Synopsis: It's time to trust someone.
Warnings: Allusions to non-con events.
Disclaimer: I own nothing--all fantasy on my end.
Author's Notes: Written for i_o_r_h_a_e_l's birthday.
It's technically Casey's 'first time'-- he'd like to think of it like that, anyway. One just didn't count times that were unpleasant or wrong, at least not by Casey's standards. No clothes have come off yet, but all Casey needs to flinch and wince is Zeke's hand reaching his belly and stroking softly. That's all it had taken back then.
Casey tries to focus on what Zeke's doing; the soft, seductive kisses going from lips to chin, chin to neck, neck to ear... hot breath swarming around and echoing into it's shell. It's so damned good, but Casey can't seem to fight off memories at the moment.
It's wrong to think 'his hands feel the same', and he keeps trying and trying to separate events. Zeke didn't roll up next to Casey at a bus stop and ask, "Hey kid-- need a ride?" No, Casey had planned to come by since last night. He came here.
Zeke didn't take advantage of some confused-at-bus-schedules kid, panicking because he was going to be late for his curfew. Nowadays, Casey kept a 'Herrington Public Transit' schedule in his backpack, ever since that one fucking night. He rarely used it though, as he rarely used the bus. He'd been stupid to think he was smart enough to go to the mall by himself. His parents had been right; "We don't think you're ready to go out on your own like that... I HATE buses." Buses hadn't been the problem that night. It was a regular blue sedan that had opened Casey's eyes to his own foolishness.
Sometimes Casey can't discern what was worse; taking the sudden turn into a dead end street, or having that 'excursion' make him an hour and a half late home. They were pretty much one in the same, he'd figured after a while. It was all he could tell the man... "I need to get home!"... stupidly thinking of being grounded, instead of a hand pushing him down on the seat, the other getting Casey's jeans open.
Zeke's tongue emerges, licking down to Casey's shoulder; it takes all the boy has to not push him away. The wet Zeke leaves doesn't instantly freeze against his skin, because they're not in a car in the cold. The couch cushion underneath the small of Casey's back isn't chilled leather, but it smells like cigarettes-- Zeke's cigarettes, Casey tries to think. Not Camels, but a fine mix of clove and tobacco. It's not helping... and it's unfair, because he knows Zeke's name, he's safe in Zeke's home. Zeke even fed him earlier in a quick stop to McDonald's, paying for Casey's favorite chicken sandwich. He didn't do it for any underhanded reasons, because against all stereotypes involving the young man, he's the most honest person Casey's ever met.
Zeke's hand is gentle as it dips past the waist of Casey's undone pants, but Casey almost bucks away again. That man had wanted to hurt. He didn't care if Casey got off or not; he enjoyed Casey's cries and tears and forced-anger. He'd laughed at Casey's ridiculous threats involving parents and cops, things Casey knew he wouldn't carry out even as he'd said them. He would have been happy with an, "Oh, I'm so sorry!" and the ride home carried out. But that man had just made awful sounding chuckles and taken what he wanted. What he'd wanted took a good two hours, and he'd kicked Casey out of the car right afterwards, even before the boy could get his clothes back on. An entire night of "Where the hell WERE you?"'s, crying and trying to hide obvious bruises and marks on his neck and chest passed, going into two weeks of no TV and internet... Casey hadn't cared.
He doesn't know why Zeke's stopped everything; he stares off into space a moment before Zeke sits up and frowns. He takes Casey's chin in his hands and makes him look to him. "What's... wrong?" Zeke asks.
Casey chokes, realizing that his face is covered in tears, that his hands shake as they clench onto Zeke's shoulders. It's about damned time he told someone, and it may as well be someone he loves.