Things Fade

Cid/Vincent. R. 300 words.
He supposes that’s what makes him so hungry for it.

Cid’s gloves are smeared with grease. The cigarette caught on his lip bounces as he mutters curses, dropping ashes in a flurry onto his stained coveralls. There’s a creak, a long protesting groan, and the seized gears finally give.

Perched on the catwalk, Vincent watches the young crewmembers whoop and clap their captain on the back. Cid’s grin is wide, satisfied and proud. He drops his gloves to the plating and plucks a fresh cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with a smooth, practiced flick.

The entire time, Vincent watches the play of his fingers, the shifting tendon beneath sun-browned skin. Cid’s nails are blunt, kept trimmed with a pocketknife. His fingers are thick, rough. Clean, but with years of grime ground so deeply it’s become a part of his skin.

The memory of those hands fisted in his hair, gripping his hips with the intent to bruise, rises up strong. The marks have already faded, the ache as well, neither lasting on this new body. He supposes that’s what makes him so hungry for it, craving the sweet ache of morning-after and seeking Cid out night after night to find it.

After the first time, when long weeks had stretched between, Cid had grown impatient. It had started that way, with Vincent fascinated by Cid’s blunt crudity, vainly searching for a reason to refuse the tight, gripping pleasure of someone else’s hand on his cock.

He had no good reason, Cid had pointed out, just a lot of half-assed excuses and a raging need to get off. He’d woke the following morning with Cid’s fingers still tangled in his hair and the uncomfortable itch of come dried thick between his legs.

Still, he’d lain there for the half hour or more it took for Cid to stop snoring.


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