***** This story is not an essential part of the Will/Jesse timeline, and involves non-consensual sex between Frost and Jesse. If you don't enjoy this kind of content, I would advise you not to read it. *****
Special thanks to Holliday1960 for picking up the typos, and giving me feedback on this exceptionally long piece of fiction.
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Jesse leaned one hand against the wall and rested his forehead against the bricks, waiting to see if he'd throw up. The hot feeling was in his head, the bitterness of bile at the back of his throat.
The alleyway reeked of stale piss after a recent rain squall, which wasn't helping his nausea. At his feet, thick forests of moss grew in the soil that'd collected in cracks in the concrete, giving off a stink of sewer mud.
A stiff breeze threw the ends of his sweaty hair against his face, stinging his skin. The cool was pleasant after the heat of the club, but as his sweat soured and cooled against his back, he felt the first stirrings of comedown dread.
What the fuck was in the crap he'd taken? Whatever it was, it'd lifted and dumped him in the same hour, filling him with elation one moment, then sending him sliding towards depression a few tracks later with a throbbing headache and full-body exhaustion.
Happy birthday to me.
He gulped in more damp air to tamp down the nausea, then pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it. Nothing. He'd hoped Will would have remembered, or even to have heard from Lucy. Even now, years later, he still missed her keenly. Had hoped to hear from Nate.
Well you won't hear from him, will you? He's probably dead.
The thought filled Jesse with black despair, and the puke he'd been wrestling down, surged up his throat and splattered against the concrete between his feet. He winced at the foul taste, and stayed there, his chest heaving. There was nothing much in it, just booze. He ate hardly anything these days, couldn't stomach the thought of food most of the time.
He staggered away from the stinking splash of liquid, and leaned his back against the wall further down, struggling to stay upright. His knees felt weak, his head hot and empty, as if he was close to passing out.
Byron had been in the club. Jesse rarely went to gay clubs, always felt self conscious about his body. Without Will to chivvy him along, he rarely went to the gym, and hardly ate. He knew he was underweight for his five foot ten, which made him feel weak and inadequate like some gawky teenager, but he couldn't help eye up other men with Will's build. Then, when they approached him, he found their physical presence too intimidating and would find a way to disengage and disappear.
But tonight he turned twenty-four, and he wanted to end the self imposed isolation he'd endured now for months. Just for one night, wanted to take someone home, to feel hands on his body, to feel desired. He didn't care by who. Until he'd seen Byron.
Byron, his light brown eyes glittering as he approached some fresh-faced kid, built much like Jesse, only younger. Jesse's long hair, only this kid had blue eyes. Wide blue eyes that seemed to have no idea what to make of Byron.
And then Byron, leaning over the kid, handing him a drink, resting his elbow against the wall while he pinned the kid there with his presence; this kid that Jesse knew would soon find himself down at Oscar's, half a dozen cocks stuffed in his mouth one by one, or in his arse. Fresh meat for the men who hid themselves by calling themselves after dead poets.
Jealousy ripped through Jesse. Not just that Byron was there, was chatting up the new guy while he seemed to have lost Jesse's number, but jealous that he could never go back to Oscar's again—not knowing what he did now. That his own best mate, his first gay lover, had taken him there to pay back a debt. Without telling him... without saying a fucking word about it. And Jesse needed what Oscar's had given him. Missed Will so hard, the need was like a fist landing in his stomach every morning when he woke.
The last time he'd seen Will had been the night after the car accident where Nate had disappeared. They hadn't spoken in months, and Will had Skyped him on his laptop in the hospital where Jesse was being held for observation, more for his mental state than his physical one.
He hadn't said much, and wouldn't give Jesse his new number. Just said he hoped Jesse would be okay, and that he wished he'd done things differently. It was an apology Jesse didn't want as much as he wanted Will there in the room with him.
After that night, Jesse had fallen into darkness. It was so much worse seeing him like that, distant and polite, than not seeing him at all, and it filled him with despair knowing he had no way to contact him.
His legs were buckling.
He clutched at the wall and tried to brace himself to stay standing, his head hanging low. He took slow breaths, fighting back the urge to throw up again.
A shape appeared at the end of the alleyway.
Jesse looked up, but his vision was blurred, and the alleyway was full of shadows and pools of light that fucked with his ability to tell if it was male or female.
The man—it was a man, Jessed decided as he got closer, strode into the alleyway, one hand to his pants, clearly looking for a place to piss.
Jesse was too weak to move, and turned his face away to give the guy privacy as the drunk positioned himself over Jesse's pool of puke and undid his pants, letting a stream of hot piss wash it into the mud.
Always got to have something to aim for,
Jesse thought wryly.
His eyes cast down, Jesse absently watched a trickle of yellow liquid roll towards his feet, its fat surface tension guiding it around the gouts of moss, gathering froth as it passed across the loose soil.
He took a step sideways as it got too close to his boot, and his traitorous legs finally gave out.
He fell against the wall and slid down it, grazing the heel of his hand against the sharp grout between the bricks, as he tried to stop himself falling.
Now, the concrete was cold and hard under his arse, the piss still inching towards him, and he didn't have the strength to get out of its way.
He realised the man pissing was getting closer, the hot stream spattering the concrete wall, the odour of it sharp in the wet night air.
Patters of liquid fell against his leather pants and Jesse looked up... and gulped in fear. He knew that face.
His vision blurred, came back, as he put up a hand, trying to guide the man's hips away from him, from the demeaning stream of piss splashing against his leg.
The man laughed and guided his flaccid cock away from Jesse, finishing up with a couple of practiced shakes. He packed himself away and then looked back at the younger man collapsed on the ground. He crouched beside Jesse and put a hand to his face, running his fingers along the younger man's jaw.
Jesse felt fear penetrate his stomach like a solid steel rod, as he looked into the eyes of the man who called himself Frost.
The real Robert Frost would no doubt roll in his grave if he saw the way this man conducted himself. In his early fifties, with dark blonde hair slowly going white, and pale eyes, Frost was a sadist who lived to create fear. His trademark down at Oscar's was a penknife, the blade chilled, and sharp enough to slice open his marks if they moved.
Tonight there was no blade in his hand, but the last time they'd met, down at Oscar's, Frost had ordered Jesse to take his cum into his mouth and told him to swallow. And Jesse, not in the mood to cooperate after being terrified so close to tears, had spat it all over his shoe.
At the time, he'd thought Frost was going to hit him, but Will had been there, so he hadn't. But Will was not here now. And Jesse couldn't move.
"What amuses me," said the older man, his blue eyes drilling through Jesse's into his drug-soft brain, "is that you do it to yourself. You actively fuck yourself. I could find you here any weekend, couldn't I?"
He moved his hand up to stroke over Jesse's long hair, a caress that ended behind his ear. A loving touch, but no less terrifying for it.
"I don't know why you're afraid of me. You'll die at your own hand before anyone else gets the pleasure." His voice was deep, a low drawl.
He teased a few strands of Jesse's hair between his fingers and tugged, tearing them out. Jesse put a hand to the man's wrist to stop him and Frost slapped him with the back of his hand for defying him. With no strength in his arm, all Jesse could do was hang on to him while he did it.
"Not so cocky now, are we, without our precious minder? And where is Will? I heard you drove him away. The best lay someone like you could ever hope for, and you drove him away by... fucking your own
brother?
"
