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“I’ve been thinking about leaving again,” Redacted said.
His fingers were steadily working through knots in John’s hair when he said this. And it was not the first time he had said it, either. He had said it last month, and the month before that, too. But he never did leave, so John wasn’t too worried. Redacted was just thinking out loud, that was all.
(Last month:
“I’m thinking about leaving again.”
“That’s okay,” John had said.)
John closed his eyes. Rested his cheek against Redacted’s knee. Focused on the fingers gently combing, parting, tugging, working through his hair. Almost fell asleep like that, right there on the floor in front of the futon, settled between Redacted’s legs, warm as a hug. Not a bad way to spend the afternoon.
But he focused on Redacted’s voice, clung to consciousness.
“I know I keep saying that,” Redacted said, “sorry.” His fingers stilled, stopped by either a particularly stubborn tangle or his thoughts. “I don’t even want to leave, not really. But I just keep…” he trailed off.
“Where would you go?” Caine asked. His voice was somewhere, off to the side, but John couldn’t remember where exactly, couldn’t place him.
“Chicago,” Redacted answered.
“John has a lot of enemies in Chicago,” Caine said.
Redacted laughed. “John has a lot of enemies everywhere.”
John nodded in agreement, his cheek rubbing against Redacted’s jeans.
Redacted’s fingers tapped the top of John’s head to get his attention, making John shiver. “Hey, John? Can I braid your hair?”
John nodded again.
The fingers parted John’s hair into three large sections, and for the briefest of moments, the fingers brushed against John’s neck—but only in passing, they didn’t linger, didn’t stay. And while John tensed, he didn’t jump, didn’t startle, didn’t—
“… it’s been ages since I’ve had braids,” Redacted was saying, “so this is going to be a mess…” and his left hand fumbled with the strands it held, the knuckles brushed against John’s neck “… shit, my hand won’t…” the scar tissue must be making it harder for the fingers to flex.
“Why Chicago?” Caine asked. His voice was somewhere else now, somewhere further away in the room. Once over here, now over there.
John sank against Redacted’s thigh. The room was slipping away from him. If his eyes were closed, they could be anywhere. Floating on a river, maybe. He felt his hair being lifted, being crossed over itself.
“I don’t know,” Redacted said lightly. “I’ve got enemies there, too, so I probably shouldn’t. But I just keep thinking about it.”
A little boat on a big river on a bright sunny day, John’s head in Redacted’s lap, Redacted’s fingers in John’s hair, Caine… steering the boat? John laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Redacted said. He tapped a couple fingers against John’s forehead. “The braid’s not that bad. Here, see for yourself.”
John opened his eyes to find his own face, compressed, staring back at him through the camera app on Redacted’s phone. John turned his head from side to side, judging the floppy braid Redacted held up by the end. Loose flyaway strands stuck out from all sides. It was a disaster. John laughed again.
“Watch it,” Redacted warned.
He tugged on the braid, making John’s scalp sting. John hissed. Grabbed Redacted’s ankle to hold himself steady.
Redacted held his grip on John’s hair, dropped his phone onto the coffee table.
“John’s hair’s getting long,” Redacted said to Caine, who must be in the kitchen because John couldn’t see him—
And being spoken about like he wasn’t there… It shouldn’t make John feel like this right? But…
John’s fingers gripped Redacted’s ankle desperately. His breathing turned short, shallow—
Caine was before them, holding out an expectant open palm. Redacted’s free hand grabbed Caine’s, guiding it to John’s hair. John let out a choked gasp as Caine’s hand settled heavily onto John’s head, fingers plowing their way through the braid, forcing it to unravel, ruining everything Redacted just made.
Caine hummed.
Then he asked, “How’d you get to Chicago?” Like John wasn’t even there.
John bit his bottom lip to keep from whining.
“Take the train to Philly, probably,” Redacted answered.
Caine’s other hand was holding a glass of water, which he sipped as he continued to card his other fingers through John’s hair. And Caine laughed at something Redacted said about Philadelphia and Redacted laughed at something Caine said about Chicago—but John wasn’t following because all he could think about was Caine’s fingers, on that glass, in John’s hair, pressing against John’s scalp. And they didn’t have blood on them, either.
“… you’d like that, wouldn’t you, John?”
Shit, John had lost track of the conversation entirely.
Redacted and Caine were silent for a moment, waiting to see if John would speak.
John couldn’t, so he didn’t.
Redacted hummed. Tapped John on his shoulder, offered John a hand to hold onto. John laced his fingers with Redacted’s, because John could do this if they—
John wished he could speak, because he didn’t mind begging for this, especially with how Redacted always reacted to being begged.
Please, sir. The words sat fully formed at the front of John’s mind, but even as he panted, he couldn’t push the words out of his mouth.
“… you with us, John?” Caine.
John nodded, squeezed Redacted’s hand—once, quickly, an affirmative.
“Yeah,” Redacted answered for John. “He’s just a bit worked up.”
Caine chuckled. He brought his glass to his lips, then paused, his face breaking out in a mischievous grin. Like he just had the greatest idea. (John could hit Caine, but Caine would like it.)
Caine pulled his hand from John’s hair, crouched down so he was roughly at John’s level. He held out his glass of water in John’s general direction.
An invitation. And a dare.
John surged forward and grabbed the glass with both hands, covering Caine’s hand, and guided the glass to his lips. John only got one drop before Caine, the absolute bastard, tipped the bottom of the glass up, splashing John’s face with water.
Ice-cold water dripped down John’s cheeks, down his chin, and onto his shirt. Caine laughed as John’s face burned from indignation, thrill, delight, want—
“Aw,” Redacted said with playful reproach, “John, you made a mess.”
Caine tsk-ed.
Redacted’s fingers were on John’s cheeks, wiping up loose water droplets. John shivered more from the contact than he had from the cold of the water.
Redacted’s fingers reached John’s lips. Immediately, John wrapped his lips around Redacted’s fingertips. Swiped his tongue over scars and callouses and—
“Jesus,” Redacted breathed out, even as he pressed his fingers further past John’s lips.
Caine: “You never answered the question—”
Redacted: “His mouth is full—”
John made a helpless wordless sound around the fingers that filled his mouth and pressed against his tongue—
Caine: “A new game, John. You could follow him to Chicago. Pretend it’s your turn to be the Tracker—”
John clenched his eyes shut. That shouldn’t… that shouldn’t make him feel like—
They could try on new identities. They could pretend to be strangers, meeting, touching, for the first time. John wouldn’t learn his name, maybe he wouldn’t learn John’s, either. What a privilege, John thought, to be nobody, to have a name no one knew. He could be anyone at all.
A wet whimpering sound left John. Drool spilled out the sides of his mouth. God, he was filthy. Redacted would probably tell him that, soon enough.
Redacted’s thumb—which John’s mouth couldn’t quite reach at this angle—rubbed comforting circles into John’s cheek even as he said: “I don’t think John could find me.”
“No,” Caine agreed, “but he’d try.”
“He would, wouldn’t he,” Redacted said. John’s hand, that was still held in Redacted’s, began to shake. Redacted just held on more firmly.
Caine: “That’s the thing about John. He wants to do a good job. He wants to be good.”
Redacted: “He’s being very good right now. He’s got his mouth full, sucking on three of my fingers as deep as he can.”
Caine: “Fuck—”
Redacted pulled his fingers from John’s mouth. John gasped, panting for breath—but only for a second because Caine found John’s face with one hand, then grabbed him by the chin so Caine could kiss him. Caine’s tongue filled John’s mouth nearly as fully as Redacted’s fingers had. John could barely respond properly, he mostly panted against Caine’s mouth.
Redacted squeezed John’s hand twice, lightly, just checking in. John squeezed back—once, quickly, an affirmative.
Caine climbed into John’s lap, hands settling on John’s shoulders, not breaking the kiss for a second. John hummed with appreciation.
“Greedy, greedy,” Redacted said.
John wasn’t sure who Redacted meant, but both John and Caine shivered as if he had directed it to them.
Caine pulled away from the kiss to catch his breath. His face red, flushed—just from touching John, from hearing him—
“You two look real good,” Redacted said.
“Thank you, sir,” Caine said.
“Turn around, John, I want to look at you.”
(Months ago, lying in bed:
“Okay, just so you know, I’m not complaining, but…”
“But?” John prompted.
Redacted laughed nervously. “Where did the ‘sir’ thing come from?”
John shrugged. “It suits you.” Which wasn’t necessarily untrue.
Redacted looked at him, puzzled, for a long moment.
“And I like saying it,” John added. Which was probably closer to the actual truth.
“Have you called anyone else ‘sir’?”
“Not like this.”
“Just me?”
“Yes.”)
John resituated himself on the floor, now between Caine’s legs and facing Redacted (who remained on the couch with legs spread wide.) Caine wrapped his arms loosely around John’s midsection, rested his chin on John’s shoulder.
“You’re a mess already,” Redacted laughed.
John closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed. They wouldn’t… they wouldn’t touch him without asking him—Caine had made that mistake once, and only once, a lifetime ago. But John had to wonder if their hands on him would be less intense than the weight of Redacted’s gaze and Caine’s voice combined, enthralling him and trapping him, pinning him under their careful attention.
“He’d miss you,” Caine said, his voice rumbling against John’s back, pressed as close they were. “If you went to Chicago without him, he’d go out of his mind.”
“That’s so sweet,” Redacted said. He pressed a thumb to John’s lips, which John latched his mouth around immediately. “You’re so sweet to me, John.”
“Should he show you exactly how much he’d miss you?”
John forced his eyes open just in time to see Redacted’s mouth slide into a grin.
And at that moment there was nothing, nothing, that John wanted more.
John nodded quickly.
“Go on, then,” said Redacted.
(Months ago, quietly, so they wouldn’t be heard:
“There’s a strength to him,” Caine whispered. “You feel it too, don’t you? He holds himself back with us. Always such a gentleman. But, shit, imagine it. Imagine him letting loose for once, taking charge, ruining us. He’d make it so good for us. You think about him like that, right? I can’t stop thinking about…” Caine laughed when he heard John’s breath quicken, heard John’s hand working himself faster. “I don’t even think he’s done it before. But maybe if you ask nicely, John. Maybe if you promise to be so very good, he’ll—”)
John worked Redacted’s jeans down with eager shaking hands. Worked Redacted to full hardness, then took him down his throat. Redacted gasped at the speed with which John took him. John closed his eyes, narrowed his focus to the weight on his tongue and the hands in his hair.
“You know,” Redacted said to Caine, voice turning breathy. “You could learn a thing or two from John.”
Caine laughed. “Go to Chicago if you want. I won’t miss you.”
Redacted tutted disapprovingly, even as he settled his hands on the back of John’s head, encouraging John to take him further.
“That’s no way to get what you want,” Redacted chastised Caine. “We all know you wish this was you right now. So fucking needy.”
He punctuated with an easy roll of his hips. John moaned around the cock in his mouth, drool dripping steadily down his chin.
John wasn’t sure how seriously he was supposed to take the Chicago hypothetical, but he found his mind running away with it all the same. Was this how he would show Redacted he missed him? Or was this how their game would go—John as the Tracker—if John succeeded in finding him?
But there was so much else John wanted to do for him, this wasn’t close to enough.
Redacted’s hips rolled steadily as he panted, “Fuck, fuck, John, that’s so good—"
John forgot what he was doing for a split second, forgot to breathe. Pulled away. Redacted’s cock fell from John’s mouth.
Bed.
John might have said it, or mouthed it, or finger-spelled it, he wasn’t sure—but he must have communicated it somehow because Redacted agreed with him.
(Probably a year ago now, before the Table burned:
“You like him,” John said.
“The Tracker? No,” Caine scoffed. “No, no. He’s cocky and naïve. How has that not caught up to him already? He’s a liability if anything, nothing more.”
“Then cut him loose,” John said.
“What? No.” Caine shook his head. “No, no, we need him. He’s an asset.”
John didn’t have to hide his smirk, so he didn’t. But somehow Caine knew anyway.
“Look, John, it’s complicated. It’s…” Caine groaned with frustration at his own contradictions. “Oh, just shut up.”)
Caine would never admit to liking Redacted for that long. John suspected that if Caine was asked now, he would cite ‘sometime after moving in with each other’ as the earliest.
These days, though, Caine was sweet on Redacted.
He murmured all sorts of pet names to Redacted as he peppered Redacted’s face in kisses. Redacted was on the bed, on his side, arm wrapped around Caine in a close embrace, holding on tight while John steadily worked him open.
Redacted’s moans were turning into a loud steady unbroken stream as John pumped his fingers—twisting, scissoring, stretching—
“You sound so good like this, baby,” Caine murmured against Redacted’s cheek.
John could have corrected him—could have enforced the correct title for a situation like this—but he decided to let it slide. This wasn’t that kind of scene and Redacted looked half swept-away already, lost to the sensations and attention, both John and Caine’s hands on him, in him, Caine’s words washing over him in a steady ebb and flow.
Caine stroked Redacted leisurely, making Redacted whine.
“John,” Redacted gasped, “come on already, I’m—”
John pulled his fingers out. But he took a moment to rest his forehead on Redacted’s shoulder, eyes closed. Just to catch his breath, get a rein on himself.
He was supposed to show Redacted how much he would miss him, right? John pressed a kiss to the side of Redacted’s neck. John couldn’t… he couldn’t say it. Even if he could get words out today, he still would not be able to say it. John mouthed, I love you, against Redacted’s skin, then cringed he when he realized the gesture was worse than nothing. John mouthed Redacted’s name next, then flushed with shame. A betrayal in one’s heart was a betrayal all the same, wasn’t it? John had sworn to protect this name and yet here he was with that name on his lips.
“John?” Redacted said.
Right, right. John had lost track of what he was doing.
Caine recaptured Redacted’s lips in his while they waited for John to gather himself.
A strange feeling washed over John, watching them. A feeling he couldn’t quite name but would never necessarily call jealousy—but maybe he might as well call it that because he forced Redacted and Caine to end their kiss. With a firm hand on Redacted’s hip, John guided Redacted to lie on his back while John kneeled over him.
Finally, finally, those eyes were on John again.
Redacted laughed, out of breath. He grinned up at John and shuddered when John’s hands pushed Redacted’s thighs, pushing them to spread wide so John could settle between them. Redacted studied John for a moment, then something in his expression changed.
“I’m not actually leaving,” Redacted said. “You know that, right?”
John nodded, but Redacted did not appear convinced.
Redacted grabbed John by his hair, pulled him down for a long dizzying kiss.
Then, before John could catch his breath or catch up, Redacted wrapped his legs around John’s waist.
A moment later and John was on his back on the bed, with Redacted above him.
But Redacted had misjudged how much space remained on the bed and nearly went hurtling over the edge. Laughing, John caught Redacted by the wrist so he wouldn’t fall off the bed.
“Careful, sir,” John said.
Redacted was surprised by John’s voice but said nothing about it. Best not to, John figured. Sometimes a word or two falls out before his brain remembers to forget speech, and nothing chases his words off faster than drawing attention to them.
Their next kiss was slow and easy. John sighed into it and, without meaning to, found himself thinking again about floating away on a little boat on a big river—
“Can we do it like this?” Redacted murmured against John’s mouth.
John answered, Yes, somehow.
Redacted laced the fingers of one hand with John’s. Just in case John needed to stop, because John could do this if they—
“John’s been real good, hasn’t he?”
“Always,” Caine answered.
Caine grabbed a loose grip of John’s hair at the root. Turned John’s face towards his, kissed every gasp and sigh from John’s mouth as Redacted slicked John’s cock, then slowly sank down onto it.
(After a few months spent here, but before the scar, hopping between languages so they wouldn’t be understood:
“I thought it would be easier to leave,” Caine said, fingers fidgeting with a lit cigarette he wasn’t smoking. Probably too busy thinking. “This was just supposed to be temporary. I’m sleeping on the couch for fuck’s sake.”
Caine finally remembered his cigarette and brought it to his lips, only to pause again to ask:
“When are you going to kill me? The wait is worse than the event. Maybe that’s why you’re taking so long. Or are you waiting for the right moment? Now’s as good a time as any. I’d even fight back if it’d make you feel better. I know how you are about that stuff.”
John stared at his phone keyboard but didn’t know what he could type that would say more than silence could.
“I think our host would understand,” Caine added.
John typed No but couldn’t bring himself to hit the button to make the phone say it out loud.
“Look, John,” Caine said, growing frustrated, “if you don’t do it, Akira will. But you’ve had reason to kill me for longer than she’s been alive. You’ve got dibs.”)
John hadn’t killed Caine, but neither had Akira. She spared Caine’s life but left a jagged scar across his throat so he would never forget. Given to him on the day he finally reunited with his daughter Mia. John found himself staring at the scar often, but often found it was easier to watch Koji’s blood drip from Caine’s fingers instead.
And now, Koji’s blood was dripping onto John’s hair, sliding down his scalp, seeping into his skin—
“Breathe,” Caine murmured against John’s mouth before pulling away.
John breathed.
Redacted rolled his hips while fully seated on John’s cock. John groaned, his free hand shot up to settled on Redacted’s waist, gripping tight as he lifted off the bed to grind up into Redacted, matching every roll of Redacted’s hips.
“Fuck,” Redacted hissed, “fuck, John, you’re always so—Ah” Redacted cut himself off with a surprised yelp.
John stilled, checking that it wasn’t caused by anything he did. It wasn’t. It was Caine.
Caine was upright in bed, smirking like he just had the truly greatest idea, his hand on Redacted’s lower back.
“Feeling—ah—feeling left out?” Redacted asked, even as he shivered under Caine’s wandering hand.
“Oh, no, sir,” Caine said, grinning now. “Not at all. Just wanted to watch.”
Then Caine’s hand slid downward until—
Until—
John moaned when he felt Caine’s fingers graze against the base of his cock. But the fingers didn’t stay in one place for long, they wandered, exploring, watching through steady shrewd caresses, amused by the effects of each touch.
“Mm,” Caine hummed, “he’s got you real stretched out, hasn’t he—”
“Oh, God,” Redacted said in a broken moan.
Redacted’s arms collapsed under him, he slumped onto John’s chest. John wrapped his arms around Redacted, took over the rhythm, thrusted up into Redacted until Redacted’s moans were one long continuous stream. And all the while, Caine’s fingers wandered and prodded—
Redacted worked a hand under himself, stroking himself quickly, his knuckles brushing against John’s stomach with each stroke as he asked, demanded, begged for Caine to—
Caine worked a finger inside, fit snug against John’s cock.
The added sensation was too much for John. He thrust once last time before coming with some awful embarrassing sound he wanted to immediately forget.
And he could’ve sworn he was on a river and that when he opens his eyes, he’ll see the boat as clearly as he sees Koji’s blood dripping from Caine’s fingers.
But when he did open his eyes, it was to find Redacted on the sheets next to him, back arching as Caine steadily pressed in.
Redacted shot a hand out on the bed, searching for John’s. John grabbed the hand in his, brought it to his mouth, pressed a kiss and an I love you into the palm, followed by a swipe of his tongue. And watched in rapture as Caine and Redacted reached their climaxes together.
(Well over a year ago, at least:
“Johnny, I’ve been following you so long you’d think I’d be sick of it by now.” He shook his head, laughing lightly. “But there’s just something about you.”
“We could be friends,” John offered.
A last-ditch attempt at peace, and a rather pathetic one at that. But the Tracker seemed nice enough, they’d probably get along just fine. The rest was just business.
The Tracker just laughed.)
Later, when they were spent and sticky—but before they felt disgusted by this—Redacted rested his head on John’s chest while Caine’s fingers twirled in John’s hair.
Caine asked Redacted about Chicago.
“No,” Redacted sighed. “Like, I don’t want to leave. I want to stop wanting to leave.”
“But if you feel stuck here—”
“I don’t,” Redacted cut in. “I promise. I think it’s just… I don’t know how to have a good thing. And now that I have a good thing, I don’t know how to keep it.”
And if he couldn’t keep it, he probably thought, then he might as well return to Tracking.
Because Chicago wouldn’t be vacation. It’d be work. Enough trains passed through Chicago, it must be a hub for Trackers from all corners, a place where they can pick the next job, and the one after that, and the…
John didn’t know how much of the Guild, and with them, the Trackers, still stood after the Table burned down. Redacted almost certainly knew better John, but John was afraid to ask. Afraid of speaking the worst scenario into existence, perhaps.
“Because,” Redacted continued, “what if I get back on the road, even for a day, and I realize I missed it so I just keep going? I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And I don’t know how I will ever make it back here. And if that happens, then what was the fucking point of retiring in the first place?”
Even if John could speak, he would have no words of comfort to offer Redacted.
Because the simple fact was that if the situation arose, if John lost his ‘good thing’ (again), and someone put a gun in his hand, the following slaughter would be just as easy and just sweet as all the rest. And there would be no returning from it. Not again.
Best to never let that happen, John supposed.
He pressed a kiss to Redacted’s temple and hoped that was enough.