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Dry ground beneath crackling leaves, underneath my pounding feet, and I am running as fast as I can. Oranges, yellows, burnt sienna, flame reds, and here and there - greens, flash by me as my eyes sting with the cold dry air as I push it past my face. I am running as fast as I can. Mouth, throat, lungs pierced with dry, cold, crisp air as I gasp at it greedily. I am running as fast as I can. Red blood flowing through bursting blue veins pumping up from my calves to thighs and guts to heart and throat to head, and I am running as fast as I can. Fear and exhilaration, every atom of my being dedicated to the chase, to staying alive, to running as fast as I can. Would it end if he caught me? Inevitable. The tackle from behind. Me, flat on my face, gasping for breath and sucking up leaf detritus along with the dry, acrid air. Him, holding me flat with his whole body, panting, his sweat dropping from his forehead onto the nape of my neck. If I had breath, I would have laughed. If I had breath I would have crowed, "Mulder, do you think you've caught me? I have 'you' just where I want you." He shifts, and I feel every inch of bone, every millimeter of muscle, every iota of sinew, flexing and grinding along my back. He grabs my hair with one hand, hooking his other arm around my throat in a chokehold. If I had breath, I would have taunted, "Mulder, where's your gun, you idiot? Did you lose it in the leaves? Grab my gun, you imbecile, and you have me 'dead' to rights. You won't even have to report missing ammunition to the FBI." He shifts again, and breathily hisses hot, damp expletives across my face; my open mouth and I remember pushing the cold dry wind a moment ago. I 'know' the chase isn't over yet. "I've got you now, bastard. No Scully to stop me, no crowds, no alien possession to hide behind." He jambs a bony knee into my thigh and the pain feels like it shoots straight to my groin. I jerk back, the sharp intensity of it zings in me from groin to gut. He yanks my hair harder, the agony spiking from gut to heart. If I had breath, I would moan aloud, "More, Mulder. It's all or nothing now." I jerk again; my leg kicks back, the heel of my boot connecting with his ass. He howls in disbelief at my tenacity for keeping the chase alive. In a frenzied heartbeat he bites my neck hard, his teeth sinking into the hyper-extended tendon in my neck. The pain pulses from my neck to my cock, and I find the breath and scream, "Yes!" I feel him jerk into stillness. "Bastard!" He yells at me. I can feel his heart double it's rhythm against my back. "Yes," and I begin to laugh. "I'll kill you," he yells louder. "Go ahead," I say as the exhilaration of the chase rejoined fires through me. This time when he shifts, I can feel the burning heat of his erection ramming against me. Would it end if he fucks me? His body stills again at the contact. "No!" He screams at the all the cool crisp, dry, deaf colors of the fall. "Yes!" I whisper back, "Oh, yes, Mulder! No Scully or Skinner or little sister to protect you now. Just you and me, and yes." "God damn you," he moans as his arms reach around me into the crumpled leaves to pull me closer. His cock pushes against my hips, then withdraws to push at me again. And I am laughing and laughing, until his mouth connects with my mouth, and I'm breathless again in the hot damp, and soft lips and bruising teeth of the essence that is Mulder. If I had breath, I would have praised him for coming to this moment, finally, finding this truth, after all this time. But I have no breath. I only have my pounding heartbeat and the instant liquidity of lust and love in my veins. He draws back, slides off me, roughly pushing me over. His hand chokes my throat as I see his face. He is flushed, sweaty, and panting. His chest is heaving and his lips are drawn back into a snarl as he shakes me by the neck. But if this is rejection or repudiation, he neither reaches for his gun nor lets me go. I lay quiescent, knowing that whatever happens next is up to him. I have run as fast as I could for a long time to avoid this truth, as I avoid so many truths about myself, and what I am. I have run and run, always hoping - wanting - to be caught, and now he has me. Has he chased me for the same reason? Would it end if he let me go? He eases up on my throat and presses his hand against my chest, the gesture of restraint unneeded, because I don't intend to go. His face registers the rapid pace of my heartbeat, my slight arch towards him acknowledged with another snarl. He moves his hand down and grabs my sex, hard. "I can hurt you so much," he says harshly. "I can make you beg to die." I arch into his hand. "Yes, you can. Make me beg Mulder. Make me beg to die a thousand deaths, over and over and over again," I say in my heart, because I must stay silent. Whatever happens next is up to him. He tightens his grip, squeezing me cruelly. I scream. He grins. My arms are free, but I do not push him off me, and I do not fight to get away. He clenches his hand tighter again. I scream again, feeling my sweat and tears mix as they run down my face. He is on his knees. He stretches his back, his neck, and head backwards, creating a taut bow with his body, in an agony of possession, power and absolute control. Would it end if he takes everything I offer? Or would it begin? He breathes deeply, as if breathing was, until now, an unknown faculty. He stops wrenching my sex, but does not remove his hand. "Move and I will kill you," he says. He stays on his knees and his body relaxes. He looks around at the trees and looks up into the sky. He looks at me and I tremble. I know he feels me quiver because he smiles ever so slightly, and clenches his hand, lightly. "What have we come to?" He asks, but I know it is rhetorical. I remain quiet, and try to even out my own breaths. "Why are you doing this? Do you think this answers anything? That this makes up for what you have done? Do you think that I will spare you because you unman yourself, whoring yourself for me? What makes you think I even want you this way? That I would want what you can offer?" He removes his hand and looks at me. This time he looks at me as if he is trying to 'see' me. I know what he sees. A man's body, so like his own, same height, just about the same weight, same musculature, the same parts. I know he is wondering what it is inside that makes me so different, if I am different, than he is. I know he is trying to 'know' what he sees. He is stretching that mind of his which has become adept at knowing secret and hidden things, and believing in what he knows, when no one else does. Searching to find the answers to the questions inside himself. He thinks for a long time as the cool, dry day dims, and the pressure of the night darkens into cold. I do not move, breathing deeply now, waiting. He gets stiffly to his feet and looks down at me. "I caught you," he says, as if we had been playing nothing more than a boy's game of 'Catch-Me-If-You-Can' on an autumn afternoon. "Yes," I answer aloud, "you caught me." He sighs, looking around once more. "Come home with me," he says, neither as an order, nor a question. "Yes," I reply, "I will go home with you." He extends his hand to help me stand up. When I am on my feet, and we are eye to eye, he doesn't let go of my hand. "Good," he says and nods. And it begins. End BEING ALIVE Someone to hold you too close, |
Being Aliveby Flutesong |