Chapter Text
Poor girl.
Chani asked Feyd to watch her for a moment while she grabs this drunk girl’s boyfriend. She has a strange name and very blonde hair: Feyd has to hold it back for her so she doesn’t get vomit all over it. Freshly washed, soft like she came from the hairdresser’s. Smells like oranges and some kind of flower under the stench of vomit.
For a while, she was rambling to Feyd about some guy – must be the boyfriend. He listened as much as he can be expected to: how she didn’t think he found her attractive, he barely ever touched her, and he’s sweet, but she needs more. Here, she glances sideways at Feyd.
He doesn’t respond. Not his business.
She’s eyeing Feyd strangely while she talks, too – he knows this look. Not that he’d take advantage of a person who can’t even stand. Even if he wanted her. She’s pretty, she’s blonde – she’s not his type.
“You’re handsome, y’know. You got a girlfriend?” She asks, resting a hand on Feyd’s chest between suppressed gags and hiccups. Her breath stinks of bile. Feyd’s used to it by now.
He only shakes his head – a familiar response to a familiar question. She looks out of place here – Feyd’s never seen her, but that doesn’t mean much with how often he’s away. Her clothes, however, are too clean, too proper to be in a dirty biker bar: why did Chani bring her here in the first place? She’s too pretty. One of those idiots could jump her the second she got out of her sight. Fucking animals tearing meat apart with their teeth.
Maybe that’s why she’s here, to pick up a guy like Feyd. One of the nicer ones.
“I got a boyfriend, y’know-“ Feyd instinctually pulls away when she hiccups. She doesn’t throw up on him, luckily. He wanted to leave tomorrow; he’d hate being kept here because he has to wash his clothes. “Paul. I hate him.”
Feyd doesn’t bother nodding. He’s heard her spiel too many times before – she’s been parroting these sentences for the past fifteen minutes.
“I think he’s gay, or something. Aren’t I pretty?” She bats her eyelashes the best she can. Her bra strap falls from her shoulder.
Despite appearances, Feyd is a polite man. He nods noncommittally.
“If I was your girlfriend, you’d – fuck, wait-“ and she hurls into the bucket, again, holding a finger up at Feyd. Good aim, at least. She’s only bringing up bile now.
There’s always been this itch in his fingers to grip and tear and maim. An animal always lingering at the back of his mind, clawing at the inner walls of his skull. He holds her hair back with care, rubs a hand over her spine.
Thank God, he thinks when Chani’s boots echo through the bar again. She always stomps, like she’s trotting through a cornfield every waking second.
An unfamiliar squeak of new, unbroken shoes accompanies her strides. Must belong to – Paul, was it?
He doesn’t look up, at least not at first. But when he does finally raise his gaze from the blonde’s back, he’s met by soft brown curls, perfectly framing a bony face, jutting cheekbones and a slim nose. He’s as prim as the girl was – before she got all messed up, at least – neatly tucked shirt, ironed slacks, and those squeaky, squeaky fancy shoes that Feyd doesn’t know the name of. Schoolboy shoes.
To Feyd, he looks like a brat. A pinko. A pretty little guy, like the ones he’d go after at bars other than this one. His eyes are sunken and soulful and his gaze is intelligent, defiant despite his anxious twitching. He looks much more out of place than the blonde: the girl would be courted, this kid would get beaten within an inch of his life – if Gurney didn’t keep everyone in line.
Looks like a fawn, from where Feyd is crouching. Big wet eyes, badly hidden fear. A slight buckle in his skinny legs as he takes a step forward. Tantalising.
“Get off her,” Paul hisses, as if Feyd wasn’t taking good care of his babbly girlfriend for the past twenty minutes.
As if he could ever stand up to someone like Feyd. He takes on men twice his own size: Paul is thin and considerably shorter. Where he’s from, they’d tell kids of Paul’s build they’re gonna die if they stay that skinny. Clearly never had a real fight in his life, his nose straight and his hands untainted as he steps in front of Feyd.
Paul is trying to be threatening; Feyd only sees how scared he is. And he’s tipsy enough not to take it to heart – he’s tipsy enough to play with him instead.
Hey, chill out, he’s cool, Chani tries to save the kid.
Feyd’s had to learn early on that dogs that bark will still bite. But he knows Gurney’s old dog, and Paul reminds him of her. The one that would bark and piss herself if you got a bit too close.
He rises to his feet to stand in front of Paul, leaving the girlfriend a little mess at her bucket. Feyd stares, really takes the time to take the boy in front of him in.
Not bad. With every second that passes, he becomes more submissive, more terrified, and that suits him better. Returning to his natural state, giving up that asshole act. He resists the urge to laugh in this sweet face. He holds an innate, complex beauty: sharp bones, soft-looking mouth, deep-green doe eyes fluttering around Feyd’s face. Sinewy hands flex as he clenches his fist, thumb tucking between long, knotty fingers – that’s right, never fought. His figure is boyish, but not childlike – his jawline is sharp and mature. He’s pretty.
Cross hanging around his neck.
“Feyd, don’t threaten him. He’s just scared for his girl,” Chani says. As if she thought Feyd would ever harm a hair on this sweet thing. Paul could strike first and Feyd wouldn’t do shit. He doesn’t think Paul could hit him in a way that matters, anyway.
And he doesn’t hurry to his girlfriend’s aid, he spends his time in a useless standoff with a biker that’s twice his size. That girl might be right. He isn’t into her, not at all. This display of dominance is a pathetic little show of the last strands of manly ego he clings to.
Stalemate. Paul doesn’t back down from Feyd and doesn’t stand up for his girl. Feyd expected him to fight a little, at least. Ah well. He steps back once he gets bored of not getting anything new. Paul’s shoulders relax, he drops to his knees next to his girlfriend.
He knows how Chani’s looking at him. So judgemental. Let me play, for once. They exchange enough conversation in a few glances. Don’t you fucking dare, Feyd.
He barely pays attention to the lover’s spat that goes on between Paul and his girlfriend. He doesn’t have to. He’s heard it all from the girl, and Paul’s reactions are more interesting: there’s something deeply controlled in how he talks to her, how his fists clench but his voice never raises. He’s holding back, Feyd thinks. What are you holding back for, Paul? So interesting.
She calls him a faggot. Not a real man. Feyd likes them that way. A voice at the back of his head tells him it’s the perfect time to be a shoulder to cry on – he considers telling him about her half-assed proposition. What a vile thing you are, Feyd.
She breaks up with him right there, vomit still in the corner of her mouth. Feyd watches Paul’s face fall – there’s no real heartbreak. A gentle disappointment. Didn’t love her, not at all.
Poor girl. Poor kid. His disgusting plans of advancing in dissipate when he sees Paul watching the back of his girlfriend’s legs as she walks away, Chani supporting her under her shoulders.
Feyd does what he knows best and buys the man a drink.
-
“She’s wrong, you know. I mean – I’m not a fag, is all.”
The last time Feyd heard that sentence from a man’s mouth, he ended up stuffing his cock between those lying lips. Mr. I’m-not-a-fag swallowed so fucking eagerly.
Paul looks intensely out of place sitting on the barstool. Feyd wonders if he knows that everyone is looking at him: he’s not from the club, never been here before, he sips on the whisky Feyd got him like he’s never had any alcohol in his life. He’s a pinko, a fairy to most of these people. There’s a certain protection, though, that comes from being seen with Feyd: he wonders if Paul can feel it.
But Feyd’s noticed the cross hanging around Paul’s neck, the way he forced himself to confront a guy that could snap him in half. This is just reassurance to Paul himself.
“Okay,” he responds.
The cigarette burns too warm between his yellow fingers. He can still smell Paul’s cologne over the smoke.
The more he’s looking at the kid, the more he wants to test that sentence – I’m not a fag. Feyd has to wonder how his cock would look stretching those pretty pink lips, if his nipples match the color of his mouth. If he’d moan when Feyd sucks on them.
But tonight’s not the night. Feyd might not follow any manmade laws – but he’s not giving up his morals for a good fuck. His girlfriend left him like thirty minutes ago, for fuck’s sake. You’re disgusting.
-
There’s many things Feyd doesn’t like. He doesn’t like talking. He doesn’t like most of the people around him. He hates the picket fence, the wife and kids, he hates working, he hates thinking. He even has a disdain for being sober.
Feyd understands noise, and he understands speed. He knows how to live with that constant buzzing in his body, the one that he can only chase out for moments, like when he’s on a bike. And maybe Paul could use some of that, too, judging from the way he looks so lost, so stressed standing outside the bar, after telling Feyd he should leave. A ride could loosen him up, and Feyd would have his good deed of the day.
And, of course, he’d love to know if Paul would squirm and scream in the backseat, if he’d hang onto Feyd like a terrified mouse. Seems like the type.
“Need a ride?” Feyd offers, eyeing Paul like a hawk. He’s pretty, there’s no denying that, but there seems to be something more at play: the way he watches Feyd, how he shifts his weight from one foot to another while trying to decide. It’s fine. Feyd’s got all evening. Nowhere to be.
He settles into the seat of his bike, waits for Paul to accept his offer. He takes long puffs from his cigarette without taking it out from his mouth, letting the buzz of the alcohol and the high of the nicotine overtake his senses. He pulls his riding gloves over his hands before he slams down on the kickstart, making a show of it just for that skinny man who’s staring so intensely at him. It’s a good move.
The engine roars under his thighs, the sound intensely pleasurable to his ears. He glances back at Paul, who stands tentatively, still deciding if he wants to hop on.
I know you do. He nods towards the pillion just slightly, and that seems to convince Paul – just needed a little direction. He finally sits down behind Feyd, his body radiating warmth against Feyd’s back.
“You takin’ the faggot for a ride?” Comes from Mitch. New guy. Feyd doesn’t care much for him.
“Where do you live?” Feyd asks when Paul settles down behind him, long fingers ghosting over his clothes with the slightest touches, as if he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Just gotta make him hang on tighter.
“You know the road with Saint Sebastian’s?” Paul responds, soft shake in his words. Feyd’s heart beats faster as he senses the fear, the anticipation in his voice – he wants to pet those soft brown curls, tell him everything is going to be fine, pull him in close against his back. Too bad.
Instead, he says, “Hold on,” leaning forward on the bike. How sweet it is, how Paul tries to place his hands anywhere but on Feyd. Terrified of touching him, of feeling another man’s body. It’s bittersweet: Feyd finds his innocence enticing, but understands how torturous it is to ache for a touch and denying it from yourself. Not tonight, Feyd.
He’s ready to show Paul the time of his life. This goddamn pinko boy has Feyd wanting to hear him laugh – he’s sure it would be one of the most beautiful sounds in this entire world. He wants to hear him scream when they get too close to a car, when they take a turn too sharp.
And that’s what he does. He doesn’t hold back. He runs red lights, he goes faster than he should in his current drunk state: but it’s worth it, because Paul’s fingers bite into his clothes, and he presses his chest against Feyd’s back, and he’s yelling and laughing behind him.
He was right. Paul’s laugh is gorgeous.
There’s something about riding two-up that really connects people. Feyd is definitely not a poet, but he thinks it’s the trust the passenger places in the driver’s hand: he revels in that trust. If this were any other world, Feyd would be pulling Paul in by the stupid collar of his stupid shirt and kissing him stupid when he drops him off.
But as it is, there’s a large, kitschy cross on the front door of Paul’s house, matching Paul’s necklace. And Paul’s acting like he’s straight, covering up how much he liked sitting on Feyd’s bike, and Feyd couldn’t kiss him now that the sun is coming up around the horizon and they’re no longer hidden from all prying eyes.
Even as Paul says goodbye and heads inside his house, Feyd stays smoking, perched on his bike. He watches that lanky form, those unsure steps, that coltish movement. The hair messed up by the wind.
How fucking beautiful. He stays for several more cigarettes, chainsmoking by Paul’s front door until the sun’s up. He etches the memory of this place into his brain: maybe Paul would like to ride with him again sometime.
-
Feyd’s not big on sleeping – at least that’s what he likes to tell people. He’s never been good at it. He’s long given up trying to fall asleep at night: he wakes from nightmares in the dark, has to look over his shoulder as he lays in bed. Even during the day, it’s a challenge: he usually keeps himself awake until he passes out, either at Gurney’s, or at a motel, on the street, or at a random hookup’s house. Last one doesn’t happen often, though.
A good ride tends to tire him out though. And having Paul in the back was exhilarating. He decides to make his way back to Gurney’s and fall asleep on that soft mattress in the guest room. Curled up, thrashing in his fitful sleep.
-
The Stoplight is like home to Feyd. Sure, he hates quite a few people here, dislikes how much they try to talk to him and act stupid when they get too drunk – but Gurney’s always here, and when they all ride together, it feels like they’re a family. Feyd is honestly the happiest with all those engines roaring in his ears, at Gurney’s side.
And this is also nice: he’s playing cards with Gurney. Not a rare sight, really. Gurney knows Feyd doesn’t like talking, and they settled for this interaction a long time ago. Gurney scowls when Feyd flashes the winning hand at him.
Whiskey, Marlboros, Mitch’s nasty laugh in the corner, Gurney’s groan at Feyd’s ace pair. It’s a day like any other, save for the beetle parked outside the bar. It’s that gorgeous thing’s car, what was his name again? Paul. He hasn’t left Feyd’s mind. How he gripped, with those lovely hands, how he cheered and laughed, how he yelled when Feyd took a too-sharp turn.
The way his hair fell in his face. How he’d tried to collect himself when he felt Feyd was too close. He’s dreamy – and he’s only better for being such a little pinko boy. Feyd wants to corrupt him. See where a few beers would take the two of them.
He’s lost the last few rounds of cards because he keeps thinking about Paul. What an idiot.
“What’s with you today?” Gurney asks, and Feyd shrugs his shoulders as he mutters, “Nothin’.”
And as if on cue, the door to the bar swings open too slowly – as if pushed by a hesitant hand. Feyd keeps his eyes on his cards, only watching from his peripheral, until he hears the soft squeaking of too-new, too-fancy shoes.
He’s back. Paul stands with his hands twisting nervously, his eyes scanning the room and landing directly on Feyd. How pretty. He looks like a prey animal, like a fawn trying to make itself as small as possible – yet putting on such a brave face.
He sees how Paul freezes under his gaze. It gives him a few more moments to admire how his curls fall, how his lips part to reveal those cute teeth. How terrified he looks. The things he’d do.
Gurney catches him staring. He hates it when Gurney looks at him like that: expectant, questioning. He goes back to his cards but keeps an eye out, eavesdrops on the conversation Paul’s sweet voice has with the bartend.
“Hey, did someone find my keys here last night? They’re for the beetle outside.” Feyd knows Paul won’t have any luck here. The bartender isn’t known for being a helpful guy – bit of a sadist, even, loves to see a brawl happening at his bar. Maybe he should intervene, tell Paul not to hold out hope. He could offer to break into it, though. Maybe it would impress that pretty thing.
He doesn’t hear what the bartender responds, but Paul, sweet little Paul, says, “I really ought to get the car back home,” and Feyd has to hold himself back from offering everything to him.
Except he hears someone approaching the bar, and now his attention is focused solely on the scene playing out. He drops his hand to focus only on Paul. Gurney sighs. Feyd would have won this one.
It’s Mitch. He’s one of the newer guys, the one who called Paul a faggot – he hasn’t had the pleasure of fighting Feyd yet. He’s a douchebag, one of those that only joined the club to hang onto some false pretense of masculinity that he thinks he’ll find in a goddamn denim jacket.
Mitch calls out to Paul – Paul ignores him. Feyd’s ready to go – Gurney places a hand on his shoulder. He knows that if he looked up, he would see the stern warning in Gurney’s eyes: let it play out. I’ll try handling it.
He always knows when Feyd’s about to pounce. Had to learn it the hard way, dragging people off Feyd and dragging Feyd off people too many times to count. You could try not getting into trouble for a while, Gurney said a few days ago, when he went back home with a black eye again.
“Hey. The fairy doesn’t want to pay attention to me.” Feyd doesn’t want to let Gurney handle it. He wants to kill anyone who picks on someone half their size – and Paul hasn’t even done anything. He’s still ignoring Mitch, back turned. Never fucking fought in his life.
But Mitch taunts him, plays with him: he shows off Paul’s keys around a fat finger, and Gurney has to push Feyd down by his shoulder to make him sit back down this time.
If it wasn’t for the anger lapping at Feyd’s throat, he’d have to think about how gorgeous Paul looks right now: long, thin limbs, body pressing against the bar, eyes wide and innocent in his fear. Rabbit in a trap. He feels the pull inside him to go and fuck shit up, to make him feel okay again.
“If you give me the keys, I’ll just get home. You’ll never see me again,” Paul chokes, and Feyd grits his teeth together. Fucking Gurney and his fucking leash.
“I didn’t want to see you here in the first place,” Mitch responds. Feyd sees how Paul reacts, how he’s bracing for something. Doesn’t even know what he’s bracing for, Feyd thinks. “We don’t like your kind around here.”
Motherfucker. Feyd pushes Gurney’s hand off and stands from his seat, anger flooding him from the throat down. Gurney takes over him to go first. Fucking Gurney. Let me kill this asshole. Feyd wants to stomp on his dick until he sobs. Bite his throat in half for even thinking of taking Paul on.
Gurney’s trying to defuse the situation, as he always tries. Doesn’t like Feyd solving everything with fists and knives. He stands close to Mitch as he says: “Come on, break this up. Give the kid his car keys and let him get on his way.” Feyd circles his wrists, behind Gurney, keeping his eyes on Paul. “Do you really want trouble?” I do. Let me fucking kill him, Feyd thinks. Paul’s chest rises and falls like a rabbit’s. It’s like his nose is twitching, too.
“I don’t like little queenies in this bar, Gurney. You know what I think about all that shit,” Mitch responds.
“Just cut it out, Mitch. You think he’ll ever be coming back after this? You won’t see him again.” Sweet fucking Gurney, always trying to keep the peace. You tried. Now let me fuck him up.
Paul’s eyes meet Feyd’s suddenly, only for a moment. Pure, unfiltered fear. He knows he can’t protect himself here. He’s gripping onto the cross around his neck, as if that could help him. Feyd’s gonna be the one to kill this guy for Paul. He clears his head with a quiet sigh, cracks his knuckles.
Paul looks at him again. Stares. Pleading, terrified. Beautiful.
Mitch finds their eye-contact amusing. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna fight for a fag. That’s low, even for you,” he aims at Feyd.
Show you how a fag fights, Feyd thinks, jaw tensing as he looks at Mitch. He’s tall, wide. Taller and wider than Feyd. But not enough coordination, not enough experience. Talking about beating a kid but his knuckles are clean. Feyd’s not losing this one.
Especially not in front of Paul.
Gurney groans, heads back to their table. Fucking finally, Gurney.
“You had him riding bitch yesterday. Did you take him home, did you suck each other off, huh?” Mitch taunts, coming up to Feyd with slow steps. Feyd keeps his eyes trained on his movement, sees him favoring his left knee. Feyd keeps his chin up, his shoulders squared.
He spares a look at Paul, sees him gripping onto the bar as if he was fucking frozen there. Poor kid. How scared, how beautiful. Feyd wants to…
“You a faggot too, Feyd?” Mitch finally asks, and Feyd breaks into a quick smile. That’s it.
Fighting is second nature to Feyd. Been a fighter since he was a kid, smaller than the others, picked on easily. Kids, they have this strange sixth sense: pick out the most vulnerable one, the one it would hurt for the most, and beat him until he’s twitching on the floor like a bug.
Most people outgrow this sense, or at least don’t act on it. Feyd had to learn early on that not everyone outgrows it when they become an adult. He’s been bracing for a kick since he was five.
And it’s pure fucking adrenaline when he lunges at Mitch, waits for the moment his weight is on his right knee to topple him back on the ground. His balding head slams down into the filthy floor. Feyd pins him down, swings at his face until he can feel the pain in his knuckles – takes longer every time.
Feyd doesn’t care about pain. Hasn’t in a long time. Started enjoying it at some point, in a sick way, the way his heart pumps faster, how alive a fight makes him feel. If only Uncle would see me now. And so he doesn’t care that much when Mitch takes over him, doesn’t care that it hurts – only cares to win the fight. Catching a few right hooks is just the usual. Nose cracks, it’s easy enough to snap it back in its place once they’re done. What matters now is getting the keys back from this fucker.
He's putting up more of a fight than Feyd expected. He doesn’t care. All he knows is that Paul needs his keys back and Feyd hates having idiots go unchecked.
Knee to the nose – never fucking fails. Mitch collapses on the floor on his knees. Metal floods Feyd’s mouth: he spits it out on the floor, wipes the rest off with his hand.
“The keys.”
Mitch is fucking pathetic. He hands Feyd the keys like the little bitch he is. Feyd fights the urge to spit blood on his blubbering face.
Paul looks at him with wide eyes, scared ones – and Feyd hates the thought that he’d scared this little beauty off. But his face grows soft when Feyd hands the keys to him. Lets go of the cross on his neck to accept the keychain. Looks on the verge of tears as he stares up at Feyd, but in his eye, Feyd catches something. Something. Not sure what, yet.
“Thank you,” he chokes, and hurries out of the place like a spooked animal, door closing behind him with a slam.
Feyd wants to follow him. Feyd wants to swallow him whole.
He turns back to Mitch, still coughing on the floor. He feels his lips twitching in anger, delivers one more kick to his side. “Now you see how faggots fight,” he mutters, and now he doesn’t hold back from spitting on him.
He returns to the table where Gurney’s sitting only to grab his tissue and start cleaning the blood off his hand.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Feyd,” Gurney mutters at him, “don’t waste yourself on Mitch next time. Could’ve let me handle it.”
Feyd shrugs. “You know how I feel about these fuckin’ idiots.”
He goes to the bathroom to wash off what the tissue didn’t get. He groans in pain as he crunches his nose back into place.