I Don't Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

I (don't) know why the caged bird sings

chapter nine - day six (III), day seven

AN - Thank you Felidae, Anon and Sarina! Your reviews keep me going! Love, Milly

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"You know I'd be pissed if I were you, too."



Joey couldn’t look at Kaiba in the face.



There lurked about the room a silence riddled with hesitation.



This lame ass apology had to be enough, like, it had to ‘suffice’. It had to because Joey wasn’t venturing any deeper in ‘apology’ terrain. Not unless Kaiba was doing his part as well.



Kaiba delicately unglued his palms from his desk, folding his arms on his chest. He prolonged the silence - this wasn’t Joey’s doing, he’d already made his move, it wasn’t his place to speak now, all he had to do was wait. It was Kaiba’s turn now.



This shouldn’t be that difficult. Kaiba was a child genius. Surely ‘reading between the lines’ was written somewhere on his one inch thick resume.



Come on, Kaiba. Say something. React.



Then the prodigy’s face finally thawed; he smirked.



“I was in San Francisco until this morning. I scarcely had time to be ‘pissed off’, as you put so eloquently.”



Kaiba was now standing at full height, chin high, every single inch the glory he masqueraded as on the front pages of magazines. The finely cut features, the pleasant silhouette, the imposing stature - all but a deceiving trick of light of the barely lit room. But Joey knew better. He had seen the low battery Kaiba, the out of order Kaiba, the one defective prototype that had better remain hidden from the outside world and the so easily shakable faith of its stockholders and brokers and speculators.



Now Kaiba was doing this thing where he pretends to be busy again, not so subtly stashing the compromising checkbook away in a drawer.



“Come on man,” Joey started to win some time, just to catch Kaiba’s attention before it slipped away completely, not knowing what to do with any of his too numerous limbs, “you- you know what I’m talking about.”



“Do you?” The drawer closed on itself with a muted ‘thump’. Kaiba looked down, his voice taking a raw texture when he spoke again.



“Ask yourself what it is that you really came here for, Wheeler.”



I know what you wanted.



That is the thought that spontaneously came to Joey’s head. But that was no explanation as to why he kept coming back here. Three times in one week.



Kaiba pinned him down with a stare, making it difficult for Joey to move, speak or even think. It was as if though his eyes were pushing against Joey’s words, drowning them inside his throat, shoving them inside his chest, leaving them to fall freely at the pit of his stomach.



I think I want the same.



The admission, however humble in wording, felt victorious, or rather, defiant to Joey; like he was thinking it for someone else’s benefit - an absent audience. A wave of heat flushed over Joey, causing the little hairs on his arms and nape to rise. Some warmth settled in his groin. Joey swallowed a mouthful of nothing at the thought of what might have happened that other night. He refused to think of what might happen tonight; there was no after, there was only a now, in which Kaiba was holding him hostage.



Joey was suddenly aware of how hard his heart was beating, and an uncomfortable tightness settled in his throat when he opened his mouth to speak. But to say what? And how?



Kaiba scoffed in annoyance. Normally, normally its should’ve broken down some of the tension.



But Joey’s arms and legs still refused to move.



Kaiba looked away and went to the other end of the room, stopping at a door near the bookshelves, and untangled something Joey couldn’t see from around his neck. The object was inserted into a lock, and the door silently gave under a measured pressure from Kaiba’s outstretched fingers. He gave Joey a long, knowing look, then disappeared inside the room.



This was a sign. Maybe. A message. Joey didn’t want to know what it meant - he did, of course, but he didn’t want to think it out loud.



Joey strained his ears to see if he could hear Kaiba’s footsteps. Nothing.



So he traced Kaiba’s steps.



Stood still at the very spot he had given Joey his becoming stare. Looked into the pitch black room.



Behind him the main room wasn’t lit except for the computer screen and the waning light peering from the bare windows. Outside, the last sun rays were hitting the walls of the estate terrain, giving it an eerie orange glow. Above the sparse trees, the evening sky was blue going on indigo, going on grey, going on black. Joey looked into the black room with a certain apprehension.



Surely it was a matter of seconds before Kaiba would emerge, explain himself, or even better, send Joey packing with a bundle of rehearsed insults and a free pass to a clear conscience. Then Joey would be able to go back home with at least the illusion that something unnamable had been resolved, leaving behind all and any scraps of guilt he’d been harboring over the last week.



“Kaiba?”



Streaks of yellow light shone faintly at the edges of what Joey assumed to be windows. His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. He made out Kaiba’s silhouette, standing in front of what Joey guessed were bookshelves. In a corner he guess laid a heap of furniture, chairs mounted on one another in the most decadent fashion.



Joey stepped inside.



The smell of dust and old paper momentarily shut off his airways. After a third hesitant step, Joey stubbed his knee against an inconveniently placed piece of furniture. This is a storage room, he realized, this is where he dumps his overpriced antiques. But why make it adjacent to his bedroom? Even if it was built in this way... the Kaiba he knew wouldn’t hesitate to tear apart entire walls or wings of his mansion if he deemed them unsuitable, so this - this had to be of special importance to him.



Kaiba was walking towards him, avoiding invisible obstacles as he went.



He stopped in front of Joey, and shoved a book against his chest.



“There.”



From this up close Joey could outline Kaiba’s features. Their surroundings were too dark to allow for any speck of light to glow in his eyes. It gave Kaiba a somber air that Joey didn’t like, for reasons he didn’t know he had until this moment. There was always something shining in Kaiba’s eye, a readiness to bite and sting, to fight and conquer.



But there was nothing now.



Kaiba still held the book against Joey’s chest, his fingernails digging uncomfortably in Joey’s skin. The air in the room felt stuffy. Breathing deeply was not an option.



Joey couldn’t bear to look into Kaiba’s expressionless eyes anymore. He stared at the glowing outlines of the barricaded windows. Kaiba released his grip. The book fell on the floor.



This wasn’t about The Catcher in the Rye. This wasn’t about a school assignment anymore. This was about the unspoken conversation neither of them wanted to be having.



There remained a sensation of pressure where Kaiba’s thumb had lain.



Joey searched for Kaiba’s eyes again. Kaiba’s downcast eyes.



Kaiba kneeling down.



Kaiba running confident hands on Joey’s legs, his grip firmer where his thighs met his knees.



Joey swallowed. Kaiba’s voice filled his ears, flat and sober.



“You dropped your book.”



“Y-Yeah,” Joey replied, the sound of his heartbeat ringing louder in his eardrums than his own voice. He didn’t know what was happening. Or he knew. Oh yes he knew.



A hand slid up between Joey’s thighs. So this was ‘it’. Oh this was so ‘it’. Joey’s breath caught in his throat and more blood rushed to his already undeniable erection.



Wherever the hand roamed, there built up a warmth Joey felt he didn’t deserve.



This wasn’t like anything he’d imagined.



This was real.



No airbrushed porn models, no glossy finish. This was Seto Kaiba undoing his pants with astounding dexterity. Seto Kaiba efficiently sliding his fingers inside the rim of his boxer briefs, taking the whole thing down in one swift move and exhaling softly, sending gushes of warm air rolling at the base of Joey’s cock down to his balls, making them tingle. A jolt of pleasure shot up Joey’s spine, then another when a slight wet sound was heard from inside Seto’s mouth.



Joey’s breath was shaky, his chest rising and falling in uncontrollable staccato movements. Perhaps this was how it felt for Seto’s fingers to tremble against his will. Joey wished more than anything to have a wall against which he could lean. He couldn’t help but stumble back when Kaiba engulfed him, and he couldn’t help but moan when his lips slid away. He hadn’t been ready for it; you can never be ready for a first time.



“Hold still,” Kaiba ordered just as Joey whined ‘again’ against his own will.



Still he held.



Kaiba set his hands on each side of Joey’s hips and resumed the act. Joey closed his eyes, taking in the faint humming sound of a fan, the smell of dusty old books, the warmth around his cock.



For a moment nothing else happened in the world, except for that rhythmical motion and the pleasure rising in his balls. Sometimes Kaiba did something strange and incredibly pleasant that had his lips reach the base of Joey’s shaft. Whenever he withdrew his breath was loud and labored, irregular and needy. In a matter of minutes Joey had reached a plateau he’d never imagined was possible to reach through masturbation alone; he arched his head back, hands hovering about Kaiba’s head, unsure whether he wanted to run his fingers through the silky brown hair, or to hold onto his skull and ram into his mouth.



The plateau slid from under Joey and suddenly ‘the signs’ were there, strong and fleeting and embarrassingly too early; for all warning Joey gagged an inexcusably feeble ‘I’m-’ that had Kaiba speeding up the pace, and three thrusts later the helpless virgin was coming inside Seto Kaiba’s mouth.



Then there wasn’t a mouth on him anymore. Joey was left to his own devices, hard and pulsating. Kaiba’s hair was now out of reach from his lonely fingers, and he felt the cold air of the room against his over sensitive skin.



Joey could feel his heart beating in his groin. Kaiba remained completely still in his kneeling position. By reflex Joey brought his thumb and index to the little nook at the base of the head, coaxing out the last droplets of his come. He wiped the tip clean and licked the thing off, thinking that for once the mingled scents on his fingers weren’t just his.



What was the etiquette in a situation like this? Back in the day guys in the gang would brag about getting sucked off by so and so, leaving the scene like it wasn’t any of their concern. Would Kaiba expect that? Was this how gays did it, giving blow jobs away just for the heck of it, without love or emotion, asking nothing in return?



Or was Joey supposed to offer something in return?



“Do you, like... Do you...” Joey began, as per usual having no idea how to finish the sentence he’d started, never quite knowing what the mighty Seto Kaiba might want to hear.



“Get out.”



Kaiba’s voice had been so low it creaked in places, so breathy it was almost a whisper.



“Look, uh-”



“Get out.”



This time the command sounded like one, and not like the desolate constatation that what had just taken place could not be undone.



Joey pulled his apparel up, fastened his jeans as fast as his unresponsive fingers allowed, then announced his leave with a mild nod that could in no manner be visible to his benefactor. By now he knew the mansion to see himself out without risking bumping into a certain motherly employee. His dad hadn’t given him ‘the talk’ (yet), so it was definitely not Clarissa’s place to do so, especially not now.



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The TV was blasting full volume in the living room. Joey’s old man immediately turned to look at him, indicating he was in a mood for chatter - one unforeseen obstacle between his hands and the sequel to what had positively been his most intense orgasm to date.



“You should’ve told me you weren’t coming for supper,” the man said without lifting his eyes off the screen, in what was meant to pass as a nonchalant, indifferent voice. But Joey knew better.



“Yeah, I’m late.”



“Yeah, well, I saw that.”



Joey was too bothered by the uncomfortable stickiness of his cock glued to his balls to feel sorry about not letting his famously responsible father know what time he’d be heading back to home sweet home.



The TV raged on. That was just how unspectacular Joey Wheeler’s real life was, even after having had the most bizarre encounter ever. This was no little deal; it was a big flipping deal, it was the day that Joey semi-lost his virginity to a guy he didn’t even know thought about him that way.



Yet the world kept spinning and no one seemed to care.



“There’s hamburger helper on the stove if you’d like. Cheeseburger macaroni.”



The smell of his favorite childhood comfort food reached Joey’s nostrils that very moment. “Gee, Dad, you went all out.” He had to take pleasure - or solace - in life’s little pleasures, if he wanted to stay sane.



The man emitted a satisfied grunt. Joey took off his sneakers the quick and dirty way, meaning without untying the laces, forcing his heels out. This apartment wasn’t the most tidy or clean or easy on the eyes, but it was his and had the merit of being reasonably homey, not to mention warmer than the frisky evening air that had been teasing his naked arms all along the one and a half hour long walk across the city.



“Goodfellas is playing on channel nine.”



Joey noticed that his father wasn’t sitting in the middle of the couch. And that there was a bowl of chips on the coffee table nearby.



Cock. Sticking to balls. Itchy.



“Uh, I gotta do some homework for tomorrow.”



Besides, they’d already seen Goodfellas many times together. It was their special movie, father and son. But maybe another time. Tonight Joey had experienced something a thousand times more special, and whether it was to reflect on it, or celebrate it, or lament the gross mistake that had been ‘it’, Joey needed some time alone, not being awkwardly, one-arm cuddled by a father with an irregular streak of displays of affection. Anyway he was sure to fall asleep mid-movie if he settled on the couch with his dad; that afternoon nap had only done so much to let Joey rest.



Sorry, Dad.



“Thanks for the macaroni. I’ll just eat it in my room, okay?”



The father didn’t reply. There was a car ad on TV, the spotless vehicle roaming about on mesmerizing stretches of road no one would ever drive on in real life. A luxury the Wheeler would never have. Joey pried his eyes off the screen.



“I’ll... I’ll come and watch the rest of it when I’m done, ‘kay?”



The father didn’t move. Cut off from his realm of attention, Joey walked to the little red LED shining on the oven. He stealthily tugging on his underwear as soon as he was out of his father’s line of vision. Relief.



The burner was still on, keeping the contents of the pot warm a little too well. The lid dripped when Joey took it off, and a few scratches with the nearby wooden spoon told him that the pasta touching at the bottom of the pot had begun to burn. Joey’s heart squeezed a little when he realized just how long this meal must’ve been sitting there, waiting for him.



He turned the heat off and took the thing to his bedroom, deciding he would eat straight from the pot, cooking spoon and all, to at least spare himself - or God willing, his father - the extra dish washing effort that would otherwise ensue.



His backpack was waiting for him by his bedside, full of barely used textbooks that died to be consulted. While Joey had had no real intention to ‘study’ or ‘do homework’ initially, he now figured that now was a good time as ever to transform his previous white-lie to his father into a non-lie.



Joey settled on the mattress, reminding himself that he was also sitting on a pile of pseudo-straight porn magazines. The contents of the pot were still hot; Joey blew on the rising mist as if it would cool the thing down. He broke into a cynical grin - was Kaiba’s obnoxious condition contagious? - and said to himself, or nobody in particular, ‘happy birthday, faggot’.



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Math was just not sinking in.



Joey distractedly stared at less than meaningful equations, blinking every now and then to inject some moisture into his dry eyes. He slowly munched on the macaroni as he read the same sentence over and over again, unable to have it sink in its brain. Soon the firmer, smokier pasta bits were reached. Joey scraped the bottom of the pan out of hunger and of a peculiar liking of the particular texture overcooked dry pasta. This was a taste acquired after years of being fed by a divorced man.



When he was done he made a move to get off his bed, but laziness got the better of him. He set the pot on the floor by his bed, opting to bring it to the kitchen sink tomorrow before leaving for school. He lied on his back, holding the book above his head, lower and lower until it touched his face, which wasn’t a bad thing because those lights were too bright anyway, and soon he was asleep.



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The chair he was sitting in and the rest of the room were non-descript but with the logic of dreams Joey ‘knew’ the whole setting to be his father’s office.



Except that he was his father.



There was a young man kneeling before him, his face invisible beyond strands of light brown hair. The crisp sleeves of his olive uniform contrasted with the ghastly pale hue of Joey’s naked legs, which he couldn’t move. Even lifting his arms was a chore. They were heavy. And pink and soft and hairy. Nothing like his real legs, but Joey didn’t know that. He had to deal with what little info the dream gave him.



On the desk (that he knew was located behind him) laid a pen, which ‘he as his father’ couldn’t reach. Somehow, that pen was paramount to the success of the unspecified enterprise that was underway.



Another unquestionable certainty: the brown haired man was Seto Kaiba.



Holding a checkbook.



Straddling Joey’s thighs.



Strangely enough Joey positively felt aroused but was not - his member lay thick and limp between his legs.



Suddenly they were out in a barren field with no trees, and Kaiba kept rubbing his hands up and down Joey’s fat, pinkish thighs. Joey channeled his efforts to try and reach the pen behind him but his body was inert and completely numb; then the checkbook in Kaiba’s hands wasn’t a checkbook anymore but a knife, silver and with blue gem stones in it. Then Kaiba opened his mouth to scream and th



“Fuck.”



It took Joey a moment before he realized he could open his eyes, and finally reach that damned checkbook. Or not. And that a freakish version of the already not exactly reassuring Seto Kaiba wasn’t really going to kill him.



Outside the neighbor’s kids were heading to school, shouting at one another.



Joey lay in bed for a good minute, allowing his heart to calm down before getting up and ready for the day.



He’d been sleeping in his jeans and polo, sprawled over the comforter he’d managed to tangle between his legs in search of a little warm. The hem of his polo’s sleeves had left red rims around his arms, and stray bangs had sticked to his forehead and left cheek.



The overhead light had been turned off. And the pasta pot was nowhere to be seen. Joey mentally thanked his old man, and immediately after, felt sorry for having missed both ‘fun math’ and ‘the rest of the movie’. He’d try to make it up to his dad coming home this evening.



On his now naked legs - not fat and pinkish white, but wiry and slightly tanned this time - Joey saw the jagged reddish lines printed on his skin, like fresh scars adding up to the old ones (which were few, but memorable and after a certain number of years, laughable more than anything else). Joey trotted to the bathroom in nothing but his boxer briefs, knowing very well that nothing could wake his old man at this time of the day.



Mister Morning Wood was up and ready for a ‘fast one’ but Joey wasn’t aroused. It was simply one of those purely mechanical boners. And besides he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of indulgence. Yesterday shouldn’t have happened. It was a bad case of curiosity killed the gay cat - Joey wanting to know what it felt like, Joey telling himself that it was okay to give in just because he’d been fantasizing about it, Joey fooling himself into thinking he’d be the with the upper hand were Kaiba the one doing the servicing.



And then there was that dream.



The rational part of his brain had secured the notion that no, Kaiba did not really want to kill him, but the dread that had pervaded the dream lingered on, robbing Joey of his usual (although these days faded) joie de vivre, and less abstractly, of his hunger. No watery cereals for this guy. He’d figure out a way to get food at lunch time. Somehow.



No time for a shower either. A splash of water in the face, under the armpits, in the... area... Joey’s curiosity won over and he confirmed that no, it didn’t smell of saliva down there anymore. He sat on the toilet seat, elbows digging in his slightly less marred thighs, telling himself that saliva was just saliva and that all saliva smelled the same.



Joey was stuck in a pattern of fruitless repetitive thoughts until he sat up straight and realized that he was just a dude naked in his bathroom, smelling the tip of his fingers, getting late for school.



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