2 part of my friends' fanfic
Sometimes Duma looked at him as if he wanted to kill him. Right here and right now, without even changing out of his United uniform, soaked in sweat and dirt. But when they were alone, and as soon as Rasta wrapped his arms around his strong shoulders and whispered “I missed you” in his ear, he relaxed, hanging on him like a heavy weight. He buried his nose in his hair and calmed down as soon as he smelled his familiar scent.
Rasta didn't lie. He just didn't say everything.
Over the years, the blond man's jealousy continued to grow and expand like a full-flowing river. At first, it was tolerable and mainly consisted of “don't talk to him, talk only to me,” but now his possessiveness extended to literally everything.
Duma would say:“Who are you dressed up for?”
Or:“What were you chatting about so sweetly?”
Or:“I'm not going to share you with anyone.”
And Rasta couldn't take it. He disagreed. He argued.
They even had an established pattern of “push and pull.” They fought, often to the point of bloodshed, often to the point of broken knuckles and bruises. They would part ways for a while, glaring at each other at matches, avoiding each other at home, and generally thinking that this time it was definitely over once and for all.
And then another exchange of glances would be filled not with malice, but with a boiling whirlpool of desire, and someone would succumb to this momentary weakness. All that remained was to lose themselves in rough touches, hurried kisses, and the ragged, noisy breathing of bodies pressed against the surface of either a mattress or a table—whichever was available, and it didn't matter.
Rasta and Duma never talked about the problem, about their constant quarrels, and that was probably bad. But when “yours and mine” spread in a double trail across the room, lost in a tangle of intertwined fingers and the touch of hot skin, then ‘bad’ and “good” simply ceased to exist. The world was not divided into black and white, but remained a gray mass somewhere beyond the boundaries of consciousness, because that didn't matter either.
So he answers questions with:“For you.”
Maybe it's good that Tiger is with Miko. Otherwise, he would be in his place.
Duma silently handed Rasta a frozen piece of meat that he had fished out of the depths of the refrigerator. The striker jerked away, slapping his hand, and the meat fell with a loud thud onto the bathroom tiles.
“What the fuck are you doing now?” the blond grumbled, bending over.
Instead of answering, Rasta spat saliva mixed with blood into the sink. A red stain remained in the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin. Duma silently appeared next to him, right behind Rasta, and wiped it away with his thumb.
“Leave me alone,” hisses the brunette, pushing him away. He sits down on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and squinting until stars burst before his eyes.Duma sits down next to him and leans against the wall. He strokes his head.The wolf, born in a cage, howls, baring his fangs, satisfied that his family is nearby and not leaving.
“I don't know what to do,” admits the striker.His broken lip throbs with pain, but all that pain pales in comparison to what is unfolding inside the open, gaping wound. It's as if all those phantoms of his broken sternum are superimposed on each other and frozen as a scar on Rasta's body.Everything hurts. All the marks left by Duma's blows, and all those that Rasta inflicted on him, ache, twist, and break.
“About what?” Duma runs his broad palm down the back of the striker's neck.
“I don't know what to do with us.”He doesn't understand why he keeps coming back and keeps taking him back. It was like a vicious circle, a vicious chain, a noose thrown around him as punishment.
They couldn't be together and they couldn't exist apart.
Duma initiated his delusions on him.It was impossible to describe it in one word or define it within any existing framework. Whether it was sincere, true love, pity, or depression, Rasta didn't know.It was just that no one had ever laid his heart bare like this before. That was all.
“I have no one else,” Duma reminds him. Sincerely.
Rasta feels a lump in his throat.
“I want to be with you,” yellow hair brushes sharply against his cheek.Coming from Duma, it sounds less like a desire and more like a statement.
Not “I want to be with you,” but “I will be with you.”,and there's nothing you can do about it.
Rasta leans against him, runs her fingers over the abrasion on his face, and thinks that if he were offered the chance to turn back time and not meet Duma, he would agree.
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