A short angsty piece inspired by @saurynn's insanely hot and brutally heartbreaking art.
Levi tries. Fuck knows he tries. But sometimes he can’t. Fucking. Help it.
He tries so hard not to; not to feel, not to want, not to remember. Because what right has he? What fucking right has he to want? To live, to breathe, to feel. To ache. He’s alive, is that not enough? He has no right to want, now that he is gone. But sometimes, he still can’t help it. Despite how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, Levi is still only human. Still a creature of flesh and blood, who hurts and feels and wants. And it’s wrong. It’s so wrong to feel the heat rising in his blood, the low throb in his belly, the intolerable pressure building. It’s a betrayal that Levi can never forgive himself for.
Sometimes, when the ache is more than he can thole, he closes his eyes, grits his teeth and jerks himself off as hard and as fast as he can. It gives no relief. Afterwards he just feels sad and soiled and angry. It does nothing to ease his pain, because what he wants, what he really wants, is to remember. Strong hands gripping his hips, holding him in place, tight heat filling him, warm lips claiming him. And that voice. That voice. It drives him to distraction and he hates himself for it.
Once when the need was driving him out of his skin, Levi made his way down to the bars and the brothels, determined to find a quick trick to give him a moment of blessed respite. He drank until he is numb, then set out to pick someone up. It wasn’t hard to find someone willing; someone tall, and broad, blue eyed and sandy haired. But as he pressed Levi up against the wall in the filthy alley and whispered in his ear. “Is this how you like it? Bit of rough trade?” Levi’s blood ran cold. He pushed the man away, spinning on his heel, throwing all his weight into the punch that landed square on the man’s jaw. He hit him again and again, and it felt good. It felt good until it didn’t and he realized the man was cowering and screaming, bleeding and terrified.
“Stop! Stop! What the fuck? You’re a lunatic, a fucking lunatic.”
Levi stumbled out of the alley, the man’s voice ringing in his ears, and threw his guts up on the cobblestones.
That night Levi added shame to his anger.
But sometimes, when the anger burns out, leaving him with nothing but searing inescapable loneliness, that’s when he crumbles. That’s when Levi allows himself to remember.
He wants to be rough, he wants it to hurt. But that would do nothing to touch the bone deep ache, because that’s not how it was. That’s never how it was. So instead he’s slow, careful, takes his time spreading himself open with slicked up fingers. He fucks himself slowly, building up that familiar rhythm, and then once he can feel it, feel him, he pulls his hand away, grips the bedframe hard, and with his face buried in his pillow, he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes. And all the while the heat and pressure are building. Strong hands on his waist, holding him securely, solid muscle pressing against the back of his thighs, and that voice, his voice, low and warm, entreating him, adoring him.
“Levi. God, Levi Levi Levi…”
When he comes with a silent scream, face pressed hard into his wet pillow, it tears something loose inside of him, breaks him apart, releases all the anger, all the sorrow all the regret, leaving him spent and sobbing. Afterwards, he doesn’t bother to get out of bed, just falls into a dead sleep, for the first time in a long time.
He wakes slowly in the quiet gray before dawn. It’s calm, peaceful, and if he lies completely still, he can almost hear the soft breaths of the man lying sleeping beside him, feel the heat of his body surrounding him, the soft echo of his touch on his skin. He’s there. Always there. He never really left him. Levi just has to remember.
Levi sighs, stretches and rolls over.
“Morning old man. Another day.”
