OC Moodboard: The F’d- Up Support Group (Lev & Daniel)
Based off this completely lovely crossover from @untilthepainstarts and @ashintheairlikesnow. It’s no secret that Danny is one of my favorites — I would knit sweaters for him if it were possible — and that he’s routinely inspired boards from me. But I’m slowly falling in love with Lev and Graham again, and now with Lev and Danny’s Effed-Up Support Group. The story where they meet up and feed the kangaroos had me all kinds of soft this morning, and now we’ve got a moodboard to show for it!
It's the fourth time his phone flashes that he realises—shit, it's a call, not a text. Graham doesn't need to hear a voice to know that his late-night caller has taken a trip down the neck of a bottle tonight, but as soon as he does, it’s crystal clear.
"Heeey."
Stifling a sigh Graham rubs his cheek, his jaw. He suppresses the ‘bit early to have reached the bottom, isn't it?’ "Hey, Lev."
"M'lonely." The sound of something soft hitting the floor—a pillow, a pile of clothes. "Y'should come over."
"I don't think that's a great idea."
"Why not?"
The last time had felt like a damn trap—couple hours of everything they'd both wanted and needed at the time, sure, but the unfiltered regret that had seeped from every corner of Lev the morning after had been just… unbearable. Even if Graham couldn't exactly blame him. Felt the same way.
"Please?" It's part whine, part slur. "I haven't had that much. I'm so… so, so, sober."
Graham highly, highly doubts that. "What're you drinking?"
"Cap'n Morgan. I think?"
"You think."
"Definitely. Maybe."
Yeahhh. "With?"
The tink of a glass. "Was coke… but…" But now straight. Maybe straight from the bottle.
"Could you have a glass of water or something maybe? You know… take care of yourself?"
A chuckle, low and husky. "Why don't you?"
Frowning, Graham adjusts his grip on the phone, bitter at the thrill that still hits him at a line like that. A line from him. He knows he should roll his eyes and just end the damn call, but the little voice in his head mad at being fucked with is easy to drown out.
"Lev… c'mon."
"You c'mon. Come here." More insistent this time. Less of a question, more of a statement of inevitability. "Come over."
Graham should say no. Needs to say no, for both their sakes. "I've got an early start," he tries—not all of them get wired money to support themselves with every week. Some of them have to work.
"Please?"
He should say no. Instead, he lets the sigh out before it swells enough to suffocate him. It doesn't help that tonight his ex is being especially persistent.
"Or… I could do it." A beat. "Would you like that?"
Over the line he hears the sound of bare feet on tiles. The scraping open of a door, or drawer. A clattering and clunking, and then a little whoa, fuck as someone tries to steady himself while the room's rotation shifts from clockwise to counter.
When Graham starts to piece things together, he attempts an intercept. "Okay, hey… you are really, really hammered right now—definitely too much to drive. And I don't want you to not talk to me for weeks after because of something you regret. Uh… it's fine that you called, but I really think that you should go to bed. I can call you in the morning, if you want."
"Mmm."
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Mhmm. Keep talking."
"Yeah cool, so you're not."
"I am."
"Do not drive here."
"M'not."
"Put the keys back."
The response he gets at that is a deep sigh, which curls into a little moan. Immediately, Graham feels all the warm spots on his body start to prickle, alert all at once. He's put the wrong pieces together—or put the pieces together wrong.
Oh, fuck. Oh he’s definitely done it up wrong.
"You're…"
“Told you—” and a thrilling little hitch of the breath. “I could bring it to you. Don't have to go anywhere."
The little bloop of his text tone sounds, and there's not a single thought in Graham's brain as he pulls the phone away from his ear to look at the screen, makes a bewildered little noise at the image there. Lev, framed by the bathroom mirror. Hair wet, shaping his face. Eyes heavy lidded, mouth slightly open, shirt unbuttoned. One hand up holding his phone, the other hand down, holding his—
"Did I lose you?"
He brings the voice back to his ear.
"Fuuuuck, Lev," he murmurs, eyes staring blankly at the dusty ceiling fan. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Those scars… he's kissed and licked along those neat little rows so many times before, and now he can't get every time that he's ever done such to stop playing in his mind. Every time he's massaged those shoulders, tight from stress. Every time he's taken one of those nipples into his mouth to tease it. And every time he's felt that cock press his tongue down, gently nudge the back of his throat.
“I need you.”
And there’s the little voice again. Just a little voice. This isn’t fair. But in spite of it, Graham is already fisting himself through his lounge pants, leaning his phone on his shoulder and the back of the couch in favour of biting the knuckles of his other hand. As he closes his eyes he can see the curve where hip transitions to thigh, feel the trace of fingers across his pecs, watch the other hand reaching back and down. Feel the other man's body, flush and warm, from chest to pelvis.
Can’t let him hear how this is affecting him, though. Would be a transgression. He bites his cheek to keep quiet.
"You thinking about me?"
Hesitation. Then surrender. "Yes," Graham admits.
"Naked?"
Excitement. Arousal. Fear. "Yes."
A shift through the phone, a breath. “On top of you?”
It wasn’t the first thing that had come to mind. And maybe that’s better, actually, somehow. Makes him feel like less of a predator. “Inside me.”
Another moan, and this time it sounds close enough for the wisp of breath to lick along the inside of his ear. It's followed up by a breathy “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Fuck, yeah.
"God…" The delicate crack in Lev's voice makes his whole body sing. "Love that. Spread you out on the bed. Grab you. Haah…"
A minute or so of play, but then he loses momentum. What is he doing? Not while he's drunk.
Lev seems to cotton on. "What's the matter? Not enough for you?"
"This… isn't good."
"Why?"
"I think you should go to bed. Sorry."
The rhythm of breathing on the other end of the phone pauses, leaving only silence. "Fine. I'll call Eli."
"Who's Eli?"
"Yeah, you don't get to ask that." Not angry, just disappointed. "Sorry for bothering you. G'night."
"Wait." Graham grasps at a reason, anything to keep the call going. Eli could be anyone—a hookup, most likely, but equally likely an asshole. A weirdo. A stranger taking advantage of a drunk, lonely guy. A guy who is going to hang up on him at any second…
Fuck it. He's already going to hell.
"Don't, uh. Don't do that. l'll be there in twenty."
-
Busy buttoning his shirt, Lev is turned away. Still, his tone is soft. Genuine. Not steeped in shame.
"Do you wanna grab something to eat? Or… coffee? Um. Unless you've gotta run."
Graham's head is throbbing—for the life of him, doesn't know how he ever used to put away that much tequila in his early twenties and still live the next day—and his mouth is dry. He puts a hand over his eyes to shield them from the crack of morning light through Lev's bedroom curtains.
He's wanted nothing more than a coffee with him for almost a year, now. But for the first time, Graham doesn't reach towards, but away. Needs to tell him. He slowly swings his legs over the side of Lev's bed.
"I'm… seeing someone. Actually."
For a long moment, there's no response. "Oh."
"We're not quite exclusive yet, so, but… yeah." Not a great sell for a new lady, a drunken one night stand with his ex. That said, Eleanor might be one of the least judgemental people he's ever met—bar Niels, maybe. She'd get it.
"Oh. Um. Sorry."
"It's okay."
Lev turns his head, but still won't look at him. The telltale signs of a closing door are inching steadily across. "I shouldn't have called. Didn't know I was getting you in trouble."
"She knows," Graham replies. "She knows there's a person in my past who I have some shared… complicated stuff, with. Nothing sensitive."
The unfortunate phrasing triggers many half-expressions to flicker across Lev's face in rapid fire.
"Shit…"
"Hey, it's okay, really."
A snap. "No it's not." Just as quick, an ease off. "It's not okay. I can't just…"
Graham would have gone to him. Six months ago, he would have thrown himself down on his knees and offered himself, all of himself, up to Lev if he wanted him back.
But right now, he's just disappointed in Lev for not asking for him sooner. And in himself, for knowing, and for coming over anyway.
"Thanks. Sorry, uh. Forget I asked. You should… go."
He dresses in silence. Doesn't turn back around at the little sniff, even though he knows exactly the acute distress about to be felt in this room.
In many ways, Graham's relationship with his parents was quite simple. Firstly, be kicked out at sixteen because you were a delinquent little shithead who was well on the path to either being shot up on a street corner, or thrown in prison for being the one doing the shooting. Spend twenty-odd years in the wind. Then call dear old mum and dad up on a whim one day asking whether they're free for a coffee and a slice of cake—their choice, your shout.
They’d picked the key lime pie.
Most of their questions, surprisingly, had been in line with that of a normal suburban family. Less about his decades-long absence—the lie about getting out and into a job driving diplomats around seemed to inspire the desired amount of polite disinterest—and much, much more about ‘wait, you're telling us our long lost son is now married to a man?’ In their first few reconnecting dinners Graham had already located and defused the bomb of ‘we'd actually hoped and dreamed of our only son telling us he was only a gay teen instead of in a teenage gang,’ and done similar to the IED of ‘good thing we've changed churches since you were little or blessed Father Derrick would have simply had a stroke between the pews’—along with the total landmine, dear Lord in heaven the nuclear fucking blast of ‘but so… if you're married, doesn't that mean you're Gay now?’
But they were willing, and forthcoming. And surprisingly relaxed about his sudden reappearance in their lives.
All that had been left was for them to finally meet him—his sweet and kind husband, the infamous Lev. Which, apparently, called for dinner at Pete and Cressida's spacious suburban home.
"Topoff, my boy?" A question from Pete to Lev that Graham only moderately tenses up at, for more than one reason. Would rather not have to explain them all.
"Do you have any more of that sparkling, actually?"
"For you? Course we do. Would you pass the apple juice, hun?”
The first impression had nearly ended in disaster. Trust his old man and lady to blow through his first two cardinal requests immediately—he'd been firm to the point of militant on the topic of touching Lev without asking first, then witnessed in horror as his mother completely lost her mind and initiated a crushing hug. Then was the wine, though on that Lev had reassured they were in the green. Couldn’t drink on the meds anyway.
Now, outside overlooking the garden, wooden bannister flickering with light from the ceramic potted citronella candles, the wine flowing and barbecue cooling… things were actually starting to feel good. Calm. He's not checking his watch every minute, and his husband seems to be at relative ease while keeping deft pace with the conversation. Lev presses the kitchen knife down past the crust of the chocolate tart he’d insisted on bringing, listening to Cressida explain of the accreditation process of an arts therapist.
As the conversation dwindles, his mother twists her blond hair at the back of her head and spears it with a pin. The look brewing on her face is one of an imminent interrogation, but Graham recognises it far too late to cut her off at the pass.
"So you're… gay, Lev? Is that right, is that what you prefer?"
"Ma," Graham scowls, warning low and short.
Just as Cressida's eyes flash with equal challenge, gearing up to meet her son’s protest with one of her own, Lev responds with an easy smile, a raised hand. "It's okay—I'm actually bisexual."
"Oh! So you're the same then. That must keep things simple."
Peter, whose cheeks are drawing closer to the tint of his chequered shirt with each fresh glass of wine, chimes in. "So you've been with both. Women, men… lucky guy, lucky guy…"
“Christ. Dad…”
"Yes, that is what the ‘bi’ part means, Pete. Oh, I know the loveliest lesbian couple whose daughter is a bisexual. Can you imagine that? All that diversity under the one roof."
Though Graham wants so, so badly to cup his hands over his face and screech into the miniature void there forever, Lev’s chime of a laugh rings above the abject horror roiling in his gut. “We do tend to flock, I’ll give you that.”
Seeming impressed with the response, Peter reaches for the bottle on the table and sets about refilling glasses again, even though most are still half-full. Graham reaches across to steady his mother's glass as the red comes dangerously close to sloshing up and over the other side. One of two teeny little dogs—rat-sized morsels that Daisy would have eaten for breakfast and barfed up before lunch—scurries around to their side of the table, interpreting the sudden movement as a potential signal of pending table scraps.
"Well," Peter says, "our son must have done at least one thing right in his life to have won you over. It's all a downright comfort, if you ask us. Isn't it, honey?"
He doesn't know quite why that's the part, out of everything, that gets him. Something slimy and misshapen rears its head within Graham’s chest, writhing through the holes of his ribcage where it's installed itself into the gaps and expanded like some sort of horrible, living caulk. He's done fuck all to deserve a man as good as Lev, right hand to God. Still feels as though he's long-conning him into staying, most days. But when his partner responds by taking Graham's hand under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze, the dial of all that noise is turned down low. The domesticity just a little less cloying.
"I feel lucky to have him, actually." A wink only meant for him. “He’s put up with me so far.”
"Ha! Just wait until you've been together forty years and he's still leaving dishes by the sink—"
"Or when it becomes impossible to go to on a fifteen minute shopping trip that doesn't turn into a forty-five minute catch-up with a playgroup friend—"
"I'm really glad that you two haven't changed. Just so glad.” Though Graham says it in exasperation, the fondness is hard to ignore. He brings his husband’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.
"So Lev, Graham tells us you're working on a coffee table, is that right?"
-
“So… verdict?” He’s almost scared to ask, but needs to know his partner is okay after… all that.
"They're nice! Really nice.”
“But…?”
A sigh from the passenger seat. “But it was… difficult. I guess."
Graham winces, blows air out through his cheeks. Should have known it would always be a little bit trial-by-fire. "Yeah, sorry. Thought they'd gotten all of the, uh, sexuality talk out of their system. Apparently not.”
Lev turns, giving him a curious look. "Oh, no, not that part. That was fine. Though I'm really glad they didn't want more details than they did," and a laugh tinged with the specific kind of glee of knowing exactly how terribly that could have gone. "I just… it's hard when I don't like how they treated you."
Graham frowns. He hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary in the course of the evening. "What do you mean?"
"Throwing your sixteen year old kid out of the house when he's clearly in it deep, and cutting off all contact." Lev shakes his head, looking out the windscreen at the blur of pines whizzing past. “Your dad said they were praying for you to come back… but how would they have known if you’d needed to?”
Graham hears his old man’s farewell of the night. Don’t be a stranger, hey kiddo? We’ve missed you. “I… used to rob 7-Elevens with that crew. In gorilla masks.”
Not a beat missed. “We’ve all been sixteen.”
Spotting a tiny smile out of the corner of his eye at his own bark of a laugh, Graham reaches over the handbrake to place his hand on Lev’s thigh. As always, it’s covered by a smaller, warmer one.
Now just as ever, Graham feels like he could be in awe of the indestructible core of his partner until the day that he dies. Though Lev would be the first to deny and the last to admit it, there's a grain of diamond at the very centre of him.
Behind a fortress or surrounded by ash and rubble—it's still beautiful. Still incredible.
“I’d still… like to stay in touch with them.” Graham clears his throat. “If that’s alright. You wouldn’t have to come, though, if you don't want to.”
“Ah, wasn’t at all saying that we shouldn’t.” A gentle apology squeeze. “Would really love to go to that gallery.”
Sleeping in his bed. Waking up from nightmares, of the things that he’d had done to him. Of other things, that hadn’t, but felt as if they had. Waking up screaming. Waking up in pain.
From the way his partner is standing in the doorway, shifting foot to nervous foot but not crossing the threshold, Lev knows Graham can sense that he’s angry. He always tries to keep it in check, but it’s still hard. Sometimes it seeps out through his skin and into the atmosphere.
He sighs. It's not fair to be like this, not when it’s not his fault. “Yeah actually. That would be great.”
“On it.”
The sound of Graham retreating down the hallway, and a few moments later, the kettle clicking on.
-
“Do you still love me?”
After he says the words Graham smiles, a little coy, a little cheeky. He’s sitting at the counter, spoon halfway to his mouth, bowl of yoghurt and fresh apricots in front of him.
There’s more sugar than cinnamon in his beard now, but damn does it look good.
Lev answers by sliding between Graham’s knees and the table, and kissing him. Lips part under his as he does, the gentle taste of vanilla on the tip of Graham’s tongue. Gets the same feeling in his stomach that he does every time, that flip and twirl.
“Of course I do. You okay?”
“Yeah.” A casual shrug. “Just angling for a kiss really. Better now.”
“Good.”
-
“Do you want a cuppa?”
“Yeah, love.”
“On it.”
-
“Do you reckon they’ll want it painted? To match the others.”
Graham hums, puts down his plastic bucket. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. Cute. “Lemme take a look.”
They live simply, and yet don’t want for much. Already have everything they could have ever asked for—which mostly amounts to just... time. Time to fix the house, to build furniture, to weed and weed and weed because the damn things never stop sprouting anew. To have people over for wine and cards, or to look after friends when the chips are down.
Time to be, and to love.
Graham looks softer now. Laugh lines around hazel eyes. Cracked hands, but soft where it counts. Lean enough for Lev to be envious of his metabolism. They’ve traded hairstyles—while Lev’s is long enough to tie back more often than not, Graham’s is short at the back and sides.When he speaks it’s low, and warm.
Lev doubts his own corners have rounded as kindly, but knows they must have rounded some by years of wear and tear. The anxiety protected him for so long, but living without it is far easier than he’d imagined it being.
It helps that Graham still treats him as twenty five and gorgeous, rather than double that and jaded. Even sweaty in the mid-afternoon heat, Graham drapes an arm over Lev’s shoulder, casually conspicuous, like they’re flirting at the back of the theatre.
“I think it looks good as is. I really like the uh. Uh…” Graham gestures to the bottom of the planter box.
“Feet?”
“Yeah, is that what they’re called?”
Lev laughs. “I guess so—one of those things that just gets an approximate term…”
“What colour are the rest?”
“White, I think.”
A face. “Nah this is better. Paint just looks weird when it inevitably peels.”
“I agree, but the school might still want it to match.”
“Could offer to scrape back the others?”
Lev looks up at him. “Do you want to offer to be on your hands and knees scraping off paint?”
“Mmm. No. I was saying you could do it.”
Leaning into him a little more, Lev grins. “Asshole.”
“You love it. But yeah, it looks really good,” Graham says before groaning, back popping as he bends to stretch it.
“Shower?”
“Absolutely.”
-
“Do you want a cuppa?”
Lev takes a deep breath in, sucking oxygen into his lungs as if he’s addicted to the stuff. Blows it out like it’s toxic.
It’s not fair to be angry. Not when he doesn’t know.
“I’ll come make it in a sec.”
“Sorry…”
But none of this has ever been fucking fair, has it?
“It’s fine, love. I’ll come make it in a sec, okay?”
“Nah nah nah, I’ll get you one. Sit tight.”
The shuffle of Graham’s feet as he retreats down the hallway. The kettle clicking on.
-
“Do you want me to do it?”
“No,” comes the curt reply. A frown. “I've got it.”
Lev purses his lips. Refocuses his attention away from the clipboard balanced on Graham’s knee, and to some other part of the room. His eyes are drawn to the mum and young bub at the opposite end of the waiting room, reading the soft plush book, the little one poking her chubby fingers through the holes to get at the fur of ‘C is for Cat’. He smiles and wiggles his fingers when the baby’s eyes hone in on him and stare, and laughs when the mum waves her daughter’s hand back in his direction.
“Just saying, it’s not too late…” and a nudge to his ribs.
It’s an old wedge sanded down, just like all the other parts of the two of them. Something that used to hurt, but doesn’t anymore.
Lev swats back playfully. “Focus.” He rubs Graham’s bouncing knee a little, smoothing over his printed slacks until the movement stops.
It’s not long before the specialist emerges. “Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes,” Graham answers with a smile, standing, passing the clipboard to Lev. Lev smiles too, but it’s half in an attempt to bite back the it’s ‘Dr’ actually.
As his partner is distracted, Lev quickly reviews the sheet—strikes through some parts, hastily scribbles down others—doesn’t get through all of it before Graham is turning back around. “You coming or staying here?”
“Do you want me in?”
Graham waves a hand. “Nah, all good. Unless you want to see me in the sexy gown.”
Though he wants to see him safely in, he doesn’t want to hover. Lev bids him off with a kiss.
-
“Do you want a cuppa?”
Lev tilts his head. Thinking. Does he actually?
“Nah, thanks though.”
“You sure? I can make it fancy.”
“How would you make it fancy?”
“Honey, little bit of lemon maybe?”
Lev had always thought he’d be the one. Had never stopped to consider any other possibility.
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
“On it, boss.”
The sound of Graham Johnson retreating. The kettle clicking on.
-
“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”
Not one person out of the four others seated at the table says a single word, shocked into silence by the sudden outburst. Gentle falling electric guitar strums on in the background, an ethereal woman’s voice floating above the hum.
Graham jabs an accusatory hand in Darren’s direction. “He’s moving his marker when he thinks we’re not looking.”
“I’m not, mate,” Darren says, raising his own hands. “I’m really not.”
“You fucking are. You’re cheating.”
“Hang on.” Pavita leans across the table, picking up Darren’s scoring meeple in one hand and marks the place with her other thumb. “Let’s just count backwards a little and sort this out, yeah? Yeah. Okay, so six points from the first city, eight from the monastery…”
“Forget it—” Graham casts his hand through the tiles, scattering them, and knocking Lev’s drink off the table in the process.
“Whoa,” Pavita and River exclaim in unison. Lev catches the glass, but the lemonade has already emptied itself onto his pants, and all over the floor. Mouth hanging open, he looks up at Graham.
Before anyone can speak, Graham is already stalking off in the direction of the bedroom. Slamming the door.
Lev’s mouth is dry. Rage sparks in him, at the looks in their eyes, but can’t go anywhere. He wants to scream. “I’m, uh. Maybe we should put off games night for the time being.”
River sucks her teeth. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”
“We can do something more chill next time,” Darren offers. He’s younger than the rest of them, one of Graham’s ex-students, and the one who’d brought the game. “Are you… is it better if we leave?”
“Uh. Yeah, I think that would be best.”
“Are you going to be alright?”
The guy is sweet, and it makes this even harder. Black hair, bright blue eyes, early thirties at most.
“Yeah,” Lev says. “I’m really sorry, again, this...”
“Is not your fault. Or anyone’s.”
Their guests leave right as the song finishes, the woman’s voice echoing out in solo. Lev still holds the empty glass in his right hand.
-
Graham is standing in the doorway, face blank.
“I... forgot what I came over to ask you.”
When Graham puts a hand over his eyes, embarrassed, Lev feels his own heart rend. It’s pain enough to elicit guilty action—he stands, takes his partner’s hand, makes a show out of being calm. Content. Smooth like a move in a dance, though he'd almost forgotten that the next step was supposed to be towards his partner, not away.
“Time for a cuppa, I think,” Lev says. “You in?”
Grahams eyes narrow as he tries to put himself together. It hurts to watch, but he cant imagine how terrifying it is to feel. After a few moments, Graham exhales through the nose.
“I, um. I think I've been getting, uh, worse, lately? And...” He trails, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice.
“I know,” Graham says, kissing the inside of Lev's palm. He shakes his head, like starting over. A shaky breath. “Um... do you want a cuppa?”
Lev can’t stop his face from doing whatever it’s going to. “It’s okay,” he lies, through his fear, through his grief. “We... we can book in for the neurologist again, yeah?”
Graham blinks, looks at the carpet, up at the ceiling. “Yeah... yeah. I just... yeah. Sorry.”
Lev takes Graham’s face between his hands, and presses their lips together. Sugar, cinnamon. “I love you so much, okay? So much. And nothing is ever going to change that.”
“Yeah. I’ll help make it for us.”
With lemon and honey, just how Graham promised it a half-hour ago. Why not.
-
“Do you still love me?”
The way that Graham asks it is so sincere each time. Like he’s worried the answer has changed.
And it’ll happen, eventually—the day will come when recognition turns over and turns over in his partner’s eyes but fails to start. Lev has read every book that had been recommended to him. It’s only a matter of time.
At least the question implies you loved me, once. If Lev could beg to let his partner keep one thing, it’d be the memory that he was loved.
“Ahuh.” Lev scrunches his nose in his direction, like of course I love you, dingus. “Do you love me?”
But his character description is: mid twenties in most of the story, small in stature, freckles. Brown skin, dark brown hair and eyes. Clean shaven, when he doesn't grow it out intentionally, and hair that comes about halfway down the neck. Scars all over. Often seen in a denim jacket with many patches and metal pins, like armour, as well as joggers and boots. Friendly smile (when he's comfortable).
Reupload because I still like this lil one. Features @card-games-and-pain's Lee.
cw: forced kiss, implied noncon
The chain attaching them both is short, much too short. His cheeks burn with each pull of it on his neck as he tries to maintain distance—an absurd thought of this is far too close to be appropriate all but slaps him in the face, ridiculous because they’re both half-clothed and captives to boot—but he still sits upright in order to give Lee whatever courtesy he can offer.
But Lev is close to falling asleep, and Lee’s company does offer some comfort, even though the chain is close to strangling them both. God, it’d probably be a mercy.
No sooner do his eyelids start to droop than a hand grabs the chain and twists, both letting out a startled yell as their heads are bonked together. Lev pulls back, struggling to regain equilibrium and precious balance, realising too late that the movement is to Lee’s detriment, hearing him choke once, twice. “Shit,” Lev mumbles, as his eye socket starts to throb, as he watches the first spots of blood roll over Lee’s split lip.
Leon’s hand is still in the chain. “What did I say? Rest is a reward, one you have not yet earned.” He twists again, albeit slower this time. “Come on. Don’t make me do it for you.”
Always quicker on the uptake, more able to interpret the senator’s changing whims, Lee presses his lips to Lev’s. Lev can taste the blood, a salted overlay on the unspoken apologies they so often had to give to one another.
I’m sorry. I don’t want to. It’s the only way.
Lev kisses him back, like he always does, like somehow if he makes it real enough he can transport them both to a better place, a different time.
I want it to be you.
This is how it is, now—they bruise easy, they bleed easy. They fall and fold like paper dolls. Lee’s will is all but gone, and Lev is clinging to a future he knows will never come.
The hand untangles itself, and both Lee and Lev hesitate.
“Well, keep going.” Martin from across the room. “You know what we like.”
Lee lets out a broken exhale, and kisses Lev like it’s all he has left.
Oh Lev, what is going on. Graham what are we going to do
Previous
content warnings: alcohol use, whumpee in crisis
Graham checks the bedroom. The bathroom. The bedroom again, just in case. His phone is out, and already dialling.
It was just a short shift, only three hours, only three because they had absolutely no one to cover—but when he came back to the apartment, Lev is missing.
Three hours. Three hours. Time enough for anything.
His circle is a three-hour radius. He checks the bathroom cupboard, just in case.
The little smudge of blood on the floor steals the breath from him.
While the phone rings in his ear, he searches, searches, searches—no blood, no marks or stains on the carpet. Front door was locked. Nothing on the balcony. Lev's keys are missing, and so is his phone. Could mean anything.
Graham grabs his gun and holster from the safe at the bottom of the closet. Loads it, but as he does his phone finally connects. He quickly picks it up, and can’t hide the stress in his voice as he speaks.
"Where are you?"
The other end of the line is muffled by wind, but he thinks he hears “—park.”
"The one down the road? I'm coming to you. Are you safe? Stay on the phone."
He hears Lev rearrange. Graham strains, listening for any hints of location. Or other voices.
Or whispers. Threats.
He briefly moves his ear from the screen, enough to tap the GPS app. It cycles, and then shows an error message. His heart is in his throat, his ears are ringing. “Could you turn your app on please.”
“M’fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m fine,” more firmly. “N’fuckin’ sit around and wait for it t’happen."
“Have you been drinking?”
The silence on the line confirms his hunch.
"You can't do this to me, love,” Graham breathes. “You know that."
He hears a whine and a shuddering exhale through the line. “N’matter. Doesn’t matter.”
Graham can't help the anger that overtakes him. "Come home right now. Don't fucking do this to me, Lev."
