Current mood:	lethargic
Entry tags:	being human, fic, george/mitchell

Fic: "Blood"; George/Mitchell; NC17
For two reasons. I made somebody cry with my last fic, and felt very bad about it. And my lovely beta sent me an email where she impersonated a Dalek and demanded: "p.s. Send.more.porn." and of course her wish is my command, and thus.

Being Human; George/Mitchell

It is the pulse in his ears that he cannot live without. Continuation on Four

Beta by arubyslipper. Lyrics by Damien Rice.

Blood

Allow me that
And I can't let go of your hand

It’s peaks and troughs for Mitchell; going without blood. After four months George has learned to recognise the bad days. From the early morning bitter coffee brewing on the stove instead of the eternal tea; from closed doors; and from the twitching and shaking. George tries to help, he wants to help. But he doesn’t know how, beyond buying the really nice coffee beans from Starbucks. They both work in a hospital, so George knows about going cold turkey, about the symptoms and events. With Mitchell it doesn’t seem to get better, he’s in constant motion like a manic depressive on a high. For a while George considers stealing some Valium for him from the hospital, but stops because he fears that it wouldn’t really make any difference.

About a week after the fool moon Mitchell takes sick leave from the hospital. He stays in his room for a week, and George wonders if he has died, if he can die at all. Annie makes jokes about decomposing bodies in the flat. George gives her a look, but doesn’t say anything after he notices the faraway look in her eyes, and wonders if she is speaking about Mitchell at all.

It’s very late, or very early depending on your point of view. George is still wearing his scrubs from the night shift. The kitchen is blissfully silent and there are no teacups in sight. For a while he just stands by the sink and enjoys the silence, the lack of dishes to be done. George doesn’t hear Mitchell at the door until he says

“George.”

His voice is thick and his eyes red-rimmed. George knows the tone, the timber of Mitchell’s voice and knows that there has ever been only one time and place where he hears it. George turns to face him, opens himself up, apprehensive and expectant at the same time. Mitchell moves with a kind of speed George has rarely witnessed.

He pushes George against the sink. His back already aches from where the blunt edge pushes into his flesh. Mitchell pants and mutters incoherently, and George can make out some of the words, like sorry and shit and please. And it’s enough for him, enough to know that Mitchell needs this. He flattens his palms out on the edge of the counter and spreads his legs in invitation. Mitchell’s breath is irregular and loud in the room as he swallows George’s cock. George tries to keep his mouth shut, but he is undone in the face of Mitchell’s guttural moans and sighs muffled by George’s own flesh. So, George lets his head fall back, and for the first time lets the sounds out. He tells himself that no one will hear him, that whatever he says will mingle and merge with the sounds of Mitchell’s pleasure, and thus will never have existed in the first place.

George doesn’t know when Mitchell learned his way around his body so well. He doesn’t think about those long days after the transformation, doesn’t think about Mitchell wrapped around him and in him. That is part of the wolf, and George will not let those thoughts ruin his normality. He groans, feet slipping on the linoleum floor, as Mitchell shoves two fingers into him, hard and brutal and wonderful. He knows it won’t be long now, his stomach knotting and calves tensing, and he knows that Mitchell knows this as well, can feel every tremor and twitch.

Afterwards Mitchell pulls away reluctantly and his lips are swollen and shiny. He gets up like a folding of paper, with sharp corners and heavy angles, and leaves the room. The loudness of his own breath startles George in the sudden silence, and with numb fingers he manages to pull his trousers up. It means nothing, he tells himself. Nothing.

Mitchell barricades himself into his room again and takes more time off work. George takes some of his shifts, and tells himself it’s not guilt or regret, just practicality. He goes two days without seeing Mitchell, and the look he wore standing by the kitchen door will not leave him be. George is not an articulate person, but he understood that look; understood I’m sorry I need this, I’m sorry I want you, I’m sorry.

George knocks on the door. Once, twice. He gets no answer and goes into the room anyway. Mitchell is curled on the bed, all arms and legs like an origami. The noodles of his spine draw a straight line like a pearl necklace through his back. Slowly George strips; sweater, t-shirt, jeans, all pile up on the floor that hasn’t been cleaned in ages. If he wasn’t so terribly focused on the shivers running down Mitchell’s sides, George would be disgusted. He crawls into the bed, palming Mitchell’s spine, ribs and sharp jutting hip bones, anywhere his hands can reach. He whispers.

“Mitchell.”

Softly, against the hairs that stand on end in the nape of his neck. Slowly Mitchell unwinds from his self-imposed circle of limbs. His mouth is open and eyes heavy and tired. George kisses him then, those lips that have been wrapped around him and inside of him, and he must admit to himself that yes, I want.