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schmericaCommentary for "I'm only gonna say this once." The story's here if you want to read it without commentary.
*****
The thing about me and Vecchio is, we don't talk about stuff. It's like we got this unspoken rule between us from the beginning -- some things are off-limits, do not even go there or you're going to get a fist in your face and a boot to your head or maybe just both of us getting really drunk and weepy, which is even worse.
So there's all these topics that just don't exist between the two of us. Stella, check. Fraser, check. His time as Armando, check. My time as him, check.
It's not like there's not a lotta stuff I'd like to ask him, either. I got lots of questions for Vecchio. Like What's your problem? and What did all of them see in you, anyway? and What happened to that nine kilos? and How could you just leave like that without even warning him? and What was he like with the Victoria chick? and How come there wasn't anything about you being queer when I was studying to be you? and What the fuck are we doing here and why are we doing it?
I don't ask any of it, though. I don't ask Vecchio anything. We might act like assholes a lot, but we only had one real fistfight ever, and that was when we both had just got back to Chicago and I asked him something about the Gardino case and Irene Zuko and he punched me straight in the mouth. Vecchio has a better arm on him than I thought.
So I don't ask Vecchio any of that stuff, and if he has questions for me, I don't know anything about that either. We have more stuff we don't talk about than things we do.
That's okay, though. Talking isn't what we're good at.
*****
This is what we're good at:
Maybe once a week -- sometimes a little more, maybe a little less -- I get this knock on my door late at night. And I go and answer it, and Vecchio's standing right there waiting. I let him in, he goes and sits on the couch. I put on music and dim the lights and get us some drinks, and we sit there and don't say anything. After a couple minutes, one of us gets sick of it, and we move straight to the goal of the evening.
Vecchio is a good kisser, which is another thing I didn't expect of him. He's got nice hands, soft but not too soft. He's not too bad to look at underneath all the fancy clothes, either.
Sometimes we go to my bedroom, and I get on my hands and knees and Vecchio fucks me until I can't see straight, hard and fast and ruthless until there's come all over my sheets and a sweaty Italian guy collapsed on me and breathing heavy.
Most of the time we stay on the couch. Vecchio's always hard when I reach for him, and we've done it enough now that I can get his pants open real easy, push him back against cushions and kneel down between his legs and suck his cock. The first time we did it I screwed up at the end and ended up with his jizz all over my face, which was really fucking uncomfortable, let me tell you, but Vecchio made it up that time with a blowjob of his own. He still does that sometimes, but a lot of the time he'll just drag me up from the floor, sit me there between this legs, wrap his other arm around my stomach and jerk me off like that, leaning his head forward on my shoulder to watch his hand on my dick. I watch it, too, and it never takes very long when he does it that way.
One time Vecchio stayed the night, sleeping in my bed. In the morning he made eggs and we ate breakfast in my disgusting kitchen, both of us real quiet. It was awkward, because we had rules for everything else, but we hadn't bothered to make up the rules for this. I guess his ma must have been real worried when he never came home that night, because we never did that again. That was kind of a relief. They were good eggs, though.
*****
When me and Fraser were up in the wilderness, he used to show me how you sharpen stones, like for a knife or something -- you use this other stone, the harder stone, and you just start chipping away, bit by bit.
What I think is, we all start out the same. There I was, twelve years old, everything was fresh and shiny and perfect. My heart hadn't even gotten unwrapped yet; it was unused, it was brand new. I was ready to take it for a ride. But me and Stella, it was just like that rock thing. I was the little stone and she was the hard one, and twenty years we just kept striking against each other. So my heart was real sharp afterwards, but most of it's chipped away, too.
Same thing with my parents, my mom and dad running away for ten years. Another chip. And then up in Canada -- that's the last bit of it.
Mostly what I got now is about the size of a pebble.
That's the thing about Vecchio: he doesn't care. Vecchio doesn't want more than my pebble, Vecchio doesn't need more than my pebble. Vecchio's rock isn't that big himself, anyway -- two ex-wives, and the other girls, and his dad was an asshole, too, and then I don't even know the whole deal between him and Fraser, and then like I said, whatever he did undercover, we don't talk about all that.
So me and Vecchio, we're both carrying pebbles, and his doesn't bother mine and mine doesn't bother his.
*****
See, I was Vecchio, for almost two years. I was just borrowing his life. So I might've thought I was happy then -- I walked like I was happy, I talked like I was happy, sometimes I even thought like I was happy -- but really, I couldn't've been that happy. Because that happiness wasn't me, that was all part of Vecchio. How can you be happy if you're not you? If you don't even what "you" means anymore? You can't, so I must not have been.
So it doesn't matter whether or not I'm happy now, because at least I know who I am, right?
Stanley Raymond Kowalski, at your service.
And this way it's simpler. I know what's going on now, I know what everything means, I know all of that stuff. I know Vecchio -- hell, I grew up with dozens of guys just like Vecchio, give or take a couple inches, and I bet Vecchio can say just the same for me. I don't hurt my head wondering about any of this, I don't worry about the future, I don't worry about who I am, I don't do any of that anymore.
This is easier. This makes sense. So it's got to be better like this.
*****
So Vecchio comes over to my place and for once we're actually hanging out, watching my tv and eating some chips and drinking beer. There's a hockey game on, and apparently Vecchio knows absolutely nothing about hockey, and also he doesn't much like it either, but that's tough luck for him, because it's my tv and I'm king of the castle here. So we watch that, and then we watch the news, and then the late night show starts, and my body is completely aware that this is the longest we've ever been together like this, not working, without it leading to fucking. I'm watching Vecchio out of the corner of my eye, where he's slouching against the arm of the couch, and when he turns just a little and says, "Kowalski--" I'm ready for it.
I murmur, "Shut up, Vecchio," and I get on my knees, and Vecchio gets that little half-grin, half-smirk on his face, and gets his hands in my hair, like he's got his own special grip there, handles or something. "Don't say a word," I warn him, and then I get his cock out, get my fist around it, lick my lips and go down.
I suck him for a long time, really getting into it. The tv's still on in the background, but I'm not listening to that, and Vecchio's making lots of soft noises, but I'm not listening to that, either; all I'm hearing is my own sounds, the slurpy wet sounds my mouth makes against his dick. That works me up, revs my engine, but not as much as it's doing for Vecchio, and when he comes, he makes these noises like he's dying and also pulls my hair a little.
I'm still on my knees in front of the sofa when Vecchio pulls himself back together enough to look down on me.
"You just screwing around here, or are you ever going to fuck me already?"
I don't know if Vecchio's done this before; I don't ask him and he doesn't tell me. I get him on his back on my bed, so I'm staring right down at his face -- his shut eyes, the lip he's biting -- when I slide into him. I watch Vecchio's face the whole time I'm fucking him, slow until he's hard again and then fast until he comes again with his hand on his cock and then even faster until I'm done, too, my orgasm whizzing through me. I stare at Vecchio the whole time and I don't think about Canada, I don't think about soft furs or the smell of a woodfire or snow outside or-- or-- or anything. I don't think about anything but right here and right now.
After we're done, Vecchio takes a shower. When he comes out he says, "See you tomorrow, Kowalski," and he leaves before I think of anything to say back to him. Then I go back into the living room and sit on the couch again and watch infomercials on the tv until I fall asleep.
And when I wake up, the morning sun's coming in the windows. And I'm in my underwear and I've got this weird crick in my neck and the sun's just showing just how dingy and old everything in my apartment is -- but I don't care.
I feel fine.
*****
Here is the main thing you need to know about this story, I think: this is the very only single example of all my dS fic where I don't believe in the story. Which, um, normally would mean I wouldn't be writing the story, right? And also explains why this story was hellishly difficult for me to finish, even though it's short and not particularly ambitious. This is a Ray and Ray I just don't happen to buy. But that's me, and in this case, I was writing this story forbrooklinegirl's birthday, and it was the only thing that she asked for and she does stuff for me all the time and I was going to make her HAPPY, dammit, if it freaking KILLED me. So. The writing process here was different from writing any of my other stories in the same way that walking around your apartment is different when the power goes out and you have no lights. What actually got me through it was deciding to forget all that and just concentrate on making it the closest to BLG's kinks and belovednesses, and making the writing please me on the nuts and bolts level.
The thing about me and Vecchio is, we don't talk about stuff. It's like we got this unspoken rule between us from the beginning -- some things are off-limits, do not even go there or you're going to get a fist in your face and a boot to your head or maybe just both of us getting really drunk and weepy, which is even worse.
So there's all these topics that just don't exist between the two of us. Stella, check. Fraser, check. His time as Armando, check. My time as him, check.
It's not like there's not a lotta stuff I'd like to ask him, either. I got lots of questions for Vecchio. Like What's your problem? and What did all of them see in you, anyway? and What happened to that nine kilos? and How could you just leave like that without even warning him? and What was he like with the Victoria chick? and How come there wasn't anything about you being queer when I was studying to be you? and What the fuck are we doing here and why are we doing it?
These questions were originally in a kind of random order, but one of my betas commented on this order making more sense, which it really does; there's more a feeling of leading organically one to the other this way.
I don't ask any of it, though. I don't ask Vecchio anything. We might act like assholes a lot, but we only had one real fistfight ever, and that was when we both had just got back to Chicago and I asked him something about the Gardino case and Irene Zuko and he punched me straight in the mouth. Vecchio has a better arm on him than I thought.
How much do I wish more Vecchio stories talked about Irene Zuko? SO MUCH OMG. You have no idea. Hi, am I the only person in the world who sees those episodes as central to his character?
Also, I bet Ray Kowalski in canon has no clue how badass Ray Vecchio can be. He never got to see that scene in "The Deal", after all.
So I don't ask Vecchio any of that stuff, and if he has questions for me, I don't know anything about that either. We have more stuff we don't talk about than things we do.
That's okay, though. Talking isn't what we're good at.
*****
This is what we're good at:
Maybe once a week -- sometimes a little more, maybe a little less -- I get this knock on my door late at night. And I go and answer it, and Vecchio's standing right there waiting. I let him in, he goes and sits on the couch. I put on music and dim the lights and get us some drinks, and we sit there and don't say anything. After a couple minutes, one of us gets sick of it, and we move straight to the goal of the evening.
Vecchio is a good kisser, which is another thing I didn't expect of him. He's got nice hands, soft but not too soft. He's not too bad to look at underneath all the fancy clothes, either.
Dude, I might not think Ray Kowalski really wants to have sex with Ray Vecchio, but I'd have the guy's babies.
Sometimes we go to my bedroom, and I get on my hands and knees and Vecchio fucks me until I can't see straight, hard and fast and ruthless until there's come all over my sheets and a sweaty Italian guy collapsed on me and breathing heavy.
Hello, language choices, what's that you say? Defining the relationship through sex? Really? Those Rays have got issues, huh?
Most of the time we stay on the couch. Vecchio's always hard when I reach for him, and we've done it enough now that I can get his pants open real easy, push him back against cushions and kneel down between his legs and suck his cock. The first time we did it I screwed up at the end and ended up with his jizz all over my face, which was really fucking uncomfortable, let me tell you, but Vecchio made it up that time with a blowjob of his own. He still does that sometimes, but a lot of the time he'll just drag me up from the floor, sit me there between this legs, wrap his other arm around my stomach and jerk me off like that, leaning his head forward on my shoulder to watch his hand on my dick. I watch it, too, and it never takes very long when he does it that way.
Omigod, I am SO PANDERING to Tracey's kinks here it's ridiculous. I don't even know how other people can read the story. If she had requested unicorns and carousel rides I would have found a way to get them in.
One time Vecchio stayed the night, sleeping in my bed. In the morning he made eggs and we ate breakfast in my disgusting kitchen, both of us real quiet. It was awkward, because we had rules for everything else, but we hadn't bothered to make up the rules for this. I guess his ma must have been real worried when he never came home that night, because we never did that again. That was kind of a relief. They were good eggs, though.
You know when you're halfway through a story and you hate it and you're convinced everything about it is crap and you kind of want to just give up, but there's this one sentence or line or piece of it you love that keeps you going? This paragraph was it for this story for me.
*****
When me and Fraser were up in the wilderness, he used to show me how you sharpen stones, like for a knife or something -- you use this other stone, the harder stone, and you just start chipping away, bit by bit.
Look, I couldn't keep him out of it completely, okay? LEAVE ME ALONE.
What I think is, we all start out the same. There I was, twelve years old, everything was fresh and shiny and perfect. My heart hadn't even gotten unwrapped yet; it was unused, it was brand new. I was ready to take it for a ride. But me and Stella, it was just like that rock thing. I was the little stone and she was the hard one, and twenty years we just kept striking against each other. So my heart was real sharp afterwards, but most of it's chipped away, too.
Same thing with my parents, my mom and dad running away for ten years. Another chip. And then up in Canada -- that's the last bit of it.
Mostly what I got now is about the size of a pebble.
That's the thing about Vecchio: he doesn't care. Vecchio doesn't want more than my pebble, Vecchio doesn't need more than my pebble. Vecchio's rock isn't that big himself, anyway -- two ex-wives, and the other girls, and his dad was an asshole, too, and then I don't even know the whole deal between him and Fraser, and then like I said, whatever he did undercover, we don't talk about all that.
So me and Vecchio, we're both carrying pebbles, and his doesn't bother mine and mine doesn't bother his.
I love this section. Seriously, I think the writing here, and the Ray voice in particular, is some of the strongest stuff I've written in this fandom. It's why I like this story despite myself.
*****
See, I was Vecchio, for almost two years. I was just borrowing his life. So I might've thought I was happy then -- I walked like I was happy, I talked like I was happy, sometimes I even thought like I was happy -- but really, I couldn't've been that happy. Because that happiness wasn't me, that was all part of Vecchio. How can you be happy if you're not you? If you don't even what "you" means anymore? You can't, so I must not have been.
So it doesn't matter whether or not I'm happy now, because at least I know who I am, right?
Stanley Raymond Kowalski, at your service.
And this way it's simpler. I know what's going on now, I know what everything means, I know all of that stuff. I know Vecchio -- hell, I grew up with dozens of guys just like Vecchio, give or take a couple inches, and I bet Vecchio can say just the same for me. I don't hurt my head wondering about any of this, I don't worry about the future, I don't worry about who I am, I don't do any of that anymore.
This is easier. This makes sense. So it's got to be better like this.
Oh, Ray. Maybe if you say it enough times it'll be true.
*****
So Vecchio comes over to my place and for once we're actually hanging out, watching my tv and eating some chips and drinking beer. There's a hockey game on, and apparently Vecchio knows absolutely nothing about hockey, and also he doesn't much like it either, but that's tough luck for him, because it's my tv and I'm king of the castle here. So we watch that, and then we watch the news, and then the late night show starts, and my body is completely aware that this is the longest we've ever been together like this, not working, without it leading to fucking. I'm watching Vecchio out of the corner of my eye, where he's slouching against the arm of the couch, and when he turns just a little and says, "Kowalski--" I'm ready for it.
Another place where I like the voice. This was more ungrammatical before, actually, and I thought it worked, but the betas disagreed, so it got changed.
I murmur, "Shut up, Vecchio," and I get on my knees, and Vecchio gets that little half-grin, half-smirk on his face, and gets his hands in my hair, like he's got his own special grip there, handles or something. "Don't say a word," I warn him, and then I get his cock out, get my fist around it, lick my lips and go down.
I suck him for a long time, really getting into it. The tv's still on in the background, but I'm not listening to that, and Vecchio's making lots of soft noises, but I'm not listening to that, either; all I'm hearing is my own sounds, the slurpy wet sounds my mouth makes against his dick. That works me up, revs my engine, but not as much as it's doing for Vecchio, and when he comes, he makes these noises like he's dying and also pulls my hair a little.
I'm still on my knees in front of the sofa when Vecchio pulls himself back together enough to look down on me.
"You just screwing around here, or are you ever going to fuck me already?"
I don't know if Vecchio's done this before; I don't ask him and he doesn't tell me. I get him on his back on my bed, so I'm staring right down at his face -- his shut eyes, the lip he's biting -- when I slide into him. I watch Vecchio's face the whole time I'm fucking him, slow until he's hard again and then fast until he comes again with his hand on his cock and then even faster until I'm done, too, my orgasm whizzing through me. I stare at Vecchio the whole time and I don't think about Canada, I don't think about soft furs or the smell of a woodfire or snow outside or-- or-- or anything. I don't think about anything but right here and right now.
PORN. So much porn for Tracey! Yes! It is a good thing I had had three thousand conversations with her where she delineated exactly what it is she loves about Ray/Ray, too, or I would have been even more lost.
Also, please kindly avert your eyes from the story the author is actually interested in in the above paragraph.
After we're done, Vecchio takes a shower. When he comes out he says, "See you tomorrow, Kowalski," and he leaves before I think of anything to say back to him. Then I go back into the living room and sit on the couch again and watch infomercials on the tv until I fall asleep.
And when I wake up, the morning sun's coming in the windows. And I'm in my underwear and I've got this weird crick in my neck and the sun's just showing just how dingy and old everything in my apartment is -- but I don't care.
I feel fine.
Um, this was the one place I didn't really listen to my betas, because they actually wanted me to figure out whether this was a depressing or a hopeful ending, and do something about that. I don't think you can do good ambiguity, as opposed to indecisiveness, without being really committed to your characters, and I couldn't quite get there, here. Oh, well.
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