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Going out with Habit is never an easy thing, even when he’s on his best behavior — because Vinny has to be prepared for Habit on his worst behavior, and it’s excruciating to wait and wait for chaos that never comes.
Groceries tend to be easy. Food is a necessity if Habit wants to keep Vinny alive, and he’s proven that much, at least. If Habit causes chaos in the market, they have to stay away for a while, and there are only so many places they can go in the area. Habit won’t let Vinny out without him, and if Habit goes shopping without Vinny, he comes home with the weirdest shit. Twelve bags of candy and a jar of raspberry jam? Unacceptable.
Fucking weirdo. It’s things like that, the odd diet and complete lack of understanding about why that’s unacceptable, that make Vinny sort of believe Evan’s claims that Habit’s something else, some kind of monster entity that has taken root in him. Evan is unmistakably a foodie, and Habit…well, unless you count human flesh, which Vinny doesn’t, Habit is decidedly not.
They’re drifting down the bread aisle when Habit, chattering about (Vinny thinks, he hasn’t been paying too much attention) the merits of ridges in hunting knives, slips his hand beneath the hem of Vinny’s shirt to drag his fingernails lightly up Vinny’s spine. He goes still, right there in the middle of the aisle, eyes darting around. There’s a woman, probably in her twenties, with a young child in the seat of the basket. There’s an old man at the end of the aisle intently examining two types of bagel. Neither are looking, but they might.
“Habit,” he says quietly. “What are you doing.”
“You weren’t listening to me,” Habit answers with a light scratch. Vinny doesn’t want it to feel good. It does anyway.
Vinny never touches anyone anymore, not really. Sometimes Habit touches him, less violently than he used to but still not kindly, and there are occasional handshakes when he’s acting as bait on a hunt, but overall, Vinny is a lonely, ravenous thing, and his skin turns and desperately reaches toward anyone who so much as brushes up against him, like a sunflower to the sun. These careful, gentle brushes of Habit’s hand are worse than any violence. There’s no way he can think about anything else now.
“I’ll listen,” he promises, a tremor in his voice, “but — you can’t do that-”
Habit growls inhumanly. A shiver, not entirely unpleasant, shoots through Vinny, beginning where Habit’s hand is and traveling up his spine and outward through his gut and into his thighs. Christ, he’s terrifying sometimes. “Why not?”
There are so many reasons why not. Vinny had a whole month and a half of bliss with Evan, firstly, and he doesn’t want Habit fucking up those memories with gentle touches. But that’s not a good enough excuse, so he goes with the obvious. “People could see. It’s not exactly, uh. A guy with his hand up another guy’s shirt, it’s…”
“Oh. Them. Don’t worry about them, Vinny,” says Habit with a vicious grin and another soft brush up his spine. He looks downright hungrily at the woman with the kid. “I’ll protect you.”
That asshole. That absolute goddamn asshole. Evan said that exact thing to him. Vinny can’t remember when, now, but he remembers being so flattered by the promise, by the attention. It was one of those rare times when Vinny was so certain Evan loved him back. And he can’t even push Habit away; if Vinny causes a scene, Habit will cause a bigger one, but even if they avoid that, it’ll probably draw attention.
He grits his teeth and keeps moving, attempting to ignore the way Habit’s decided to circle his thumb at the crest of Vinny’s hip. He just has to get through this trip. Habit’s just being a shit, per usual. At least he’s not knocking over displays like a cat, or worse, doing actual violence to someone.
“She looks like somebody this body remembers,” Habit says in a low, conversational tone, jerking his head toward the woman. Vinny sort of remembers one of Evan’s exes having curly red hair just like hers, although the ex had bigger tits, he thinks. He doesn’t want to think about it, especially not with Habit caressing him like this.
“Huh,” Vinny says noncommittally.
Habit bumps his head against Vinny’s shoulder, making his skin hum there, too. “Yeah, I don’t get it either, but Evan sure liked swapping fluids with other humans. As you well know, kiddo.”
Yes, Vinny knows because he saw Evan on camera, and because he had Evan’s dick in his mouth, bled for him, came for him. Deep breath — no matter what, no matter what kinds of images Habit conjures up, this is just another head game, and Vinny can’t let him win.
“Huh,” he says again as they round the corner and enter into the boxed foods aisle, occupied only by one young man with giant headphones over his ears. He can get through this. He won’t think about it. He won’t think about the way Evan took him, handled him, made him new—
“But maybe that’s not what interests you. I have other stories too, you know. This head’s full of them. One from here, actually. Evan got right down on his knees in the employee bathroom and sucked off some guy who worked here. You remember, right? What was his name—”
“Peter,” Vinny mutters, unable to mask the resentment in his voice. Evan hadn’t meant for their thing to get out, but Peter had a big mouth and everyone knew how Evan moaned like a whore. Whether that was the thing that ended it or Peter just fucked himself over, Vinny has no idea, but he remembers hating Peter so much. And now all he can see is Evan on his knees, so desperate for that asshole’s dick in his mouth that he’d risk the filth of a grocery store bathroom.
“Funny how you can remember him, but not your own parents,” Habit comments, looking pleased with himself. Vinny tilts some pasta into the cart and shifts uncomfortably, images playing in his head a little bit wrong. Evan on his knees, desperate. It doesn’t matter who he’s desperate for.
“Fuck off,” he manages, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
“Mm, no, they didn’t fuck here. You know who he did fuck here, though? Steph. That shouldn’t surprise you. They fucked everywhere. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It was in the parking lot, in the car. They came to get condoms and couldn’t even manage to keep it in their pants for the drive home.”
Vinny grits his teeth. Of course. Of course Evan fucked Steph here. There is no place untainted by the ghost of them, is there? It’s bad enough Habit insists on shopping at the same place Vinny, Jeff, and Evan always shopped — bad enough he insists on dragging Vinny into nostalgia and pain every time he’s allowed out, even when they’re hunting — but this? Vinny could have happily gone his whole life without knowing.
Habit’s fingers wisp along the patch of skin just below the waistband of Vinny’s pants. A thrill runs up his spine and he stalls unwillingly.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Habit says to nobody, and keeps his fingers at Vinny’s lower back, darting back and forth, up and down, dragging in and out of Vinny’s waistband. He can barely breathe. Habit uses that hand to push Vinny forward, gentle, like a dance. “Keep going, buddy, we’re not done here.”
Vinny wills his feet to move. With Habit whispering filth at him and stroking him in a place he’s always been overly sensitive, it’s difficult, though; difficult to focus, difficult to manage the cart and the list and ducking the attention of other shoppers. Nobody’s paying attention to them. It’s not like many people are ever out at stupid o’clock at night, anyway. Does he want them to see? No, of course not.
Maybe. Maybe a little. But only because this is Evan’s body, not because it’s Habit, and any sense of interest is immediately killed whenever Vinny imagines seeing himself there too. It’s not that he’s unattractive, that’s not the problem, he knows he’s attractive enough. It’s just that he hates being on camera when it’s a scene he can’t, at least partially, control.
“She used to fuck him, you know. You wouldn’t think she could, as little as she was, but she’d throw his legs right over her shoulders and make him lose his shit. Just imagine that: the same guy who made you bleed let her fold him in-”
“I don’t want to hear about Steph,” Vinny interrupts, irritated and more turned-on than he wants to be.
“Of course not,” Habit soothes, and as they round the barrier and head into the canned food section, his hand dips lower. This is so far beyond the previous taunting touches to Vinny’s lower back, and he hates that it feels good and he hates that he can’t do anything to stop it, not even when Habit continues, “You were always so jealous of her. You’d rather talk about you. I gotta wonder, were you always such a freak or when he fucked your throat were you thinking of me, hmm?”
It’s only the images, in combination with the way Habit’s toying with the cleft of his ass, that draw the embarrassing noise out of Vinny. When Vinny gets Evan, he’s solely focused on Evan. He used to want to see Evan at his worst, used to maybe prod him a little just to see, but Vinny felt safe, being used by Evan. He doesn’t feel safe here. And if he’s turned on by that, it’s only because his fear-responses are fucked now after too much time in this bizarre arrangement.
When the noise leaves his chest — a breathy, plaintive thing he wishes he could swallow and forget — Habit snarls and presses him against the shelves, rows and rows of cans at his back. One arm slashes across Vinny’s chest, the hand curled into a fist at Vinny’s shoulder, and the other hand arcs over Vinny’s hipbone and down into his waistband again. Vinny, whose hands went up into a nonthreatening pose immediately, almost expects Habit to be holding a knife as he rocks his hipbone forward into Vinny’s groin, but there is no telltale prick of a blade against Vinny’s neck; there’s just an overbearing, overwhelming sensation radiating upward and inward.
“Habit,” he says. Pleads, really, although he’s not exactly sure what his next words are supposed to be, considering everything. “We can’t, we, we can’t-”
Habit covers Vinny’s mouth with one hand and grinds into him. It’s so good, and Vinny hates it so much. It’s not his fault he hasn’t been touched in years, and the last person who touched him was Evan. It’s not his fault Habit looks exactly like someone he loves. It’s not his fault he likes Evan’s voice and Evan’s hands and Habit’s hijacked enough of Evan’s mannerisms to seem like Evan plus a little extra.
“You’ll have to be quiet. Someone will hear. Someone might see,” says Habit with the smile he gets whenever they go hunting. A wide, toothy promise of unpleasantness. Vinny shouldn’t like it. If he does, it’s only because it’s familiar and it reminds him of something he can’t think of right now.
Vinny breathes shakily. Nods, just so Habit will let go. When he does, Vinny asks, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you want me,” Habit replies, pulling neatly at the clasp and zipper of Vinny’s pants with both hands — just enough to release pressure, just enough to shove his hand down Vinny’s pants, Jesus Christ. Vinny’s frozen, watching this happen; he knows if he tries to stop Habit, it’ll make a scene. Maybe Habit will stop and do something worse later, when they’re alone, but maybe Habit won’t stop and will do something worse now. It’s the not-knowing that stays his hands. Evan’s deft, pretty hand wraps around Vinny and he wishes so much that Evan were actually here, because it’s Habit, who punctuates that thought by murmuring, “Well, you want Evan. Same difference. And sometimes you’re not sure, I don’t think. I know the violence turns you on. I hear you in your room, you sick fuck.”
He sounds affectionate. Vinny doesn’t bother to try and refute the accusation. If he ignores the context — if he ignores some of the words — he can imagine that Evan is here. He can easily imagine Evan talking to him like this, calling him names. Evan would do it if Vinny asked him to. He did a lot worse the first time they were together, and Vinny didn’t even have to ask, he just had to make the right suggestions.
“Please,” he whispers, closing his eyes. He isn’t even sure what he’s asking for — what does he want? For Habit to stop? For Habit to go faster, to get him properly hard and get him off? For all of this to be a really bad dream? It feels like one, the two of them framed unevenly under harsh fluorescent lights, Habit’s hand shoved down his pants gripping just a little too tight without enough smoothness or even condensation to be comfortable even if they were in a comfortable place.
Habit either has all of Evan’s experience or is just drawing on it, because it might not be a comfortable setup, but he knows how to turn his hand to get his thumb up over the tip of Vinny’s dick, knows where to pull and where to twist. If Vinny moved his own hips, he could make it better. Habit’s other hand pins Vinny to the shelves by the throat, not hard enough to cut off circulation or air — again, it’s not good, it’s just happening — but enough that if Vinny leans forward, he’ll choke himself. He has to make the decision to participate in his own pleasure. He doesn’t want to, he wants it to not be happening. Or if it has to be happening, he wants Habit to just do it all. Why make Vinny choose between an unappetizing, halfhearted handjob and exhibitionism that actually fully feels good? What did Vinny do wrong? Is he being punished?
Somehow, that opens up some kind of wriggling, frantic thing that isn’t quite lust, but adjacent to it. Is he being punished? Is he being punished?
“Evan,” he breathes. He wanted Evan to punish him, before he took off, but never got around to suggesting it well enough. Never managed to get Evan to make the right connections. This is as close as he’ll get, and maybe he can pretend.
“Say my name, you fuck,” Habit growls, and it’s another kind of not-lust now, an ache running up and down and inside-out. Vinny’s hands clench again and again as Habit works him over, an unceasing range of actions that must be designed to be almost perfect. It doesn’t feel good enough for Vinny to stop hating it. Vinny can’t physically disconnect enough for it to stop feeling good. Nobody’s coming, nobody can see or hear, but the fear of it is what’s motivating Vinny closer and closer to the finish line, and maybe he does have a problem after all. But if he has one, it’s been cultivated by Habit.
“Ev-”
“My name,” Habit growls again, pressing more firmly on Vinny’s neck. That does something to him, as they both knew it would.
“Habit,” Vinny answers desperately. He isn’t sure what he’s hoping Habit will do: let go or squeeze a little tighter. God, he hates himself so much, especially when Habit lets go of Vinny’s neck and his first reaction isn’t relief, but disappointment.
“He never loved you, Vin. Did you know that? He never wanted you. Not until you tricked him. But I do, even now,” Habit tells him softly with a clever twist of his wrist, and that’s it — Vinny’s never had such a sad, unsatisfying orgasm, something so shallow and easy to think through. It might be because of the way Habit grabbed him and let go just before Vinny came, or it might be because of the things he said, but as he shakes, Vinny releases weakly against Evan’s hand, more of a drizzle over his own dick than anything. As with the entire experience, it is obscenely uncomfortable, even though it feels good to finally have it happen.
Fucking sadist. Habit couldn’t even let Vinny have his pathetic orgasm in silence. He had to be wretched about Evan, too — had to fuck with Vinny’s head.
Habit is a liar, Vinny knows, and Evan did love him, but maybe there’s some truth to it — some truth to the idea that Evan never loved him the way he loved Evan — and never wanted him the way he wanted Evan. It never felt one-sided, and back when Evan was Evan for a couple of months he said he loved Vinny, and Vinny didn’t trick him. He just didn’t fight back when Evan unearthed memories Vinny didn’t have, because he was sure he’d get them too. But he has to admit that Habit gives him the exact kind of attention that he’s always given Evan, memories or no.
He’s still not totally sure if Habit is an extension of Evan or a different entity that soaked up enough of Evan to seem like part of him, but it hurts either way, and now he’s standing in the canned food section with tacky boxers and Habit holding up his hand, examining the smear of ejaculate across his fingers. As Vinny shakily zips himself back up and re-clasps his pants, Habit sticks his tongue out and tests the flavor. It’s not surprising; Habit eats people. This is an extension of people. The only surprising thing is that he hasn’t tried it before.
Habit makes a face and holds up his hand in front of Vinny’s face. “It’s your mess, you clean it up.”
Is he serious? “You’re…kidding…right?”
“Vinny! There are starving kids in Africa,” Habit replies, faux-shock in his voice. It’s louder now, and Vinny cringes. Someone could hear. “You clear your plate, young man, or else.”
It feels ugly and dark and transgressive and dangerous and kind of sick, leaning forward to wrap his tongue around Habit’s fingers, knowing that however Habit gets off, this is what does it for him, the part where Vinny has no choice but to submit. It’s not a pleasant flavor, made worse by the fact that Habit is not a frequent bather, but once again, it is hot — it’s the worst, Vinny is the worst, he shouldn’t like this, he doesn’t want to like this.
But he meets Habit’s blue eyes and swirls his tongue an extra time anyway, unable to help himself. He pulls off Habit’s hand, refusing to break eye contact, unable to help himself. It wasn’t his decision. It wasn’t his fault. Maybe it was detestable, maybe he hates himself for being helpless, but it wasn’t his fault. Nobody could hold him responsible for any of this. He had no choice but to submit. If he enjoyed it, that’s probably because of a problem cultivated by Habit.
“Well? C’mon, champ, let’s get going,” says Habit cheerfully, breaking the stillness. Vinny jumps, making Habit laugh, and to shake off the rest of the fog, Vinny turns back to the cart and begins walking.
“Can’t leave without this,” Habit says, grabbing a can of corn mix and holding it up beside his face as he catches up. “Gotta be healthy, remember.”
He throws it into the cart carelessly, grins like a shithead, and smacks Vinny square on the space where his thighs meet his ass, sending a spill of extra unwanted and unexpected sensation through him. Vinny stumbles, bites the inside of his lower lip, and squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn’t say anything.
Vinny hates this. He hates Habit. He hates himself. But it’s not his fault.