John Carter, once again, stood motionless under his shower allowing the water to wash over him. The water was as hot as he could stand, not to ease his back, which was sore, and it wasn’t just his back which was sore, but more to purge his soul, wanting the hot water to wash him clean. But the longer he stood there, the more he thought, and the more he thought the more unclean he felt.
Guilt.
It felt familiar . . . like an old adversary.
He wanted to bury the feeling. He was good at that. Good at not confronting the things that he knew that he should. Good at not even thinking about those things that were too difficult or too painful. But he knew . . . knew that he couldn’t avoid this.
What the fuck had possessed him? Well, obviously, Luka had possessed him . . . although, technically, he had taken possession of Luka, a significant part of Luka . . .
He moaned softly, shutting his eyes, wrapping his arms around his chest.
"Stupid." The word came out in a whisper, inaudible against the rush of the water.
Strange. How not being able to see heightened all his other senses. The feel of the water on his skin . . . the feel of his skin on . . .
. . . there was something wrong, apart from the obvious, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Luka’s hands had been all over him, touching him, feeling him, his body pressing into him, every inch of him, every hard inch of him, pressing in to him, his mouth pressing on to him, sucking him, licking him, chewing, biting and kissing . . .
. . . that was it. That’s what was wrong. Luka was taller. He had never been kissed by anyone taller than himself before . . . well, not like that. Instead of lowering his head he had raised it. That simple distinction seemed to accentuate the fact that he had been nothing more than a passive recipient of . . . of . . .
. . . every inch of him, every hard inch of him, pressing into him, that look on his face, that look in his eyes, that sound that he made . . .
He opened his eyes. "Oh God."
He reached out to turn off the water and quickly stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rail. He scrubbed at his chest roughly, vigorously, as though he was trying to remove a layer of his skin.
He wanted to blame Luka, needed to blame Luka . . . but . . .
But how could he explain this? Explain something he didn’t understand.
He stopped scrubbing and turned to the mirror over the washbasin, wiped it clear with the towel. He addressed his reflection, looked himself in the eye.
"Abby . . . me and Luka . . . Luka and I . . . we . . ." What! What was he supposed to say?
Perhaps he was making too much of this. Perhaps if he made light of it then perhaps it wouldn’t seem so serious. Perhaps.
"Hey Abby . . .Luka and I got . . . friendly while you were away. I mean . . . really . . . friendly."
He shook his head and buried his face in the towel. It muffled the sound that came from his mouth, the one that sounded like an animal in pain.
Try again.
Perhaps he could mention it casually, just casually slide it in to a conversation. He raised his head, looked in to the mirror and, again, addressed his reflection.
"Abby . . . while you were going out with Luka did he exhibit any behavior that would indicate to you that he was . . . in any way . . . gay. Why do I ask? No particular reason . . . although now that you mention it . . . we did happen to have sex. So . . . . . . . do you want to go out this evening? I know this nice romantic restaurant down by the river."
Ridiculous. Not only was it ridiculous but it also raised the question of whether or not Luka was gay . . . and if Luka was gay what did that make him? Sure he’d experimented with his sexuality but, hey, who hadn’t . . . but he had never been . . . Could Luka tell . . . tell that he had been . . . that he had never . . .
He shook his despondently. He was going to have to be up front about it, lay it out exactly as it happened so there was no chance of any misunderstanding.
"Abby. Luka and I . . . we had sex . . . but it didn’t start out as sex . . . it was a bizarre, twisted game that got out of hand . . . but it didn’t start out a as a game . . . it started out with Kovac handcuffing me to his bed . . . because the man was completely . . . deranged . . . drunk. And then he un-handcuffed me . . . and I left . . . but then I went back . . . because . . . well that doesn’t matter . . . and then he invited me to a bar . . . well it wasn’t exactly an invitation . . . did I mention the handcuffs? . . . and the note. It was a challenge . . . to a game of foosball . . . I know it sounds bizarre . . .and it was. I lost. But that wasn’t my fault. I swear to God that one of the rods was stiff . . . it didn’t turn right in my hand. And it was really close . . . and I could have won . . ."
He could have won . . .
. . . but then what? Could he have done to Luka what Luka had done to him?
Would she ask him?
"Too much information. Way too much information."
He exhaled sharply, straightened out the towel, flipped it around his neck and squared up to the mirror.
"I had sex with Kovac . . . Twice. Because . . . the first time . . . it was because I had no choice . . . I was made to do it . . . honest. It wasn’t my fault. The second time? Well, obviously I was . . . traumatized by the whole fucking experience . . . and just gave in to . . . The third time . . . there wasn’t a third time . . . there could have been a third time but there wasn’t . . . you would have been so proud of me."
He decided he wouldn’t mention the fact that there could have been a third time.
Traumatized?
Had he been? He had certainly felt terrified on his bed. Terrified? He tried to invoke the memory, to keep it at the forefront of his mind. Trouble was he found it hard to remember the feeling. It was a bit like being ill. When you’re ill you can’t really remember ever being well . . . and when you’re well it’s pretty hard to imagine what it’s like to be sick . . .
. . . and, if he had been that traumatized, then why did he go back to his apartment, why did he let him handcuff him to his bed.
No, he had been scared . . . he couldn’t forget that. The first time . . . on his bed . . . not the second time. With the blindfold . . . not being able to see had been frightening . . . not knowing what was going on, not knowing what was going to happen. But it had been so fucking intense . . . not the first time . . . the second time . . . when Luka had . . . and the blindfold . . . not being able to see . . . the second time . . . not the first time . . . had been . . . erotic.
Things were becoming confused in his head.
He should never have gone back to his apartment, after the first time, he should have just gone to the police, had him arrested. Well maybe not arrested. Perhaps they could have just given him a warning . . . or, perhaps, a stiff talking to . . .
Because if he hadn’t gone back to his apartment then he would never have touched him and if he hadn’t touched him then he would never have touched him back and then they would never have gone to the bar and he would never have gone to his apartment and then he would never have been f . . .
He retraced his steps searching for the point where he could have changed what happened . . . and failed to spot the obvious . . . the fact that he could have said ‘No’. That time in the bar . . . just before he shook Kovac’s hand . . . right after he put Abby out of his mind. Because, in his mind, ‘No’ had never been an option. Because ‘No’ would have meant backing down . . .
Luka Kovac. God, if it could have been anyone else but Luka Kovac . . . but if it hadn’t been Luka Kovac then it wouldn’t have been anyone else.
Luka had been all over him . . . like a rash.
A rash? Oh God. Was he marked in any way? Had Luka left any evidence that would reveal his betrayal? He slipped the towel from his neck and examined himself in the mirror, craning his neck, twisting his head from side to side. He looked down at his chest, at his groin, trying to remember where Luka had touched him . . . which wasn’t that difficult as it was pretty much everywhere. He looked in the mirror again, tried to look at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure.
"Abby . . . I have something to tell you . . . Luka and I had sex. I . . . didn’t mean to . . . and it didn’t mean anything. I swear to you it didn’t mean anything . . . it was just sex."
He groaned, twisting the towel in his hands. Calling it ‘just sex’ didn’t make it sound any better. What if he’d had ‘just sex’ with another woman . . . would that be acceptable . . . although . . .
"Abby I had sex with someone else . . . but . . . hey . . . it wasn’t a woman . . . yeah, like that works."
"Abby . . . it wasn’t just sex . . . No. No. No. No."
"Abby . . . it wasn’t about sex . . . it was a competition . . . to see . . . to see what . . . who had the biggest penis?"
Actually they were more-or-less the same size. Actually, the only major difference between them was that he was circumcised and Luka wasn’t. Actually, now he came to think about it, Luka’s cock looked kind of . . . cute, like it was wearing a roll-neck sweater . . . that was when he had seen it flaccid . . . which wasn’t that often . . . mostly he had seen it erect, hard, rock solid and . . .
He looked at himself in the mirror, a look of absolute disgust on his face, and kicked the stand to the washbasin.
"Ohhh fuck." He dropped the towel he was holding and clutched his foot with both hands, hopped around on one leg. "Shit, shit, shit." He gently placed his foot on the floor and flexed out his now tender toes. Thoroughly dejected he limped from the bathroom, made his way to the bedroom, still rehearsing what he was going to say, what he was trying to say, what he wished he could say . . .
"Abby . . . while you were away something very . . . strange happened . . . between me and Kovac. We . . ."
"Abby . . . Luka and I . . ." he flopped face down onto the bed, " . . we’re going to get married."
He desperately needed someone to talk to, which, for him, was a rarity having grown accustomed to sorting things out for himself however badly, but he couldn’t think of anyone.
"Dad . . . hey it’s John . . . your son . . . John . . . did you ever . . . get into a situation . . ."
"Mom . . . did Dad ever . . . was Dad ever unfaithful . . . if Dad had slept with . . ."
"Gamma . . . "
Well, that ruled out any member of his family. But who did that leave? A surreal thought flitted through his mind . . .
"Hi Maggie . . . John Carter . . . are you on or off your meds? Why? Because I have something to tell you that might really freak you out. You remember Luka don’t you . . . of course you do . . . everyone remembers Luka."
. . . which only served to illustrate how absurd the situation was.
The hospital then. Susan . . . after all it was Susan’s fault.
"Susan . . . you have a lot to answer for. Because of you I ended up having sex with Luka Kovac. So . . . what do you suggest we do about it?"
Strange, how he could always hear Susan’s voice in his head. "You’re kidding . . . right?"
"No, actually."
"Ewwwwwww!" He pulled a pillow over his head, wrapped it around his ears, to block out the sound that he knew she would make.
Not Susan.
"Deb . . ."
Definitely not. She was getting pretty cozy with Pratt . . . and if Pratt knew then everyone would know.
"Dr Weaver . . . Kerry . . . you’re gay . . . can I just run this scenario by you?"
Okay, not a woman, not even a gay woman. They wouldn’t understand would they? Despite what he believed about some woman finding guy on guy action to be . . . he decided not to go there.
"Mark . . . I know you’re dead and . . . all . . . but . . . if you had had sex with Luka Kovac . . . do you think that Elizabeth would have cared? Oh by the way . . . what was the most powerful orgasm you ever had?"
No brainer there. Between the two, definitely the first one . . . no . . . wait that was the second one. He had forgotten about the blowjob Luka had given him the preceding night . . .the appetizer, the trailer for forthcoming attractions. Luka did that deliberately, knowing that it would get him so worked up, so fucking curious . . .
He had been pretty good at it though . . . like he had at everything else. Did that come from experience . . . or was it a natural gift? Experience. No one was that good . . . not without some practice. He imagined what it would be like . . . to take Luka into his mouth . . . deep into his throat . . . or . . . maybe even to . . .
The thoughts froze in his mind. He leapt from the bed, a look of abject horror on his face, realizing that instead of feeling guilty about the things he had done with Luka he was now reflecting on the things he hadn’t done with Luka.
He groaned and headed for the bathroom to take yet another shower . . . this time a cold one. As he shivered under the near icy jets he thought about Luka . . . thought about what Luka thought about him. How he was probably laughing at him, right now, knowing how he had completely and utterly fucked him.
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If John Carter thought that Luka Kovac was having an easy time than he was sorely mistaken. Luka was embroiled in his own particular torment as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, running events over and over in his head.
He knew that he was harming people. He tried to stop that. Stopped sleeping with people at work. Nurses . . . that radiologist whose name he couldn’t even remember . . . He thought about the husband that came to see him . . . the one that pleaded with him to leave them alone. Even casual pick-ups, given their nature, occasionally ran the risk of unwelcome emotional entanglement from someone who demanded that little bit more. That’s why prostitutes, although hard on the bank balance, were a lot easier on the conscience.
But . . . Carter . . .
The bet was stupid . . . it was a joke. He liked jokes . . . or, at least, used to like, when he was younger, when life was full of joy, full of promise, when he had had so many dreams, so many passions, when he took pleasure in the simplest of thing, when even the smallest of things mattered. Instead of now . . . when nothing seemed to matter.
It was a joke . . . wasn’t it? A joke . . . was it? A twisted joke . . . because it had had malice in it . . . didn’t it? Carter . . . Abby. By his actions he had compromised their relationship . . .
He tried to feel guilty but for some reason he couldn’t. Not because he wanted them to fail but because he knew they were failing. Or perhaps, he was fooling himself . . . to ease his own conscience . . . although, at times, he wondered if he still had a conscience . . .
Carter.
He didn’t even like him . . . did he? He liked him like that. With that look on his face, just before he . . . fucked him.
He had fucked him.
He closed his eyes . . .
. . . and couldn’t help thinking about which image he found the most . . . enthralling.
Fucking him on the bed with his hands locked above his head, totally at his mercy, unable to protect himself, muscles taut, face contorted, heat rising from his skin, breath catching in the back of his throat, and then that look on his face . . . that mixture of anger, frustration, confusion. He didn’t know why he had been so aggressive. Was it just because he could, because he could do whatever he wanted and what he had wanted to do was to drive himself into him, bury himself completely . . .
Or . . .
Taking him in the shower as he leant forward, without one word being spoken, his hands spread wide on the wall, his legs spread wider, to accommodate him, the way he had pushed back onto to him. The paleness of his skin, skin that glistened under the water, water that felt slick under his fingers, fingers that played along the curve of his back, over his ass, over the top of his thighs. Hands on his hips, pulling him towards him, pushing him away, fingers spread over his cheeks, thumbs digging into to his flesh . . . He was, surprisingly, lithe, supple. The way he had arched his back as he leaned over him to bite into the nape of his neck. When he had fucked him slowly, teasingly, water cascading over them, when all he had wanted to do was drown in his heat, his hand around his cock, stroking him, driving him, controlling him . . .
The images were frighteningly vivid, etched into his memory. He wanted to shake his head, shake the images away, but he lay deathly still for fear of losing them. Finally, it was too much. He groaned and rolled over, pressing his erection hard into the bed . . . and could still smell his scent on the sheets.
Or was he just imagining it?
He couldn’t be sure. But just the thought that he could was intolerable. He pushed himself up, climbed off of the bed and strode out of the bedroom slamming the door behind him.
He should have ended it before, sooner, not had him here in his space, in his home . . .
. . . but he couldn’t resist it.
He should never have started it, should never have done what he had done, at the place where they work . . .
. . . but he couldn’t stop himself.
But it was Carter . . .
It was a mistake. One of an alarmingly high number that he seemed to be making recently, when everything he touched seemed to crumble into dust.
"We all make mistakes. We have to learn to forgive ourselves, accept it and move on." Words that he had heard many times in one form or another . . . Except he couldn’t move on could he. He was here. Stagnating. Paralyzed. Unable to move forward to create a new life, unable to move backward . . . because there was no backward. So he was here because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to be.
A foreigner in a foreign land. A stranger in a strange country. People here thought differently from the way he did, acted differently, had different values, different expectations. He was shocked sometimes by how insular some Americans were . . . at not knowing how easy they had it. They didn’t know about the real world . . . not this world . . . this artificial, superficial, ephemeral . . .
He laughed, suddenly, at his thoughts. Isn’t all life ephemeral, all worlds transitory? He should know that more than anyone. A self-imposed exile from a non-existent world.
That’s probably why he took such pleasure in sex. Because for that one brief, fleeting moment he could get lost in that feeling, to know how good it was to be alive, when all other thoughts vanished from his mind.
He leaned back against the bedroom door, closed his eyes . . . and he could see him, feel him, almost taste him. He wondered if he had ever done anything like this before . . . and something told him that he had . . .
Strange, that he had trouble connecting to people, and yet now, of all the people he knew, he felt, in a distorted way, more connection to him than anyone one else. The truth of that made him realize how truly bizarre his life had become. He abruptly turned round and opened the door, walked into his bedroom and stripped the sheets from his bed.
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John paced up and down the concourse, stopping to stare at the information displayed on the screen as his steps inevitably returned him to his original spot. He looked at the screen for, if he had known it, if he had been keeping count, the thirteenth time.
He felt sick. It was a nervous sickness, like the one he always got when he was waiting for the results of an exam or a test or waiting to impart bad news. He took a deep breath and tried to quell the feeling . . .
. . . felt someone pulling on his arm, dragging him forcefully, another hand in the small of his back, propelling him forward, towards the door of the men’s room. It was only when he was inside that he finally protested and twisted out of the grasp.
He shook his arm, straightened out the sleeve of his jacket. "What is it with you and men’s rooms?"
Luka didn’t answer.
"How did you know where to find me?"
"I figured it out. It wasn’t hard . . . I knew she was coming back today."
John nodded. "And what. You wanted to come and watch."
"No . . . I want . . . I need . . . to know . . . what you are going to do."
"I’m going to tell her. What else can I do? Look, Luka. . . . I’ve never cheated before . . . never. I don’t care what you think of me . . . I already know . . . what you think of me . . . "
Luka interrupted. "You can’t tell her."
John’s mouth hung open, not quite believing what he was hearing. He shook his head. "I can’t . . . not . . . tell her."
"What will it achieve . . . telling her?"
John stared at him, narrowed his eyes suspiciously, clearly questioning his motive. "Are you worried what she’ll think of me . . . or what she’ll think of you?"
Luka stared back unflinchingly. "I’m worried about what it will do to her . . . look . . . you . . . we . . . can’t change what happened . . . but telling her will only make it worse . . . for all of us."
John brought his hands up to his face, rubbed at his eyes. In his mind not telling her had never really been an option. He didn’t know if that was because he believed that if he didn’t tell her then Luka would . . . and now Luka was here saying that he wouldn’t.
Luka took a step closer towards him, slightly disconcerted by the level of his distress. "You can’t tell her. Not now . . . not today . . . maybe . . ."
"Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow."
"What?"
"Sorry . . . inappropriate movie reference," he mumbled.
Luka shook his head, not understanding.
John dropped his hands to his sides and looked up at the ceiling. "I don’t know what to do."
Luka took another step towards him, opened his mouth to say something . . . and was interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening.
They instantly sprang apart, suddenly conscious of how close they were standing to one another, and moved swiftly to the urinals, taking care to leave a space between them. The man who entered, who had a sense about such thing, was fully aware that he had interrupted something. He grinned lecherously at their backs and then, rather ungraciously, positioned himself at the vacant urinal. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis fondling it briefly before pointing it at the porcelain. The lecherous grin never left his face as he turned his head towards John who was concentrating hard on his simulated urination.
The man looked him up and down appreciatively, letting his eyes roam casually up and down his body. He then slowly turned his attention towards Luka, looked at his groin, moved his eyes up . . . and came face to face with one of Luka’s fiercest glares. The look froze him to the core, wiping the smile from his face. He swallowed, but only just, because of the giant knot that had formed at the back of his throat. He snapped his head to the front, shook his penis a little too violently and hastily zipped his pants . . . a little too hastily, catching a tiny piece of skin. He winced and turned round, beating a rapid retreat to the door, walking awkwardly.
John, oblivious to what had occurred, turned his head to look at the man’s retreating back. "Unbelievable . . . the guy didn’t wash his hands."
Luka shook his head woefully, seeming to agree with John’s assessment of the man’s character.
John, even though he hadn’t actually peed, automatically walked to the washbasins and washed his hands, took a paper towel and dried them. When he had finished, he screwed the towel into a tight ball and tossed it at the trashcan. He missed. Sighing heavily, he turned and slumped down on to the edge of one of the basins.
"I don’t know what to do."
"It’s my fault. If I could change it I would . . . I never . . ."
John put his hand up, stopping him in mid sentence. "Actually I’ve analyzed this quite a bit . . . and I’ve come to the conclusion that its . . . totally . . . Susan’s fault . . . and, as a consequence, I think we should vow never to speak to her again."
Luka stared at him blankly.
John smiled weakly. "It was a joke."
Luka returned the smile, not because he understood it, but more because he was grateful that the tension seemed to have been broken.
"One hell of a week."
"A week . . . is that all its been. God. Feels like forever." John looked into Luka’s face, into his eyes. "Look . . . I need to know . . . was this . . . in any way . . . revenge . . . you know . . . on me . . . on Abby?"
Luka was unblinking as he held John’s stare. "No . . . I don’t know what it was . . . I just got carried away."
"You and me both."
John dropped his head to his chest, stared at the floor . . . a thought occurred to him and he stood up. "Can you do me a favor . . . can you . . ." he stopped, suddenly embarrassed.
"What?"
He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Can you check . . . the back of my neck . . . you know . . . from the other night?"
Now it was Luka’s turn to be embarrassed. He blushed slightly and nodded his head. John turned round and faced the mirror over the washbasins, dropped his head so that Luka could see. Luka moved closer to him . . . close enough for John to feel his breath on the back of his neck.
Luka closed his eyes . . . saw him leaning over, hands spread wide against the wall . . . he opened his eyes quickly, stared at the back of his neck. His hair was in the way . . . but Luka was reluctant to touch him. "Can you lift your hair."
It was only when John went to move his hand that he realized that he was tightly gripping the edge of the basin. He brought his hand up slowly to the back of his neck, dragged his fingers through his hair pushing it out of the way.
There was a mark, incredibly feint, barely visible, but it was there. Luka had marked him . . .
"It’s okay. You can’t see anything."
"Thanks." John turned round and, feeling the need to sit, slumped down again on the edge of the basin. Luka stood silently by his side, then lifted his hand to touch him. John automatically jerked his head out of the way.
"I just wanted to check your head."
John relented, allowed Luka to run his fingers gently over the wound on his eyebrow. The touch was professional, impersonal, medical . . . but . . . He pulled his head back sharply.
"I should have got a head CT. Probably why I was acting . . . you know . . . so strange." He didn’t look at Luka, couldn’t meet his eyes.
Luka nodded his agreement. "It’s nearly healed . . . you can barely see it now . . . it’s as though it had never happened."
They heard the outer door open and they sprang apart, once again, conscious of how close they were standing to one another. This time, instead of moving to a urinal, John walked quickly into a cubicle, turned and locked the door. He rested his head against the cold metal surface, cooling his forehead, listening to the various sounds . . . of clothes rustling, of water running, the door opening. When it was totally quiet, he pushed himself away from the door and unlocked it, went out.
The room was empty.
****************************************************************
Luka watched from a distance as John greeted her at the gate, watched as he bent his head to kiss her, as she raised her head to meet his . . . but their timing was off and John ended up awkwardly kissing her brow.
As he watched them he felt familiar feelings rising up within him, emotions, that hadn’t, in fact, changed. But now, he was shocked to discover, that where once his animosity had been directed towards him it was now directed towards . . . her.
He shook his head in disbelief, pulled the collar of his jacket tight around his neck and, without a backward glance, walked briskly towards the exit.
To be continued . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n