~deathstroke year one fiend~

Until the day he does.

Warnings : +18, oral sex, teasing, mentions of STIs, internalized homophobia.

Wintergreen noticed far more things ever since he'd started sleeping with Wade, a few times a month, whenever his cravings ate away at his brain and he would go find the young man wherever he'd gone to bury himself at the time. It was like studying one specimen through another. Through Wade, he came to understand certain things about his best friend. Certain habits. Sometimes, he nearly gave himself away.

When Grant was born and Adeline remarked that the baby had inherited a small birthmark on the nape of his neck from her, Wintergreen had casually pointed out that Slade had one too—a larger but narrower mark high on his left thigh, just beneath the buttock. Fortunately, Adeline had been too exhausted from the ordeal of childbirth to notice how strange such a comment was. She had merely sighed :

"You're right, it's a birthmark... For the longest time, I thought it was just a scar."

Slade never knew about it either.

A few days later, Wintergreen had gone down to Louisiana to spend the night with Wade.

Thoughtfully, he had traced the arrow-shaped birthmark with his fingers before moving higher to grab and squeeze his ass, as though trying to conceal the previous gesture.

"No, wait... Do it just like before again. I like that."

Wade had spoken lazily. He was lying on his stomach, and his hair—once again completely brown—brushed the top of his back every time he moved his head.

Wintergreen had slid his fingers over the birthmark again, lingering just a little as he kneaded the flesh there. Then Wade had turned over. They fucked for a long while.

Wintergreen lived this double life in a state of perpetual astonishment. Sometimes, he felt almost detached from his own body. It simply seemed too absurd that these ideas, these desires, could have come from himself. And yet it was always him calling at all hours of the day, hoping to soothe the unbearable itch brought on by a sudden, violent image, by a desire he had never suspected he possessed.

And Wade almost always picked up.

Always the same mocking rasp in his voice, the same provocative lines, always more vulgar and repulsive than the first time. Wintergreen saw the humiliation of those calls as punishment for the moral horror of what he was doing. Maybe Wade knew it and offered him that punishment as a kind of placebo for redemption. Maybe he just enjoyed it.

Maybe that was simply who he was.

Wade, on the other hand, never called.

Even though he answered. Even though he almost always said yes.

Wintergreen told himself that perhaps the young man feared breaking the spell of the situation. Ruining the pleasure of seeing Wintergreen always crawl back to him, rather than the other way around.

Sometimes, though, Wade would send him pictures of himself. Never pretty selfies, or pictures of landscapes or animals. Raw things. Intimate things. Everything that could land Wintergreen in deep trouble if Slade happened to glance at his phone at the wrong moment.

And Wade surely knew that.

Otherwise, why would he send him a picture of his cock on a Sunday at noon, when Wintergreen had once carelessly let slip that he spent those times at Slade and Addie's place?

But aside from that, no.

Wade never called.

Then, one winter night, Wintergreen was awakened by his phone ringing.

Wade's number appeared before his half-open eyes, irritated by the sudden burst of glaring white light. Wintergreen's own voice was sluggish too, roughened by sleep. Wade's, on the other hand, was frantic. Boiling over.

"That fucking asshole... I'd seen him several times, and he wanted us to do it without a condom... That son of a bitch definitely gave me something, I'm sure of it! Fuck, I just found out that the bastard has AIDS, that piece of shit-"

Wintergreen listened to Wade ramble in absolute panic for a few minutes before finally interrupting him.

"Wade... Take a deep breath. If you're telling me you had unprotected sex, then you need to get tested anyway. And it doesn't necessarily mean you caught it, so... calm down."

Wintergreen found it difficult to feel sorry for Wade. The feeling that dominated him at that moment was that he'd never been so grateful for always having been careful about protection. If Wade had something, he himself had nothing.

On the other end of the line, Wade let loose another stream of curses, including a generous number of homophobic slurs, before finally calming down. Now there was only the uneven sound of his breathing as he struggled to come down from his panic attack.

"I'm in Chicago right now... I'll give you the address. You're comin'."

No "please, I don't want to be alone if I find out I've caught the virus." No "I need you to hold me." Just a commanding order delivered with such seriousness that, had the circumstances been less tragic and chaotic, Wintergreen might almost have laughed.

Wade gave him the exact address. Wintergreen hung up, and once the surprise, relief, and pity had passed... came the realization.

In his panic, Wade had called him.

And Wintergreen most certainly did not want that place in his life.

Two days later, he showed up at Wade's apartment anyway, his boots buried in the thick blanket of snow that had overtaken the narrow staircase.

Wade answered the door with red eyes and a face even gloomier than usual. As so often, the skin over his knuckles looked ugly, and it wasn't hard to guess what—or rather whom—his fists had crashed into.

Despite his hesitation, Wintergreen gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, followed by:

"Come on Wade. No backing out now. Let's go."

Wade whimpered a little.

"What's the point? That son of a bitch has it, and he knew he had it when we fucked, and he fucked me three times. THREE times. I'm done for. I'm screwed."

Later, in the back of the cab, Wade kept lamenting.

"Look at me. I'm a mess. I've lost ELEVEN pounds in three weeks, I've had a fever... The virus has already kicked in. I know it."

Wintergreen wasn't sure of anything, but he still tried to calm him down. Wade was an asshole, sure, but... that didn't justify leaving him alone to face something like this.

He gently patted the back of Wade's hand.

"Hm... And have you been eating much since you got here? You tell me all the time that sometimes you go whole days without eating and forget to do so altogether... And as for the fever... considering you just walked out of your apartment in nothing but a sweater in weather like this, I think the explanation might be a lot less dramatic..."

Wade found something to object to at every turn, but at least he stopped kicking the passenger seat of the taxi, much to the relief of the driver, who responded to Wintergreen’s apologies with awkward smiles and anxious glances in the rearview mirror.

Later, Wintergreen found himself sprinting after Wade to catch him when the young man, once they had arrived at the clinic, finally declared he actually didn’t want to know.

The results of the blood test—against which Wade had fought for quite some time—arrived a few hours later. Wade had disappeared into one of the examination rooms…

And came back a few minutes later into the waiting room with a wide stupid smile on his face, holding up what must have been the results sheet above his head.

“Fuuuck, I can’t believe it, I’m actually totally clean—you get that?! Not even crabs or anything! Look, they even gave me free condoms, talk about saving money. Though you might wanna get tested too while we’re here. Maybe I can just throw these away y'know?.”

Wintergreen grabbed Wade by the sleeve of his faded sweater, relief mixing with the familiar irritation the young man always provoked in him.

On the way back in the taxi, the atmosphere was completely different. Wintergreen had never seen Wade like this—not even high on whatever he usually had in his system. Not even after a good fuck with him in bed. Now Wade was talking with the taxi driver, running through the snow, insisting on buying peanuts from a street vendor. And for once… he wasn’t saying anything awful. No crude jokes, no endless rants about how Slade was the worst person in the world and how Wintergreen was pathetic for fantasizing so much about a man who only cared about appearing respectable while doing Wade so much, so much harm.

It was pleasant.

Almost too pleasant. Wintergreen did his best not to think about it.

The apartment Wade had taken in Chicago was slightly less squalid than usual. No rats or insects crawling across the floorboards, no questionable leftovers in the sink, no grim stains on the walls… And the view from the bedroom, over the stairwell and the snowy streets, had a certain charm to it.

Wintergreen kept glancing out the window from time to time while he held Wade firmly pinned on his back in the bed, his thrusts dragging him across sheets already too damp.

Wade had been eager to end up in that position, instantly forgetting all the times earlier that day when he had angrily spat that he would “never let another man touch him again in his life, condom or not,” saying he’d learned his lesson. Wintergreen couldn’t help but throw his hypocrisy back at him now, as he had him beneath him, the young man’s body clenching around him in an impossibly tight way.

“You’re never gonna let another man touch you again, huh? And what’s this then?”

He put emphasis on the last word with a sharper thrust, directly against his prostate, forcing a surprised, embarrassed sound out of Wade.

Even after months of this, the British man could still make him like that—fidgety, cheeks flushed red all the way to his ears, his body soft and pliant against the mattress…

Most of the time, it only encouraged him to go faster. Harder. To turn those sounds into cries so he could tease him later, remind him that he knew exactly where to touch him, what angles to use so he wouldn’t miss a single sensitive spot, how he liked his hair pulled when he was close to orgasm…

Seeing him like that again, clutching the sheets in his fists out of sheer pride rather than wrapping his arms around his neck for a bit of support, Wintergreen had a stupid reflex just as he was about to finish himself off, his swollen member still tightly sheathed inside him.

He kissed him on the forehead.

And immediately regretted it when he saw the surprise on the young man’s face as he pulled out of him more quickly than usual.

“Fuck, old man, what the hell was even that??” he muttered, sitting up on the bed.

Of course, just his luck, that had been enough to trigger the worst of the young man’s instincts.

“I swear, you do that again and I’ll break your teeth, you piece of Brit shit… What, you trying to mess with my head or somethin'? Is Slade the one telling you to do this all along? Are you both screwing with me, uh?”

Hearing Wade spiral out like that, his voice rising dangerously as he pulled on his boxers and jeans in sharp, jerky movements, Wintergreen anxiously assessed just how badly he had messed up.

Very badly.

And since Wade’s anger wasn’t the kind that burned out after a few seconds of yelling into the void, and he was now moving dangerously close to him, Wintergreen had no choice but to pin him against the wall, holding his wrists firmly against his chest.

“Calm down, Wade, calm down… It’s been a long day for both of us, okay? I’m just glad you’re not sick, that’s all. Nothing to do with your brother or anything. There, look at me.”

Wade eventually calmed down, though the threats still lingered in the background.

“Damn it, I don’t care about your soft little excuses. Never do that again. Never. You hear me? Don’t mess with my head man, I hate that, I hate you…”

Wintergreen sighed, rubbing his back as he looked back toward the window. The snowfall wasn’t letting up. He would be staying the night here.

Wade eventually calmed down on his own during the night. He stopped turning his back on Wintergreen in bed and throwing jabs at him just to provoke a reaction. Instead, he went quiet in a way that didn’t suit him at all. Wintergreen didn’t care. It was still better than his usual nonsense.

Before leaving for the airport the next morning, he found the young man sitting on the counter in his tiny kitchen, finishing a phone call. The exchange between Wade and the person on the other end was particularly cold—both of them responding mostly with grunts and monosyllables. It didn’t surprise the Brit much.

He had prepared himself to tell Wade that their little arrangement would have to end there. That it was too much for him. And then the young man, still holding the phone, climbed down from his perch, knelt in front of him, and—

“I’m sorry I lost it last night… You forgive me, right? You know I like you, don’t you? You got to know that, right?”

Wintergreen had been ready to stick to his decision, to put a definitive end to all the mess that never should have started. And then—

Wade slid his tongue along him his cock exactly the way he’d taught him, before taking him fully into his mouth.

And Wintergreen, more foolish than ever, forgot everything all at once.

The Brit still felt guilty about his weakness when he showed up at Slade and Addie’s the next day.

Adeline had gone to her parents’ with the baby. And Slade… Slade was smoking on the porch, visibly on edge. He barely composed himself when he saw his friend, giving him a vague wave instead of a warmer greeting.

“Are you alright, Slade? You don’t look so well.” Wintergreen said as he approached.

Slade crushed his cigarette under his heel.

“It's nothing... It's just... My brother called me yesterday. Says he wants to come see Grant on next Sunday, supposedly.”

He rolled his eyes, looking more affected than he probably wanted to show.

Wintergreen went cold at the words. Wade had promised he wouldn’t say anything… But now? God knew what had gone through his head after that kiss on the forehead had sent him spiraling.

Damn it, why had he—

His thoughts were cut off by the weight of Slade’s hand on his upper back.

“I’m counting on you to come too, old friend. Addie already said she refuses to see him, so don’t leave me alone with him, please.”

Those two panels but side by side??

Oh my god I can't.

And honestly these two pages in general are my personal Rembrandt :

Wintergreen in sniper position + his impossibly muscled back...