Like Demons

He didn't say it. Didn't say any of the words blaring in his head, screaming at him to say them, say something for god's sake, just open his mouth and breathe out and whisper if he had to but say it before... before... before....

But oh god he couldn't, couldn't force himself to even open his mouth. The pressure on his throat was too strong to force the words past, even if he'd been brave enough to try. He clenched his jaw all the harder for knowing he needed to speak, because not speaking was accepting and silence meant assent and how could he possibly let anyone believe he assented to this?

He wished he had even the courage to close his eyes, but he kept them open and trained on the bookcase across the desk, tried to pretend he was reading the spines -- checking his eyeglasses' prescription because he ought to be able to see them from this distance. He couldn't focus, but he knew that was because his eyes were watering.

Possibly crying. But with his jaw clenched tightly around any possible noises, no one could prove a thing. It wasn't like the man behind him was going to reach around and touch--

"God! Wesley!"

He gasped, and wrenched himself free, one quick motion because voices and names just made it more real, and nothing was supposed to be real and true about this thing and this place and how dare--


He felt a hand on his arm, a tight grip closing and holding him -- gently, and firmly, and he knew he couldn't get free of it. Now he dropped his head, feeling the wail of fear -- of betrayal -- building and he knew he would shame himself by letting it out.

"Shh," he was told, and something was in his head, and beside him, and there was a presence in this dark place where only he and his possessor were supposed to be. He wanted to turn towards it, but there should be no one else here, so he didn't. It might have an demon been conjured up to further torment him -- an observer to see him, see him bent forward and taken for his master's pleasure and used, discarded.

The hand on his arm pulled, and he found himself moving with it, and then he was warm, and he was shaking, and there was no guarantee that what seemed real was real, and what felt wrong was truly wrong. Something warm was touching him, but there was supposed to be only cold and silence and an empty room but for the demon who thought it owned him.

"Wesley," the darkness whispered, and it sounded like spring; sun and warmth and the smell of cut grass and cricket uniforms smeared with sweat and dirt. He'd never played cricket, but that sound reminded him of the boys who had, out on the lawn while he'd been a student studying -- for classes, as well as studying the forms running about before him.

His demon didn't have that cultured accent. It was harsh and faintly sounding of the gaelic, and it was distant and uncaring the way this word was not. He took a risk, and he reached for the hand on his arm, and made contact with hot, human skin.

Wesley opened his eyes and he was in a room, faintly lit by a small lamp on the nighttable left there for this purpose. That he not wake in darkness and not know his surroundings, not know with whom he shared his bed as though the scent wouldn't tell him, as though the heat of the body wouldn't let his subconscious mind know it was human. But he'd slept beside human before, so now they slept with a small light on and whenever Wesley opened his eyes during the night he could see.

He turned his head and gasped in relief, though he'd already woken enough to know who was there. "Rupert," he began, and he'd meant it to just to let his lover know he was awake. But instead it came out wrapped in all the pain and fear that had visited him in his dreams -- again.

Well used to these dreams, from inside and out, Rupert pulled Wesley close and held him tightly. Wesley fitted himself into those places he'd found after hundreds of embraces such as this one. Face and chest and genitals pressed tightly against his lover where no one else could reach him, and Rupert held his arms around Wesley's back and said quiet, reassuring things that meant nothing in their content but everything in their intent.

Wesley shuddered once more, and closed his eyes and this time there was no demon there, just Rupert, stroking his hair and filling his head with the memory that years had passed since his dreams were real.