NOTE TO READERS: This chapter features a scene that portrays what some may interpret as intense or aggressive sexual interaction between two consenting adults. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
"Adrian's Eleventh Hour"
(Five Years Later)
The ticking of the clock on the wall was so faint, it might as well have been the heartbeat of the room itself. A soft, ceaseless percussion against the stillness.
Adrian sat in the leather chair opposite the therapist, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, one hand gripping the curved handle of his cane. He was thinner than he used to be. His hair was cut short now, streaked with grey at the temples. Even the sharp gleam in his eyes had dulled, replaced by something quieter. Something resigned.
Dr. Elizabeth Rainer regarded him patiently from behind rimless glasses. "Let's go back to what you said earlier. About the shame."
Adrian smiled faintly, a sardonic lift of the lips. "Isn't that what all of this is about? Shame. Guilt. Redemption. Or the illusion of it, anyway."
Dr. Rainer didn't answer. She let the silence do its work. Adrian shifted in his seat.
"You mentioned your diagnosis," she said gently. "How does that sit with you now? When you hear the words' narcissistic personality disorder,' do you still feel…like it defines you?"
Adrian looked past her, toward the window. Outside, the trees swayed in a quelled dance. It was raining again. Of course it was. "It used to make me angry," he murmured. "Then defensive. Then…nothing at all. Just another label. Another mirror I couldn't recognize myself in."
"You don't see yourself in it?"
"I see who I was," Adrian said, voice brittle. "Who I let myself become. There's a difference."
His fingers were restless on the cane. Tapping. Twitching. As if something inside him refused to sit still, even now. Especially now.
"Tell me about Nick," she said, carefully, her voice like silk cutting through fog.
A beat. Then another. The clock ticked. The air shifted. Adrian froze.
The subtle tremor in his hand became more pronounced. His breath hitched just once, but it was enough. His jaw tightened. He looked down, away, inward. "I'd rather not," he said softly.
"Why?"
His response was a long time coming. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, as though anything louder might shatter him completely.
"Because some things," he whispered, "are better left untouched. Like a scab that doesn't heal right, you pick at it and the bleeding never stops. Nick is…" He swallowed.
Dr. Rainer observed him, thoughtful but quiet. She didn't press. Then, she nodded. "All right. Then let's talk about your son." Adrian flinched. She caught it. "Bobby," she said, carefully. "You mentioned you haven't seen him in over four years."
A long silence followed. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, folding itself into the heavy quiet of the room. Adrian's eyes remained fixed on the floor, his hands on his knees, fingers twitching.
Dr. Rainer tried again. "What caused the distance?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "You wouldn't..."
"I'm just trying to help you understand what you're still running from."
"I'm not running."
"You're trembling."
He was.
The tremor had started in his right hand, subtle at first, then creeping into the line of his shoulders. His breathing changed. He leaned back slightly, as though trying to escape gravity.
Dr. Rainer leaned forward. "What happened that night, Adrian?"
He stiffened, head turning slightly toward the window. A reflection of him lingered faintly on the pane, older, haunted, more human than he'd ever been in his younger, manic glory.
"I can't," he whispered.
"Why not?"
"If I say it out loud…" He trailed off.
"Say what?"
Adrian's lips parted, then closed again. A war played silently behind his eyes.
"I hurt him," Adrian finally said, his voice suddenly sharp. She waited. "But I…" He bit down hard on the sentence, swallowing it. His throat moved visibly.
Dr. Rainer didn't press this time. She sat back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. "I think you're punishing yourself," she said softly.
He gave a bitter smile. "Aren't we all?"
They sat in silence.
Then, Adrian stood. Slowly. His hand gripped the cane with a tension that belied the graceful ease he once carried himself with. He walked to the window, his limp quiet but present, a faint shuffle dragging across the floor. He looked out. The skyline blurred.
He reached out, fingertips grazing the windowpane. "It was supposed to be a conversation. Just a fucking conversation."
He fell silent again.
Dr. Rainer let the stillness settle. "Adrian," she said at last, "what happened that night?"
He didn't turn around. His reflection was the only thing that responded, shivering, faint, the outline of a man barely holding himself together.
"I think that's enough for today," he whispered, turning and limping to the door.
Dr. Rainer stood, too. "Same time next week?"
Adrian hesitated, his hand resting on the knob. "I don't know yet…" He trailed off, shaking his head. And then, just before leaving, he turned to her, his face cast half in shadow, eyes flickering with something. Not pain. Not hope. Something more fragile. Remorse.
"You ever did something in your life, doctor," he asked, "and know you'd never quite recover from it?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't wait for one.
The door clicked shut behind him.
*
(Present Time)
The bed was too cold for morning. Adrian stirred in the linen tangle, his arm stretching across the mattress only to find the void where Nick should have been. His brows knit in a dazed frown. He blinked once, twice, the light already too sharp against his eyes. His temples throbbed, a dull, slow ache, and when he sat up, it felt like gravity had doubled its grip on him. A hand to his head, he exhaled.
"Nick?" he rasped.
Silence answered. There were no footsteps, no scent of coffee, or the muted clatter of breakfast in the kitchen. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing. A strange heaviness clung to his bones, not pain exactly, but something viscous. He stood, wobbled, and caught himself against the nightstand.
"Jesus," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. His bare feet padded slowly to the tall windows that overlooked the beach.
And there he was.
Nick.
Down below, standing ankle-deep in the sand, shirt rumpled and hair tousled. He was laughing, Adrian couldn't hear it, but he knew the shape of that laugh, how it crinkled the corners of Nick's eyes. A dog darted between the figures on the beach, tail wagging furiously. Nick stooped, picked up a stick, and hurled it. The dog went wild.
The neighbor stood beside Nick, gesturing, already too casual for the early hour. Nick nodded, said something. The two of them chuckled.
Adrian's hand slid against the glass. He leaned his forehead there, watching. His reflection hovered like a ghost. "You're pushing your luck, genius," he whispered to himself.
His breath fogged a little circle on the window. He stood there, unmoving, staring down at the scene that should have felt harmless, but didn't. There was a strange sting behind his ribs, not quite jealousy, not quite fear. Something coiled. He'd seen Nick like this before.
And yet.
The dog barked, and Nick laughed again. Adrian closed his eyes.
Minutes later, Nick came in through the back door. He kicked off his sandals at the threshold. The dog, August, had followed him halfway to the house before deciding to stay by the fence and dig a hole with great existential purpose.
Adrian was already seated at the kitchen counter, robe loose around his chest, a glass of water sweating on the wood beside his hand. He didn't speak as Nick entered. Just watched. Nick went straight to the stove.
"You're up early," Adrian murmured finally.
Nick didn't turn around. "You're just up late."
"I looked for you."
"I left a note." He cracked three eggs into a white bowl. The fork hit the ceramic with steady, unhurried rhythm. "It was on the nightstand."
"Didn't see it." Adrian tilted his head. "Was too busy wondering if you'd drowned."
A soft scoff. "Tempting."
Adrian grinned. He watched Nick reach into the fridge for butter, his body lean and precise in motion, effortless, as if the entire house bent toward his presence.
"So," Adrian said after a beat, "the neighbor."
Nick turned, arching a brow. "What about him?"
"He seems...friendly."
"Richard. He is."
"Mm. That's usually what people say about cult leaders and serial killers."
Nick smiled faintly as he tossed butter into the hot skillet. "Don't worry. No Kool-Aid yet."
Adrian's foot tapped idly against the stool leg. "You were out there a while."
"We were throwing sticks for August."
"That a metaphor?"
Nick turned finally, arms crossed loosely. His eyes met Adrian's, cool, steady. "No. Just a stick. Just a dog. Just a neighbor."
Adrian leaned back in the chair, observing him like a riddle he couldn't quite crack. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Making someone feel like they're being paranoid...while still not answering the question."
Nick stirred the eggs slowly. "I haven't done anything to feel guilty about."
"That doesn't mean I don't feel it anyway."
There was silence. Adrian's gaze dropped to his hands, scarred knuckles. Nick plated the eggs with slow, graceful care. Then, without a word, he set the dish in front of Adrian, along with a folded napkin and a fork. Their hands brushed briefly.
Adrian glanced up. "You didn't make any for yourself."
"I'm not hungry."
"You never are when we're fighting."
Nick gave a soft laugh. "Are we fighting?"
Adrian didn't answer. He reached for the fork. The eggs were perfect, soft, just shy of runny, the way he liked them. He chewed, swallowed, and stared across the table. He wanted to ask Nick something stupid. Something dangerous. Like, are you happier when I'm not around? But he didn't. He just kept eating, trying not to let his hand shake as he reached for his glass.
The creak of the upstairs hallway interrupted the moment. Soft footsteps descended the staircase. Nick didn't react, but Adrian straightened slightly in his seat, fork paused midair.
Bobby appeared in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, curls damp, eyes swollen with sleep.
"Morning," Nick said, gently, without turning.
"Hey," Bobby replied, voice low.
Adrian gave him a once-over. "You look like shit."
Bobby's expression didn't change. He scratched the back of his neck, gaze flicking between the two men. Then, deliberately, he walked to the table, but not to Adrian. Not a glance. Not a nod. Just a straight line toward the stove, where Nick had started frying more eggs. Bobby reached for Adrian's plate, only half-eaten.
But Nick, already moving, slid a new plate toward the counter's edge. Steam rose from a small mountain of perfectly cooked eggs, dusted lightly with cracked pepper and sea salt. There was toast, too, cut diagonally, the way Bobby liked it.
Bobby hesitated, caught in the exchange. Then, something flickered in his eyes. Gratitude, embarrassment, something he was quick to mask. He took the plate and sat, murmuring a faint, "Thanks," before digging in.
Adrian's gaze never left him. "You two fight?"
Bobby looked up mid-chew. "No."
"You sure?" Adrian pressed. "Because usually when you come down here, you eat half my food and then try to give him a hard time."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being observant." Nick poured himself a glass of juice and leaned back against the counter, watching the quiet storm build in Adrian's head. "What happened?" Adrian asked again. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.
"Nothing." Bobby glanced at Nick.
"Then why are you both being weird?" Adrian turned to Nick now, voice low but pointed. "Did something happen while I was asleep?"
Nick took a slow sip of juice. "Like what?"
"I don't know. An apocalypse."
"I'd have woken you for that."
Adrian's eyes stayed on Nick. "So?"
"No apocalypse," Nick said.
Adrian's jaw ticked. Bobby was eating in silence, eyes down. And Nick was the picture of calm, except for the tightness in his posture, the faint edge beneath every carefully measured word. Something had happened. Something he hadn't been invited to witness this time.
Bobby chewed slower now, aware of the attention, shrinking beneath it.
Adrian leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Okay," he said. "Fine. You don't want to tell me, don't tell me."
Nick didn't reply. His face was placid, serene even.
Bobby cleared his throat. "I'm gonna finish this outside."
He grabbed his plate and walked toward the back door, avoiding Adrian's stare completely. When the door clicked shut, a heavy silence fell.
"I need to look over some essays. Final drafts," Nick said as he headed for the stairs.
Adrian's brows knit. "We agreed, no work."
"It'll be quick," Nick replied, already moving again. "Twenty minutes, tops."
Adrian stood there for a moment in the quiet kitchen, suddenly too large, too empty. He scraped his fingers across the counter, tapping aimlessly before pushing off and walking to the sliding glass door. The sun outside was harsh. He squinted as he stepped into it, the salty breeze brushing against his skin like fingers he didn't want. Beyond the porch, he saw him. Bobby had walked down barefoot, trailing footprints across the sand, his plate abandoned on the railing. Adrian watched him strip off his shirt and toss it aside before stepping into the water.
His feet barely hesitated at the shoreline.
The tide swelled around Bobby's ankles, then up to his calves, and higher. He kept walking, silent and purposeful, until the waves met his waist, his torso. Then he stopped, letting the water rock him gently.
Adrian leaned on the post, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Something about Bobby felt strange. Not threatening. Just off. The boy, no, the man he knew, was fire and bone, sarcasm and claw. Bobby was defiance wrapped in muscle, arrogance cradled in a sharp grin. He was inconvenient, loud, and irritatingly insightful. He talked back, slammed doors, and challenged the world as if it owed him a debt.
But this version of him, drifting in the surf, shoulders slack, expression unreadable was something else entirely. Tamed, perhaps. Or worse. Defeated. Adrian hated the word. Defeated. It tasted like failure in his mouth. He studied the angle of Bobby's back, the way he let the water carry him just slightly, floating like he had nowhere to be. As if he had nothing to prove. As if the fight had drained out of him, and all that remained was quiet.
Bobby didn't look back toward the house.
He used to, Adrian thought. He used to scan every room for approval, for challenge, for reaction. Now he looked like someone who had been broken in gently.
A hot wave of discomfort rippled through Adrian's chest. He hated watching people become shadows of their former selves. He hated how familiar it felt. He shook his head, suddenly too aware of how badly he didn't want to be alone in that house while Nick marked essays and Bobby floated just out of reach. So he stepped down from the porch and padded across the sand, his feet sinking with every step, his shadow trailing behind him like a weight.
Bobby still hadn't looked back.
He didn't call out. He just stood there at the edge of the tide, salt air in his lungs, sun in his eyes, and an old, unwelcome ache blooming in his chest. The kind of ache that came from watching someone slip just out of reach, not because they were running, but because you let go first.
A few minutes later, Bobby came out of the ocean, water slicking down his shoulders. He shook his head like a dog, sending droplets flying, and ran a hand through his wet hair. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed, not angry, just remote. Like he was coming back from somewhere far away, and not entirely sure he wanted to.
Adrian watched from the edge of the sand, arms folded across his chest. He kept his stance casual, the way he always did when he wasn't sure what to do with what he was feeling. "I thought you hated swimming in the ocean," he called out with a smirk, trying to lace the words with warmth. "Said it was full of shit that could bite you or sting you or, God forbid, touch your feet."
Bobby didn't laugh. Just kept walking up the beach toward him. "I still do," he said, brushing past, the smell of salt and summer clinging to his skin. "Just felt like floating for a while."
Adrian turned and started walking with him, back toward the house.
"Looks like you're turning over a new leaf," he said lightly. "What's next? Campfire songs? Holding hands? The whole 'Kumbaya, My Lord', shit? Therapy?"
Bobby stopped so suddenly Adrian nearly bumped into him.
"Don't."
Adrian blinked. "Don't what?"
"Don't do that thing where you pretend this is normal," Bobby snapped. "Where you pretend you're just the chill, sarcastic dad cracking jokes, like we've always been this close."
Adrian's smirk faltered. "We're close."
Bobby's voice dropped, quiet but sharp. "That's...not what I meant," he said, rolling his eyes yet still amused by his father's comment. "You didn't give a shit about me growing up. Not really. You were too busy building empires, fucking strangers, forgetting birthdays. The only time you looked up was when I got in trouble or when you needed me to play best friend because Nick had finally had enough of your shit."
The words hit like an open hand. No yelling. No dramatics. Just truth. Adrian tried to speak, but it caught in his throat. Instead, his hand reached out, reflexively, and gripped Bobby's arm.
"Let go," Bobby said, not looking at him.
Adrian didn't.
They stood there, a few paces from the porch. Adrian's hand tightened just slightly, his face hidden behind the shades. The silence grew, stretching out like a tension wire. Then, finally, softly, like deflating, he let go. Bobby turned and walked the rest of the way back to the house without another word. Adrian stayed behind, his hands at his sides, before finally moving.
The screen door creaked as he stepped inside. He paused just past the threshold, trying to recalibrate whatever brittle composure he'd left outside. Then Nick appeared at the foot of the stairs, a small stack of graded essays under one arm. His eyes found Adrian immediately, those clear, unreadable eyes that had always seen too much, always read between the lines even when Adrian tried so damn hard to write nothing at all.
"You talked to him?" Nick asked simply.
Adrian blinked and gave a short, humorless laugh. "Define 'talk.' I said words. He said words. I think there was some deeply felt eye-rolling involved."
Nick didn't smile. "Adrian."
"What?" Adrian's shoulders sagged, his charm wearing thin like a fraying shirt. He looked away, toward the kitchen, then back at Nick. "I'm not trying to hurt him."
"But you are," Nick said, his tone steady. "You do. And you keep brushing it off like it's part of your charm. Like it's some fixed point in your constellation of flaws that everyone has to learn to orbit. But he's not a planet. He's your son."
Adrian clenched his jaw. "He knows how I am."
Nick stepped past him, into the kitchen. The sound of glass clinking, the soft splash of bourbon being poured. He added a cube of ice. Adrian liked it that way now. Nick always remembered the small, inconsequential things. Things that mattered.
He handed the glass over, their fingers brushing. "Try harder," Nick said.
Adrian stared down at the drink.
Nick leaned against the counter, folding his arms, eyes on Adrian like he was measuring the fault lines beneath the veneer. "Talk to him like he's not some inconvenience. Like he matters. Like he's not another casualty in the long war you keep waging with yourself."
There was no bitterness in Nick's voice. Only exhaustion. Clarity.
Adrian took a sip. The ice clinked softly. "I'm not exactly...good at that," Adrian said after a long silence.
Nick tilted his head. "Learn."
Adrian looked at him then, really looked, and in Nick's face, he didn't see anger, or disappointment. Just a quiet ache. A grief that had learned how to survive inside a calm exterior.
"I miss when you used to just tell me what to do," Adrian said, half-smiling. "You were good at that."
"And you never listened," Nick replied, gently. "But that was never the point, was it?"
Adrian chuckled and took another sip of his drink. It burned.
Nick pushed off the counter and turned to leave the kitchen. Before he did, he paused at the threshold, looking back. "Fix it. Or at least stop breaking it more."
*
(Hours Later)
Nick had taken the car and driven into town again. It was already mid-afternoon when Adrian finally decided to walk up the stairs. He stood in front of Bobby's door, bourbon in hand, the condensation gathering against his knuckles. He hesitated just long enough to contemplate walking away. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe never. But something in Nick's voice echoed through him.
Fix it. Or at least stop breaking it more.
He sighed and knocked.
After a beat, the door creaked open. Bobby didn't look at him, just turned and walked back to his desk. Adrian stepped inside with the posture of a man entering a warzone without armor. He glanced around. Posters of bands he didn't recognize, books he'd never read, a pile of laundry that looked like it might be growing sentient.
"Hey," Adrian offered.
Bobby didn't look at him. "You lost?"
Adrian ignored the jab and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. "Figured we could…talk."
Bobby snorted. "About what? Stocks? Midlife crises? How to disappear emotionally while staying physically present?"
Adrian exhaled through his nose. "I'm trying here."
Bobby swiveled in his chair slowly, resting an elbow on the armrest and propping his head in one hand like an exhausted philosopher watching ants. "Trying what, exactly? To remember my name? To act like you're some kind of sitcom dad with a heart of gold buried under all the narcissism and trauma?"
Adrian let the words settle, the sarcasm carving its usual gouge into his patience. He looked at the floor. "Look, I don't know how to do this. I didn't exactly have the best example growing up. And, if we're being honest, I wasn't around enough to be anything but bad at this."
"No shit," Bobby muttered.
Adrian looked at him then, really looked. Bobby was all cheekbones and clenched jaw, his eyes like storm clouds under lashes too long for someone so bitter. He wore armor of words, but his fingers fidgeted with the drawstring of his hoodie.
"I thought maybe you'd like to talk to me about whatever's going on. With you."
Bobby's mouth twisted into a grin that wasn't one. "Yeah, let me just open up and bare my soul to the man who once asked if I could tone down my emotions because they were exhausting."
Adrian rubbed his temples. "Jesus." Adrian stood abruptly, more out of habit than rage. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Yeah, this isn't going well."
Bobby swiveled back to the window, waving one hand like a royal dismissing a court jester. "Feel free to try again in another few years."
Adrian took a step toward the door. Paused. And then, something shifted in his shoulders. In his face. The part of him that usually offered flippant retreats stopped cold. He turned back toward Bobby.
"Wait here," he said quietly, already heading down the stairs.
Bobby sat in his chair, arms crossed, still nursing a sour expression, except now, his eyes weren't quite as dead set on indifference. He tilted his head slightly, listening. There was a rustling downstairs. A cupboard opening. A drawer being yanked out. A muffled "Shit, where is it?" followed by the clinking of glass. Bobby's brow furrowed.
Curiosity overruled his pride.
Quiet as a cat burglar, Bobby slipped from his chair and tiptoed to the door, bare feet soundless against the hardwood. He peeked his head into the hallway, eyes sharp, movements comically stealthy. A child spying on Santa Claus. From the stairs, he caught a glimpse of Adrian balancing something under his arm, muttering to himself, kicking the cabinet door closed with his foot, his phone clenched between his teeth.
Bobby's eyebrows rose. "What the fuck…"
Just as Adrian started stomping up the stairs again, Bobby gasped and sprinted silently back to his chair like a kid caught awake past bedtime. He dove into the seat, spun to the window, and crossed his legs like he'd been deep in philosophical thought the whole time.
The door swung open.
Adrian entered like a man on a mission, arms full and not a single apology in sight. He carried the weed box, old, probably vintage, and full of questionable decisions, tucked under one arm. In his other hand: a nearly full bottle of whisky, two mismatched glasses clinking. And between his teeth, his phone was already searching for a Bluetooth signal.
Adrian dropped the box on the bed with a soft thud, then tossed the grinder and rolling papers in Bobby's general direction.
"Roll one, will you?" he said, plopping onto the edge of the mattress like he owned the place. "Your old man's fingers have been wobbly lately."
Bobby stared. For a moment, the sarcasm, the resentment, all of it dissolved into a kind of wide-eyed wonder. He didn't say it aloud, but it was obvious: Adrian never did this. Adrian never brought the party to him.
"You high already?" Bobby quipped, pulling the box into his lap.
Adrian snorted and ignored him. "Your speakers work?"
Bobby nodded toward the little Bluetooth device near his bookshelf. Adrian connected his phone, scrolled through a playlist, and soon, a low thrum of music filled the room. Old soul, smoky and smooth. Bobby blinked. Adrian unscrewed the whisky cap and filled both glasses. Then, without hesitation, he downed his in one swift gulp and poured himself another, letting out a low breath like he'd exorcised a ghost from his chest.
He leaned back against the headboard, whisky in hand, finally still.
The joint passed lazily between them. Bobby reclined back in his chair, legs kicked over the armrest, expertly rolling the smoke in his mouth before exhaling a stream toward the ceiling. Adrian lounged on the bed, barefoot now, his shirt half-unbuttoned, one arm propping up his head. The second round of whisky sat amber and honest between them.
Adrian took a sip from his glass and tilted his head. "So…" he began, voice half-mischief, half-serious, "who the hell are you?"
Bobby glanced at him, suspicious. "Is this a trick question?"
"I mean it," Adrian said, waving a lazy hand in the air. "I have no idea what kind of movies you like. Books? Music? I know you hate vegetables and love horror movies, but that's about the extent of my paternal knowledge."
Bobby scoffed but smirked. "Well, I read Murakami. I love sad Japanese things. The ocean, crows, jazz. You know, classic coming-of-age depressive stuff."
Adrian chuckled. "Jesus. That tracks."
"You?"
Adrian shrugged. "I used to be all Hemingway in my twenties. These days, I read more instruction manuals than anything."
"That's depressing."
"Yeah, well, adulthood is mostly reading things you don't want to understand." They laughed. Bobby shook his head, more amused than he'd ever admit aloud. "What about music?" Adrian leaned in, curious. "You seem like an Elliot Smith meets trap remix type of guy."
"Close," Bobby said. "Massive Attack, Frank Ocean, Lianne La Havas, early Radiohead. Anything that feels like being underwater and on fire at the same time."
Adrian whistled. "Okay, wow. You actually have good taste."
Bobby froze, the joint hovering midair. He blinked at Adrian. "That might be the first nice thing you've said to me in...ever."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Well, don't get used to it. But still. Credit where credit's due."
They passed the joint again. Then the song shifted. Soft, seductive, unmistakable.
Adrian's head perked up. "Ohhh, yes. This is my jam."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Of course it is."
Adrian stood with a dramatic flourish, almost spilling his drink. "Get up. Come on."
Bobby raised a hand, defensive. "No way. I don't dance."
"You're missing out, kid."
"I'm stoned, not stupid."
Adrian walked toward him, feigning a slow twirl and a ridiculous hip sway. "Don't make me solo this moment. Come on, man. You're not too cool to move."
Bobby turned his face to the window, hiding the grin tugging at his mouth. "This is fucking embarrassing."
"It's life, it's supposed to be embarrassing!" Adrian said, spinning again, holding an imaginary partner in one hand and his whisky in the other. "You think Marvin Gaye gave a damn if someone laughed at him?"
"That's Smokey Robinson."
"Same vibe. Shut the fuck up and dance."
Adrian grabbed Bobby's wrist, not hard, just enough to tug him off balance. Bobby stumbled forward, cursing under his breath, trying not to spill his drink as Adrian pulled him into the middle of the room.
"What the hell are you..." Bobby muttered.
"Shh! You lead," Adrian steered.
"That's your schtick."
"I know. And it feels pretty good. Try it out."
And just like that, Bobby let go.
There was no rhythm, no real choreography. Just two stubborn men, surrounded by books, smoke, and the fading sun, swaying to the remnants of a Motown dream.
Bobby chortled. He couldn't help it. Adrian was snapping off-beat, twirling them both like a drunk uncle at a wedding. And for the first time in years, it felt like something cracked open between them. The room pulsed with music. The haze from the joint lingered, golden and soft. Adrian swayed in the middle of the room, shoulders rolling in exaggerated rhythm as he mouthed the lyrics.
"Come on," Adrian taunted. "Let go, Bobcat."
"You dance like you're having a seizure," Bobby said, stifling a laugh. "It's tragic, honestly."
"Tragic?" Adrian clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. "I'll show you tragic."
He lunged forward, grabbing Bobby by the wrist and yanking him, forcing their bodies to bump. Bobby let out a squawk of protest, half-laughing as he stumbled into Adrian's arms. They spun, staggered, bumped into the dresser, almost knocked over the whisky bottle.
Adrian was laughing freely, like he hadn't in years.
But the dancing suddenly devolved. A misstep. Bobby elbowed Adrian, and Adrian retaliated with a playful shove that sent Bobby toppling onto the bed. Adrian pounced after him, trying to tickle him, pin him down.
"Get off, old man," Bobby said between shrieks of laughter, pushing at Adrian's chest.
"No mercy for assholes who insult my dancing."
They wrestled like boys, limbs flailing, laughter sharp and uncontrolled, until it shifted. Adrian's grip on Bobby's wrists tightened. His weight bore down harder, heavier. The laughter evaporated like mist. Adrian pulled Bobby sideways, and they collapsed over the bed, bouncing a couple of times before Adrian climbed over his son, pinning him down.
"Okay, okay...ow!" Bobby's voice cracked. "Dude, you're...you're hurting me." But Adrian didn't move. He hovered above Bobby, eyes dark, mouth parted as if searching for a word and not finding it. Bobby's breath hitched. "I said get off!" he yelled, jerking against Adrian's hold.
Still nothing. Just that stare.
Then Bobby screamed, raw and sudden.
"I hate you!" The words tore from him like they'd been waiting years to be let out. "I fucking hate you! You only remember me when you need something. When Nick leaves. When you're lonely. I'm your backup plan."
His body writhed, trying to get free, but Adrian held him down, not out of cruelty now, but with the stubborn insistence of someone refusing to let go, refusing to lose again.
"You should've just stayed gone!" Bobby screamed, fists pounding at Adrian's chest, wild and graceless and hurt. "You think this makes up for anything? You think one dance, one stupid joint, a fucking song fixes things?" Adrian didn't speak. He took the hits, the slaps, the hot fury flung into his skin like knives. His eyes shimmered, but he didn't blink. "Let go of me!" Bobby's voice was hoarse now. "Just let me go!"
Still, Adrian held him.
And then, it happened.
Bobby cracked. His fists turned to open hands, clutching fabric instead of striking it. His body slackened. The fight drained from him like water from a sinking vessel. He sobbed. Loud, gut-deep cries that hadn't been touched in years. The kind that come from beneath language. The kind no boy should ever cry in front of a man who should've protected him.
"I hate you," Bobby whispered in between tears.
Adrian lowered himself slowly, his body covering Bobby's, but not to restrain this time. His arms circled Bobby's heaving back with an awkward tenderness. His hand, shaky and unsure, found the back of Bobby's head and held him there, tucking him into his chest like a father too late to the task.
"I know," Adrian whispered back, his lips near Bobby's ear. "I know."
Bobby didn't answer. He just cried harder.
Adrian had Bobby pinned down on the bed, his muscular frame pressing into Bobby's trembling form with a weight that was both suffocating and intoxicating. Bobby's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps as Adrian's lips descended on his tear-streaked face.
Adrian's tongue lapped at Bobby's tears with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The taste of salt and sorrow only seemed to fuel Adrian, his lips moving with a possessive urgency. "I'm sorry," Adrian growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through Bobby's entire being.
Bobby's resistance was crumbling, his body betraying him as it arched into Adrian's touch. Their hips ground together, the friction between them electric, volcanic. Adrian's hands roamed with a rough, almost brutal intensity, gripping Bobby's waist hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as if he wanted to claim every inch of him.
"Why do you do this to me?" Bobby whimpered. A broken, breathless plea. But even as the words left his lips, his body was already answering, his cock straining against the fabric of his sweatpants, desperate for release. Adrian's lips curled into a wicked smirk, his eyes dark with lust. "Don't…" Bobby gasped, his voice trembling with fear and desire.
Adrian's smirk widened, his fingers tightening their grip as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Bobby's ear. "Don't what?" he purred, his voice a low, sultry growl.
"Don't… don't stop… please," Bobby begged, his voice breaking as his body surrendered completely to Adrian's touch.
"That's my boy," Adrian groaned, voice thick with lust as he slid off the foot of the bed, his knees hitting the floor with a soft thud.
Adrian's hands were like iron shackles as they clamped down on Bobby's ankles, yanking him across the bed with a force that made the sheets bunch and twist beneath them. Bobby's body, lithe and quivering, was dragged like a ragdoll as he was flipped onto his stomach.
Adrian's hands were raw, unhinged with lust as he grabbed the waistband of Bobby's sweatpants, his fingers digging into the soft fabric. With a savage, animalistic growl, he tore the pants open in one brutal motion, the sound of ripping fabric reverberating through the room. They split apart like wet paper, revealing Bobby's white cotton undies clinging desperately to his hips, already tented with the unmistakable outline of his smooth, perfect ass cheeks.
Adrian yanked the wrecked pants and underwear down Bobby's legs in one fluid motion. The fabric pooled at Bobby's ankles, leaving him completely exposed, his cock springing free, thick and throbbing, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Adrian's breath hitched, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of Bobby's naked body. Bobby's back arched instinctively, his ass rising like an offering, the curve of his cheeks begging for attention.
Adrian didn't waste a second. He leaned in, nose brushing against the soft, warm cleft of his son's ass, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent. "Fuck," Adrian groaned, his voice thick with lust, "This smell..."
His hand came down hard on Bobby's ass cheek, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing through the room. Bobby's body jerked, a low moan spilling from his lips as his face pressed into the sheets, his teeth biting down on the fabric to stifle the sound. With a rough grip, Adrian spread Bobby's cheeks wide, exposing the tight, pink pucker. Bobby's breath hitched again, his body quivering as Adrian leaned in closer, his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.
And then he dove in.
Adrian's tongue was like a weapon, lashing against Bobby's hole with a ferocity that had him crying out into the sheets. The wet, sloppy sounds of Adrian eating him out filled the room, each flick and swirl of his tongue jolting Bobby's body. Adrian's hands gripped Bobby's hips, holding him in place as he devoured him like a starving man.
Bobby's moans grew louder, his hands clawing at the sheets as Adrian's tongue pushed deeper, probing and teasing his entrance. "Dude, fuck...please," Bobby gasped, his voice breaking as Adrian's tongue worked him open.
Adrian pulled back just long enough to growl, "It tastes even better than it smells," before diving back in, tongue drilling into Bobby's hole with relentless precision.
Bobby's legs trembled, his cock hard and leaking against the sheets. His face nestled into the soft embrace of the mattress, hiding his blossoming smile as he tasted regret on his lips, a bitter residue. Because despite Adrian's demeanor and the hurt he often caused, a bewildering truth lingered.
Bobby felt intricately connected to Adrian in every aspect: through turbulence, through suffering, and through yearning. Through every feeling they both loved and hated about each other. Through every emotion they had shared yet chose to navigated alone, in the most profound solitude.
Two souls.
Split by their pride.
Bound by their desire.
Adrian's face was buried deep between Bobby's cheeks, tongue lapping at the tight, pink pucker of his son's asshole with a hunger that bordered on feral. The coarse, unkempt beard that framed Adrian's jaw scraped against Bobby's flawless, porcelain skin, leaving a trail of reddened irritation. Bobby's moans were guttural, primal, each one escaping his lips in a desperate gasp as Adrian's tongue plunged deeper.
"Fuck, Dad," Bobby whimpered, his voice trembling with a mix of shame and raw, unadulterated pleasure. His hands clawed at the sheets, knuckles white as he tried to anchor himself against the onslaught of sensation. Adrian's hands gripped Bobby's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading him wider, exposing him completely.
Then came the slap, a sharp, stinging crack that made Bobby's entire body jolt. Adrian's palm connected with Bobby's ass cheek with a force that left a bright red handprint blooming on it. Bobby cried out, his cock twitching. Adrian spanked him again, harder this time, the sound mingling with Bobby's choked moans.
"You like that, you little slut?" Adrian growled, his voice thick with arousal. He didn't wait for an answer, his tongue diving back into Bobby with a ferocity that had him arching his back, toes curling in ecstasy.
Adrian's hands moved to Bobby's thighs, gripping them tightly as he pulled him back, forcing his face even deeper into his son's ass. He finally stood up, belt already halfway off, the leather sliding free with a sharp snap. He tossed it onto the bed, eyes locked on Bobby's trembling form. His pants hit the floor with a thud next, revealing the thick, veined monstrosity of his 11-inch cock, already hard, already leaking. He spat into his palm, the sound wet and obscene, and wrapped his fingers around his shaft, smearing the spit along its length. The slickness glistened, and Adrian's lips curled into a feral grin as he lunged forward, his body crashing into his son's.
Bobby's breath hitched, body stiffening as Adrian's hand gripped his hip, yanking him into position. Adrian's other hand, rough and reeking of dominance, guided the swollen head of his shaft to Bobby's tight, quivering hole. There was no preamble, no gentle coaxing, just the brutal, unrelenting pressure as Adrian shoved himself inside, inch by agonizing inch. Bobby's mouth flew open, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat, but Adrian was already there, sliding his hand over Bobby's lips to muffle the sound.
"Shut the fuck up," Adrian growled, his voice low. "You're gonna take it, and you're gonna like it."
And then he started to move.
His hips pistoned into Bobby with a savage rhythm, each thrust driving his cock deeper, harder, faster. Bobby's body writhed beneath him, a twisted mix of discomfort and delight etched into every twitch and shudder.
Adrian leaned down, his breath hot and ragged against Bobby's ear. "You feel that?" he hissed, his voice a vicious whisper. "That's me owning you. That's me fucking you so hard you'll never forget who you belong to." Bobby's nails dug into the sheets, his back arching as Adrian's cock hit that sweet spot deep inside him. A choked moan escaped his lips, muffled by Adrian's hand, and Adrian chuckled darkly. "That's it," he snarled. "Take it, you little shit."
The pace quickened, Adrian's thrusts becoming even more brutal, more relentless. His balls slapped against Bobby's ass with every movement, the sound obscenely loud at this point. Sweat dripped from Adrian's brow, his muscles straining as he fucked his son into the mattress with a ferocity that bordered on brutality.
Bobby's body was a mess of conflicting sensations. Pain, pleasure, shame, desire. All swirling together in a dizzying brume. His cock was hard, leaking onto his stomach, but he didn't dare touch it. This wasn't about him. This was about Adrian taking what he wanted, and Bobby was just the vessel.
Adrian's cock pistoned in and out of Bobby's tight, quivering hole with the precision of a jackhammer. The room was a symphony of guttural grunts and the wet, squelching sounds of Bobby's ass being absolutely wrecked. The rhythm was unrelenting, the force savage. Bobby's hole was stretched to its limit, the pink rim flaring and clenching desperately around Adrian's girth, trying to accommodate the sheer size of the cock splitting him open.
"Fuck, you're still tight," Adrian growled, his voice dripping with dominance. He leaned forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Bobby's trembling back, and wrapped a hand around Bobby's throat, squeezing just enough to make him gasp. "You love this, don't you? You love being my little fucktoy."
Bobby whimpered, nodding in complete submission, his asshole spasming around Adrian's dick as if begging for more. Adrian smirked, his free hand reaching down to slap his son's ass cheek again. Bobby's hole began to queef, the air forced out of his stretched asshole with every withdrawal of Adrian's cock. The sound was foul, glorious, moist, guttural pfft that only spurred Adrian on.
Finally, Adrian slowed, pulling out with a wet pop that left Bobby's hole gaping, the rim twitching and fluttering as if mourning the sudden loss. Adrian stood up, dick glistening Bobby's ass juices, and admired his work. Bobby's ass was a mess, red, swollen, and dripping.
"Jesus Christ, look at that fucking mess," Adrian taunted, his voice trickling with sadistic glee. He slapped Bobby's ass again, the sound sharp and satisfying. "Say what you will, Bobcat," he conveyed between heavy breaths, "but nobody will ever fuck you like I do," he stated before jumping off the bed.
Adrian walked over to the desk, his hard dick dangling between his legs, and poured himself a shot of whisky. He downed it in one go, the burn raging in his veins. His eyes flicked back to the bed, where Bobby was trying to crawl away, his body shivering, his asshole still twitching.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Adrian questioned. He stalked back to the bed, cock swinging with every step, and grabbed Bobby by the ankles, yanking him back into position. "We're not done yet."
Adrian spat on his cock, the saliva mixing with the slick mess already coating it, and lined himself up with Bobby's gaping hole. With one brutal thrust, he was back inside, burying himself to the hilt. Bobby cried out, his body arching as Adrian's cock filled him once more.
That's when Adrian's eyes rolled back, the whites swallowed by a shark-like blackness. His hand, thick-veined and shaking with barely restrained violence, shot out like a viper, snatching the belt. The leather hissed as it slithered through his fingers, the buckle clinking like a death knell. Bobby's breath hitched, his throat bobbing as Adrian looped the belt around his neck. The strap tightened with a cruel, deliberate slowness, the leather biting into Bobby's tender flesh, slowly cutting off his air. His eyes bulged, wide and panicked, as he tried to choke something, but the words were strangled before they could form, leaving him gasping like a fish on a hook. Adrian's grip was unrelenting, and he yanked the belt tighter, pulling Bobby's body flush against his own.
"Let this be a lesson," Adrian growled like the rumble of thunder before a storm. His lips brushed against Bobby's ear. "If you ever…look at him that way again…" he continued. "I'll fucking choke you to death," Adrian snarled, his voice dripping with venom and something else. Something raw and primal that made Bobby's stomach twist in a way he didn't want to admit. And then, without warning, Adrian pushed deep, his cock slamming into Bobby's insides with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. The pain was sharp, blinding.
Bobby's mouth fell open in a silent scream, his body arching as Adrian fucked him with brutal, unrelenting strokes. Each thrust was a punishment, a reminder of who was in control, and Bobby could do nothing but take it now. Adrian's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he pounded into his son with a ferocity that bordered on madness.
And then, with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human, Adrian finally unloaded, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself in hot, thick spurts. His grip on the belt loosened slightly, just enough to let Bobby draw in a ragged breath, but not enough to let him go.
Bobby's vision swam as he teetered on the edge of consciousness, limp and pliant in his father's grasp. He could feel Adrian's cock still twitching inside him, the last remnants of his release leaking out and trickling down his inner thighs.
Adrian's pulled out, cock sliding out of Bobby before he finally stood up on the bed, his muscular frame towering over his son. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his abs as he smirked.
Bobby lay there, trembling, his body a mess. His hole was red and swollen, gaping slightly. His thighs were slick with fluids, and his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. "You piece of shit…" Bobby muttered, his voice hoarse and broken. He coughed, throat raw from the screams Adrian had ripped out of him. "I almost…passed out," he managed to choke out, his words barely audible.
But Adrian was on fire.
And not the good kind, not anymore.
He leapt from the bed with the lightness of a man far younger than he was, throwing drunken, stoned punches at the air like he was shadowboxing an invisible opponent. His laughter came in bursts, loud and loose, mouth dry and wide as he bobbed and weaved. Eyes bloodshot, chest heaving, he danced like a fool who didn't know the music had stopped.
Even then, Bobby watched Adrian from the bed. Suddenly aware, painfully so, of the harm his adoration for his father was causing. Was this love, Bobby wondered? Was this the only path to Adrian's heart? To completely annihilate himself? To die, if need be? On any other occasion, Bobby would have believed so. He would have convinced himself of it. But things had changed. Nick's kiss had changed things. Changed him. Changed everything. Because now, he knew Adrian's storm wasn't the end. There was calm and peace beyond it. A harbor to disembark in. A haven for Bobby's damaged soul.
He bit down the tears he could feel coming.
And even after everything that Bobby had allowed.
Even after what Adrian had done to him.
The damage. The hurt. The humiliation. The pain.
Even then, Bobby smiled.
And for the last time in his life, he gifted Adrian with the only thing he knew his father would accept from him.
A lie.
"Jesus, you're cooked," he whispered, faking a grin.
Adrian spun and landed a dramatic uppercut to the ceiling fan. "Float like a butterfly, bitch."
"Sting like a..." Bobby replied before stopping when he saw the sudden shift in Adrian's expression.
The grin faded, and in its place came something unsure, trembling. Adrian blinked, eyes unfocusing, his knees starting to falter beneath him. "Shit," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. A hand flew to his chest, as if trying to silence the loud, panicked thudding within. “Okay…okay…”
"Hey," Bobby said, sitting upright, his hand discreetly brushing his neck. "You good?"
Adrian waved him off, a sharp gesture that lacked its usual bravado. "Yeah. Be right back," he muttered, stumbling toward the door.
He didn't get far before the hallway seemed to tilt. His heartbeat felt like a war drum gone rogue, wild and irregular. He gripped the wall, using it to pull himself to the bathroom like a dying man dragging himself toward water. Inside, fluorescent light buzzed. The mirror offered a cruel reflection: eyes rimmed red, pupils blown wide, lips pale. Adrian collapsed against the sink, breath shallow, sweat dripping off his jaw onto the porcelain.
Is this it?
The thought came quietly, through a haze of rising panic.
Heart attack. I'm having a fucking heart attack.
His fingers trembled violently as he fumbled for the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, but it didn't help. His legs buckled. The world pitched and reeled. "No, no, no..."
And then, the crash.
His full weight hit the floor like a tree felled mid-breath. The glass from the soap dish shattered, and the ceramic toothbrush holder exploded near his head. The whole bathroom seemed to gasp.
"Adrian?" Bobby's voice came from down the hall, nervous at first, then laced with alarm. "Dad...?"
Bobby ran, his feet slipping as he turned the corner and nearly crashed into the half-open bathroom door. The sight inside stopped him cold. Adrian lay crumpled on the tiles, his back twitching with uneven breaths, eyes wild and terrified. His limbs twitched feebly.
"I can't...I can't move my legs," Adrian rasped.
Bobby's face drained of color. "What the fuck do you mean...?"
"I can't..." Adrian's voice cracked. "Get Nick. Now."
Bobby stood frozen, heart thudding, eyes darting between Adrian's unmoving legs and his face.
"Bobby!" Adrian barked. "Get Nick!"
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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