Chapter 6 – Breaking 

Sebastian didn't make him beg again.

The word please was still hanging in the cold air when Sebastian's mouth came down on Damian's throat. Not gentle. Not soft. Hard and hungry and desperate, like a man who had been starving for three years and had finally been given permission to eat.

Damian's hands were still fisted in Sebastian's jersey. He pulled, yanked, tried to bring Sebastian closer even though there was no space left between them. Sebastian's weight pressed him into the cracked leather couch. The bandages on Damian's feet scraped against the armrest. His back arched off the cushions.

Sebastian bit down on Damian's collarbone. Hard. Damian gasped, his nails digging into Sebastian's shoulders through the fabric. The pain was sharp and bright and perfect. It cut through the cold, through the fear, through the fifteen years of pretending he was made of stone.

"You said not gentle," Sebastian murmured against Damian's skin.

"I meant it."

Sebastian pulled back just enough to tear off his jersey. The black fabric joined Damian's hoodie and sweatpants on the floor. His compression shirt followed. Then his hands were on Damian's bare chest, his palms rough with calluses from years of gripping a stick, and Damian shivered.

"You're shaking," Sebastian said.

"I'm cold."

"No, you're not." Sebastian's hand slid down Damian's stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the dip of his navel. "You're scared."

Damian's breath caught. "Maybe."

"Good." Sebastian's fingers wrapped around him. "So am I."

Damian's head fell back against the pillow. Sebastian's hand moved slowly at first, then faster, then with a roughness that made Damian's hips buck off the couch. The pleasure was sharp, almost too much, edged with something that felt like pain but wasn't. Sebastian's thumb pressed against the head, and Damian made a sound he had never made before—a broken, desperate noise that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Look at me," Sebastian said.

Damian opened his eyes. Sebastian's face was inches from his own. His dark eyes were wet, his lips parted, his breathing as ragged as Damian's. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. He looked like a man who was falling apart and didn't care who saw.

"I'm going to take you apart now," Sebastian said. "And you're going to let me."

Damian nodded.

Sebastian's hand left him. Damian whimpered at the loss. Then Sebastian was fumbling with his own belt, his pants, his boxers. The sound of the zipper was loud in the small room. Damian watched him, watched the way his hands shook, watched the way his chest heaved.

"Turn over," Sebastian said.

Damian turned onto his stomach. His bandaged feet hung off the edge of the couch. His face pressed into the pillow. He felt exposed, vulnerable, terrified.

Sebastian's hands were on his hips, lifting him, positioning him. The cold air touched places Damian had never let anyone see. He closed his eyes and waited.

The first push was rough. Too rough. Damian cried out, his hands gripping the edge of the couch, his knuckles white. Sebastian stopped immediately.

"Too much?"

"No." Damian's voice was a gasp. "Don't stop."

Sebastian pushed again. Slower this time, but no less desperate. Damian felt himself stretch, felt the burn, felt the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Sebastian's breath was hot on the back of his neck, his hands gripping Damian's hips hard enough to bruise.

Then Sebastian was all the way in, and Damian couldn't breathe.

"Okay?" Sebastian whispered.

Damian couldn't speak. He nodded.

Sebastian moved.

There was nothing gentle about it. No rhythm, no tenderness, just raw, desperate need. Sebastian fucked him like he was trying to crawl inside Damian's skin, like he was trying to erase three years of pretending, like he was trying to prove something that didn't need proof. The couch creaked beneath them. The old springs groaned. Damian's bandaged feet knocked against the armrest with every thrust.

Damian's cries filled the room. Not from pain—though there was pain, sharp and sweet and welcome. Not from pleasure—though there was pleasure, bright and overwhelming and terrifying. He cried out because Sebastian was looking at him. Because Sebastian was seeing him. Because for the first time in his life, someone was touching him not because they wanted to hurt him or use him or fix him, but because they wanted to know him.

Sebastian's hand came around to Damian's front. His fingers found him again, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Damian shattered.

He came with a sound that was almost a scream, his body tightening around Sebastian, his vision going white. Sebastian followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in Damian's shoulder, his teeth biting down on the same spot from before.

They lay there, tangled together, breathing hard. The room smelled of sweat and sex and the faint mustiness of the abandoned rink. Damian's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples.

Sebastian pulled out slowly. He rolled onto his side and gathered Damian into his arms, pulling the blanket over both of them. The leather couch was too small for two grown men, but they made it work. Sebastian's chest pressed against Damian's back. His arm wrapped around Damian's waist. His lips pressed against Damian's shoulder, soft now, almost reverent.

Damian started crying.

Not the quiet tears from before. Not the controlled sniffles he had learned to hide. Full, body-shaking sobs that came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed. His chest heaved. His throat burned. The tears soaked into the pillow beneath his cheek.

Sebastian held him tighter. "Why are you crying?"

Damian's voice was wrecked. "Because no one ever held me after."

The words hung in the air. Sebastian went still behind him. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Sebastian's arm tightened, and he pulled Damian even closer, and his lips moved against Damian's ear.

"Then I'll hold you after every time," Sebastian whispered. "Every single time. For as long as you'll let me."

Damian cried harder. Sebastian held him through it. Didn't shush him. Didn't tell him it was okay. Just held him, solid and warm and real, while Damian fell apart in his arms.

Eventually, the sobs faded to hiccups, and the hiccups faded to silence. Damian's eyes were swollen, his nose running, his face a mess. He didn't care. He turned in Sebastian's arms and buried his face in Sebastian's chest.

"I'm sorry," Damian mumbled.

"For what?"

"For crying. For being a mess. For—"

"Stop." Sebastian's hand came up to stroke Damian's hair. "You don't apologize for feeling things. Not with me. Ever."

Damian nodded against his chest. He was too tired to argue.

They lay there in the silence, the only sounds their breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere in the abandoned rink. The cold was starting to seep through the blanket, but Damian didn't move. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here forever, wrapped in Sebastian's arms, pretending the outside world didn't exist.

The phone buzzed.

Damian ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again. And again.

Sebastian reached over the edge of the couch and picked up Damian's phone from where it had fallen out of his hoodie pocket. The screen was lit up with notifications.

"Your teammates are looking for you," Sebastian said. His voice was tired, but there was a smirk in it. Damian could hear it.

Damian lifted his head. The screen showed seventeen missed messages from Alex, four missed calls from the team group chat, and a text that said: "Damian, where the hell are you? We're worried."

Sebastian held the phone up so Damian could see. Then he smiled—slow, lazy, satisfied.

"Let them look."