Sebastian gave him a thoughtful look, but didn’t confirm or deny. “I liked it sometimes,” he said instead.
“That doesn’t make it not abuse.”
“This is a lot more fucked up than I thought it was when I talked to you earlier today.” Sebastian chuckled and picked at a piece of invisible lint on the crease of his pants.
“How so?” Remington asked.
“God.” Sebastian scrubbed his hands down his face. “Please don’t make me say it out loud.”
Remington let out a quiet breath.
He understood what Sebastian was hinting at, what he was dancing around, but wasn’t ready to say. It raised a thousand red flags and one giant yellow one that told Remington he needed to slow down and proceed with the utmost caution. He watched Sebastian’s stare dart around the room as he tried to the do the mental gymnastics required to separate his interests from his abuse, his expression tightening the more frustrated he became.
“The first man I was with…well, I wasn’t with him. The first man I kissed, he…he was aggressive,” Remington shared, visions of meteor showers and Marston’s hands flashing through his mind. “It was assault.”
Sebastian looked up, eyes wide and lips parted.
“I didn’t call it that then, and I don’t like to call it that now, but it was. It didn’t go far and it could have been worse, but that doesn’t make it anything besides what it was. You know what I’m trying to say?”
“I think so,” Sebastian grumbled.
“You can call it whatever you want to. Whatever you need to. But I think it’s important to acknowledge it.”
“Daniella is as good of a person as Rhys is.”
“Then why did you marry her?” Remington asked.
“No good reasons,” Sebastian answered. “I’d like to not talk about her. I’d rather talk about us.”
“What about us?”
“About schedules and expectations.”
Remington pushed his hair away from his face and studied Sebastian’s face for any change in his expression or emotion. He was met with a stoic pose, Sebastian’s unwavering dedication to maintaining the status quo on full display. A flash of…want…flared through Remington’s body and he found himself overcome with the urge to take Sebastian apart.
It was a new feeling, a new idea, something that hadn’t occurred to him before. He’d been playing the part of Dom with the chats and the sex games, but that moment was the first one he’d found himself wanting to make work of things with Sebastian. He wanted to dissect Sebastian’s worries, his fears, his perceived shortcomings, and then build him up into the man he wanted to be.
And Remington was sure he knew the man Sebastian wanted to be. Hints of him slipped out on the days Sebastian drank too much. When he would be bold and brave with his words, with his demands. That was the man who drove Remington to the brink of insanity and also the peaks or arousal. Remington wanted to build Sebastian into that man, but all the time, not some of the time. And he wanted that man sober and clearheaded.
He wanted him consenting.
“Get some paper and a pen,” he said.
Sebastian blinked, like he’d forgotten where he was, then he scrambled up and into the kitchen, coming back with a small notepad and a golf pencil.He sat down again, folded his legs, and leaned over the table, tiny pencil poised and ready to notate.
“When do you normally get up for work?” Remington asked.
“It varies,” Sebastian said. “You had me getting up at six.”
Remington very clearly remembered the original schedule he’d made for Sebastian back when he thought Sebastian was a stranger named George. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to be the man Sebastian thought he was. The man he wanted to be. A small laugh bubbled in the back of his throat, drawing a confused look from Sebastian.
How ironic.
Both of them there, trying so urgently to be idealized versions of themselves for the other. For themselves.
“Six a.m., then,” Remington said, gesturing toward the notepad. “Write it down.”
Sebastian made a note.
