Part the Fourth

He had never been a controlled person – he would be the first to admit it. Controlling, perhaps; but never controlled.

He hadn't always been that way. The world had pushed down on him, and he'd pushed back; but even when the world had stopped pushing, he hadn't known how to give up. Until Colin had come along and changed all of that.

The first time he could remember meeting Colin, they had been eleven and twelve years old; Colin had said something in a history lesson that had him running out of the classroom with the rest of the form following gleefully on his heels. It had left a lasting impression on Thom. Colin was a natural leader, not a follower, and Thom had known it even then. For a while they'd moved in very different circles – Thom was aware of the other boy, a constant presence at his periphery, like an itch he couldn't scratch – but then something had happened, something which altered everything; he'd walked in on Colin being beaten up in the gym changing rooms.

Or rather, he'd walked in on the aftermath: Colin dragging himself to his feet, putting his uniform straight and mopping at a bloody nose with the sleeve of his blazer as a handful of older boys pushed past Thom into the corridor, their laughter still echoing off the tiled walls. If it had been Thom he would have been fighting back tooth and nail – Thom always gave as good as he got – but it didn't look as though Colin had done anything to stop them. Almost as though he'd invited it on himself. He'd stared at Thom, blood still trickling from his right nostril and into his mouth, a bruise blossoming around his eye – it had to hurt like hell – but he wasn't showing any outward signs of distress. After a few moments of not saying anything, he'd shrugged and left the room, head held high and blood all over his face.

Two days later, Michael Hodgson, a boy a couple of years above them, was escorted out of a chemistry lesson by the police.

Whispers went all around the school about what had happened, ranging from an affair with the head matron to a clandestine Satanic cult, but it was some scrawny kid in first year who seemed to know the truth: they'd found a knife and the accoutrements for a home-made bomb in Hodgson's locker, and enough evidence to suggest he intended to use them. He wasn't seen in school again. Thom heard on the grapevine that the kid was Colin Greenwood's little brother, put two and two together, and knew exactly where Michael Hodgson was; he only had to see the cold smile on Greenwood's face at the mention of the older boy's name for his confirmation. The next week, he asked Colin if he'd like to join his band Colin said yes, and that was that.

Twelve years later, he looked down at the boy on the bed and realised what he wanted: a taste of that control.

“Get off the bed, Colin,” he said.

Colin looked over, studying Thom's face, searching; whatever he was seeking, Thom assumed he found it, because he nodded wordlessly and slid off the mattress, moving to the footboard where he stood, waiting... expectant. Thom leaned forwards, palm outstretched, holding it just above the smooth pale expanse of Nat's chest. He could feel the warmth of the boy's skin, could imagine the slight tremor in his bones as he watched, cautious, almost apprehensive... no. He was apprehensive, Thom could tell. Did he seem that unpredictable? He was half-tempted to look to Colin for directions, but he recalled Colin's words and understood finally their significance: Nat was a test of the lesson he was being taught, and Colin was gauging how much he had learned. To act on his feelings. Thom knew immediately that he hadn't learned anywhere near as much as he'd thought, because in twelve years around Colin, he'd forgotten how.

He could sense Colin's smile even without seeing it: his hesitation was too great and his pretence was revealed. “Oh, Thom,” came Colin's soft voice as if in answer to his internal fears, and he closed his eyes in despair. “You haven't learned a thing.”

He heard quiet footsteps round the bed, and then small hands landed on his upper arms, propelling him gently off the mattress. By the time he turned around and opened his eyes, Nat was lying on his front, spreadeagled, in supplication; his face was hidden by his hair, and Thom felt a sick sensation in his stomach which had nothing to do with his failure. Colin was at his elbow, one arm crooked up, slender finger tapping a thoughtful rhythm against his lips. “Nat knows his place, you see,” he murmured. “He learned his lessons long ago. Perhaps your problem, Thom, is that you've never had a place at all – have you? The eternal outsider, beyond the mundane notion of a social role, neither here nor there... and you've forgone the most basic instruction in mastering yourself, which is to gain an understanding of how you fit in. And don't protest,” he continued, before Thom could object, “you do fit in, however much you'd will it otherwise. We just have to find out where.”

He stood there a while longer; Thom could almost hear the cogs turning in that inscrutable head. “The world is never black and white, Thom,” he said eventually, “and neither are people. There are not just leaders and followers; it's more subtle than that.” He lifted a hand to Thom's face, stroking the roughness of evening stubble along his jawline with the pad of one thumb, and gave a small smile. “Hit me.”

Thom gaped at him. “What – no!”

Colin's expression darkened. “Thom. Hit me. Here.” He patted his cheek lightly, a strange light dancing in his eyes. “I won't ask you again.”

Well, that was an interesting development, Thom thought, as he felt the familiar twinge of arousal in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to hurt Colin, he really didn't, but his body seemed to think otherwise; or was it just responding to the command in Colin's tone? But he wasn't going to argue, so he raised his hand, and after a moment's consideration brought it hard against Colin's face in an open-palmed slap.

He heard the crack almost before he felt the pain; Colin had responded, quick as a snake, returning the slap without any of the reluctance that had diminished Thom's force. “What the fuck was that for?” he howled, glaring at Colin with outright indignation as he clutched his flaming cheek.

“The first rule of any engagement: consequences,” Colin said coldly. There was a handprint blossoming on his face, but he'd hardly batted an eye at Thom's assault; just as he'd been similarly unaffected by the changing room brawl all those years before. “Take responsibility for your own actions. Even when you think you're just following orders, it's still your choice.”

Thom remembered Colin's point that he never forced anyone into a situation: that they always chose to be there, as such that they were free to leave at any point. Was it not too late for him? Could he still say to Colin thanks, but no thanks, go back to how it had been before, pretend this had never happened? The longer he thought about it, the more obvious it became: right here, right now, they'd reached the point of no return. He knew too much, and Colin was wrong – he had learned something: he didn't want to be the old Thom who'd pretended for so long that he was forgetting who he was.

“I understand,” he murmured. “And... I want to know something.” He wasn't afraid to ask, although five minutes ago he might have been; a thought had suddenly occurred to him, one which he hardly dared to contemplate for fear it would evaporate like a summer mist.

“Hmmm?”

“Will you show me... what it's like to have control?”

A thrill went up his spine at the flash of shock that crossed Colin's face. That had rattled him; it was clearly the last thing he'd expected from such a hopeless case. But the following expression was the one that made it worth it: Colin looked pleased, like a father who'd just taught his son how to ride a bike, and it was because he was pleased with Thom. This was a learning process, indeed.

“How?”

He knew the answer to that: had known it ever since he'd laid eyes on Nat and that insidious creeping bitter sense of resentment and jealousy had crawled into his belly and lain there like a stone. No longer afraid that he was being presumptuous, he put a hand on Colin's hip, turned the slender body to face him; when he started to undo the buckle of Colin's belt, there was no reprimand, just a slow dawning appreciation of the changing dynamic in their mutual power. The leather in his palms was warm with the residual heat of Colin's body, supple and soft like well-toned flesh, and it purred against the fabric as he drew it through the loops of Colin's trousers. “Teach me how to hurt him. I've never done it, I don't know if I could.”

Colin still seemed a little dazed, but he'd come partway out of the reverie he'd been in since Thom's last request. Nevertheless, there was an uncharacteristic hesitation in the way he reached for the buckled end of the belt, placing it in Thom's palm, showing him how to wind the leather around his fingers for a better grip. It was absolutely worth it, however, for the panic on Nat's pretty face as the pair of them stood there and contemplated that pale form atop the quilt.

“Look away,” Colin told the boy without a trace of emotion, and he did. Colin opened the drawer of the beside table and took out a single plain white candle, which he lit with a match from his pocket and held up to his face, examining the flame and the thin trickle of wax that slid down the candle's shaft to pool on his hand. “To hurt someone, Thom – to really hurt them – you have to let them know they mean nothing to you. He's been clinging on to an illusion of tenderness for too long. But you want to hurt him. Don't you?”

Nat's mouth, those plush lips stretched around Colin's fingers... Colin's hands in the dark hair, fierce, possessive... “I do.” He realised with a shock that none of the viciousness in his tone was for show. He meant it.

“There's an art to this, Thom,” Colin continued, as though the previous exchange had not existed. “It lies in the surprise more than in the pain itself. When you slapped me, it barely hurt – the expectation of pain dulls its edge, as a weapon it becomes almost useless. If you really want to hurt someone – which it seems you do, although I can't imagine what poor Nat has done to deserve it – the pain will come out of the blue.” He sat down on the bed beside Nat, held out his hand and quick as a flash tipped the candle, leaving a trail of quickly drying wax on the sensitive skin at the base of the boy's back; Nat gasped and moaned, arching up from the bed, and Colin smacked his bare shoulder hard. “Like so.” He blew out the candle, leaving the sharp scent of smoke lingering in the air, and put the candle back in the drawer. “You can still leave, Nat,” he added, leaning down and stroking the boy's hair tenderly; Thom saw the slim body shudder, but the boy didn't move from his spread position, exposed on the bed. He glanced up at Thom and nodded to the belt; although his hands were trembling, he raised it, and brought it down across the back of Nat's thighs with as much strength as he could muster.

The cry was muffled in the cushions, but the point had been made. Colin let out a short laugh, and ruffled Nat's hair; Thom's eyes were still fixed on the vivid red stripe that had appeared across the pale skin. “There, now,” Colin was saying, his mouth near to the boy's ear. “That wasn't so bad, was it, Jonathan?”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Thom's stomach. And it shouldn't have been a surprise, he should have known the boy's full name, but as his cock sprang to full attention and his brain swam, he realised that didn't just want to hurt the boy on the bed, he hated him; and now, he knew why.

---

The darkness around him was shifting, coalescing into something more solid. He groaned as every ache in his body made itself known at once: his head felt as though it was stuffed with sawdust; the muscles of his arms and shoulders were tight as bowstrings; his eyes were gummed almost shut with sleep. He rolled over, bare legs tangling in the sheets, and came into contact with a warm body beside his. It had been a long time since he had woken up in bed next to someone else without having passed out drunk.

He blinked and rubbed at his eyelids until it wasn't painful to pry them apart. The Green Room. It was still dim, the sound of early morning traffic only just beginning to filter through the window, but even the low light was too much; he gave a howl of protest when the bedside lamp flicked on and threw his surroundings into sharp relief.

Colin was sitting in the chair beside the bed, right ankle resting on his opposite knee and fingers laced together across his stomach, watching him. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, the material parted slightly; his eyes were heavily hooded and aside from the shadow of stubble on his jaw he looked as utterly unruffled as ever. There were three empty wine bottles resting on the tabletop near his elbow, and one half-full glass, plus a second unused one with the stem snapped in two like a broken flower. Thom allowed his gaze to travel over these, over the slender hand and pale arm stretched out atop the pillow, over the dimpled joint of smooth shoulder, up the white neck to the serene face of the boy he'd slept with.

And he remembered in vivid detail just how spectacularly his attempt at keeping control had failed.

“You did quite a number on him,” Colin observed in a maddeningly matter-of-fact tone. “I was wondering if I should have gone for the police.” He leaned over and plucked the sheet back with thumb and forefinger, as though touching it would somehow contaminate him; Thom sucked in a breath at the damage he'd left behind. Nat's back was a criss-crossed mess of technicolour bruising and livid raised weals; there were bitemarks across his shoulderblades and the nape of his neck; and, lower down, angry red scratches decorating his hips and thighs. Thom stared at his ragged fingernails. He'd done that.

It wasn't the first time he'd fucked a man – a fact that he didn't readily broadcast to the world – but it was the first time he'd done it without the excuse of alcohol to reassure his misgivings. “You were rather vocal,” Colin continued, dropping the sheet; Nat stirred and murmured something, but didn't wake. “I'd almost forgotten what you sound like when you come.”

“I – what?”

“You should clean yourself up,” Colin said, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. “We have another rehearsal this afternoon and you can't show up like that.”