Glimpses of him, p.17
Glimpses of Him, page 17
“Was?” Hank whispered next to him. “What happened to her?”
“I looked away. One night, eight years ago, for one stupid moment, I looked away and…” A hollow laugh escaped him, the image of that night so vivid, so clear in his mind. “I came away with a few scars, you know. Just… just cuts and bruises here and there.” Brushing at the pale scar across his eyebrow, bile rose from his stomach, the sour taste reaching his mouth. “Cara wasn’t that lucky. She was paralyzed from the waist down.”
“Finn…”
“No, not you, too, Hank. I don’t want to hear those fucking words coming out of your mouth. Not from you. That’s not who we are.” He sensed Hank nodding next to him, then his heavy palm landed on his thigh, a simple gesture instead of the words he wasn’t allowed to speak.
“So, you just left?”
“I did.”
“And you’ve never spoken to any of them again?”
“No. It was… The accident changed everything. Like there’s a before when everything was just… I don’t know… golden. Right. And then, in a split-second, everything was just flipped over, and I woke up to an entirely different reality.”
“Yeah, I get that. But accidents happen, kid.”
“I know. But I was the one driving. I was the one who looked away.”
“Finn…” Hank’s hand squeezed around his thigh, a silent message penetrating his jeans. An almost unbearable itch spread across his skin. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve Hank’s understanding. Why was he always so fucking understanding?
“Cara will never walk again, run again, dance again, because of me!” He got up from the chair, pacing to the other end of the porch. “She was supposed to go to New York. She had a fucking scholarship. She was the most vibrant, beautiful creature, and then I took it all away from her. I was like that fucking… that bird that doesn’t belong. Somehow, it sneaked its way into the nest, pretending to be something it’s not, something it was never born to be, and then…”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” Hank rose from his chair, closing the few steps between them.
“For fuck’s sake, Hank! What did I tell you? Not from you. You think I don’t know that? But it doesn’t matter. The result is the same, isn’t it? Cara will never dance again, and it’s because of me. Me! I took her dream away from her. No matter how you look at it, I’m the one who looked away. Shit happens when you look away, and now I gotta live with the consequences.” His words came out in pants now, and he wanted to hit, kick, smash something. Claw at Hank’s empathic face with his bare hands and scratch at his kind eyes that were now spilling over with sympathy.
“Don’t you think that it’s a harsh punishment? To live on your own like that. To sentence yourself to a life without your family.”
“No. It’s not anywhere near being sufficient.”
“And your sister? Your folks?”
“What about them?”
“Aren’t you punishing them too, by leaving and staying away?” He hated the truth in Hank’s words, echoing a question he’d asked himself again and again over the years.
“They’re better off,” he whispered, turning away from Hank and his overwhelming presence. He didn’t want his words, his comfort, his touch. He didn’t want his absolution.
“What now?” He didn’t have to face Hank to know that he’d stepped closer, that inexplicable connection, that odd string between them, pulling at him.
“I said they’re better off. Look, Hank, I’m grateful—” He nearly lost his balance as two hands landed on his waist and turned him effortlessly. Forcefully.
“Don’t give me that crap, kid. I’m too old for that. I don’t want your gratitude.”
“No? What do you want then? Another go at my ass?” Finn spat, well aware that this man, who’d been nothing but kind to him, didn’t deserve his crude words. And yet, he was unable to stop himself.
“Don’t be like that. This ain’t about me, Finn. It’s about you and what you’re doing to yourself. You’re punishing yourself for somethin’ that ain’t your fault.” As calm as Hank’s voice remained, his grip around Finn’s waist was steady, his fingers digging into his obliques and as much as he hated it—hated himself for it—he felt himself getting hard.
“I swear to God, Hank, if you say that one more time, I’m…” His entire body shivered by now, and he loathed himself for just wanting to lean against the broad warm chest in front of him and just let it take some of this weight off him. Just for a second.
“You’re what? You’re gonna take a swing at me? Or you’re gonna leave?” Wiggling free, he stepped backward, his shins connecting with the railing as he pointed an accusing finger between them.
“Jesus fucking Christ. And what about you? What about you, old man?” He spat.
“What about me?”
“Aren’t you punishing yourself, too? Living like a fucking… living in the shadows of him.“ He knew it was a low blow bringing Eugene into this, but he felt cornered, like a rabid dog, trying to fight its way out.
“This ain’t about me,” Hank repeated quietly, and if it hadn’t been for the darkening in his hazel eyes, Finn would’ve thought that Hank was unaffected by his words. “You can’t make this about me just by mentioning my grief, my pain.” Hank slammed a hand against his chest, just above his heart. “And you’re right. I have been punishing myself. For living when he ain’t. For getting older when he won’t. Heck, for smilin’ when he can’t. When he won’t ever again. And that’s wrong. I see that now. I don’t wanna do that anymore.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not you, Hank. Sometimes it’s just not possible to see the silver lining, I guess. Perhaps you can make it work, day in and day out, going about your small-town life, but I can’t. I’m not that good at pretending.”
“Does that usually work for you? I guess it must have, in the past, since you do it?” Hank brushed at his beard, taking Finn in.
“What?” he spat.
“Pushing people away. Seeing how far you can push them before they make up their minds that you’re not worth it.”
“Oh, what? Now you suddenly have a fucking psychology degree, is that it?” Fuck, he was relentless, wasn’t he? So relentless, this small-town mind reader.
“You see, the thing is, it won’t work. Not with me. There ain’t nothin’ you can say or do to push me away. Because I know the real you. I see the real you and this ain’t it. So, you can quit with the whole asshole act. The whole me-against-the-world crap. It won’t work.”
“Is that so?” He recognized the subtle tremble in his voice, and he wondered if Hank could hear it too.
“It is.”
“So, who am I then?” He tipped his chin defiantly, although he felt the resistance dissolving inside.
“You’re Finn the Hun. You’re the guy who goes out into the woods every mornin’ to look for those goddamn mourning doves, even though they’re the dullest birds you’ll ever see. You’re the guy whose face lights up like a Christmas display when he talks about WWII fighter planes. You’re the guy who’s sentenced himself to a life of drifting about because he made a mistake. And you’re the guy who lets an old asshole like me fuck him, even though he could have anyone with that perky ass and that million-dollar smile.” Okay, then.
“Well, I guess you see what you wanna see, Hank. Look, I don’t wanna talk about it. Can we just let this go?”
“Sure, we can. But it ain’t gonna go away just because you don’t face it. The truth.” Hank took another step towards him, reaching for his hand, tangling their fingers together. He started deflating, the anger slowly dissipating, exhaustion taking over.
“Fuck, Hank,” he chuckled bitterly. “Just because I take your cock from time to time doesn’t mean I have to take your advice, too. I don’t want it. Okay?”
“Okay, kid.” Hank wrapped his other arm around him, pulling him close and tucking his head against his chest. His heart was beating steadily against Finn’s ear, dadum-dadum-dadum. Resting his chin on top of Finn’s head, he blew a warm breath against his hair. “And you take it so damn fine, too…” Hank rasped. And just like that, he was back to being putty in Hank’s hands.
“Hank…” He whispered.
“You’re alright, kid. You’re alright,” he hummed.
“Look, can we just…” Finn spoke against the softness of Hank’s sweater.
“Yeah, of course we can.” Tears pressed behind his eyelids, the cool night air wafting along his neck, making him shiver. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” Hank pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “It’s late.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hank
Now
Three hours of sleep had been something he could get away with in his twenties, but over the years, having to be at the shop early, a good night’s sleep had become something he relied upon. But he hadn’t been able to go to sleep last night after the conversation he’d had with Finn after Thanksgiving dinner. Finn, tossing and turning next to him, hadn’t exactly helped either. Yeah, Finn had slept in his room, in his bed. It wasn’t something that had been voiced between them. Both worn out and talked out, Hank had just pulled Finn after him down the hallway, stripping him down to his boxers and tucking him in beside him.
After what had seemed like hours of Finn wrestling the sheets and battling his inner demons—because it was pretty clear by now that Finn had plenty, perhaps even more than Hank—he’d finally groaned loud enough for Finn to stop.
“Sorry.”
“Come here,” Hank had sighed, wrapping an arm around Finn’s chest, pulling him against him. He was cold, too cold, and his chest shivered, a layer of goosebumps covering his skin. “What do you need?”
Finn had frozen against him, his armor coming back up, and he’d tried to struggle free from Hank’s hold. “Hey, now, not so fast,” Hank had chuckled against his back, Finn attempting to get off the bed.
“I’m keeping you awake,” he’d murmured.
“True. Now answer my question, kid. What do you need?” Pulling Finn’s back flush against his chest, he felt him struggling, wiggling at first, then slowly relaxing and resigning to the fact that Hank wasn’t going to let him run off.
“I don’t know.” There was this familiar lilt to the end of the sentence that had become so typically Finn by now, Hank never really knowing if he was asking or stating something. Almost as if Finn was expecting Hank to tell him what he needed. Perhaps he was.
“Okay. You want me to guess? Is that it?” Hank grumbled against the patch of skin between Finn’s shoulder blades where he knew a small cluster of freckles resembling a flock of birds in flight was splayed across the skin. Finn’s shoulders were broad. Not as broad as his own, but he was solidly built around the shoulders and upper arms, his upper body resembling that of a swimmer’s.
“No.” That goddamn lilt again. Hank couldn’t hold back another chuckle. Finn was just too damn adorable when he was trying to be all difficult, when he truly wasn’t. In fact, he was easy. Not easy in a push-over kind of way or in a we’ll-just-do-whatever-you-want way. No, he was easy to like even though he would fight you on that one for sure in his usual Finn the Hun kind of way. He was easy to get along with, too. Even when he was moody and moping about, it wouldn’t take much to bring him around, making his face light up with excitement and youthful energy. Like the week before when Tilly had made a new topping—blueberry—for her famous French toast.
“Is it homemade, Til?” He’d pointed eagerly at the board behind the counter featuring this week’s special with the new topping.
“Of course it is, honey,” she’d smiled, patting him fondly, coaxing a shy blush from his cheeks.
“I love blueberries,” he’d near whispered, his voice mellow, wistful, telling tales of times when Finn was perhaps seven or ten, face smeared with blueberry jam, those brown eyes glowing, the morning sun pulling some red from his blond hair.
“Then I’ll fix you a plate. Hank, you want some too?”
“Hank?” Shit.
“Hmmm?”
“Maybe I do know what I want.” Finn’s voice was timid, unsure. As if Hank could ever deny him anything. That way he was a lot like Eugene, Hank going all soft and… what was it Eugene always used to say? Amenable? Yeah, that was it. ‘You’re always so amenable, my love. I think that’s my favorite thing about you.’
Turning in his grasp, Finn hid his face against Hank’s neck, breathing him in, inhaling deeply, followed by a long shaky sigh. Then his tongue dipped out, licking at the corded neck muscles, teeth just barely grazing the skin. The small hairs at the back of Hank’s neck rose like feeble straws of grass, reaching for the sun, chasing the warmth.
“I love how you taste,” Finn mumbled, licking lower until his tongue found the small hollow between Hank’s collarbones. “All salty and warm and just… just so fucking good.” Involuntarily Hank gasped, the teasing circular movements of Finn’s tongue combined with his moist breath sending shivers through his body, his cock stirring between his thighs, his nipples growing hard and pointy. Achy.
Scooting lower, Finn licked across Hank’s chest and left pec, just barely coasting the nipple, his teeth tugging teasingly at Hank’s chest hair. A groan built in Hank’s chest, a low rumble at first, then erupting into an impatient growl.
“That’s it, big guy. Let me hear you,” Finn coaxed, and Hank couldn’t help but wonder how they’d gone from Finn being all lost and pliant to Hank now suddenly being the one completely at his mercy. Because he was. He was completely at the younger man’s mercy. Closing his mouth around Hank’s nipple, Finn lapped at it, sucking noisily, small sounds of contentment spilling from his lips and echoing inside Hank’s chest. No one had ever touched Hank like this before, making a meal out of him, worshipping his body like this. When he’d made love to Eugene, Hank had mostly been the assertive one, although it had never been anything like this. Sweet for sure. Loving, absolutely. But never with this hungry undercurrent, threatening to pull him out to sea where his feet could no longer touch the bottom. This feeling of being devoured. Consumed inside and out.
Placing his hand behind Finn’s head, he cradled, nearly smothered him against his chest, Finn riding his thigh in long, lazy movements. With each suck and moan reverberating around his abused nipple, Hank grew harder, his balls resting heavily between his thighs. It almost reached the point where it became torturous—a sweet kind of torture, but still. And Finn must’ve felt it, too, because an outdrawn whine fell from his lips as he released Hank’s nipple.
“Fucking hell,” he panted against Hank’s bruised bud before he laughed breathily. “I guess we found out what I needed.”
“Hmmm, happy to oblige,” Hank chuckled too, his chest tingling. Hell, his entire body buzzing with need. He shortly entertained just flipping Finn around on the bed and ramming himself inside him, fucking him into kingdom come. Then Finn dipped his face back down, trailing his tongue meticulously across Hank’s left pec muscle as if he was drawing a map, tracing a road, or marking a river. Reaching Hank’s armpit, he pushed his arm above his head and buried his face in the generous dusting of hair. Sniffing audibly, Finn rubbed his face back and forth, the tickling sensation sending waves of desire shooting all the way down into Hank’s loins, further along his thighs and legs, until settling in his feet. Squeezing his toes, he let the want settle inside, embracing the sensation of being wanted back.
When he was younger, Hank had often been self-conscious about the thick layer of dark hair covering his chest, spreading further up across his shoulders and neck, leaving his back bare, only to start again at the bottom of his spine and his ass. In the summer, when he’d bathed at the creek with his friends, he’d always compared himself to their lean, mostly hairless bodies with small patches of hair between their pecs and below their belly buttons. There’d been the occasional remark referring to Hank’s body hair, adolescent banter with no malice, yet still, he’d always felt like the odd one out. Now, with the way Finn was so obviously showering those parts of him with attention, he preened inside. It made him feel desired. Although Eugene had used to run his slender fingers through his chest hair, teasing that Hank was his fuzzy bear, it had been nothing compared to the level of adoration that Finn treated his body with. Like Hank’s was deserving of being worshipped, plain and simple.
“Fuck, you smell good, old man,” he moaned, his teeth closing around Hank’s coarse hair, pulling at it. “Such a pretty armpit, you’ve got,” he hummed. “I could live down here, build my own little cabin, and just…” The rest of the sentence drowned in small animal-like purrs as Finn disappeared inside said pit, burying his entire face in there, nuzzling his nose against the small hollow, as deep as he could go. Hank squirmed beneath him, the ticklish sensation spreading across his skin like an army of ants on patrol. His fingers reached for Finn’s hair in a strange battle, not sure if he was trying to push this horny incubus away from him or trying to pull him even closer. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was too engrossed with everything that was Finn, the weight of his body on top of him, grounding him, the feel of his damp skin against his own, gluing them together. Licking lower, Finn mapped out his obliques and his soft belly, giving the belly button some extra attention until it was covered in saliva, dripping down his stomach. A small overspilling lake in the middle of the bushy grasslands.
Without another word, Finn rose on top of him, scooting further down his body, pulling Hank’s boxers with him. His cock sprang free, and with it, a heady, pungent scent filled the air.
“Fuck me,” Finn groaned appreciatively right before he dove in, burying his face in Hank’s pubic hair, sniffing loudly. He had no damn inhibitions, this… this wild thing. The fact that he almost went out of his way to not touch Hank’s twitching cock was just so damn sexy. The way he focused on the wild landscape surrounding his length instead, drawing out the arousal until Hank could no longer feel where he ended, and Finn began.
