Keep Breaking

It had never supposed to have been this way. Gods knew he'd fought against it, fang and nail; wasn't it everything he'd been hoping to produce a severance from? He still couldn't bring himself to accept, to allow, to believe.

Erik had no such qualms. He clung like a limpet, never giving a thought to the consideration he could do otherwise. Theodore couldn't help but almost admire his level of devotion. Almost. If only it didn't lead him to be so damn stupid.

The problem was that Pan had trained him so thoroughly, like a puppy: if you like someone, buy their attention any way you can; leave no room in your world for anyone but them; no shame, no boundaries, no sense. It was a bloody selfish way of being selfless. Theodore hated it. But he couldn't hate Erik. Never that, no, not even when the boy was at his most submissively manipulative, because Theodore could never tell if he was doing it on purpose or simply following type.  He didn't know any better, that was the disgusting thing. And the more Theodore tried to teach him otherwise-- hells, call it what it was, break him of it-- the deeper that inexplicable fixation apparently got. Broken, Erik clung to what he thought was sturdy.

How could someone with such psychic potential be so unable to see? He didn't understand Theodore was broken, too. Of course, he'd never seen how truly broken his Lord had been either.

Why hadn't he put a stop to it when Erik had first looked at him with those big blue eyes as they were sitting side by side (Theodore talking, Erik listening; he'd known the other vampire admired him and of course he'd revelled in it a little, who wouldn't?) and the brightness in them flickered into something with bigger claws than simple admiration? Idol worship. That fatal wanting to own what you weren't. Desire. Why hadn't he cut him off when looks became touches, hints became confessions, pleas became demands?

He'd tried once, that night when they'd both drunk more than was good for them, in the only language the younger vampire seemed to understand with any fluency: Erik had come back to put his arms around Theodore's neck after being repeatedly pushed away (with more vitriol and fear every time, but Theodore prayed he hadn't known that much)-- "Bitte, Teddy, I vant to be viz you, I do --" and he'd hauled off and punched Erik full-on in the face. He still remembered the sound those useless reading spectacles had made as they hit the floor, already-shattered fragments jarred out of the frames over the wooden planks. Erik had stumbled back, given him a look full of confusion that nearly tore his heart from his chest. Then the look changed to respect-- anticipation-- pride and, most terribly, unmistakable thrill. He thought he'd won. Theodore had forgotten Erik was bilingual, and mixed his languages indiscriminately. Morporkian and Überwaldian. Punishment and reward. Pleasure and pain.

That nauseating, triumphant, racing-heart grin-- anger and alcohol and frustration combusted, seizing control of his tongue and his hands: "You want me?" he'd roared, balling a fist in the rumpled plaid collar; his own shirt, borrowed-- "Then have me, godsdamnit, you stubborn childish wretch, and I hope I choke you all the way down!"-- and it could hardly be dignified by the name of "kiss", but all the same his stomach had twisted and his skin had burned and Erik's fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, fishing up into his hair, deepening whatever he had done, were impossible to ignore.

Erik never put the glasses on again.

Broken, yes, broken every year, more years than he cared to count. Broken every time he gave in, despising himself. He didn't want to be another Pan, he didn't want the burden of a hero, he didn't want to be Lord of anyone and he didn't want to want Erik. At all.

Still breaking every time one of those starved half-afraid touches pierced him. Still breaking every time their breath mingled. Breaking into smaller, sharper, more misshapen pieces every time he let the other man climb between his covers (and oh, it was impossible at these times to call him a boy, suitable though it was any other time); every time fragments of words escaped into the space between their lips; every time skin met skin; every time Erik's mouth on him torched the universe into a maelstrom of gasp and moan and linen sheets.

It had never supposed to have been this way. And soon, someday, it had to stop.