Title: A Sort of Pain (1/1)

Series/Sequal: Sequel to A Sort of Love, but can be read as a stand alone.

Author: Vera

Rating: R Warning: Contains allusions to BDSM and abuse. Dark.

Summary: Cyanide finally makes contact with his family and Skids tracks him down.

Disclaimer: The boys belong to Sandra, I just borrow them for nefarious purposes.

Archive: Yes

Feedback: Always desired.

Notes: This is a sequel, but I think it works as a stand alone. If I get requests, I'll repost the original. It's also extremely dark.

"Yes, Mrs. Torres. Yes, I understand. Thank you for calling."

Skids laid down the phone carefully, before sliding bonelessly to the floor with relief.

He was alive. And he was all right.

Months of worry and prayer had paid off.

So why did he still feel like shit?

With a weary hand, he plucked the phone back off it's cradle and dialed Harley.

"'lo?" A bleary voice came over the line.

"It's Skids, Cya's mom just called."

"What happened?" Harley was immediately focused and Skids could picture him in his mind, sitting up straighter, pushing Mik away from whatever body part the Russian had been busy worshipping when the phone had interrupted them.

"He called her today. To let her know he was all right. Said he was waiting to let her know when he had a stable address."

"Did he say anything about us? Are we supposed to know?"

Skids swallowed a lump in his throat.

"She said he was on the phone for like two minutes. She barely managed to get the address out of him before he hung up. Not even a single apology or explanation."

"Why don't you come over? We can talk about what to do then." The blonde said soothingly, feeling his friend's agony over the phone.

"I will...in an hour or so."

"If you're sure..."

"See you soon."

Blindly he reached above him to bring the phone home again. He stayed where he was for a long trembling moment, taking in a breath that seemed to go on far to long, before letting loose a ragged pained sob. So many tears shed, so many days absent of laughter.

All because of one night. A long confusing conversation that had left Skids more bewildered then anything else, and he was sure that he must have said something, anything that had caused the sudden disappearance. Must have rejected to harshly or said something out of place, but he's turned it over in his head so many times and he still can't find the right snag. Can't see where Cyanide would have flipped out and left, not even leaving so much as a note behind.

One stupid evening.

The tears wracked through him, dampening his pale perfect cheeks and pouting red lips. He knew that his image in the mirror was beautiful, knew it now in a painful way he had never realized before. But it seemed that the inner charm that had called out to the co-eds had died over these wicked long months. The countless time of seeing Cyanide out of the corner of his eyes and turning to find it some hapless bystander had murdered his easy smile.

The thought that he had so damaged the person who had loved him the most in the world had robbed him on the tranquility that so defined him. For months he had felt hopelessly adrift, wandering about campus like a wraith, afraid to stray from the phone lest it finally be Cyanide coming home.

And now....now he knew. Knew that Cyanide was alive. And well. And living in a nice neighborhood...

And the pure....anger is so frightening that it heightens his tears. Skids isn't good with anger, had never really had occasion to be so bone deep furious, but a rage is boiling in him now. It burns from his core so flaming hot that he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Instead, he grabs up the smiling photo he had kept next to his bedside these strange passing months and rips it to shreds, keeping them in a neat pile so as to keep rendering them down until there is nothing left, but a shower of pretty colored paper.

Grabbing up his jacket, he slams out of his room, shutting the door so hard that the whole hall vibrates, but for once he doesn't stop to think about the girl who lives next door who has to take night classes and likes to sleep during the day. Instead, he stomps down the hall, fiery tears burning behind his eyes, the feeling of betrayal turning his stomach to stone.

****

"I called my mother today." The Latino said languidly from the bed, not bothering to rise as his lover chilled the room with his sudden presence.

"Oh?"

"And seeing as you could care less, I told her where I was staying."

"Lovely. Should I prepare a welcoming committee?"

Cya shifted slightly on the soft mattress, propping his head up one arm, turning his back on the other man.

"That all depends if you want them to see you or not. I'm sure Mama will tell the boys where I am. They'll figure it out soon enough."

"Have them over then."

A shiver ran down his naked spine at the mere thought of such a visit. He turned again to face the white expanse that was the man he was bound to.

"It doesn't matter now." Cya muttered, running quick fingers up the exposed spine.

"No."

But Cya wasn't sure what that casually dropped syllable applied too. They fucked for an hour until all his old cuts bled again, giving as good as he got, biting down hard enough on one pale shoulder to leave an imprint that would last for days.

They showered separately afterwards, Cyanide leaving his exhausted lover to sleep like one dead while he went to begin his day. The computer glared at him for his day long negligence. With an absent sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and restlessly began to pump out the pointless driveling work that would distract him until dawn.

As that time arrived, the sun peering over the horizon, he finished up typing while his stomach rumbled irritably. He didn't bother with food regularly any more. There was no knowing if it would stay down or not. Hard, pointed thoughts scrapped through his mind, remembering his impulsive phone call.

The apartment seemed months away...the rotting fetid place where insanity had overtaken him and wracked his body into the pitiful condition it now possessed. He had finally pried himself back to some semblance of sanity, but he wondered at his direct attempts of sabotage against that delicate balance. Surely, even looking upon what was once familiar would now shatter him, reduce him to the slobbering delusional creature that had taken such harsh treatment from it's master.

He had worked so very carefully to rebuild himself to what he now was. He would not take the same punishment anymore. At least, not without fighting back. It was a daily struggle to keep from submitting and falling back on the tightly woven day dreams of happier, kinder times.

But he had done it. And now....he had a life. Of sorts. Working at night for some obscure lab company for minimum wage which he files away in an account somewhere for a someday that seems never to come, sleeps during the day waiting for his lover to come home.

It is a comforting cyclical movement. Doesn't even mind the days when the waiting is fruitless or ends with another man's scent on his lover's clothes. Couldn't care less really. He knows, deep down, that his ownership extends beyond anything so meaningless as monogamy. Cyanide owns a piece of that man that is buried so far under the delicate white skin that no one else can touch it.

A knock at the door, loud and purposeful, shatters his thoughts. The sun had risen a little higher, proof that he no longer quite has a hold on the passage of time. With a groan of effort, he rises to his feet, stumbling to the door with only a passing thought of who would be knocking this early.

He swung the door open with all the ease of one who no longer carries any conventional fear of their safety.....

Skids had really meant to go over to Harley's, but he'd started walking and all the rage had carried him forth into the night without thought. He didn't know how long he had been walking or what he had been thinking while doing so, yet when he arrived he knew exactly where he was. His eyes were bloodshot from tears, his hair fell stingy from sweat into his eyes....

to Cyanide he looked like an avenging angel, the early morning sunlight pouring in behind him. He slammed to his knees, head hanging low and with a low choked moan...

"Dios, stop haunting me...please please please I'm sorry leave me be.."

It was not at all what Skids had expected to hear and it stemmed the rage a little, breaking it down. He dropped to one knee, brought a hand under Cyanide's chin and tilted up the once familiar face.

It was foreign now. The hair was much longer, hanging far below his shoulders. The beautiful carved angles were gaunt, his lips bloodless, dry and his dark brown eyes, now bright with unshed tears, held a fevered glassy look.

"I'm so sorry..." Cya groaned out again, repeating the words like a prayer. "You feel warm, real, worse then before."

"I am real, Cya. I'm here."

Without pause, Skids enfolded the emaciated body of his old friend into his arms. Warmth flooded through the thin frame and frail arms came around for a tight hold.

"Real. Real.....oh Dios, I thought I'd finally really lost it. Oh, Dios, Skids...how could you come? After everything...sorry, so fuckin' sorry."

They kneeled there, on the cold concrete, crying in each others arms for a timeless period.

When it grew to hard, Cyanide withdrew, rising on shaky legs and offering a hand up to Skids, who took it warily.

"Can I..." The Italian began, faltering at Cyanide's quick shake of the head.

"Let me change my clothes. Wait here. We can get breakfast at this nearby diner thing. Talk."

Skids stood still on the porch, listening to gentle sounds of movement about the house, hardly allowing himself to believe what he had seen.

Cyanide may not have always have seemed like the 'hetero' one, but he had always been the strong one. He had endured a lifetime of younger siblings, the death of his father, the betrayal of Jeff....he may not understand, but he never buckled under pressure. Never gave an inch.

Yet, the person Skids had encountered here was broken. He could see that in the over slim body and unkempt hair, the wildness in the eyes. With a shiver, Skids let go of the last of his anger. Whatever had happened to Cyanide had left him shattered, unable to bear whatever blame Skids had wanted to lay on him.

Cyanide Torres was no longer a well man.

"Hey. Let's walk."

The clothes were loose fitting jeans and a long sleeved black shirt. No extra jewelry besides his piercings and no jacket to protect his body from the early morning chill. They began to walk, Cya slightly in the lead with a thick wall of tension thrown up between them.

"What happened, Cyanide?"

There was a long painful pause and the walk went on.

" You said no. And I....I pushed to hard. I thought about going to Harley, but he was too close to you. I ran....and there was no where to go. It was like...identity crisis. I lost Skids...I really lost it."

"But to him, Cya?" And Skids is amazed how even his voice is, amazed that he's accepting this barely their explanation for months of worry.

"There wasn't anywhere else...I ran right into him, literally. And he saw that I was crying. So he took me to this apartment he was renting for a week while he was in town....and never left. It was like living in a fog. I couldn't think at all, except to relive what happened between me and you, over and over.....I don't really remember much of that time actually."

"Jesus, Cya." Skids said softly, staring at the Latino's drawn face. "And after?"

"We....settled some things between us. But it still not right, Skids. There's just nothing else for me to do. I feel better....some of the time. Others..I wander a lot. Around here."

"Cyanide...we've been looking for you for months! Even the police were giving up!"

"I had a feeling....that's why I called Mama. Here."

They hadn't walked more then a block or two, but a charming little diner sat on the corner of the cozy street. A harried waitress smiled at the ghost man whom she served coffee to nearly every third morning for two months. If she was surprised that he was joined by another spook, she didn't show it, but ushered them wordlessly to a booth, not bothering with their orders, but bringing over a pot of strong coffee and a small plate of toast.

There was another awkward silence.

"Why did you come, Skids?" Cya asked finally, tasting the name on his lips, a smile curling despite himself that he could apply those precious syllables to the real deal rather then another abstract fantasy.

"I wasn't going to. You're mother called...and I was going over to Harley's, but I was so mad! Oh, Cya, I don't think I've ever been so angry ever. Not even at those bullies in middle school."

The smile turned bitter as the coffee that lay untouched between them.

"True rage comes from true hurt, Skids. I guess that makes twice I've cut you that deep."

"You didn't hurt me that night, Cya. I think you hurt yourself." A slow silent nod, a half tasted bite of toast. " Anyway, I started walking and wound up at your door. I wasn't sure what I was going to find...."

"But this was a surprise? Don't look shocked, I know what I look like. The downfall has been rather deliberate at this point. I don't know what I was trying for...maybe to get him to kick me out or maybe to go out the coward's way."

It takes a moment for that to sink in with Skids, but when it does, his eyes open wide.

"Cya...you wouldn't!"

"No. Not anymore....Seeing you, helps. Puts things into focus a little." His eyes narrow a bit in thought.

"I'm glad, I guess. Will you see your mother? She's really worried about you."

"Maybe."

"You have to! She's hasn't slept in weeks! Your sisters are frantic!"

The flare of the dying embers of anger, failed to stir Cyanide to action. He continued in the deathly monotone that had overtaken his once spirited speech.

"She'd be worse off for seeing me." He rose suddenly, throwing a ten on the table. "I'll see you around."

A quick hand snagged the retreating wrist.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. He'll be up soon."

"Does he beat you, Cyanide?" Skids asked, surprising himself. Cyanide smiles for the first time since he opened the door an hour ago, but it's a shadow of his former grin, a shark like imitation.

"Only as hard as I can beat back." The angle of his body betrays him and Skids can suddenly see the neck riddled with bruises, the wrist under his fingers is warm and scarred. Reluctantly he lets go and like an animal, Cya snaps it away, running out of the diner like its on fire.

Skids winds up sitting there until the sun is fully up in the morning sky and he feels warm enough to move again. The taxi ride home is over warm and his sleepless night drags him into an uneasy drowse. Dropped off right at Harley's place because the blonde is probably half-crazed by now with worry, Skids feels the leaden weight of tears in his stomach, wonders now if it will ever leave. And how will he tell Harley what he saw in that last frightening moment with Cya?

"Skids! What happened! We were so worried!"

"I saw Cyanide. " He says dully, letting himself be led into the comfort of the Rasputin-Goldman apartment.

"What? But? How is he? Did you punch him? What did he say?"

"He's dying, Harley. And there's nothing we can do to stop it."

****

"Where were you?"

"Stayed late at the diner." Cyanide ground out, slumping into a chair.

"I thought I heard voices."

"Well, now I'm not the only one."

"Don't be smart with me before I've had my coffee. I can't retaliate."

"That's why it's so much fun." But he wasn't smiling.

"What happened, precious?"

"Does it matter?"

A long pale and tapered hand stretched out to caress the drawn dark cheek.

"It matters to me, love. It matters."

Cyanide leaned into the touch, brown eyes shining at his lover. His equal. His Tybalt. And this is what he couldn't articulate. Couldn't explain to Skids if they had sat together for a million years and did nothing, but talk.

There was pain, to be sure. A sort of desperate, ache that had long ago settled into his bones, but there was also this thrill. This need. Ty wanted him. Came home to him every night, despite his every effort to look unappealing, Ty would still sleep next to him almost every night.

And they might never be tender with each other and that was all right to because tender was for what might have been and the pleasure/pain of their relationship is very much of the moment.

"I love you." Cyanide whispered into the light palm that held his chin.

"I love you, too." Ty said right back, pulling his lover into a tight demanding kiss.

It was a sort of love. A sort of pain too. And the people he had left behind would never understand that even as he crumbled and died, he was preserved by the dry harsh heat of this colorless love.