Ashes and Ice

Empty.

Empty was a feeling Cameron was familiar with; Not bad, or good. Not anything, really.

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his forehead, glasses caught between long, slender fingers and dangling against his cheek. His hair was spread across the pillow in a fan, free of the half-tail it had been in the night before, all icy pale gold curls, mixed with red-gold to tint it just subtly crimson in the light.

He was beautiful; He'd been told so too many times to count. Amazing, wonderful, gorgeous.

So why was he always empty inside?

Cam pushed himself into a sitting position; The question was always the first thought he had in the morning, for so long he couldn't remember when it had started. The only times he didn't wonder were when he'd actually felt alive; Sex, attention, adoration – Those made him feel human, at least for a little while. And then the emptiness came back, and he stopped caring again.

He fitted his glasses over his face, raked fingers through the snarls in his hair, and heaved a sigh. Another morning, just like any other.

His head throbbed, and nausea churned in his stomach simply from the act of pushing himself upright. After last night's debacle, he'd gone back to his group of friends, and drowned the experience and his persistent erection in alcohol, until his friends had to practically carry him up to his apartment's bedroom.

His clothes were scattered across the room; Not that he minded. Cam had never considered himself to be a clean or organized person, but the fact that he hadn't done it himself was a tad irksome. James had probably jumped at the chance to strip him down.

He lifted the bedsheet; Naked. No surprise, there.

“At least he took my sleeping habits into consideration.” he rasped, sarcastically.

Cameron pushed himself out of bed; He might feel like shit, but he had things to do today, and getting something into his stomach always helped him with a hangover. That and coffee.

Kicking his pants from last night to one side of the room, Cam grabbed his underwear from where they'd been draped over his alarm clock – A scrap of paper fluttered from under them to the floor, and he picked it up, ready to toss it into the garbage can.

The phone number on it, and the name, jolted his memory, and he could feel his dick stir to life between his thighs at the ghostly reminder of the kisses from the stranger, the feel of muscle and heat against his back, crushing him against cold, hard wood and devouring him.

“Fuck that.”

He crumpled the paper, tossed it to the side, where it landed in the empty wastebin tucked into a corner. Better to just forget last night.

Then he jerked his briefs on, ignoring the erection trapped between his stomach and the waistband, and set out to feed himself.

                                                                                                                                                 ***

Food was a simple matter; A bagel, smeared with raspberry preserves and cream cheese, a fried egg, and a very large cup of black coffee. He ate standing, weight on one foot, the other crossed behind it at the ankle, that morning's newspaper spread across the counter next to him.

The sports section was in the garbage, at the bottom of the stack of the remaining newspaper – Entertainment and Arts was the only section he ever read, if he was being honest with himself, and not only because of work.

“Mn. Stale bagel, yum.” he murmured to himself, brushing crumbs off of the paper after setting the offensive pastry to the side.

Two art shows to attend, both with pieces of his work he'd be trying to promote – They sold fairly well, uncommon as they were. 'Talented but lazy' is what his manager liked to tell him; She wasn't really correct. He just didn't often paint after fucking the occasional guest silly, and that was the only time he ever really felt creative; Flushed with exertion, sweat drying on his skin, nude and sated and reeking of sex.

Those were the only times he could turn clay into something worthy of being called art.

He'd have to call his manager; She'd whine and yell and bitch that he needed to be there, selling himself more than the sculptures he made, seducing the rich men and women that liked to fling their money around like scraps of bread to a flock of starving pigeons. He didn't feel like being a whore, tonight; More often than not, he ended up in bed with those that bought his work, and the dark-haired asshole from last night had put him in one hell of a bad mood.

He picked up the phone, hit the speed dial labeled 'Melinda', and steeled himself.

“Melinda Crane.”

“Mel, hey. Cameron.” he replied, already dreading hearing the sugary-sweet drawl turn to screaming harpy rage.

“Cammy! Oh, baby, look, I have your suit for tonight at the office, all pressed and ready, and your pieces look marvelous.”

“That's... great, Mel. Look, I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. I feel like shit.”

He'd barely gotten the last sentence out when he heard her reply; “What.”

Her voice was cold, icy – Bitch mode, on. Preparing to enter frothing rage phase. It wasn't a question, it was a statement, one word that said 'You didn't just say you're going to cancel on me because I will castrate you with my perfectly manicured fingernails.'

“Yeah, sorry, just not feeling like it--”

“Oh fuck no, Cam. You're going to come tonight.” still icy, but louder, hysteria was edging into that sugary voice. “You've cancelled three shows in the past two months; You know you need to be there, talk with the patrons to sell your work properly, or I'm the one stuck doing all the sucking up.”

“Melly, baby, I can't! C'mon, I'll make it up to you. Promise.” he drawled, voice a purr; She wanted him. Well, again, since he'd fucked her before. Not really his thing, but hey, it gets the work done. And it usually worked.

“Oh, no. Not this time. I'm canceling my lunch plans; I'll be there in twenty minutes, and if you're not there, so help me God, I'll end you.” she cut in. Then silence.

She'd hung up; Fuck.

He dropped the phone onto the charger, then his head into his hands, fingers raking through his hair. Just what he needed.

                                                                                                                                                 ***

Breakfast complete, he dropped the dishes into the sink, polished off the dregs of coffee in his mug, and marched to the other side of the apartment, back to his bedroom.

Mel wasn't answering her phone; Cam had tried twice more before giving up, and she'd screeched at him unintelligibly before hanging up on him both times. He was pretty much doomed, and the tiny woman would be there to menace him into a slutty outfit for tonight so he could prance around for her benefit.

He thought about just getting over it, pounding her into the bed until she couldn't see straight, and getting it out of her system; It'd certainly do the trick. He shook his head; Not in the mood.

He shrugged himself into a shirt he didn't bother buttoning completely up his chest, and shimmied into a pair of khaki pants that did a fairly good job of making him look like he had hips; Big side pockets are good for that, he decided.

Cam was just sliding his feet into a pair of sandals when the doorbell rang. And rang and rang and rang. Yep, that was Angry Mel, mashing the little button into dust with her no doubt terrifyingly long claws and running on rage and too many Irish coffees.

He opened the door to a whirlwind of red fingernails, black hair, and way too much skin. And yelling. Lots of yelling.

Melanie Crane was a hell of a woman; Shorter than Cam, mocha skinned, dark haired, all curves and designer dresses. And rich; She'd mentioned marrying him in the past, but Cam had flatly reminded her that, despite their one-night fling, he was quite happily gay the vast majority of the time, and he would no doubt be higher maintenance than she, herself would be. She'd conceded to that last one.

“Cameron Hale, I swear to God, I could murder you.” she began, before tossing a bag at him – It was the kind you store expensive clothing in, black with a slot at the top for a clothes hanger, likely containing tonight's fashion explosion he'd be using to hipsway his way into dirty old men's wallets.

“Goddamnit, Mel, I was going to tell you that you didn't have to come all this way; How the fuck many traffic laws did you break on your way here, anyway? The gallery's forty-five fucking minutes away!” Cam retorted, eyes narrow behind his rimless glasses. “Is this my slut-suit?”

Mel glared, all tiny, ferocious Filipino rage. “Stop calling them that. Maria almost slapped you last time.”

Her heels clacked on the floor as she stomped closer, jabbing a long, red fingernail into the bare center of his chest. He had maybe three inches on her 5'3” frame, but those things put her above him, and looking up at her was aggravating.

“You're coming tonight. No excuses. If I don't see you there, selling your pieces and not a piece of your ass, I'm going to hit you in the head with your new one. What was it?” she paused, finger to her painted lips. “Whatever. The one that looks like a mix of a sword and a horse's dong.”

“It does not look like a horsedick, and yes, I'm coming. You've put the tiny, Asian fear of God into me. Consider me whipped into proper manwhore shape.”

Cam flashed her his most disarming of smiles; He didn't do it often, and she knew it was fake – He was icier than a fucking glacier on his best of days. But it did make people go weak in the knees.

Bastard.

Her eyes narrowed; Mel was a nice woman, but not entirely the brightest bulb in the box. “Fine. Put those on, call me if they don't fit. I know how you eat, and that fine ass better wiggle into those pants, got it?” she said, finally stepping back and way, turning towards the still open door.

“Yes, mistress. Now leave; You're lacking the proper parts to see me naked without lots of alcohol.” Cam cajoled, ushering her towards and out of the door with a hand in the small of her back and a gentle pressure. Don't want to knock the bosslady over when she's wearing spike heels.

She left without much fuss, but a final warning and a threat of castration. Cam rolled his eyes, shut the door, and turned to the clothing she'd brought along.

                                                                                                                                                 ***

Cameron felt ridiculous; There was no doubt he looked amazing in his mind, but he still didn't see why he had to dress this way when it was just an art show.

Nevermind that this one happened to be focused on less... tasteful subjects, anyway.

Most of the patrons would be there in penguin suits and strappy dresses and fancy up-dos. Cameron? He'd be there in something that looked like a mix of The Vampire Lestat and a BDSM booth babe's work outfit.

Leather pants – Mel loved leather pants on him, and never resisted a chance to grabass – were practically painted on, hugging his thighs and calves and ass like a second skin, laces running along either side to show a streak of pale flesh from ankle to hip. All of it was a vaguely metallic copper in color, though the laces were black.

His shirt was made of belts; Not just covered in them, but fucking made of them. Somehow, someone had cobbled a bunch of gold and bronze leather belts of different shapes and sizes together into what amounted to a vest, thought the thing was, mercifully, able to be closed with a zipper handily concealed along one side.

He'd done a little makeup; Mel would have him primped up like a whore if he hadn't, and Cam absolutely hated makeup in any quantity. His hair would have to settle for being held back with a gator clip at be back of his skull, though he'd washed it and carefully worked the loose curls into something with a bit more spring to them.

The thing he hated most, though? The jewelry; Mal had sent him enough bangles and bracelets to turn into a deadly weapon, likely from her personal collection. The woman had more bangles than the sky had fucking stars.

So, yeah. Cameron. Ridiculous. He looked like an accident at a bronze smelting factory, or so he thought; The people there were eating it up.

He'd already sold two of three pieces, but Mal refused to let him leave. So he had to stick around, chatting with too many people and mooching off of the boys in skimpy clothes carting trays of champagne around. It was dull, and boring, but at least his hangover wasn't weighing down on him anymore; Hair of the dog that bit you, or whatever.

But the downside? He had to piss. Really badly. And these pants were a pain in the ass to get open.

Cam stood around for a while longer, flirting and cajoling and showing off his pieces to the occasional browsing patron, before, after twenty or so minutes, he couldn't take it anymore; He'd rather not do the pee-pee dance in front of a crowd of nouveau riche dickbags, even if he was bored out of his fucking mind.

On his way out of the bathroom, after spending what felt like five minutes wrestling to relace the front of his pants, Cam stopped, sighed, and raked his fingers down his cheeks to steady himself. He wanted to go home now, please.

Fingers curled around his bicep, and his bangles chimed – He nearly yelled, but one large, long-fingered hand closed over his mouth, silencing him and turning his intended shouts to muffled grunts. He was pulled behind one of the curtains hanging around the gallery, into an empty, tiny alcove.

The feel of the body behind him was suddenly familiar, the scent on the man holding him heady and intoxicating; Burning wood and fresh grass, trees and clean water. He hadn't been able to smell much of it last night, but it had the same initial effect; Cam nearly melted back against his would-be abductor, pressing his leather-clad back into the contour of long, lean muscle.

Erin.

“Quiet, pet. Just came to say hello.” the voice was low and rich, and Cam's breath fluttered, a shiver running up his spine, arousal spiking into his groin. Jesus Christ, that voice.

The fingers on his mouth loosened, pulled away, pressing instead to his throat, tipping his chin up and back. Cameron was glaring, blue eyes meeting green so dark it was nearly black.

“The fuck are you doing here – Erin, was it? Come to molest me again?” Cam snapped back; He was turned on, sure, but angry. He yelped when his reply came in the form of the arm looped around his waist dropping to instead splay a hand against the front of his groin, pressing and squeezing.

Fuck, ow. Erection in these pants bad. Ow ow ow.

Cam shoved backwards, thumping his captor into a wall unexpectedly.

“Calm. You should be nicer to the man who bought your ridiculously overpriced dildo sculpture, you know.” came the laughing reply from above Erin's head. “Grateful, even.”

Cam bristled. “It's not a fucking dildo, it's a representation of-- You know what, fuck it. So you're suave, sexy, mysterious, and rich? Wow, just what I always wanted in a psycho stalker.” he drawled, eyes rolling. The hands on him loosened slightly, but stayed in place.

So, Erin wasn't holding him against his will, huh? He could easily break free, but instead, Cam slink backwards, leather creaking as his hips nudged the tall, darkskinned man's groin.

Erin grunted, teeth tightening to suppress a groan. Cam grinned; Score one for the home team.

“Not stalking you, pet. I came with friends, and happened to notice you out there, making all the beautiful people look like cave trolls.” Erin purred into his ear, followed by a gentle, wet pressure at the back of Cam's earlobe, that talented tongue tracing the shell of the ear above.

“Oh, flattery. I like that in a stalker, too.” Cam quipped in return hands dragging up the sides of the larger man's thighs; Even in the suit he was wearing, Cam could feel the lean, solid muscle in those legs, like a wildcat disguised as a person, ropy and powerful and feral.

Feral; That was the word he was looking for. This Erin bastard was like some kind of wild beast, all savage power and lust. There was no doubt he could fight – Cameron could feel the calluses against his chin, see the scars decorating those hands here and there. They weren't the hands of a man that pushed paper in an office all day, or say in boardroom meetings. That didn't calm cam's nerves one bit, but it did have the bonus effect of making his pants tighten further over his groin, cock straining the laces under fingers not his own, and his hips rolled, pushing his trapped shaft against the warm palm covering it, a groan pushing from his chest.

“You didn't call, pretty pet. I left you my number and everything, left you wanting more and weak in the knees for me.” Erin cooed into his ear, teeth grasping Cam's earlobe after, pulling and flicking his tongue against the trapped flesh.

Cam could feel those fingers at his groin shift, pulling at the laces keeping his dick trapped and uncomfortable under the leather – This man was good, Cam decided; He was having an easier time with the laces than Cameron himself.

“I'm not your pet, and I didn't call for a reason.” he panted, back arching softly pressing his shoulders into the taller man's back, breath coming in pants. He could feel the sheen of sweat on his skin, trapped under the leather. It took too long to get these pants open or off. He was never wearing them again, even if they did make his ass look fucking amazing, Cam decided. Too much goddamn work.

“And what's that reason? What could possibly have made you decide to ignore me, hmm?” Erin was panting into his ear; Cam could hear it, feel it, he could feel the press of solid heat against the curve of his ass through the leather, was too aware of it even when those long, talented fingers managed to find their prize, and his dick was pulled out into the chilly air of the gallery.

Cameron's brain raced, searching for an answer, a witty comeback, but the feel, the smell, the presence of this man was enough to overwhelm him – It wasn't normal. It wasn't human. Cameron didn't care, just wanted more.

Erin was gentle; Fingers curled around his cock, peeled the thin sheaf of skin covering his glans back to the precum-slicked bulb was bared to the open air, and that clear, slippery lubricant dribbled from his tip, sliding over the large, powerful fingers gripping him.

Cam felt like he should be ashamed; His face was pink, flushed, gazing up at his captor no longer in defiance or cool emotionless disinterest – He was panting, moaning, mewling in need, and even though he knew he wasn't small where it counted, he felt that way, with the thick heat pressed against his back and the hand that nearly swallowed his cock from root to tip, stroking along his length and making him drip against the black fabric concealing them from prying eyes.

He wanted to say that he didn't want Erin, didn't care for the things he did, but that was a lie; Why hadn't he called? This man, all mystery and charm and sex, made him feel... different. Not in a bad way, but not in a good way. He didn't want to feel different.

Hips rolling, thrusting into the palm wrapped around his dick, Cam whimpered, needy and quiet, staring blearily up at Erin through half-closed eyes, mouth half-open, chest heaving in heavy, wanton pants. He was embarrassed, people could see if they looked through the gap in the curtains – Cam was never embarrassed. Ever.

“Pretty pet, your face is the same color as your hair.” Erin cooed into his ear, before dragging a tongue up the length of his throat, hot and slick; Cam whimpered again, feeling his balls tighten against his groin, the tingle deep in his belly that warned of impending bliss. “Red and gold and pale, absolutely beautiful.”

The words were growled into his ear, but unnecessary; Cam began to cry out, cock pulsing in a grip not his own for the first time he could remember, but it was stifled by a hot mouth covering his own, lips and tongue and teeth muting his orgasmic cries as he painted the curtain with ropes of pearly white, before he slumped back, practically purring into the kiss, content and sated and with a strange feeling of safety somewhere in his chest, even though he'd been molested by what amounted to a complete stranger.

“Call me, this time, pet. Or next time I find you, I'll have to be more thorough.” growled the voice above him, and Cam only blinked in confusion, before he was moved to lean against the nearest wall, fingers tucking him back into his pants, lacing the front of them and tying them tight. A final brush of breath and lips at his temple, and he was alone in the alcove that smelled of sex and forest, panting and confused.

The 'just fucked' feeling faded, suddenly; Outrage grew in its place, similar to the night before. He'd practically been raped by the man, and then he just walked off. Just like that!

Bastard.

It took all of ten minutes for him to tell Melanie in no uncertain terms that he was leaving for the night, gather his keys, and drop himself into the rickety Nissan sedan he'd been using for far too long.

Cam would call that bastard, all right; And then he'd beat the everliving shit out of him for doing that to him again. And then there'd be no more confusion, no more weird feelings of lust and need, and he'd go back to his normal, uneventful, uncomplicated life.