Title: Cyclical
Author: Liss (incandescence@nycmail.com)
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Casey/Zeke
Rating: R

It's over, or so they both say. Casey tells Stokely and she tells Stan, Zeke tells the TV and throws a shoe at it when it doesn't respond. What good is modern technology if it can't even fake a little sympathy?

They haven't been angry with each other for more than three days in almost six months. Now, they haven't spoken in a week, haven't had sex in nine days, haven't play-fought in ten.

...

Zeke says, it doesn't matter. He says, I don't care.

Casey thinks about crying. "You're lying," he breathes.

Zeke slaps him, hard. Leaves long taunting stripes down that pretty, pretty face. He says, "don't ever call me a fucking liar."

There won't be any tears, not this time. Casey is done with that because it doesn't change anything. So instead he hits Zeke right back. "Don't fucking hit me."

They could have left it at that. They should have. But there was Casey with his caged red eyes and matching fingerprints. And there was Zeke, still a bit surprised at Casey's attack and trying his hardest not to show it. So you could probably blame it on inevitable gravity when they met with a rush of hands and tongues, and they clung to the other's body like it was only natural.

"I didn't mean it," Casey hisses to Zeke. "I don't mean it, I don't." He shakes his head and buries his nose in the folds of Zeke's shirt.

They stand with hands in opposite pockets, with tongues in opposite mouths, with misplaced intentions swirling around their feet, mangled and ignored.

...

And this is all really just the beginning, as terrifying as that is. For months this goes on, this back and forth. One week they'll be holed up in Zeke's house, deliberately ignoring the phone and any occasional knocks at the door; that weekend it'll happen again with Casey crawling timidly to the couch or maybe driving home in Zeke's car because even though they're not on speaking terms Casey lives at least ten minutes away and it's getting colder out. Zeke hates it when Casey shivers, but he's never said it. He just holds out his keys and says "watch out for ice" and walks defeated to the basement, or bedroom, or kitchen.

Zeke taught Casey to drive stick when they were bored on a Thursday, and it makes it a lot less awkward when Zeke's just called Casey a fucking spineless overly sensitive pussy but Casey still needs to get home.

And that's where things start to get really fucked up. Stokely can't stand it when Casey calls her, shaky and breathless. She gets less and less sleep, and her parents are starting to wonder about Casey's early morning visits, on those occasions when it's too late to go home but too risky to stay with Zeke. Stokely's considering warning someone about this volatile relationship, this unsteady ship, but she sees Casey after a good day or two with Zeke, and it's impossible to think about destroying this kid's mood. Even Zeke tends to soften up a bit during a good week, and Stokely wonders how they can possibly have enough energy to keep this whole thing up.

...

They've never really considered a permanent split. It seems inevitable, but neither is willing to recognize it. Casey's just so...Casey; his attention gets focused on something and it's over. He sticks it through to the end. Like the beatings, like the aliens, like any amiable human relationship he can find.

The others (Stokely and Stan, really) are surprised by Zeke. They had always assumed the first separation would be the last, Zeke needing no one but himself and all that. He had never seemed one for second chances. They'd clearly underestimated Casey and the power he kept concentrated in those eyes. They'd forgotten that everyone has an Achilles Heel, even the untouchables. Even Zeke Tyler.

...

Zeke's bed, late night, Casey hasn't bothered calling home. "Can you pick me up tomorrow?"

"No bus?" They've already gone one round, but Zeke's fingers are angling for a repeat performance and his gaze is stuck on some nameless bruise gracing Casey's left shoulder.

"I fucking hate the bus."

"Where'd you get this?" Zeke pokes lightly at the discoloration and Casey cringes, a barely-there tensing of muscle.

"Dunno. Trechyvek, maybe, or Falk. One of those assholes. Will you come get me?"

Zeke presses harder and Casey pulls away but he doesn't let up. "Yeah, whatever."

They kiss for a while. Nothing spectacular, just little shards and scribbles of something that they tend to mistake as passion slipping between their lips. Zeke won't stop pressing at Casey's bruise. "That fucking hurts" slides between tongues and teeth and Zeke only pushes harder.

Eventually Casey has to push at Zeke's chest and take hold of his chin to knock his line of sight towards Casey's. Zeke never seems to know when to stop, anymore. Just shoves and starts his advance until Casey gives in or snaps back. Seven or eight times out of ten he'll give in, and Zeke likes that ratio. "Leave it alone. It still hurts."

Reluctantly, not that that matters, Zeke's attention focuses elsewhere and he mutters "fucking wimp" somewhere between Casey's collarbone and adam's apple.

If he hadn't gotten used to it months ago, Casey might have been offended. Angry, even. He might have taken Zeke's wrists and slanted his eyes and told him that he won't take this kind of shit and he doesn't need it from Zeke of all people. But that kind of protest isn't worthwhile at all so he just huffs out a little indignant breath and lets the mouth latched to his breastbone continue on its southerly path.

...

Casey has, somehow, never been in the hospital for anything other than his own birth and once in second grade when he fell off a jungle gym and fractured his arm. Zeke's spent the night in jail, though, because his mother was sure that one night in prison would teach any lesson better than she could. She was right, because he learned to keep a small savings account in a local bank with an ATM card that fit perfectly beneath a brick in the walkway to his house, so that the next two times he was arrested he could call one of his loyal customers and they'd be there to bail him out with his own money in a matter of hours.

And it's that ingenuity, that percipience that keeps Zeke's business up and running, that keeps Casey coming back time after time, even when he knows he shouldn't.

Because Casey is a customer, really, when Zeke thinks about it. Maybe he's paying a bit too much for a product that's not entirely worth it, but as long as he keeps returning it doesn't really matter. Reverse supply and demand, or something. He tries not to think about it too much because then he gets tied up in matters of Casey's wellbeing and that's a subject he'd rather avoid. Casey demands, he supplies. Jacks the price up even when there's an abundance of product availability.

...

It's hard, getting Casey's parents to agree to school-night sleepovers and full weekends away from home. And they get curious when Casey pulls up in Zeke's car past curfew and doesn't bother explaining, just stalks determined to his room and shuts the door before they can ask any questions. He never gets punished for it, though, and Casey's caught his father stealing the keys and admiring under the hood of the GTO more than once. He thinks his dad might even be proud that he's learned to drive a stick shift.

They've never met Zeke, and more than likely it's the only reason they allow Casey so much time away. That, and they tend to take most of his half-assed explanations at face value, it's easier for everyone that way.

...

The big fight, the one they've all been waiting for, it happens on a Tuesday. It's overcast but dry, it's not cold enough for a winter jacket, so Casey's smoking a cigarette on the front steps in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

Zeke has to push away the urge to go after him, even though he's vowed more than once not to let people like that get to him, people like Casey. So he waits for the boy to come back in, because he knows he will. Knows that despite the fucking battle they just both barely survived, Casey will come treading softly in, tipping around the broken glass by the door where he only missed Zeke's head by a few inches.

And he does. Casey finishes his cigarette and brushes the gray hood to its hanging position off the back of his neck. He steps inside and calls Zeke's name, his voice is mild and unaffected.

Because he fought the compulsion before, Zeke allows himself to go downstairs. "What."

"I need you to give me a ride home."

Zeke shrugs and points towards the kitchen counter. "You can just take the keys," Casey's shaking his head no, and Zeke doesn't know why so he keeps talking, in fear of finding out. "And bring the car back tomorrow or something."

"No, you need to bring me home because I think..." The fridge, Casey realizes, has bottled tap water. And he doesn't remember ever being quite this dehydrated. Even when everyone surrounding him were veritable alien sponges. He takes some out and sips it. "I think this is it. I won't be coming back."

"You've said that before." He has, but Zeke's walking towards his keys anyway, and it's a sign that maybe Casey really means it this time.

"I can't keep this up anymore, it's too fucking stressful."

"You know I didn't mean half the shit I said to you just then."

Zeke's probably not lying, Casey knows, but he thinks it's too late. They haven't even gotten a chance to come down from the fight yet, and Zeke's already apologizing. Not even so much apologizing, but justifying. Rationalizing. Scraping the bottom, Casey thinks. "Yeah."

Zeke steps closer, reaches out to Casey's belt loops. "So stay."

"Let's go. You can put whatever shit I have here into boxes and I'll pick them up later."

It seems so final, so serious. So much more than usual. "Yeah, okay." But Zeke doesn't believe it, not really. He thinks it'll all blow over in a week. With that in mind, he goes to his car, barefoot, and waits for Casey to follow.  

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