Hang Up Your Coat (Barlyle)

06

Flynn's breath was hot and heavy against his ear. Nails dragged down the aristo's back, but Phillip groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears wettened his lashes, but the man on top of him was too absorbed in his own satisfaction to care.

There was no rhythm, no tenderness, to Flynn's movements. It was just pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

It hurt. It hurt bad. Phillip scrunched his eyes shut and the tiniest of whimpers escaped slightly-parted lips. He turned his head to the side, but Flynn took it as an invitation. He bit down on Phillip's earlobe, and the playwright gasped. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but it was ignored. The soft cartilage of his earlobe throbbed.

He ground his teeth together as his hands moved upward, and silently wished that the long blond hair he tangled his fingers into was a sea of brown waves instead.

*

Fuck Number Three.

Phillip Carlyle, the black sheep of the illustrious family he came from--usually, Flynn would have stayed away from a man such as him, but Phillip was pretty.

Pretty like a girl, pretty like Emilia Carlyle had been. He missed Emilia--she was married now, of course; girls of her age should be--who had been the prettiest lady in town. Beautiful, thick brown hair, sweet almond-shaped blue eyes, and a button nose to rival the Queen's. She had been lovely, and of all the highborn ladies he had lain with, she had been the only one he truly missed.

Perhaps that was why he took such a liking to her younger brother. He embodied her in every sense--her face, hair, mannerisms, even her taste for drink. Flynn had come to him on an impulse; noticing the long stares coming from Phillip's sad corner, he'd decided to try him.

The third man.

Flynn had thought maybe it would be different. Maybe, with his sweet face and small frame, he'd have a voice to match. Maybe it would be easier to pretend.

He was wrong.

Phillip's lithe body and gentle features had not afforded him any pleasure at all; it was a struggle even to perform. He was reminded of how the men always felt; how strange and unnatural it seemed--why in all hell had he thought it would be different?

And so he thought, ignoring the soft cries of the man underneath him. One off the bucket list, at least.

*

Phillip woke to an unfamiliar bed and pain.

He opened his mouth, intending to scream, but remembered the events of last night and relaxed.

Well, "relaxed" was probably not the most appropriate word.

He was tense; incredibly so--the pain coming from between his legs did not seem as if it would abate anytime soon, and when he tentatively lifted the blankets covering him, he saw the faintest trace of dried blood.

He remembered Anne, and cried.

He muffled himself, shoving his face into the pillows, but it wasn't enough. The tall man beside him stuck his head up, saw Phillip, and grimaced. He reached over, pushing Phillip's shoulder. Phillip did not move, and Flynn gave him another shove before rolling his eyes and swinging gracefully off the bed.

He exited the room without sparing Phillip a glance. Phillip lay on the bed, thinking of Anne and P.T. and hating himself.

Hours passed in this fashion until Flynn came back--upon seeing Phillip, he audibly scoffed, marched over and threw the blankets off of him. Phillip whined.

"Come on now; you don't think you can dally here all day, do you? I have places to be. I can't watch you forever."

Phillip slowly maneuvered into a sitting position. He hated this house--hated it--but he knew that he couldn't go back to his flat. He wouldn't. He'd die first. "Flynn--"