No Regrets Ch. 08

Deacon twisted the phone around in his hands, his conversation with Sam several days before bouncing around in his head, unwelcome but startingly clear.

"I'm using her. I don't love her anymore."

"You know what? You're not a bad person," Sam spat out, his eyes full of contempt. "You're just a coward."

He felt like he owed Mark an explanation. And he knew that he owed Sarah a big one. But, once again, not having the slightest idea how or where to start, he stuffed the phone back in his pocket, started the car and drove away.

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Mark had stood staring at his front door for a long time after Deacon walked through it. He made his way back to the lounge, where he picked up his beer from the side table and downed the whole thing. Then he went into the garage and tried his hardest to beat the stuffing out of the punching bag hanging in the corner. By the time he stopped, he was sodden with sweat and his knuckles were raw and swollen. He went back inside, put Crash Bandicoot on the console and silently played until he fell asleep.

He dreamt of Deacon. It was still always him.

Deacon was stretched out on Mark's bed, face down, his arms flung carelessly above his head. The curtains were half open, morning sunlight streaming through and landing on Deacon's naked form. His skin golden and glowing, a stark tan line at his hips. Mark reached out and drew his hand lightly down the ridges of Deacon's spine. A long, low rumble floated up from Deacon, turning to a chuckle as Mark's hand glided across one smooth ass cheek. Mark pulled his hand away as if burnt as Deacon rolled over onto his back and sat up slowly. But he couldn't help himself from raking his eyes over Deacon's body, lingering on his neck, his nipples, his swelling cock. Mark clenched his hands tightly in to fists and turned to leave. Deacon pushed off the bed and gripped Mark's shoulder, pulling him back around so they were facing each other. Deacon grinned at him with a furrowed brow.

"Where're you goin'?" he asked, his voice still heavy and lazy with sleep.

"I...I'm not allowed anymore," Mark heard himself answer. Deacon huffed as his hand travelled lightly from Mark's shoulder to his neck. Mark closed his eyes and shivered with pleasure as Deacon's long fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of Mark's neck. He felt Deacon's breath on his cheek.

"Who says you're not allowed?" Deacon whsipered into his ear. "Hmm?"

"...You," Mark replied, his voice rasping against his constricted throat. "You said." Deacon made a tutting sound and placed his other hand on Mark's chest, idly placing with his nipple.

"I thought 'we' said?" he breathed. "Didn't we both agree?"

"Yeah," Mark sighed and rested his forehead against Deacon's. "But I changed my mind." Mark felt the hand on his neck travel down his back and tighten.

"Mm," Deacon murmured, pulling their bodies close together. Eyes still closed, Mark felt Deacon's soft, wet lips place a light kiss on his jaw. "Me too."

Mark knew it was a dream. He knew it by the way that their bodies felt closer than they could be, the way they were standing and then entwined on the bed in a moment. But the way Deacon's skin felt under his mouth, the way his cock hung heavy against Mark's thigh...Mark knew how those things felt, how they tasted. He knew the sounds Deacon would make and the touches that made him squirm.

As Mark drifted out of the dream, the warmth and happiness from it slowly ebbing, fading, he also knew he would never know any of that again. He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream and punch and rage, throw things, break things, explode. But he didn't. Instead, Mark curled onto his side, drew the blanket over his head and cried. For the loss of what he'd known, what he'd had. And - despite everything he'd told himself in the last couple of months - something he still wanted so badly that it hurt.

To be continued...(I promise)