Skanky Hos and Big Trouble
Angyl and Rina
Hoisting the strap to his laptop case higher on his shoulder before grabbing hold of the handle of his luggage, Marc Rider threaded his way through the people still waiting for their bags and out into the slight chill of the Banff night. Glancing at his watch and reminding himself he needed to change it so he didnít have to keep subtracting for the time difference, he hailed a cab.
Sliding into the back seat, wincing as a worse for the wear spring jabbed him in the ass, Marc gave the driver the hotelís address and relaxed back against the seat, grinning in anticipation at the thought of surprising Zane for the weekend.
Theyíd been together two months now - months that had only made him want to be with the singer more and, if he dared to think the words, love him. Gorgeous, sexy, brilliant, mercurial, Zane was all that and more, and Marc found it no hardship at all to keep up with his lover. Heíd become friends with the other members of All Soulsí Night as well and found Cory, Gigi and Ianís company to be just as entertaining as Zaneís - well, almost.
The band had been on the road for ten days, doing a quick mini-tour to get them in shape for the massive one they planned to start in October, beginning with an already sold out show at the Air Canada Center on, of course, October 30. Of course, ten days on the road meant ten days of not waking up next to Zane and ten nights of not crashing next to him, and, as far as Marc was concerned, ten days was all he could take of that situation.
Classes and an editing deadline had kept him from joining his lover earlier, but heíd managed to clear the weekend and was now headed for what was sure to be a hot and heavy reunion. If both he and Zane were walking funny come tomorrow, that was just fine by Marc.
The cab pulled up to the hotel, and, after paying the driver, Marc climbed out, dragging his gear along behind him. Wanting to surprise Zane, he hadnít told the older man he was coming out but had arranged things with Ian Reynolds, the bandís drummer, so that he could get up to Zaneís room.
Shifting a little as his pants grew tighter at the thought of what - or who - heíd be doing very shortly, Marc collected the key card Ian had left for him from the front desk and headed for the elevator. The band had commandeered the top floor of the hotel, spreading themselves, their gear, and their crew out in the four suites there. From experience, Marc knew that Cory and Gigi, the two guitarists, would be sharing a suite, and that Ian may or may not be there with them. In the past Zane could probably have been found in there too, but even though the idea of watching his lover and his bandmates together was really appealing, and being included in it even more so, Marc was still feeling selfish about his new lover and wanted him all to himself for now.
Shrugging his shoulder to keep the laptop case from sliding forward, he ran the keycard through the slot, waiting for the light to turn green before quietly opening the door. It was two in the morning out here, and by all rights Marc should have been dead on his feet, but the nap heíd taken on the plane as well as the thought of who was waiting for him in the bedroom had him revved up and ready to go.
He set his bags down inside the door, pulling it closed behind him, and padded through the suiteís outer room, kicking off his shoes and shedding his light jacket as he went. By the time he reached the bedroom door, he had unbuttoned his shirt and was working on his belt when a low voiced moan from the other side of the door caught his attention.
Knowing the sound from having heard it over and over again in the past two months, Marc grinned to himself. So, Zane was jerking off, eh? Well, heíd have to do something to help with that. Pushing open the door, the writer ambled into the room, ready to call out a greeting and revel in Zaneís surprise, when it was he who got the surprise.
Zane was getting off, all right. Only problem was, there was already someone helping him. A leggy, big busted, dark-haired someone who was riding the singer like there was no tomorrow.
Zane was floating on a combination of E and a bottle of tequila heíd downed since the start of the first set. It had been a long and lonely two weeks, and the constant needling of the other band members about the new and Ďcelibateí Zane had finally worn too thin. Ian, Cory and Gigi were all sharing a suite down the hall, but Zane had been good; heíd wanted to prove he could do this, be committed.
For two weeks his friends had needled him good naturedly, teasing him about his Ďboyfriendí, about when the wedding would be, about when heíd share his new toy, about being led around by a cock-harness that stretched all the way back to Toronto. For a man who could have had a new man or woman or both in his bed every night, heíd done damn well.
And then Melissa flew in from Ottawa, wanting to stir shit again. Melissa, who could make Gigiís kinks seem like schoolgirl antics and whoíd been known to break down the firmest of resistance to her charms. In the early days of All Soulsí Night sheíd been his obsession, his madness, his dark goddess whoíd made him as out of control as sheíd been. Theyíd tried everything together, and heíd even let her cut him and lick him clean - all because sheíd wanted it.
If drugs and alcohol had been Ianís fatal flaw, his one weakness, Melissa had been Zaneís, even though the band hadnít known it or her. Heíd managed to protect them all from her poison at least. In the end heíd found the strength to walk away, and he high-tailed it to the Far East to find some sort of spiritual strength or re-grow his backbone. Buddhism had given him focus, Tantrism had given him pleasure, and a year away from her black widow venom had given him his balls back.
So it figured that tonight of all nights, when he was at his lowest, when he was depressed and angry and scared shitless that this guy might be the one, the man who could make him spend long lonely nights beating off instead of playing with his bandmates, the one who made him call at all hours of the day and night just to talk, it was a sort of poetic justice that the blood sucker would show up tonight and worm her way back into his bed.
Zane couldnít deny the pleasure coursing through his body, but in his mindís eye it was Marc, his lover, riding him. "God, yes, please, oh god, yes... MARC!!!"
"Mother fucker!" Marc snarled, half-hearing Zaneís bellow of pleasure over the pounding of blood in his ears as his anger grew. "What the fuck is going on here?!"
The brunette half-turned though she kept moving on Zaneís cock. "Thatís exactly whatís going on here, canít you tell?"
What little control Marc had maintained snapped at that, and, ignoring Zaneís dazed look and outstretched hand, he grabbed the woman by the arm, bodily pulling her off the singer. "You, get your skanky ho ass out of here," he growled, shoving her toward her clothes and placing himself between her and the bed.
"And you..." At this, Marc half-turned, glaring at Zane, anger and hurt both visible in his expression. "Get over here and blow me, but donít you fucking touch me. I came all the way out here to get off; I might as well do it before I leave."
"Marc," Zane pleaded, suddenly very sober and no longer flying high on anything. "It wasnít, I didnít... god, please donít leave me. I love you, god help me, I love you," the older man begged quietly, stark terror closing his throat and making him croak.
"You what??" Melissa screeched from where she stood, arms akimbo, unable to believe what was happening. Her plans of getting her Ďfamousí rockstar boyfriend back were crumbling all around her, and this... this ... man was in her face and in her place, and Zane was declaring undying love to him?
"What was I, Alexander? A fuck for old timeís sake? And whoís this... this... person?"
"This person is the one kicking your cellulite-ridden ass out of here, bitch," Marc bellowed. He spared a glance back at Zane, feeling his heart quiver at the shattered expression in the other manís gray eyes, but made himself ignore it for now.
Bending, he snatched up the womanís clothes, noting with a writerís eye for detail that they were all high quality designer goods. "As for what you are, the answer to that is gone." Grabbing her by the arm once again, Marc propelled the cursing woman toward the suiteís door, feeling lines of fire drawn up his arms and over his chest as she clawed at him with her sharp nails.
Yanking the door open, Marc shoved the unwanted guest out into the hall, practically into Zaneís bandmembersí faces. "Do something with her, okay?" he growled, not bothering to answer their questions. "Iíve got to deal with Alexander." Slamming the door again, he stalked back toward the bedroom to stand, arms crossed over his chest, staring at his lover.
"So. I think I told you to do something, Alexander."
Heíd lost Marc; Zane just knew it. Heíd been too weak and too damn proud to admit that the writer had come to mean more to him than anything else in the world, and now because of his arrogance and pride heíd lost him. But at least he could give Marc this before he left, let the younger man bleed off his anger by using Zane like the whore he felt like at that moment in time.
Climbing out of bed, Zaneís knees buckled almost immediately, and he crawled across the floor to do as his lover had bidden him, his cock limp and lifeless. Closing his eyes and willing his mind into a numb blankness, Zaneís hands trembled as he quickly undid Marcís pants, sliding them over his hips, taking the younger manís boxer briefs with them. God, he could smell Marc; heíd remember that scent forever - love and lust and heat and something that was just Marc all combining to make this a truly bitter-sweet moment in time for him.
His mouth opened, and the dripping glans slipped between his lips, giving him only seconds to savor the younger manís taste before Marcís fingers wrapped around his head, holding him still as the writer began to fuck Zaneís face with desperate anger tinged with something that Zane couldnít recognize. The older man relaxed his throat and submitted willingly, accepting this as his due for what heíd done.
Breath hitching in his chest as uncontrolled lust and nearly overwhelming anguish tore at him, Marc surrendered to the feel of Zaneís mouth around his cock. Ignoring all else, he slammed in and out of the wet heat, beyond trying to control himself at all. His orgasm, when it came, was almost painful in its intensity, and he cried out even as he felt Zaneís throat muscles massaging him.
Looking down at the singer, Marc was stunned to see tear tracks on Zaneís face, and he closed his eyes to harden his heart. This wasnít his fault; he hadnít been the one caught fucking around.
"Go take a shower, Alexander. You smell like her, and itís enough to make me sick." Tucking his now soft cock back into his pants, Marc zipped himself up and did the hardest thing heíd ever done in his life. He turned his back on his lover and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
The almost silent sound of the door latch sliding into place was louder than a death knell. Marc was gone. He was really gone. "Oh god, no..." Zane moaned, curling into himself, a ball of uncontrolled misery.
He wasnít sure how much time had passed when he finally roused enough to follow Marcís last orders. Scrub her smell off of him. Zane staggered to his feet and then into the bathroom. Turning the water on as hot as he could stand without scalding his skin off, Zane began to scrub and scrub and scrub, until heíd managed to scrub his skin raw, and even then he felt dirty.
Bile boiled and he managed to make it to the toilet before he puked his guts out. He couldnít look at his reflection in the mirror. He was afraid of what heíd see. Stumbling into the bedroom again, he violently ripped the sheets off the bed. He couldnít stay here, wouldnít stay here.
Picking up the phone, he dialed the front desk. "This is Zane; I need a new room. Yes, I know what the fuck time it is. I donít care; I donít care where the room is or whatís available. I just need... thank you." Hanging up the phone, the singer ripped out his travel bags and began to stuff things in haphazardly, wanting to be out of there fast. He pulled on a pair of soft silk boxers, the only thing his skin could handle right now, and picked up the phone again.
"Ian... Ian, I... need some time. See if you canít have the next couple concert dates delayed or postponed or something, please?" he begged softly, his voice breaking under the strain.
Holding a bottle of Evian in one hand, Marc stood at the sliding glass doors that opened out onto the suiteís balcony, looking out over the darkened buildings of downtown Banff. He wanted, no, he craved a drink, but heíd forced himself to grab the water instead of one of the bottles of booze from the mini-fridge earlier.
For the longest time, thereíd been no sound from the bedroom, though there had been plenty from the hall outside where Zaneís Ďfriendí was obviously strenuously objecting to her treatment. He finally heard the shower kick on and only then turned from the door to look out the window, trying to sort out his emotions.
He was angry, hurt, and most of all, scared. Scared that Zane had done this before, not caring about how Marc felt or about the real danger in doing so. Damnit! Why him, why now? He loved the fucker, hadnít even looked at anyone over the past two months and now...
Marc would have opened the suiteís outer door and kept on walking but for that fact. Heíd wait and theyíd talk, but that didnít mean he was going to make it easy for Zane, not in the least.
The water shut off, and Marc heard the muffled sound of Zaneís voice from the bedroom followed by the sound of bags slamming around and then Zane talking again. Wondering who the other man was talking to, Marc was in the process of turning toward the now opening bedroom door when the outer one slammed open, revealing the other three members of All Soulsí Night, diminutive Gigi in the lead as they stormed inside.
She stormed right through the room, barely nodding to Marc, only stopping when she reached the bedroom and Zane. "What the fuck were you thinking of, Zane?" Gigi demanded bluntly, stopping a bare inch from him, hands on hips and glaring. "What could possibly possess you to touch that skanky bitch? Youíve waited this long, talked our ears off about your wonderful Marc, and now you sleep with that?" she sneered in disgust. "Are you fucking nuts?
"And if sheís stupid enough to charge us with assault like sheís yowling about, youíre paying for it, bud!"
Zane didnít say a word; he just let the bass playerís acid tongue lash him even more. It was no less than he deserved. He deserved a helluva lot more, truth be told. How could he defend his actions when he wasnít even sure himself what had happened and how heíd gone from dreaming of Marc to having that harpy riding him?
Grey eyes turned black, and he turned away silently, trying his best to ignore the tiny womanís poisonous barbs. Bad move. Turning around gave him a too good look at his face in the mirror, and all he could see was how badly heíd fucked up.
There was a loud crashing sound, and then he was looking down at his hand, knuckles bloody and cut. Looking back up, he could see the imprint of his fist in the mirror now full of spider web cracks and falling shards... just like his life. The warm blood dripped from his fingers, and all he could do was stare at it, like a sleepwalker, not quite able to take it all in, not even sure if he could feel anything beyond the pain ripping through his heart.
Cory and Ianís voices joined Gigiís, demanding an explanation for what had happened and what he thought he was doing, postponing the tour. The noise level rose until Marc couldnít take it any more.
"Shut up!" His bellow startled the others into silence, and he rubbed at his temples, wincing as another piece of glass fell from the frame, shattering on the floor. "Just, shut up, okay? " He looked at Gigi, Cory and Ian pleadingly. "You can have him in the morning. Right now, right now heís mine to deal with, understand?"
With what he felt was an amazing show of self-possession, Marc held the door open, looking at the three half-dressed rockers until they filed out. Cory opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand, forestalling her words. "In the morning."
Shutting the door behind them and locking it, he stood looking at Zane for what felt like an eternity. Noting the red splotches of blood on the pale blue carpeting, he sighed and walked into the smaller washroom, returning with a towel.
"Let me see your hand," he commanded brusquely, sighing again as he examined and cleaned the lacerated flesh before wrapping it in another towel. That done, he raised his eyes to Zaneís, noting the older man couldnít or wouldnít meet his look dead on.
He held out his own hand, glancing at the small drops and streaks of Zaneís blood on his skin. "Blood, saliva, semen; any other disease vectors spilled in here tonight I didnít mention?"
Shaking his head mutely, Zane finally managed to collect himself enough to draw in a shaky breath. "You... you havenít left yet. Thought youíd be out the door and long g-gone," he admitted quietly. "Deserve that too, donít... I donít know what happened, Marc," he continued plaintively.
"No excuses, I just really donít. I was dreaming about you, about the last time weíd made love, how good it felt, how much I missed you. I came back to the room alone; I know I did. Didnít even wanna share a suite with the other band members just because it felt wrong somehow. I was dreaming of you and then... and then she was there, and it was still you, but it was her and... God, what have I done???"
"You wake up with some chick sitting on your dick, and you donít know how it happened?" Marc asked incredulously. "Howíd she get in your room? Why didnít you shout the place down? She seemed to know you, Alexander; is she going to be showing up in every town you go to on this tour?"
The writer turned, raking his hands through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "What am I supposed to think, Zane? I thought we were... Do you have any idea what it felt like walking in on that?"
"I... sheís an ex whoís the most amazing work of poison youíll ever run across, but damned if I could say no to her back then. I managed to finally tell her where to go when I left for India and the east that year off, and I worked damn hard to get over her brand of addiction. Never told the others in the band about her because I was too damned ashamed of the way she used to play me," the singer admitted quietly, his face crimson with embarrassment.
"As for how she got in - that bitch can manipulate anyone into doing anything she wants them to. If she wanted in here, she would have found a way come hell or high water," the older man continued, his voice turning bitter and even more unhappy than before. "She wanted to screw me and screw me over and damned if she didnít do both. God, I canít stand that harpy!"
Flexing his fist lightly, Zane unwrapped the towel to see how bad the damage was, wincing when he flexed his fingers into chords. "Guess I wonít be playing acoustic for a while until this heals. Fuck."
Brow furrowing in concern even though he was still furious with his lover, Marc took hold of Zaneís hand again, studying it. "Want me to call down to the desk to get a doctor up here?" He let go at that, remembering the cause of all this. "Though the bitch will need one if I see her near you again, understand?"
"Didnít want her near me in the first place, Marc, you have to believe me. Hell I ended up in Asia to avoid her and get her out of my life. Guess she didnít like it that I was suddenly the rock star sheíd wanted back then and she wasnít with me now. I never thought sheíd... Christ, it was as close to rape as I ever want to get. It was definitely non-consensual. I... I love you. I want to be with you. I donít want anyone else but you," Zane swore fervently.
"But... but if you ... Iíd understand that too; after all Iím pretty much scum right now, and well, itís no less than I deserve," the older man continued, his voice growing rough. Closing his eyes, he sank to the bed. "Itís just the knuckles that are cut up, no tendon damage. I just wonít be flexing for a while is all. You donít have to worry about me; Iíll survive the pain," he continued vaguely.
Sighing, Marc sank onto the bed next to Zane, his head bowed to his chest. He was still angry, still in pain, but he couldnít hurt the other man any more than he seemed to be hurting himself. There would be consequences, but he knew he wanted Zane more than anything.
"I do have to worry about you," he whispered, "I have to, I love you too. Right now I might not like you a lot, but I love you."
Zaneís eyes shot up, disbelief painted across his face and hope that maybe things werenít as bleak as he had thought. "You... do?" he managed to get out, his voice breaking under the strain. "Marc, I..." A hand came out to touch his lover, then stopped mid-air, unsure of the welcome.
"Whatever you want me to do, whatever I need to do to make this up to you, Iíll do it. I find that Iím very good at crawling tonight," he tried to joke, though it fell flat. "And Iíll willing crawl for you, to you, whatever you need."
"I donít want you to crawl, Zane, not right now anyway." Marcís attempt at levity fell as flat as Zaneís. "I just want - I want to know that I can trust you. You were gone ten days, and look what happened; whatís going to happen when youíre on the road for months at a time? What if she shows up then?"
"Sheíd better not, or you may find that you donít wanna wait for a guy behind bars," Zane growled menacingly. "I... Iíll do whatever it takes to prove you can trust me again. You want me to wear a chastity belt?" he offered jokingly.
Shaking his head, Marc finally looked over at Zane. "Nah, it would ruin the fit of your pants, then what would your fans think?"
"Iíd wear it at night for you if you wanted me to," the older man replied, suddenly serious. "Ian or Cor or..." Zane couldnít quite bring himself to forgive Gigi yet, something that heíd have to sort out before the next concert. "One of them could keep the key for you, make sure I was behaving myself..."
"No." Looking away again, Marc pulled his glasses off, polishing them on the bare mattress. "I want to be able to trust you again, Zane; having your dick locked up every night so that you canít do anything isnít trust, itís slavery. I donít want that, and you donít need it."
"Then tell me what I need to do, love, please," Zane begged quietly. "Iíll do whatever it takes to win you back, anything," the rocker pleaded.
There was a knock on the door. "Excuse me, sir, you requested another room? Security has cleared it if you want to move now," the bellhop called into the room.
"Marc?" Zane asked, quietly, wanting to know if his lover would come with him or if they wanted to stay here in this suite with the memories.
Glancing from Zane to the hotel employee, Marc nodded. "Letís get out of here. No way I could sleep in here after all this, and if she does come back, she wonít know where you are."
"If she comes back, it wonít matter. Iíll be with the only person I want," Zane replied quietly but nodded to the bellhop to start collecting the bags in the living room of the suite while he finished packing what little heíd taken out of his bags haphazardly.
Once done, he looked around the room and then held out a hand for Marc, hoping that his lover would take it. "Coming?"
Focusing on Zaneís hand, feeling suddenly drained of all energy, Marc sighed. He leaned over, grabbing his bags and slinging his shirt over his shoulder. Reaching out slowly, he closed his fingers around Zaneís, though for the moment he didnít look up into his loverís eyes.
"Yeah, no way Iím staying in here, and I doubt Iíd get any sleep in with the others so - yeah."
Zane didnít know how to react to that bald statement. "Iím sorry. Iíll arrange for another room for you if you want or sleep on the floor. Better yet, Iíll stay here, and you take the new room. I donít... want to make you uncomfortable. Iím sorry," Zane managed to get out.
"Take Mr. Riderís things to the new room, if you please. Iíll just sleep on the couch," Zane quickly instructed the bellhop, ducking his head. "If youíll excuse me..." Zane was through the door to the washroom, the thin layer of plywood closed firmly behind him before anyone could stop him. He didnít want to be there when Marc left him; he really didnít. God, could he have fucked up any worse than this?
"Zane - fuck!" Marc growled, letting his bags bang to the floor before looking over at the bewildered bellhop. "Listen, give me the key cards and the room number; Iíll handle it from here."
After getting the information, he practically shoved the man out the door then turned back to the bathroom, lips thinning as his jaw clenched, seeing that the door was still shut. "Open the fucking door, Alexander," he finally growled. "Running away and hiding isnít helping anything."
Zane sat on the edge of the bathtub for long moments, trying to control the roiling emotions. However, the longer he sat, the more out of control he felt. When he heard Marcís voice on the other side of the door, accusing him of running and hiding, calling him Alexander, Zane saw red for the first time that night.
The door banged open, the handle gouging a hole in the wall from the force. "Fuck you, Marcus!!!" he snarled, red-rimmed eyes snapping furiously. "I act the whore for you, itís not enough; I promise you my soul, itís not enough; I give you complete and total control over me, and itís still not fucking enough. Now youíd rather sleep by yourself or with the rest of the band than me. Fine! Whatever! I get the message, lover!" he spat. "Loud and clear - you canít stand to be in the same fucking room with me. Well, Iím obliging you again!"
Stunned by the violence of Zaneís appearance, Marc actually took a step back from the other man before gathering himself, ready to give back just as good as he got. "No, itís not enough!" he shouted, "And I never fucking said I didnít want to be with you. I told you how I felt about you, and you believe that I donít want... Fine, like you said, whatever. Maybe I should never have even bothered coming out here. Ignorance is bliss and all that shit."
"What the fuck are you talkiní about? Jesus, what is it gonna take? You want me to bleed for you? Fine!!!" Storming back into the bathroom, Zane grabbed his razor and, before he thought about it, rent a gouge in his arm almost vein deep, gasping at the pain. "This enough for you, Marc? Or do you want more? You want me to flay the skin off my body, consider it done!"
"What the hell!" Grabbing the razor out of Zaneís hand, barely noticing when the blade cut into his palm, Marc threw it across the room, far out of Zaneís reach. "Yes, I want more," he ranted, snatching a towel from the bathroom and wrapping it around his loverís forearm to staunch the crimson flow. "I want you, all of you, all the time. Iím fucking addicted to you. Youíre in my bones, in my blood." Here he held his slashed palm out to Zane, seeing the blood roll down his wrist but still beyond feeling the injury.
"I want you, I love you, I need you. Iím so fucking pissed at you right now I donít know what to do, but I want to work it out; is that too much for you to understand?!"
Zane stared, fascinated, at the rolling drops of blood dripping down Marcís hand. Before the other man could react, Zaneís free hand was clamped around his loverís wrist and pulling it towards him. The singerís mouth covered the wound, and his tongue laved the hurts, tasting Marcís lifeís essence, letting it slide down his throat as his eyes closed while almost voluptuous pleasure rolled through him. He was taking Marc into himself in a way more primal than any other. It was better than an orgasm in some ways.
Marcís eyes widened as he watched Zaneís lips close around the gash in his palm. Pain flared brightly as salt stung the wound, but it was still negligible compared to the ache in his chest that had commenced when he walked into the suiteís bedroom. Zane was licking at the cut, his Adamís apple bobbing as he swallowed the blood down, and Marc didnít know whether to be repulsed or turned on by the sensation.
"Zane-" Marcís voice cracked as he tried to force air through his dry mouth. When the other man ignored him, Marc reached out, closing his fingers in his loverís dark hair and pulling until the singer looked up, his eyes dark and unfocused.
"You - fucking crazy," Marc mumbled, before giving in to the need that tore at him and pulling Zane in for a ravenous kiss, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood in the other manís mouth before it was swept away as their tongues slid together.
"Crazy for you. Want to have you in me, living in me," Zane mumbled when their lips finally separated. "However I can get you, whenever I can get you. My muse, my life, my soul... Iíd be nothing without you. Iíve known that forever. I canít lose you, Marc, I canít!"
"Donít have to... Wonít... Canít..." Marc breathed, rubbing his face against Zaneís, feeling the tug and rasp as their stubble rubbed together... "Not going to happen again so you donít have to worry." Unspoken was the fact that if it did happen again, Marc was gone and for good this time.
"Never," Zane promised fervently. "Never wanted to this time, never meant to, wanted only you, will only ever want you. I need you, I love you, my life. Please, baby, please never leave me again," Zane mumbled almost incoherently, holding on tight. The blood loss, the drugs, the alcohol all began to take their toll, and he sagged against the younger man, eyes drooping.
"Never," Marc swore, his arms tightening around Zane, staggering a bit when the other man leaned against him. "You need to - Shit!" The towel wrapped around the singerís forearm was red and wet, and Marc swallowed hard to keep from getting sick.
"We need to get you to a hospital, Zane. You did a number on yourself." Supporting most of Zaneís weight, Marc eased his lover toward the sofa and the end table with the phone on it. "What room are the others in?"
"Donít... please. I donít want the others, not after what happened, not after the way they... Just us, please, I... just us?" Zane asked quietly. "Call down to lobby and get a cab. I just want to be with you."
"Jesus, are you sure?" Seeing the pleading look in Zaneís eyes, Marc relented, calling down as requested.
Hanging up the phone, Marc winced, knowing they both were bloody messes. "It should be here in five minutes. We need to get cleaned up a little and get you some clothes, okay? Last thing you need to see in tomorrowís paper is whatever reason theyíd come up with for looking like this."
"Good thing youíre the brains of this pairing, isnít it, lover?" Zane laughed weakly, doing whatever Marc asked of him. "God, I love you."
Hours later the two men staggered into their new room, patched up with stern admonishments from the doctor to take their antibiotics and stay away from sharp objects for a considerable amount of time. Locking the door behind them, Zane sagged against it. "Home, sweet home," he chuckled quietly.
"Uh-huh." Marcís answer was a barely audible mumble. He swayed on his feet, blinking to keep his eyes open, at least until heíd gotten Zane into bed where he needed to be. It was after six, which meant that heíd been up way over twenty-four hours, and that combined with shock, the pain meds and emotional exhaustion had Marc longing for only one thing - sleep. "Yíshould leave a message for tíothers, let Ďem know youíre okay."
Staggering over to the bed, Zane sank down next to Marc, then rolled onto his back, bringing the other man with him as he went. "Later. They know where we are, just want to sleep with you in my arms again. Love you," the singer sighed, resting his head on his loverís shoulder, his eyes falling shut and his breathing evening out. "Forever," he muttered almost asleep.
"Mítoo," Marc murmured, sighing deeply as he relaxed, his arms locked around Zaneís waist, holding him close.