Fight Club - Home Style
*Story contains M/M relations and references to violence*
I know that look on
his face. It’s the look that says, ‘I’ve had two too many shots of whiskey and
I’ve just suddenly realised that you’re the reason behind every single thing
that’s ever gone wrong in my life’. I also know that the wise thing to do is
get up and walk away, go find somewhere else to be. I am, however, still a man.
And I don’t enjoy getting neutered anymore than the next guy.
What I don’t know, what I never really know, is how we get here. It was just a movie, just a comment that led to another comment, that led to a disagreement, that led to more disagreements, which led to some kind of comparison, that... well, that’s the point, isn’t it? There’s just no way of knowing how Edward Norton’s reaction to something Brad Pitt said ends up in how much he hates the way I look at him when we’re arguing.
Who is he, anyway, to hate the expression on my face? I want to shout at him, “You think that’s smug? I can show you fucking smug. I’m the goddamn king of smug, you prick.” That’s what I should do. If I’m not just going to get up and walk away, I should at least just let it all out. Instead, I’m just going to sit and sulk – too proud to leave, too timid to fight.
“And you can quit the fucking pouting, too,” he says, and I flinch. My fists are already clenched so tight that my nails are cutting into my palms. I like it. It gives me something to focus on: the crescent-shaped slicing and Brad’s pretty face on the screen. Take me away, cowboy.
So I let my mind wander. I let it revel in the role of victor; play out the scene of wrenching his arm behind his back until his eyes water, of forcing him to his knees. I let my imagination overpower him, call him a disrespectful little bitch and tell him exactly how I’m going to put that mouth to better use. I offer him no mercy and no consolation, even when he pleads for it. I see myself yanking his head back with my free hand and fucking his throat silent for a change.
When he picks up his glass for the umpteenth time and snorts over its rim at my glance, I know already, through conceived fantasy alone, what it would feel like to slap the drink away with my left hand and grab his throat with my right. How his chest would feel under my knee – what his eyes would do when I leaned over him and growled into his face. “Mind your manners, whore, before I find it necessary to remind you of your place.”
Instead I gnaw the inside of my cheek until teeth press through flesh and blood starts to run. I work the torn skin until the pain turns sharp and my jaw aches from the pressure. I swallow the blood around a stinging shot of tequila.
When he goes to rise and stumbles, fake-me dives for him, tossing him back on the sofa face first. Drunk, disoriented, confused, he’d make feeble attempts to stop me from pushing my knee between his thighs and prying his legs apart. “This,” I’d tell him, smacking his ass with a brutal palm, “has been too long in coming, love.”
In real time, however, he sits back hard and grunts. Moments tick past while Brad and Edward gesticulate, pontificate, and articulate life, love, and the domination of all things corporate, until he finally looks over at me, glassy-eyed and tired... “I’m drunk,” he says.
The perfect moment to rise in a self-righteous storm of accusation and sarcastic retort – to reassert my superiority both intellectually and moralistically – I let the chance pass with a nod and a reach. “Come on,” I say.
Even now I can see myself yanking his arm, pulling him close to my face, glaring into the eyes that are only half-filtering movement, and fisting his hair. “You’re so going to pay,” I’d snarl at him. “For the pierced hands and the leaking cheek. For the burning belly and the headache.” But I shoulder his weight and help him up the stairs, I direct him down the hall and into our bed. I peel him out of his clothes and catch him when he loses his balance into the dresser, even if I do end up whacking my knee against the bedpost to do it.
When his head hits the pillow and he pulls the blanket up to his chin, I change my mind about the movie and tuck myself in behind him. I’ll lie there, until the snoring begins to drive me insane. Then I’ll get back up and go finish watching the movie.
Tomorrow though... tomorrow he owes me. This time for sure.
What I don’t know, what I never really know, is how we get here. It was just a movie, just a comment that led to another comment, that led to a disagreement, that led to more disagreements, which led to some kind of comparison, that... well, that’s the point, isn’t it? There’s just no way of knowing how Edward Norton’s reaction to something Brad Pitt said ends up in how much he hates the way I look at him when we’re arguing.
Who is he, anyway, to hate the expression on my face? I want to shout at him, “You think that’s smug? I can show you fucking smug. I’m the goddamn king of smug, you prick.” That’s what I should do. If I’m not just going to get up and walk away, I should at least just let it all out. Instead, I’m just going to sit and sulk – too proud to leave, too timid to fight.
“And you can quit the fucking pouting, too,” he says, and I flinch. My fists are already clenched so tight that my nails are cutting into my palms. I like it. It gives me something to focus on: the crescent-shaped slicing and Brad’s pretty face on the screen. Take me away, cowboy.
So I let my mind wander. I let it revel in the role of victor; play out the scene of wrenching his arm behind his back until his eyes water, of forcing him to his knees. I let my imagination overpower him, call him a disrespectful little bitch and tell him exactly how I’m going to put that mouth to better use. I offer him no mercy and no consolation, even when he pleads for it. I see myself yanking his head back with my free hand and fucking his throat silent for a change.
When he picks up his glass for the umpteenth time and snorts over its rim at my glance, I know already, through conceived fantasy alone, what it would feel like to slap the drink away with my left hand and grab his throat with my right. How his chest would feel under my knee – what his eyes would do when I leaned over him and growled into his face. “Mind your manners, whore, before I find it necessary to remind you of your place.”
Instead I gnaw the inside of my cheek until teeth press through flesh and blood starts to run. I work the torn skin until the pain turns sharp and my jaw aches from the pressure. I swallow the blood around a stinging shot of tequila.
When he goes to rise and stumbles, fake-me dives for him, tossing him back on the sofa face first. Drunk, disoriented, confused, he’d make feeble attempts to stop me from pushing my knee between his thighs and prying his legs apart. “This,” I’d tell him, smacking his ass with a brutal palm, “has been too long in coming, love.”
In real time, however, he sits back hard and grunts. Moments tick past while Brad and Edward gesticulate, pontificate, and articulate life, love, and the domination of all things corporate, until he finally looks over at me, glassy-eyed and tired... “I’m drunk,” he says.
The perfect moment to rise in a self-righteous storm of accusation and sarcastic retort – to reassert my superiority both intellectually and moralistically – I let the chance pass with a nod and a reach. “Come on,” I say.
Even now I can see myself yanking his arm, pulling him close to my face, glaring into the eyes that are only half-filtering movement, and fisting his hair. “You’re so going to pay,” I’d snarl at him. “For the pierced hands and the leaking cheek. For the burning belly and the headache.” But I shoulder his weight and help him up the stairs, I direct him down the hall and into our bed. I peel him out of his clothes and catch him when he loses his balance into the dresser, even if I do end up whacking my knee against the bedpost to do it.
When his head hits the pillow and he pulls the blanket up to his chin, I change my mind about the movie and tuck myself in behind him. I’ll lie there, until the snoring begins to drive me insane. Then I’ll get back up and go finish watching the movie.
Tomorrow though... tomorrow he owes me. This time for sure.
The End
Copyright © 2011 AF Henley
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