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Something Undone

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"You maybe told yourself this story and kept drinking until you believed it." - Martin Hart


The outlook is pretty bleak. When Martin had thrown him out, Rust had no where to go - he had quit the bar where he'd worked, and his rented room and storage are gone too. Marty owes him money for the hours he had worked for Marty's P.I. office, but he can't go ask Marty for that now. Marty had told him to get out and that's that. He is out of money; his wallet left on the night stand in Marty's guest room, and thoroughly out of luck. He feels like he deserves it too; the things he has left undone outweighs the stuff he has gotten right in his life by so much it can't be measured at this point.

It's colder on the streets than he remembered. Maybe it's his new wounds; they are more sensitive than the rest of his skin...or maybe it's just him getting old. To keep the cold at bay he ends up walking a lot, instead of trying and failing to find sleep in the cold back alleys of Baton Rouge in December.

He hasn't just quit huge chunks of his old life - in the past months when he'd been living with Marty he's quit drinking too, and he isn't keen on taking up that habit again. He realizes it could help him sleep now if he could somehow scrape up the money for it, but it might just be the end of him too and he isn't quite there yet.

If he could just get his head together and find some kind of direction, some color or taste revealing purpose and meaning. He had thought he had had that, first with surviving and then from working with Marty again, but it had turned out spectacularly bad for the both of them.


While bleak and uncertain, it turns out that his future feels pretty valuable after all when he hears angry voices behind him and one hissing right up against his neck; he figures he must be slipping badly if he's that oblivious to what's happening around him. Ginger's unmistakably and menacing, "Did you think you could fuck with me, Crash?" is a thorough wake-up call.

He starts backing off while he fumbles for the phone in his jacket pocket. He barely manages to press the button for Marty's number before he gets a blow to the head. After that it's a blur of fists and boots from Ginger and his Crusader friends up above him, until he's losing consciousness, right there on the street.


At first, Marty wants to throw the phone out of the window - the gall of that fucker! - then his cop instincts kick in. No way Rust would call him voluntarily and then not answer, not after the way they parted.

He still has the code to Rust's anti-theft tracker. Rust's phone is moving, but it is within reach, so Martin fetches his gun, loads it up and backs out of his driveway so fast he nearly flattens his mailbox.


The Iron Crusaders are just pulling Rust out of the bed of their truck when Marty spots them across the street. They're parked outside a graffitied garage building with tall, rusted steel doors standing ajar.

Marty hits the brakes, rolls his window down and puts the blue light up (memorabilia from his days in the Force) and sets the siren to full blast before screeching up in front of the thugs. Predictably they scatter like roaches; leaving Rust where he lies. They immediately start barricading from inside, bolting the garage doors shut behind them.

Martin hurries over to Rust as fast as his feet can carry him. He checks for pulse: it's there, so he hauls Rust up in a fireman's grip and drags him over to his car and the passenger seat. Rust is bleeding from the mouth and scarily not helping at all. Marty makes sure all their limbs are inside, snaps the doors shut and guns the hell out of there. It is only a question of time before the Crusaders realize Marty is all alone and not an impatient hotshot cop in the lead of a larger raid.

There's still no activity behind them as they speed off and away and Marty would have let out a huge sigh of relief, if he hadn't been so worried over Rust. Rust is fully out of it, sagging down in the footrest of the passenger seat, and if it weren't for the ragged breaths that wheeze out of him, Marty would have thought he was dead.

He drives to Our Lady of the Lake: Maggie's hospital, in stead of back home like he'd first planned.


They do get home eventually, Rust still limping; eerily reminding them both of the last time they arrived at Marty's place with Rust in hospital gowns.

Rust is set up in the guest room again, still containing his sparse living essentials from earlier. Marty hasn't had the heart to clean it out or even look at it. Just thinking about the whole thing now makes Marty feel like a total shit.

Turns out Rust could be worse off, as war wounds go. After a thorough check up, wake up and clean up in the hospital, the doctors had deemed Rust's old damages to hold together okay and that the new ones would heal on their own, given time. A thorough concussion and several broken ribs made it necessary to take it easy though, so it would be preferably he had someone looking after him. Neither of them questioned that; Marty just signed the release forms and followed after the porter wheeling Rust out.


Back at Marty's Rust falls asleep again almost immediately, still in his hospital jammies, but not bleeding any more at least. The medication and the exhaustion, Marty guesses. He can't help noticing that Rust looks grayer and thinner than usual even for him.

Martin lets himself silently out of the guest room and goes on out, to the weight lifting corner of his garage. There he punches his punching bag until he can't anymore. Better not ruin his hands totally, in case Rust needs him tomorrow.


It is late afternoon before the guest room door creaks and a stiff limbed Rust starts hobbling down the hall towards the bathroom.

Marty waits him out. He has been pacing restlessly all morning and can wait a little longer yet.

Rust takes his time and it is only when Marty decides to go look to see if he's okay, that the door finally opens. Rust limps out, not looking at Marty, but heading for the living room couch. Marty has anticipated this and a glass of water and painkillers are set out on the table beside it. Rust eases himself down with a pained gasp, leans back and closes his eyes.

Marty is at a loss. He has prepared what to say, several versions of it, but it is all gone now. They remain in silence for what seems like an eternity. Finally Marty decides that he at least has to sit down, so he lands his ass in a chair opposite Rust. There he remains, looking long and hard on his hands. Suddenly he's aware of Rust peeking at him under half shut eyelids.

"Marty. You are a perfectly normal guy. You are also a born shithead brought up worse, but these things aren't mutually exclusive."

Rust's voice is low and gravelly, but his words are perfectly clear.

"Stop freaking out on me. You've had days to recover and it's not like you are under any threat from me. If you have managed to shut it down completely, that's okay too, but stop freaking the fuck out. It's not helping either of us."

Marty's voice is shaking when he manages an answer, "I've never asked for you to pick me apart."

"No, but this elephant needs to be shot down. I'm too tired to handle your shit right now and bringing me back to your home yesterday was your decision."

"Okay, maybe I am freaking out a little, but I'm dealing. You can just stay out of it."

Rust laughs at that, or dry-heaves to be more accurate, "I think we've tried that."

There is a pause until Rust decides he have even more truths to relate: "If you really think you can tolerate me and are not just doing your simple Christian duty or whatever here, I'd like to keep my job. I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can stand on my feet, but I can do with the regular hours and a steady income. Seems I'm too old for much else these days."

With this he simply falls asleep on the couch. Marty remains sitting, flushing hot and cold for a good long while, before he stumbles to bed. He hardly slept the night before. He needs a nap, or maybe five, but keeps tossing and turning until he gives in and gets up again. He hasn't had a good nights sleep since he tossed Rust out of his home and life and now it seems it doesn't help getting him back again either. Marty is so fucked.

When Rust eventually wakes up, he agrees when Marty offers him the guest room for as long as he'd like and to keep his job at the P.I. office too. Rust even says thanks, and Marty thinks he can count those on one hand, so he's grateful. But it shakes him too, as Rust really shouldn't say thanks with what Marty did to him: it's really Marty who should be grateful and ask for forgiveness. Offering Rust his job back is the least he can do if he wants to keep his self image as a halfway decent guy. It's a little late picking up those shards though.

The day is uneventful: Rust keeps on sleeping on the couch, chugging down painkillers at regular intervals and Marty hovers and tries to keep himself occupied. In the evening they sit up, out on Marty's porch. It's a mild night for December and Marty has fetched blankets and lit the outdoor barbecue and made them burgers. Now the coals are gleaming red, the moon is shining full and bright and the stars are glittering. They don't talk about anything, just sip their beers and enjoy the fresh air.

Rust finally goes to bed when the sun is lighting up the horizon. Marty stays on up and has a little weep for himself as the sun hits his eyes.


Chapter Text

“You put a ceiling on your life, on everything, because you won’t change.” - Maggie Sawyer


They had worked really well after; when they had recovered somewhat, from their wounds and that sad, ugly case they'd lived through, together and against all odds. Martin's former one-man P.I. office had never ran so smoothly before and it even made them good money.

Part of the magic was that they never needed to ask where the other was headed with an investigation: they fit together like clockwork by now, with their complimentary traits and their hard-earned friendship. Their combined manipulative skills worked wonders: Marty softening the clients and Rust the subjects. With Rust back in a shave and a medium crew cut peppered with gray, and the lines of lived life on his already stern face, he didn't even have to open his mouth to intimidated most of them: the burn of his eyes did the trick.

The other trick to it was that Marty made damn sure not to ask Rust anything he didn't want an honest answer to. That worked out great for them both.


For Marty personally, things didn't go so well. His daughter Audrey's depression was getting steadily worse, but she wouldn't have anything to do with him after they had clashed time and time again and it worried him deeply. Maggie gave him regular reports on how Audrey was doing, but not as often as he'd like her to. She had her own life now after she got remarried and Marty just couldn't seem to get past that.

He ended up drinking a whole lot more than he should. He didn't drink on weekdays, not much at least, but in the weekends he just felt like he needed oblivion.


The weekend before he kicked Rust out, they had gone out to a bar. Rust had gotten into a conversation with a woman there, but Marty hadn't been able to come close to anybody. He felt like he desperately needed something, anything, and his desperation must have shown: painted on thick. No sane person would give him a second look, being like that. When he got rowdy and loud, he was asked to leave.

Rust said goodbye to the lady and got them a cab home. He steered Marty up the driveway and inside. Marty, still riled, didn't feel like going to bed, so he fetched a fresh six pack of beer from the fridge and asked Rust to come out on the porch to drink with him. The sky outside was clouded and dark, but Rust still accepted.

"Why didn't you go home with her, from the bar?" Marty slurred. "She was into you."

"I didn't feel like it. I just liked talking to her; she was a smart woman."

"Yet you came home with me."

"You were likely to get lost trying to find the cab; the state you're in." Rust eyed Marty's probably twelfth beer for the evening, but didn't say anything more. That ticked Marty off.

"I can handle a few drinks!"

"Yeah, sure. You're getting sloshed every night you don't have work early the next day and you've just got yourself thrown out of a bar. A typical well-adjusted American male."

For a second there, Marty wondered if Rust was serious, but when Rust didn't meet his stare, he took it as the slight it was.

"Fuck you, Rust!"

He struggled out from his lawn chair, stalked over to Rust's and grabbed for Rust's shirt collar, but gravity seized him and he tipped forward, reaching for purchase. The flimsy fabric of Rust's chair couldn't take their combined weight; it cracked and split open, dumping them on the deck in a tangle of ruined chair and flailing limbs. Rust's surprised gasps for air were hot on Marty's lips and his body was wiry, alive and warm. Marty's hands needed to hold on to something: something as alive as this body underneath him and he hungered, for life, for closeness, for another person knowing, seeing, feeling him. He kissed Rust's stubbly chin.

Rust; stunned, allowed it: Marty's sloppy kisses circling in on his mouth, tongue probing inside. It closed Marty's muddled brain off from the world: the sweet trance of harsh beer-breathed panting, rough kisses, salt, musk, acceptance. Marty couldn't get enough, so he manhandled them to their feet somehow and kept kissing Rust while steering towards the bedroom. Rust let himself be led, with the barest of hesitation to his steps: not enough to give Marty pause at all.

They tipped into bed and Marty pawed Rust's ass, but Rust elbowed him away and grabbed for their cocks - effectively unzipping flys, getting them out and working them together hard and fast. Marty kept tearing at their clothes and got Rust's shirt off somehow, while keeping in bodily contact all the while. Rust's quick panting and the sight of his lean muscled, wiry body and darkly red cock head right next to his own flipped something in Marty's head: this was crazy good, better than alcohol, better than having an affair. Frankly it felt like the best sex Marty had ever had.

Marty came like he was blacking out and Rust was right there beside him; spurts and spurts until they're both sticky wet between them, lips still locked in a greedy kiss. Marty needed a good ten seconds to let go, his head was unable to adjust to post sex reality right then, so he just let himself slide down besides Rust. He closed his swimming eyes and didn't know anything more.


When he woke up well into the next day, Rust wasn't there beside him. Marty found him in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Get out."

Rust looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"GET OUT!" He got right up in Rust's face and raised his fist.

"Relax, relax, I hear you."

Rust raised both his hands in a placating gesture before gathering his torn shirt from the back of the chair he was sitting in. Then he backed right out the door and Marty slammed it hard behind him; the picture of Maggie and the girls at Disney world rattling on the wall beside it.

Back at the kitchen, he saw the second steaming mug on the kitchen table, set out for him. He let out a roar and knocked both cups off the table. They crashed against the wall, coffee splashing everywhere. It didn't help the least with how he was feeling.


Chapter Text

"So what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning?" - Martin Hart


Marty doesn't go to bed at all after their late night barbecue: what's the point, feeling like he does.

He realizes his cupboards are pretty bare: he has hardly eaten anything besides take out since he chased Rust away, so he goes for a shopping round and ends up spending quite a lot of money. Back at home he fries up pancakes, eggs and bacon. He sets the table with good jam and fresh orange juice, and even lays out napkins after he's thought about it.

He is just pouring the coffee when Rust finally appears, silently hobbling into the room, yet less stiff than he was.

Rust eyes him, stony-faced. Marty lets himself down on a chair with a huff. He throws out an arm and says, "Would you like some breakfast".

Rust doesn't react.

"With my apologies? I am sorry I'm such a shit."

"You're a product of your upbringing," Rust huffs, but drags out a chair for himself and swigs down the painkillers he has brought with him.

"Yeah, well, I have a brain too. It even works on occasion. You didn't deserve to get thrown out on your ass and you didn't deserve to meet the Crusaders alone and in the state you were in. That is on me."

"I would have avoided Ginger & co if I had had my head together just a little. That's on me."

None of them has much to say after this. They both concentrate on the food and the coffee that has become just perfect while they have been hashing their stuff out.


"Shiiit. That was good." Rust leans back. His belly has a narrow bulge.

"Glad to see I'm good for something."

The silence goes a little awkward before Marty harrumphs, "Yeah, well. Uh...would you like to move back in for good?"

Rust stays silent for a good long while before he answers, "You really think that's a good idea? You're not going to stop drinking, are you?"

"Perhaps not completely, but I'm cutting back, from today. Got a good excuse for it too, I reckon. But that's not the point. I think I need another person around... I don't think I like my own company that much. Having someone to keep in line for is good. Makes me saner person. It's a lousy offer, and taking advantage of you as it is, but if you think you could handle it; me, I'd be grateful."

Marty's eyes are downcast and his words a little too fast. He did get it out though and that's something.

Rust eyes him for a bit before he answers. "Thank you for that backwards compliment and considering me and all, but I really don't think I can be that person, substituting Maggie for you. Eventually you'll find someone you actually like, and then I'd be out of both a job and a home, again. So if it is alright with you, I'll stay until I can find a place of my own. I still want to keep the job. If you find you can't work with me, it'll take me a little longer. But I'll get my shit together and find an income and then I'll be outta your hair."

"Aw shit, Rust." Marty goes all red and he falters and tries a few times before he manages an answer, "I got that all wrong, didn't I? Again? I'm so bad with this. What I really wanted to say was..."

He sighs deeply before trying again, "I like having YOU around, Rust. You wouldn't be...substituting, for anyone."

Rust lets out a laugh, startled, "Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Yeah... Hell, I think I do." He then shifts from red to a slight gray and eyes Rust warily. "But you don't want that."

"No, you just took me by surprise here. Really. You need to let me think about this." Rust shuts up and sets his eyes on Marty.

Marty sits fidgeting for as long as he can manage, but finally gets up and starts clearing the table.

He starts when he hears Rust's voice behind him.

"Marty. I like working with you and I like you very much, against experience and knowledge to the better." Rust has righted himself in the chair and he laughs self-depreciatively while looking down at the tablecloth, fiddling with that stupid napkin.

"To be honest, I don't know if I can ever love somebody again, and you know why. But I'm human too. Besides, you are the closest I have to a friend by now; someone who knowns who I am and who I've been. I'd never have thought I'd have that again and that's a very lonely feeling."

Now Rust is the one having to clear his throat, "Um. So. If you're serious we could give it a try. No strings, not a marriage, but with a little fewer barriers and a little more truth than before."


"Shit indeed."

Rust rises from his chair. He looks at Marty who doesn't respond, just shudders from the tension that's suddenly leaving him. Marty doesn't know what more to say and Rust turns and goes outside while Marty dumps down by the table, mind spinning. He had thought he had sorted this out and thought it through, but he realizes he doesn't know where they're headed at all.


When Marty finally follows Rust out on the deck, he finds him looking out over the backyard. It's not much of a garden, but the winterly outdoor air is crisp and home and there's an easy companionship between them again that Marty is very much aware of.

"I've come close to killing myself out of just not caring every time I've tried this on my own," says Rust, low and unblinking.

"Yeah, I hate that about you," Marty answers, heartfelt.

Rust squints at Marty and a slow, not-quite-a-smile starts curling around his lip.


"You're a good cook."

"Pancakes? Really?"

"Hey, I'm trying here. Do you want me to compliment you on the way you fuck instead?"

"Fuck's sake, Rust..." Marty breaks off, consternated.

"Perhaps if I get you really drunk again..."

"Shut your trap! I'm still trying to wrap my head around that shit."

"'s just flesh, Marty. Nothing to get your boxers all twisted over, really."

"Sentient flesh, Rust, remember. As in, able to think it over. Leave it alone or I might rethink this whole thing."

"Relax, I'm just pulling your leg. I'm an easy guy. If you want to go out looking for cheerleaders or court reporters or whatever I won't mind."

Marty doesn't answer, he just looks down, trying to keep his breath even.

"Easy guy, my ass," he thinks.


Chapter Text

"a dream about being a person" - Rustin Cohle


They settle in a routine of sorts. Rust won't be of much help back at work just yet, as long as he's limping and dependent of pain killers to get by, so Marty goes to work alone for the next few days, leaving Rust to his meager library and worn laptop. Rust, for his part, starts taking care of things at home, putting dishes in the dish washer, doing chores - very slowly, as it pulls on his scars, but still. He even fetches mail from the mailbox and leaves it on the living room table for Marty to find when he comes home.

Marty feels it with every fiber in his body - having someone to come home to, for as long as his imagination can stretch - he doesn't have words to describe it, even to himself. Still, he accepts unquestioningly when Rust finally says that he wants to start working again, and also that he'd like to try working a little more independently than before. Marty agrees; whatever it takes he's okay with it.

It happens that Marty still freaks silently out from what they're doing, but he's sure that goes for Rust too. It's less and less frequently though. Marty has even caught himself feeling happy about his life at times. It's like a strange wonder has happened to them, in an otherwise shitty or downright evil world. God knows he doesn't deserve it.


The minute Marty sees him; sitting motionless by the kitchen table, he knows something is very wrong. It's in the dejected curve of Rust's narrow neck and in the powerless slope of his shoulders.

Marty hurries over and lays an arm around him before he manages to check himself, "What is it?"

Rust jumps a little at the first contact, but then sighs and leans back into him. Marty then sees what Rust has been looking at: it's their local newspaper. The war-type headline says, "Have you seen little Mary?"


"Yeah." Rust's voice sounds thin and broken.

"We got to let the police handle this."

"Yeah, I know. It's just..."

Rust doesn't finish, but Marty knows exactly what he means anyway.

It's a long time before they break apart and Marty pulls his arm away from Rust's shoulders. Both men feel the cold, empty space the imprint of it leaves behind.


At three AM, Rust gives up on sleeping and goes to the kitchen.

He's standing by the counter pouring himself a glass of milk when he feels Marty come up behind him. "You couldn't sleep either?" Rust asks.

"I could hear your tossing and turning right through the walls."

Rust is still looking very thin in his old t-shirt and tighty whities, Marty notices. He puts an arm around Rust's shoulders again and while Rust starts once more, he doesn't shrug it off.

"You tired?"

"Tired as hell itself, man."

"Come to bed with me then." Marty says, just a little too self-assured, and starts towards the hallway. Rust hesitates at first, but then puts the glass and bottle away and follows after.

The bedroom is very dark after the bright kitchen lights. Marty gets into the far side of the double bed and throws out an arm, holding the cover open.

"Get in here. Keep the demons away."

Rust gets in too, gingerly. They lie in silence for a while, side by side. It's quite nice and Marty has missed this: quiet breathing and companionship through the tougher nights. He still can't sleep though, and Rust is just as awake. Marty's darned mind starts racing again, and he's really starting to wonder if this was well thought out.



"You're breathing faster every minute."

Marty gives a huge sigh and really tries to relax, shaking himself a little.

Rust lets out a low laugh, "I don't really think you are going to punch me for what I'm going to do now, but this is your chance to say no."

He waits a few seconds before he lays a calloused hand on Marty's stomach. Marty's breath hitches and he starts shivering a little, despite his adamant resolve to relax.

"Just breathe. Close your eyes if you need to."

The hand moves downwards. Marty's breath hitches anew and his belly jumps up against Rust's hand.

"Do you want me to rationalize what we're doing out loud? Would it make it easier?"

"No! I know what we're doing."

Marty can feel Rust's smirk through the darkness even if he just barely sees Rust's silhouette against the faint glow of light from outside.

"Okay. What are we doing?"

"Trying to calm down, mostly. Being company, reducing stress. Being humans together against a harsh world."

"My, Marty: philosophical insights! I must be rubbing off on you. Only you're still an optimist."

"Fuck you very much. One of us has to be." Rust is surely smirking again at Marty's unintentional innuendo, but he doesn't comment on it.

"And now?" Rust starts sliding his hand further down, first with a smooth down stroke over Marty's hardening cock and then with a just as sure upstroke catching Marty's balls and giving them a firm tug; just on the edge of painful. Marty's cock gives a solid twitch and he feels the impact right through his stomach. He gives a strangled groan, "God almighty, Rust! Being a little heavy handed aren't you!"

"I'm not Maggie, Marty, and I'm sure I've seen you with handcuff marks before. That was Lisa, wasn't it?"

"God, yeah!"

Marty groans as Rust lets go of his balls and pushes down his boxer. Marty's cock is already leaking and Rust gives it a good twist, strong fingers kneading his swollen cock head until another dribble of precome wells out over Rust's fingers. It's enough to give a good slicking and Rust starts up with such slow, firm strokes that Marty feels it all the way from the tips of his ears down to his toes.

"Oh, God!" Marty groans again.

Marty, besides being so horny by now he's almost out of his skull, is also thoroughly weirded out. Between the deep-rooted feeling of wrongness for being with another man and the accompanying urge to punch Rust the hell away, and the just-as-deeply-felt companionship and closeness... feelings Marty have missed acutely ever since he lost Maggie. The result is a blinding, panicky lust that has him panting and shivering and makes every touch a shock to his system. He's so very aware of Rust's body up close against his, Rust's harsh panting in his ear, the smell of man and someone so well-known and yet so foreign to him. It's absolutely dizzying and Rust knows exactly how to give an effective hand job and Marty thinks he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't...

"Rust!" he croaks, curling over and coming in huge, never-ending spurts.

He couldn't manage to lift the covers off in time, so he gets himself and Rust's hand thoroughly smeared with come. He has already sweated a wet patch under his ass and now the cover is soggy too.

"Holy shit." He turns to Rust, appalled, yet amazed.

Rust grins an almost human like smile, for him. "No worries, man. Just lie back."

Rust gets up, a little stiffly still, and slides the wet cover to the floor before he goes. Marty gets out of his soggy underwear while listening to Rust opening the creaky door to the guest room. When Rust comes back and shakes out his own dry and endearingly Rust-smelling cover over Marty's goose-pimpling body, Marty has regained enough coherency to recognize that Rust, besides being too thin, also is sort of beautiful in the twilight, with the sinewy strength he has and the sharp angles of his limbs. His dick is jutting up and out from his abdomen under his clothes, proving that he liked what they did, too. Again, Marty feels a deep jolt spread from his gut to his groin.

"Come here, and lose the clothes." Marty beckons and throws out an arm.

Rust gets naked without fuss and climbs in beside Marty. He props the pillow up so he can rest his head comfortably on Marty's arm.

Marty puts a tentative hand on Rust's naked stomach. He wants to return Rust's favor, but it proves a huge step.

"Rest easy Marty, I got this."

Rust takes himself in hand and Marty shudders out a sigh of relief, as Rust turns his head into Marty's neck. Rust soon starts panting into Marty's collarbone: very low, very intensely concentrated, very Rust.

It's surprisingly hot listening to him, and Marty feels his hand starting to stroke Rust's scarred skin. His stomach is twitching and heaving slightly as Rust is getting more into it, and Marty lets his hand roam up, feeling Rust's tiny, pebbled nipples. Rust groans into his chest as Marty rubs them.

"Harder. Pinch my nipples." Rust gasps and Marty does. Rust groans again and it feels like he's drooling a little. Marty pinches again, one nipple after another, before trying another tentative stroke downwards over Rust's taut abdomen. He dips even lower and suddenly he feels Rust's hot dickhead stroke against the back of his hand. It's feels exhilarating, and another deep jolt runs through his guts. To hell with it...

He fumbles for Rust's hand, which stills and surrenders Rust's cock to him. Marty's shaking hand fits perfectly, too: Rust's dick is long, hot and smooth beneath his fingers, and the wet smear he can feel over his thumb makes Marty pant in tune with Rust. He tightens the arm he has around Rust's shoulders and brings him closer, gently increasing the speed of his rocking hand, making sure Rust follows along. The sounds Rust's making is getting less and less coherent, and Marty is in awe. Turns out, he masters this stuff all right after all.

When Rust finally comes, Marty is prepared. He tugs the covers down with his foot just in time to watch glittering arcs of come spurt over Rust's darkened skin. Rust's scars are just visible in the blueish half dark and the picture of him strikes Marty as almost unbearably pretty. His throat suddenly feels very tight and his breath hitches.

"Rust," He manages before pulling Rust to him, hugging so tightly their rib cages creak from it.

Rust just presses his lips to Marty's shoulder. Marty holds them tight like this a good, long while and Rust doesn't protest, doesn't even move a little. Marty might be blinking away a few tears too, but one can't really tell in darkness like this.

They fall back against the pillows eventually. Marty dries them both off, before he pulls the clean and cold cover up again. He blinks against the darkness and turns his head to Rust's.

"Good night, Rust." His voice barely whispering.

"Good night, Marty."

Rust soon turns away, dragging Marty's arm with and around him and Marty falls into place right behind.

Marty's asleep in seconds and when he dreams, he dreams of Christmas, a bright and warm Christmas where he's surrounded by all his loves, and they are all smiling back at him: Maggie and his beautiful girls, and even Rust is smiling: looking more whole and present than Marty has perhaps ever seen him. "This isn't a dream", Rust says and Marty agrees, smiling in his sleep.