Deacon

Although I nodded, it must not have been convincing enough because Deacon let out a sigh. He reached under my knees and dragged them up to my chest. I hooked them there, feeling horribly exposed even as my father's hateful ideology echoed in the back of my mind.

Deacon worked some lube in then pushed, breaching my sphincter inch by burning inch until his whole length was seated inside me. He planted his arms on either side of me, pulling out just as slowly until only the tip remained inside.

"Ready?"

I tensed, but nothing happened. A puff of air tickled my nose, and when I opened my eyes, I found his face only a few inches from mine. He wiggled his eyebrows, waiting.

I scowled, eliciting a smirk from him.

"There it is," he said, almost fondly. "Utter mutiny."

My scowl deepened.

His hips snapped forward, shoving his entire length back inside me in one go. The air punched out of my chest, and my mouth twisted into an O.

Deacon fucked me long and hard enough that my dick started to perk up again. When he saw it, he pulled out.

I hissed at the sudden loss, only to shoot off the bed when his finger inevitably found my prostate. He tapped it once, twice, then fell still.

When my shivering stopped, his tip went back to my entrance. This time when he pushed in, his finger stabbed at my prostate simultaneously.

I screamed, I think, but he covered my mouth with his, stealing my air away. Deacon took me that way for maybe only a minute, driving into me slowly as he ground away at the hot spot inside me.

I came in a sweaty, convulsing mess, cries still muffled by his mouth.

Deacon sat back and pulled his finger free, pumping into me a few more times before following me over the edge.

Unsurprisingly, I had no difficulty falling back asleep.

The next morning, I trekked alongside Deacon, keeping my head down. He hadn't fucked me again, neither of us having had the energy for more than one round. It was a good thing, too. My muscles were stiff, and my skin chafed against my new winter clothes.

Deacon had already called me crabby twice today, and by the second time, I actually was.

Still, I liked our hiking. Liked our sense of purpose as we drifted south to beat the winter weather.

Mid-morning, Deacon coughed--a harsh sound that startled us both. He frowned but carried on.

The coughing got more frequent the farther we traveled, and I got more antsy. Deacon never slowed, but I could tell his breathing wasn't as good as the hours passed. I wasn't sure, but the cold bite in the air might have been making it worse.

"I'll be fine, Roan. It's just a cold. You can stop brooding."

I bit the inside of my cheek, keeping my disagreement to myself.

My father had said something similar. But, a few weeks later, I had still buried him in the backyard the best I could with rusty tools against frozen ground.

I didn't tell him that, just kept grimly walking.

That night, we camped in a small warehouse on the outskirts of a city. Deacon hadn't wanted to risk checking the city out, because it was big enough to still attract scavengers.

So we bunked on a cot in what Deacon said was the manager's office.

Deacon tossed and turned. His coughing worsened, becoming frequent enough that neither of us got anything more than a series of pitiful dozes in.

When daylight filtered in under the door, I crawled out of the sleeping bag and shivered. Deacon had been even hotter than usual last night, and I missed the heat instantly.

"We should get moving," Deacon said, his voice barely there.

"I'll go scope it out. Maybe find a house we can stay in tonight," I told him, chewing on my lip. "You should stay. Try and get a little more sleep."

He didn't try to get up, didn't even argue. That, more than anything, scared me.

I left the warehouse section of the city, venturing deeper into the neighborhoods with houses. The area remained quiet as I searched, but I didn't take any chances.

In each house, I checked for food, water, and good insulation. I also checked the cupboards in the kitchens and the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms.

Most of them were pretty picked over already, but I found a thicker blanket and some socks without holes in them. The medicine cabinets were bare, save for a few mostly empty pill bottles. I collected each one I found, not knowing what they were even for. Deacon could sort it out later.

The next two blocks of houses were much the same. A small smattering of useful items here and there. In the last house, I hit the jackpot. A triangle bottle of blue medicine caught my eye, the label proclaiming it helped with both cough and sleep. There was barely any left, but I snagged it nonetheless.

Sliding my backpack on, I moved out onto the back porch and eased the door close, listening for any interruptions in the usual quiet.

A voice had me off the porch and crouched behind the small fence in the backyard, listening.

The man's voice came again, calling something out. A second male voice answered him.

Footprints. They were talking about my footprints.

I'd stuck to the sidewalks and curbs, careful to leave as little trace as possible on the cold, muddy ground. But I was tired, and I must have missed something.

My father's voice ridiculed me as I listened to them enter the house I'd just left. He'd taught me better than that.

I hopped the fence, darting for the alley.

My father egged me on the whole time I laid a false trail away from the warehouse before doubling back to check on Deacon.

He was right where I'd left him, bundled in blankets on the cot.

Finally alone in my own head, I cleared my throat, remembering that Deacon didn't always wake up the best with touch.

"Deacon."

He stirred but didn't open his eyes.

I called his name again, and he cracked one eye open.

"I found some stuff." I dumped out the pocket in my pack with all the bottles, piling all of them next to the cot. "Might be antibiotics, but I don't know."

Deacon levered upright, looking utterly miserable. His hair stuck out to one side, and exhaustion carved the lines of his flushed face deeper than usual. "Let me look," he murmured.

He grabbed the Nyquil first, tipping it to the side slightly and frowning at the bare mouthful left in the bottom of the bottle. Setting it aside, he began sorting through the various orange and white bottles. "Gabapentin. Furosemide. Tamsulosin. Hah! Don't need that yet. Atorvastatin."

Deacon tossed a big white bottle my way. "Multivitamin. You should probably be taking those. Citalopram. Metoprolol. Huh. Zolpidem."

He hesitated over that one, looking contemplative.

I stopped my pacing. "Will it help?"

"It might, for sleep anyways. But Ambien fucks me up," Deacon grumbled, tossing it aside.

Anxiety pulsed in my gut. "You aren't sleeping," I said. "You have a fever, and you can't stop coughing. We should move to a house, and you can take the pill to get some rest."

"Bossy thing, aren't you?" Deacon said, sounding amused.

I didn't find it funny, not when the coughing fit that followed left him hunched and rubbing his chest. I didn't bother mentioning the two Scavs I'd seen, probably out there right now still trying to follow my trail.

Deacon grunted, staring at the ground.

"Alright," he said hoarsely. "Let's find someplace warmer for tonight at least."

I packed up the cot and led the way to the most insulated house, shouldering both packs despite Deacon's protests.

If he noticed how amped up and on high alert I was, he didn't mention it. Then again, he was barely dragging himself along, following my lead.

Anxiety pulsed in my gut again, ugly and harsh. Deacon was going to die. Just like my father had died. Then I'd be alone again.

I took us in the back, getting Deacon settled in the bedroom upstairs. The front and back doors were both sturdy, and I locked them both before returning to coax some food and water into Deacon.

He ate a little, pushing most of it back my way, and glaring until I ate some too.

When I held out the Nyquil and Ambien, he shook his head.

"Please?"

"Fine." He downed the Nyquil and gagged. "Jesus, that's very expired."

The Ambien bottle he turned, reading the label again before taking two out and washing them down with a sip of water. "There. You happy?"

It didn't take long. I could see it when the fight went out of him, and his shoulders went soft. He laid back on the bed with a sigh and heaved the blankets up to his chin.

I pushed to my feet, shouldering my pack.

"Where do you think you're going?" he murmured, watching me dazedly.

"Hunting." Deacon had been teaching me how to set traps and snares, so it was as good an excuse as any.

"You won't find much. Everything is going to ground for winter."

"We'll see." I shrugged, unwilling to say more lest he hear the lie in my voice.

I covered our trail to the house on the way back to the warehouse, settling near the entrance between the wall and a stack of crates.

Every so often, I stretched and moved silently, trying to keep my muscles warm as I waited.

It wasn't too long before the two Scavs came sneaking up to the warehouse.

One kept watch as the other peered through the grimy windows.

Patched clothes. Bulky packs. Neither looked weak or starving.

"They're somewhere around here," the one at the window whispered. "I saw 'em yesterday. Might have holed up for the night. The big one was sick."

Together, they set their packs against the warehouse and eased the big sliding door open, clearly trying to be quiet.

I slid my knife out of my sheath, flexing and relaxing my fingers to warm them up.

When the first man had gone into the warehouse, I crept up behind the second.

He never heard me coming, and I slammed my foot into the back of his knee. It gave out, and he went down, falling backward into me. I looped my arm over his shoulder and yanked his stubbled chin to the side, stabbing him twice in the neck before he let out a cry.

Hot blood sprayed my arm and hand. Shoving him forward into a faceplant, I pressed myself against the wall beside the open doorway and slid my knife back into my belt. Wiping my hand frantically down my shirt, I tried to get it as dry and clean as possible already hearing returning footsteps.

The first man came through the door, perhaps drawn by the choked gasps of his companion. He had his gun outstretched, gaze snapping instantly to the body.

Deacon had taught me to clear doorways with my head up and with the gun close to my core. Center re-lock something or other.

I grabbed the man's outstretched arms and smashed his wrists against the corner of the doorway. The gun clattered down between our feet. I kicked out, sending it skittering along the asphalt.

The man shoved free hard enough to send me staggering backward. He twisted, looking for his gun. We spotted it at the same time. He went for it, and I launched at his waist in a tackle, driving us to the ground.

His elbow cracked into the side of my face as we wrestled, and blood flooded my mouth. Somehow, he ended up on top. I kept my knees between us, creating a bit of distance as he punched at me. Eventually, he lunged forward, getting inside one knee. His left hand locked onto my wrist, yanking it down so I couldn't block his punch.

My head bounced against the asphalt when he hit me, the pain leaving me dazed. I groped blindly for his ear with my free hand, finding it and yanking it towards me. His head followed as he yelled in pain and let go of my wrist, trying to free his ear.

I gripped the back of his neck with my arms and shifted my hips up, locking my legs high up around his back when he tried to pull away. He ducked out of my arms, rearing back to try to hit me again. I let him, capturing the arm that punched me and pinning it down between his chest and mine.

He growled, hitting me repeatedly in the ribs with his free hand. It hurt, but he couldn't get much momentum. My father's voice thundered in my ear, coaching me to breathe and wait for my moment.

As soon as he reached just a little too far, I brought my leg up over his dropped shoulder and slid a hand under his right arm, cinching him into an arm bar and heaving to dislocate his shoulder in one go.

He let out a vicious cry, trying frantically to pull away now through sheer instinct. I tightened down, using his arm to twist us to the left before driving my hips up and yanking on his dislocated arm again. His elbow cracked, and he stopped fighting.

I unwound myself from the tangle of limbs, scrambling free and shaking my head to clear it. It didn't help much, but it was enough that I could yank my knife out of my belt and stab him in the neck with poorly coordinated strikes.

When I finally stopped stabbing, I could barely breathe. Adrenaline had my body buzzing, and the drum inside my head pounded away as my vision swirled. I crawled across the pavement in a very unsteady line to check on the other man. He wasn't breathing anymore either, blood coating his neck and chest.

Nausea fountained like a swirling geyser in my stomach, and I vomited, nearly face-planting onto the pavement when my head exploded into blinding pain.

When I could see again, I pushed unsteadily off my forearms and searched the bodies. Anything useful, I tossed anything toward the packs. Getting back to my feet was a chore, but somehow I swiped up my haul and brought it back to the house.

It took a long time.

I waited here and there to make sure there were no more surprises. I'd already spent enough time trailing the two men around town to know they were alone. Nonetheless, both Deacon and my father had drilled counter-surveillance into me from the beginning.

The doors were still locked when I got to the house, and the debris around the windows suggested no one had tried to look inside.

I flung the extra backpacks up onto the roof of the porch before very carefully scaling up the railing and swinging myself onto the roof. It was a close call, and my vision twisted into a narrow slit of light as I lay on my back on the rough shingles. I dry heaved once or twice.

When I became more or less functional, I crawled around the corner of the roof and slid the second-floor window up, shoving the backpacks inside before falling in after them. I locked the window after me, leaving the Scavs' packs where they lay.

As I let myself into the master bedroom, Deacon coughed and muttered about someone named Hector. He didn't even wake when I dumped my backpack noisily on the floor and tested his forehead with my hand.

Even though he'd managed to kick off nearly all his clothes and about two-thirds of all the blankets, his skin still felt hot against mine. My hands were cold, though, so there was no way to gauge how bad he was.

Regardless, he felt feverish and sounded delirious.

My father had been too, in his last few days.

I choked down the panic in my gut, going back to the bedroom door and working to shove the large dresser in front of it. It took me a few minutes of sweating and swearing, and the pain in my head spiked every time I strained to move the bulky piece, but I got it blocking the door eventually.

The room spun as I staggered over and sank onto the bed. I probed around my left eye briefly with a finger and hissed. It had mostly swollen shut, and I could practically feel it pulsing with every beat of my heart. Surprisingly, the back of my head wasn't bleeding when I checked, though I felt like it should be. To make things worse, my new winter sweatshirt was all gummed up with blood, but my backpack wasn't close enough for me to change into a clean one.

It felt like far too much work anyways.

"Jesus," I said, feeling utterly disoriented as I slithered under the covers.

I might have passed out for a minute, because the next thing I knew, Deacon had my jeans around my ankles and was shoving my boxers after them.

"Deac, no," I murmured, somehow feeling both dizzy and heavy at the same time. I could barely even wriggle away from him without turning the throbs in my head to sharp spikes. "Too tired."

He didn't answer, just settled his weight over me and continued his nonsensical rambling. His lips brushed the back of my neck. He mumbled something about Hector again, hands running up under my shirt, and that was just about enough of that.

"I said no." I shoved back against him, feeling his too-hot skin against mine. The languid drape of his body turned harsh.

"You want to play, baby?" Hoarse, yet utterly molten. Hard fingers locked around my wrist, and he twisted it up behind my back painfully.

He'd done it the first time we'd met, pinned my wrist so he could spank the shit out of me when I'd headbutted him. But he wasn't interested in spanking right now.

"Deacon, no!" I cried when his knees shoved mine apart. He didn't react. "Wake up! I don't want to!"

His hand delved between my cheeks, positioning his cock right before he shoved into me dry. My words broke off into a silent yell as agony ripped through me, worse than anything I'd ever felt. It left me stiff and mute as Deacon rutted in and out.

It was a jerky, disjointed fucking. The brutal slams also pulled at my twisted arm each time, igniting sharp stabs of pain in my shoulder. I tried to fight him, but my body wasn't moving right.

It didn't last long. Deacon came fast, humping frantically against me before falling still. He coughed a few times and went limp, wrapping his arms around me.

"Feel so good, Hector," he murmured, pressing closer and nuzzling my neck.

I wrenched away from him with a sob, pain spiking as his dick pulled out of my ass. I squirmed off the edge of the bed in a completely disorganized fashion, landing in a painful mess of limbs on the carpet. With desperate, trembling hands, I hiked my boxers and jeans back up, not knowing what else to do.

I stayed there for a while, just shaking. From the cold or shock, I couldn't tell. The room kept spinning, even in the dark, and my face throbbed in time with my head. The carpet seemed to leach the very warmth from my bones, so when I couldn't take it anymore, I crawled back onto the bed.

Without touching Deacon, I settled on the very edge and dug under the blankets.

Deacon murmured in a confused tone, hand swiping out and searching for me. I arched my back, shying away from his touch. Eventually, he fell asleep, and only then did I follow suit.

When Deacon's voice woke me, the light coming in from the window hurt my eyes, and all of the sharp stabbing pain in my body had morphed into a hard, dull mess of aches.

"Ro," Deacon said, moving around enough to make the bed dip. "Why is there blood everywhere?"

Though his voice was still thready and hoarse, the muttered rambling was gone. I stared at the far wall through my good eye and tried not to react to the prickling sense of him looming behind me.

A coughing fit shook the mattress. "I know you're awake. Tell me about the blood."

Warm fingers skimmed over my shoulder, tugging me flat onto my back. Deacon sat up, shoving the blankets aside.

"What the fuck, Roan?" Sharp panic cut through the hoarseness of his voice. Hazel eyes, no longer bright with fever, searched my face. Worry had his mouth bent into a frown as he traced over my skin, settling on my eye and then the corner of my mouth.

"Scavs," I told him, turning my head away from his feather-light touch. "I took care of it."

His fingers traced down my neck, either checking dried blood or bruising, I couldn't tell.

"Jesus Christ, kid!" Deacon flung the blankets back, coughing once before he tugged at my sweatshirt.

"It's not mine," I said dully.

The relief that flooded his face made me want to cry. I pulled away and sat up slowly, waiting to see if the room was going to spin today. It didn't. My ass hurt abominably, and I tried not to hunch against the pain because I knew he'd see it.