s trembling thighs. It was an act of concentration, of giving. Felix writhed, his fingers threading into Cassian’s short, damp hair. “Cassian… fuck…”
Cassian released him with a wet sound, kissing his way back up Felix’s body. He reached for the lube on the nightstand—the same bottle from before, but its use now felt ritualistic, not utilitarian. He coated his fingers, watching Felix’s face.
“Look at me,” Cassian said, and Felix did. Cassian’s eyes were dark, intense, locked on his as he pressed a single, slick finger against Felix’s entrance. He pushed in, an exquisite, burning stretch. Felix gasped, his eyelids fluttering.
“Stay with me,” Cassian whispered, moving his finger in a slow, corkscrew motion. He added a second, stretching him with a care that felt overwhelmingly intimate. He scissored his fingers, searching, until he brushed the bundle of nerves deep inside. Felix jolted, a shattered cry ripped from his throat.
“There?” Cassian asked, a wicked, knowing glint in his eye.
“Y-yes.”
Cassian focused on that spot, rubbing it with a relentless, gentle precision until Felix was a shaking, begging mess beneath him, pre-come beading on his stomach. Only then did Cassian withdraw his fingers. He sheathed himself in a condom, slicked himself, and positioned his body over Felix’s.
He entered him in one smooth, continuous push that stole the breath from both of them. There was no tearing, no shock of brutal invasion. Just a profound, stretching fullness that built and built until Cassian was fully seated, their bodies fused. Cassian rested his forehead against Felix’s, their breath mingling.
“Okay?” Cassian rasped.
“So okay,” Felix breathed, wrapping his legs around Cassian’s waist, pulling him deeper.
Cassian began to move. This was not the hammering of before. This was a deep, rolling cadence, a tide coming in. Each slow withdrawal was an agony of loss. Each measured thrust was a homecoming. Felix matched his rhythm, meeting him, their bodies communicating in a silent, fluid language. The slap of skin was softer, wetter. The sounds Felix made were not sobs but continuous, breathy moans of yes, yes, right there.
Cassian’s hands were everywhere, not gripping to punish, but touching to memorize. They slid over Felix’s shoulders, his sides, the curve of his ass, pulling him closer, deeper. He kissed Felix as he fucked him, deep, drugging kisses that tasted of shared breath and longing.
The climb was slower, tectonic. Pleasure built in Felix’s core, a coiling, radiant heat that spread to his fingertips. He was wholly present, every nerve ending alight. He clutched at Cassian’s back, his blunt nails digging in. “I’m close… Cassian, I’m so close…”
“Look at me,” Cassian commanded again, his own rhythm beginning to fracture, his thrusts becoming deeper, more urgent. “Look at me when you come.”
Felix forced his eyes open, drowning in the storm-gray of Cassian’s gaze. The orgasm tore through him, silent and vast, a wave that pulled him under. His body clamped around Cassian’s cock in endless, fluttering spasms. A hoarse, broken sound was punched from his throat.
The sensation dragged Cassian over with him. He drove deep, buried himself to the hilt, and held, his body rigid. A low, feral groan vibrated from his chest into Felix’s as he came, his hips giving tiny, involuntary jerks against Felix’s ass.
They collapsed, a damp, breathing tangle. Cassian rolled to the side, taking Felix with him, keeping them connected. He tucked Felix’s head under his chin, his arms a solid band around him. They lay there in the quiet, the only sound their slowing breaths and the distant drip of a faucet.
Cassian fell asleep first. His breathing evened out, his grip loosening into a warm, possessive weight. Felix lay awake in the circle of his arms, feeling the steady thump of Cassian’s heart against his back. The silence now was not hollow, not saturated with filth or regret. It was a living, breathing thing, woven from warmth and the scent of clean skin and sex. He stared at the wall, at the faint splash of streetlight, a foreign feeling unfolding in his chest—something like safety, something like peace. He didn’t name it. He just let it be, until sleep pulled him under, deeper than he’d ever been.
The silence in Felix’s apartment congealed over the next two days. It took on weight, a sticky residue from the spilled beer and the phantom scent of welding slag that he couldn’t seem to air out. He would catch himself staring at the faint, stubborn grey smudge on his sheets—ground-in particulates from Cassian’s skin. Each time, a hot, complicated shame would flare in his gut, followed by a pulsing, physical memory that made him stiffen. The hollowness returned quicker now, gnawing at him by the second evening. He cleaned his apartment with frantic energy, scrubbing away the evidence of his own dissolution, but the action felt futile. The quiet remained, accusatory and complete.
On the third evening, tipsy on a single beer and buzzing with a reckless, lonely resolve, he opened WhatsApp. The chat with Cassian was a barren log of coordination: addresses sent, a single ‘here’ from Felix, a ‘10 min’ from Cassian. No pleasantries. No follow-ups. He typed, fingers clumsy on the screen.
Hey. You around tonight?
He sent it before he could reconsider. The two grey checkmarks appeared immediately. Then the second blue ones. He held his breath, the thump of his own heart loud in the quiet room. A minute passed. Five. He was about to throw his phone when it buzzed.
Maybe. Finishing up. Tired. Cassian replied.
Felix’s thumbs moved. I’ll be awake. Come over. I’ll… I’ve got beer.
Another agonizing pause.
Those fucking cheap beers you drink taste like pisswater.
A laugh snorted out of Felix, unexpected and relieving. He typed back, a slight smile touching his lips. Then I’ll get something else. Whiskey? Just come. Please.
The three pulsing dots appeared, vanished, then reappeared.
Address again.
12:17 AM (Read)
Too late. Tomorrow.
A desperate boldness seized Felix. It’s not too late. Door’s unlocked. I’ll be up.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He shoved the phone in his pocket, pulled a hoodie over his head, and ran to the corner store. He bought a mid-shelf bourbon, his hands trembling slightly. Back in his apartment, he poured two fingers into a clean glass, then thought better of it and took a swift gulp from the bottle. The burn steadied him. He waited in the dark, on the edge of his made bed, listening for the distinct, heavy tread on the stairwell.
It came just past one. The door pushed open. Cassian stood there, a silhouette of exhaustion. He’d showered. His dark hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and he wore clean, faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt that strained across his chest. The absence of the industrial stink was disorienting. He smelled of generic soap and faint cigarette smoke.
“You’re clean,” Felix said, the words blurting out.
Cassian closed the door, leaning against it. “Long fucking day. Didn’t feel like smelling like a refinery in your bed.” His eyes scanned the room, noting the unusual order. “You cleaned.”
“I was bored,” Felix mumbled, standing up. The space between them felt charged, different. The routine of grime and drunk greed was disrupted. This felt like a choice.
Cassian walked over, took the bottle of bourbon from the desk, and unscrewed the cap. He took a long, throat-working pull, then handed it to Felix. Felix drank, the liquor warm in his belly. Cassian’s gaze was heavy, evaluating. “Why’d you message, Felix?”
The directness unraveled him. He shrugged, looking away. “I don’t know. Wanted to see you.”
“You saw me three days ago. I fucked you through the mattress. You couldn’t walk straight.”
“I know.” Felix met his eyes then, a spark of defiance there. “I liked it. I want it again. But… not like that. Not with you just leaving.”
Cassian was silent for a long moment. He took the bottle back, took another swallow. “What’s that mean, ‘not like that’?”
“It means…” Felix’s courage wavered. He stepped closer, until he could feel the heat coming off Cassian’s body. “It means stay for a bit after. Talk. Have another drink. I don’t know. Something.”
A low, rough sound escaped Cassian’s throat, not quite a laugh. He reached out, his calloused thumb rough against Felix’s lower lip. “You’re a weird kid.”
“Then leave,” Felix challenged, his voice barely a whisper.
Cassian didn’t leave. He kissed him. It was slower than before, less a conquest and more an exploration. The taste of bourbon passed between them. Cassian’s hands came up to cradle Felix’s face, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made Felix’s chest ache. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, but the frantic edge was blunted by something else—a mutual, weary recognition.
They undressed each other without tearing fabric. Cassian’s skin was warm, the muscles of his back shifting under Felix’s palms. Felix traced a faded, ropey scar that ran across Cassian’s ribs. “Dropped a crane hook,” Cassian muttered against his neck, as if answering an unspoken question.
They fell onto the bed. Cassian laid Felix back, his weight a comforting anchor. He kissed his way down Felix’s body—his chest, the soft plane of his stomach, the shallow dip of his navel. His mouth was hot and achingly skilled on Felix’s cock, his tongue swirling around the head before swallowing him down with a deep, practiced groan of pleasure.
“Fuck, your mouth,” Felix gasped, his hips lifting off the bed.
Cassian pulled off with a slick pop, looking up the length of Felix’s body. “Turn over. I want to taste you properly.”
Felix obeyed, rolling onto his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow. Cassian’s hands spread his cheeks apart. The first blunt, wet stroke of his tongue across Felix’s hole made Felix jolt and cry out. Cassian ate him with a focused, relentless intensity, his tongue fucking into him, soft and wet and devastating. The intimacy of it was more shocking than any rough fuck. Felix was babbling, dissolving, reduced to a shuddering heap of sensation.
“Please,” he finally begged, incoherent. “I need you inside me. Now.”
Cassian moved up, his body covering Felix’s. He fumbled for his jeans, retrieved a condom, sheathed himself. He was slick with spit and pre-come. He pressed against Felix’s entrance, which was loose and wet from his mouth.
“Look at me,” Cassian ordered, his voice gruff.
Felix twisted his head, looking over his shoulder. Cassian’s eyes were locked on his as he pushed in. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, but it was a full, steady pressure, not a tearing. Cassian sank in millimeter by millimeter, his jaw tight with the effort of his control, watching Felix’s face the entire time. When he was fully seated, he stopped, his forehead dropping against Felix’s shoulder blade.
“God, you feel good,” Cassian breathed, the words muffled against his skin. “So fucking good.”
He began to move. These were not the brutal, piston slams of before. They were deep, rolling thrusts that sought a different angle, a different friction. Each push dragged against Felix’s prostate with a relentless, building pressure. Felix pushed back, meeting him stroke for stroke, a slow, building crescendo of mutual need. The sweat that gathered between them was clean, their smells blending into something new, something belonging only to this bed.
“Touch yourself,” Cassian commanded, his rhythm never faltering. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
Felix reached under himself, his hand slippery as he gripped his own length. The dual sensations—the deep, internal fullness and the frantic external friction—coiled the tension in his gut to a screaming point. Cassian’s thrusts grew more urgent, his control fraying.
“That’s it, fuck, right there,” Cassian growled, his hands gripping Felix’s hips hard. “Come for me, Felix. Let go.”
Felix shattered. His orgrism ripped through him in silent, vast waves, his come striping the sheets beneath him, his body clamping down viscously on Cassian’s driving cock. The fierce, rhythmic contractions milked Cassian’s own release from him. He drove in one last, final time, burying himself to the hilt with a choked, guttural cry as he emptied into the condom.
He collapsed, his full weight on Felix for a moment before rolling to the side. They lay on their backs, shoulders touching, breathing in ragged unison toward the ceiling. The silence returned, but it was different. It was warm, humid with their spent breath, vibrating with the aftershocks.
After several minutes, Cassian got up, disposed of the condom, and went to the sink. He returned with a damp, warm washcloth. He cleaned Felix with a clumsy, surprising gentleness, wiping the sticky mess from his stomach and thighs. Then he cleaned himself. He tossed the cloth toward the bathroom door and slid back into bed.
He didn’t reach for Felix immediately. He just lay there, an arm’s length away. Felix, his nerve-endings singing, finally turned onto his side to face him. “You’re staying.”
It wasn’t a question. Cassian looked at him, his face unreadable in the low light from the street. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Cassian sighed, a long, tired exhalation. He turned onto his side too, mirroring Felix. His hand came up, his knuckles brushing a stray strand of hair from Felix’s forehead. “Because you asked me to.” He paused. “And because I wanted to.”
Felix moved closer, till their foreheads were almost touching. Cassian’s arm came around him, pulling him in against the solid wall of his chest. The beat of Cassian’s heart was a slow, steady drum against Felix’s ear. The previous hollow silences, the frantic aches, the grimy encounters—they all receded, blurred at the edges. This was new territory, uncharted and fragile. Felix listened to that heartbeat, felt the rise and fall of Cassian’s breath, and let the solid, present reality of it lull him. For the first time since he’d gotten his own key, the quiet in the room didn’t feel like an enemy. It felt, tentatively, like something that could be shared. He closed his eyes. The distant sound of a siren faded into the night, and somewhere, miles away, Arthur Maxwell slept fitlessly, dreaming of a son he could no longer reach.