Ronnie pushes into him with a filthy grind, groaning against Mitch’s ear. “Just like old times, isn’t it?” he asks in that slow drawl that Mitch hates and loves in equal measure. Any response he might have given is kept trapped in his throat by Ronnie’s hand over his mouth. Shame curls in his belly mixing noxiously with his desire; tears track down Mitch’s cheeks and over rough fingers. “Keep quiet, now, wouldn’t want anyone to hear us.”
That is the one thing they can agree on; Mitch would rather die than get caught—again.
But Ronnie doesn’t really want him to be quiet. He likes to hear Mitch, laughs at his strangled shout when a vicious thrust almost topples him. Mitch is left in a precarious balance; pitched forward on his knees, held up only by Ronnie’s arm across his chest, tan from days in the sun and corded with muscle. Ronnie wraps his other hand around his cock and Mitch hates that he knows just how to touch him to make him cry out from the pleasure, digging his nails into Ronnie’s forearm because he has nowhere to sink his teeth.
They aren’t quiet enough. Stiles must’ve gotten out of bed and decided to follow the creaking springs and harsh breaths and muffled groans. Silence in this old farm house isn’t good, but sound isn’t much better.
Mitch sees him first; a pair of warm brown eyes looking through the partially open door, wide with shock but unable to look away. It’s like someone poured ice water down his back, having a witness to his shame. It gives Mitch the clarity he he needs to finally pull Ronnie’s hand away from his mouth, panting freely and searching for an explanation, an excuse, anything to make this look like something other than what it is.
“Stiles—” he starts, but what can he say?
“Hm?” Ronnie looks up and laughs. Mitch shivers at the hot breath ghosting over his neck, covers his own mouth to muffle his mouth when Ronnie twists his wrist deliciously. “Look at that. You didn’t tell me you’re cousin’s a little voyeur. Come on in, darlin’, get a better look at Mitch here. Don’t he just sound so pretty?”
Stiles bolts—Mitch is grateful. He doesn’t want anyone to see.
“You didn’t tell me he’s such a sweet little thing,” Ronnie says. “I’m disappointed in you Mitch.”
Mitch rears his elbow back and it connects with Ronnie’s cheek with a satisfying crack! When Ronnie jerks away Mitch gets out of bed on unsteady legs, the sweat cooling on his skin as he hastily pulls on his—he hopes they’re his—jeans.
“Stay the fuck away from Stiles,” he bites out, chest heaving.
“You little bitch!” Rage burns in Ronnie’s eyes and Mitch is waiting for a fight with a sick kind of anticipation. He’s drawn the line in the sand—Mitch is standing to one side of the room while Ronnie occupies the bed, both of them still hard and aching and one way to relieve the tension is just as good as another. The door separates them, splitting the room down the middle with a stream of light from the hall. And for several long seconds of eternity, all that’s between them is labored breathing and burning blood and sticky skin.
Ronnie leaves the bed with a bright red bloom on his left cheek and Mitch hopes it hurts. Hopes he’ll get to see it bruise; it’s the least Ronnie deserves.
He gets dressed but doesn’t leave, walks over to shove Mitch back into the wall and fist a hand in his hair and force him into a kiss that makes his lips bleed when their teeth clash.
“You’ll come crawling back,” Ronnie bites into his mouth, a promise and a threat and an invitation that tastes like copper.
“Get the fuck out,” Mitch snarls back, shoving Ronnie away from him because if he didn’t he’d only pull him closer. He wants to pull him closer, let Ronnie bite more vicious promises into his skin, fresh bruises that won’t last as long as the shame. Around his wrist the old polished wood of his rosary beads burn.
Ronnie gives him a mean grin and condescendingly slaps his cheek. “Be seeing you, Jezebel,” he says, just to see the way Mitch flinches at the old nickname, knowing the memories it brings.
Ronnie leaves after that, grabbing his shirt and shoes on his way out the door. Mitch follows to make sure he does leave, and breathes a sigh of relief when he passes Stiles’ door to find it shut tight.
Once the headlights on Ronnie’s truck disappear down the long drive Mitch finally goes to shower, burning water cleaning the sticky fluids staining his skin. Too bad it can’t purify his soul.
The next morning had Stiles walking on eggshells, maintaining carefully neutral small talk while Mitch made breakfast. He didn’t want to upset the man by bringing up what he saw last night, and if Mitch wasn’t going to say anything, then Stiles wouldn’t, either. He knew what to expect from a conservative town like this, and that wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over breakfast.
Stiles’ breath hitched when he saw Mitch flinch, and the careful bubble around the morning popped, fragile as anything.
“Who was that last night?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself. He thought he knew—remembered Mitch chasing him off the porch with a shotgun earlier in the day, and they certainly hadn’t seemed to friendly then. Stiles can’t figure out why Mitch would welcome the same man into his bed after then. Then again… what Stiles saw didn’t look all that welcoming.
“Who was who?” Mitch asked with careful innocence. The steam from his coffee rose in delicate wisps around his face, distorting his expression into a scowl. Beside him sausages sizzled in the pan; Stiles was sure they were the perfect picture of normally, with him sitting at the table and Mitch leaning back against the counter. It felt like the short distance between them stretched out into a chasm.
“That guy. I saw you—I mean, I wanted to ask—it’s just that you look like—are you okay?” Flustered nerves made Stiles ramble until he settled on that one simple, horrible question. Mitch bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been intended as a smile, and responded just as simply.
“I’m fine.” He put his back to Stiles and turned his attention to finishing up breakfast, taking the skillet off the burner so he could slide the sausages onto their plates, joining the already cooling eggs. “And there was no one here last night, either.”
“What?” Stiles asked incredulously. “Yes there was, I saw him. It was the same guy from yesterday afternoon.”
“It was just you and me, Stiles,” Mitch answered. His face was carefully molded into a mask of concern when he turned back around, setting a plate in front of Stiles. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…” Stiles frowned, running through the night’s events in his mind. He was so certain of what he saw; Mitch, hazy-eyes and tearstained, on his knees, restrained by that stranger from before. He remembered that man beckoning him into the room, and bolting away instead, shame pooling in his belly at being caught. Why had he stopped to watch? As soon as he realized what was happening, he should have left, but something held him rooted to the spot.
Stiles was so certain that what he saw was real, but then… it wouldn’t be the first time he saw something that wasn’t there. This house had a way of making him see things, distorting reality around him, changing it into something he shouldn’t recognize anymore.
“I think I’m just tired,” Stiles said, with a wretched laugh. Mitch gave him a sympathetic smile that didn’t reach his black eyes, and Stiles longed for home.