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“And because we have all the time in this world. Assuming you manage to stay in it.”
Mort could feel Anubis nearby. His cousin had taken his territory, one psychopomp covering for another. The people of northwest Nevada would be surprised to meet an Egyptian god when they passed. It would be an interesting twist in the last part of their various tales. Mort didn’t mind about the rest of them, but Anubis would gloat if he had the chance to take Tris. He would be insufferable, and Mort would be inconsolable.
“I’m going to stay in this world,” Tristan said. “I’m not giving that dog the fucking satisfaction.”
“Dog?”
“Yeah. A German Shepherd at the hospital. Walked on his hind legs, sniffing around. He came and stood at the end of my bed while they stitched me up, giving me this goofy fucking look.”
Anubis would not like being described as a German Shepherd. Or goofy, for that matter. But that was how these things worked. Psychopomps were perceived through the eyes of those who beheld them. He’d forgotten about that part. Maybe the people of northwest Nevada would find themselves escorted by a plain ol’ doggie.
As Tristan described the scene there was an expression of distaste on his face that Mort found very appealing, given it was in reference to Anubis.
“Tom told me something.” Mort changed the subject. “He said that you once ran away into the desert for forty days.”
“Oh. Yeah. That was a long time ago.” Tris scratched at one of his bandages. He was already healing. He was strong. Stronger than anybody who abused his body as much as he did had any right to be.
“You were a child,” Mort nodded. “I’ve seen these deserts. Walked through them. There are few, close to no water sources, and even less food.”
“I made do.”
“Apparently. But I have to wonder how.”
Tristan’s smile faded slightly. He shifted in his chair. An expression of something like guilt flashed over his face. “I don’t know,” he said, lying terribly. He hadn’t lied to Mort before, and Mort found that he did not like it one bit.
“There are devils in the desert,” Mort said, keeping his tone casual. “It would be easy to strike a deal with one, if you were young, desperate, and dying.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” Tristan cut into the stack of pancakes with his fork, then shoved them into his mouth.
“No. I am just wondering if that might have been where your gift of seeing demons comes from.”
“Saw them before that,” Tristan said. “You want some of these?” He leaned back in his chair, precariously putting the old wood structure on two back legs instead of four as he reached backwards for a fork on the counter. He couldn’t do the most simple of things without making the act a danger to himself.
He swung back, unharmed, and the muscles in his arm rippled pleasingly as he offered Mort a fork.
It was impossible to be angry at Tristan or stay serious around him. He was such a study in contradictions. Sometimes he was so maudlin, so self-destructive, yearning for annihilation. And other times he made pancakes and tried to get laid.
“Thank you…” Mort said, taking the fork from Tristan, and taking a seat next to him. “… boy.” He added the affectionate moniker and watched, pleased, as Tristan blushed around a mouthful of pancake.
“When you call me that, it fucks with me,” Tristan observed, ever the one to speak his internal monologue out loud.
Mort smiled. “Good.”
“Good, you like fucking with me? Or maybe you want to just straight up fuck me?”
Words spoken with a hopeful grin made Mort smile in return.
“If you can be good boy, I might fuck your mouth.”
Tristan’s eyes hooded with longing. “And if I’m a bad boy?”
“Well…” Mort purred. “Then I’d have to punish you, wouldn’t I?”
An even broader grin spread over Tristan’s face. He tried to hide it but failed.
“Oh no,” he said. “Wouldn’t want that to happen.”
Mort knew better. Tristan craved punishment, because deep down he thought he was a bad boy. Mort was starting to wonder if the answer to the mystery of his lovely mortal was to help him see just what a good boy he truly was.
The chair next to him scraped back. Tristan went to his knees, offering submission for the first time. “I know I don’t deserve you,” he said. “But I need you.”
Mort stared at Tristan, drinking in his beauty. There would never be another moment like this, another first time of submission given willingly and freely.
Tristan looked back, eyes hopeful and lustful. The question am I a good boy hung in the air between them, and Mort knew the only satisfactory yes would be his cock buried in Tristan’s body.
Mort had no intention of giving it easily. This wasn’t about sex to him. He had no real need for sex in the material sense. His desire for intimacy was deeper, transcending the physical. He had already decided this would not be a simple fucking. Tristan liked to have his urges satisfied. But he would have to learn to be something other than satisfied. He would have to learn to wait, to withstand anticipation and uncertainty.
