Fisher Of Men
by Rachel

Taylor glances over his shoulder as he unlocks his apartment. Matty's hands are clenched in his pockets; he can't stand to return to the penthouse bought with Daddy's money. Taylor flicks on the light and crosses to the TV. After a moment he finds TNN. It's past ten and the Dukes of Hazard reruns have given way to infomercials. Some Bubba earnestly insists, "It looks exactly like a real fish, swims exactly like a real fish, but, most importantly, it can mimic the spastic action of a wounded dying minnow." Matty laughs until he cries.

Taylor puts his hand on Matty's shoulder as Matty furiously pushes his palm against his leaking eyes. There's still blood drying at the corner of Matty's lips. There's still blood darkening the gauze taped to Taylor's chest. Taylor's hand slides to Matty's hip and he reminds himself that he hasn't done and won't do anything, 'cause he's not a fag.

If you don't consider getting shot anything.

He kisses Matty roughly, thrusts his tongue into Matty's mouth without preamble. He won't blow or fuck Matty (he's not a fag) but he whips the belt from the tailored pants, shucks the silk boxers, and takes Matty's cock in his hand. Matty hisses and the crescent bruise wrinkles as he closes his eyes. Taylor's resolve to allow himself deniability falters and he kneels.

Taylor knows it's early when he wakes because TNN is still on its infomercial block. ("This 100-piece set includes all the hooks, lures and rattles that will have you catching more fish than with any other lures.") Matty is lying beside him, the sheets pooled around his lean hips, his eyes tracing the Star of David on Taylor's arm. One of Matty's hands wraps around the Star and one wraps around Taylor's cock, and Taylor decides not to give a shit if he is a fag.


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