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“How?” Barry asks, words too gentle for Savitar's liking. There's too much concern in them, it makes it hard to hate him.“You know what it's like, pushing harder, to go faster. Got to be the best,” Savitar says, shrugging his reality off with a wry grin and sharp tilt of his head, and yet still self-deprecating humor has snuck into his non-answer. There's enough of a hint to explain the why, even if the exact circumstance that marked him is lost to time and not something he cares to share.There's a flicker of recognition in Barry's gaze at that, so he does understand, as he should. Other things they share already - they've both had far-fetched ideas that were rarely voiced. Ideas to save others that went far past foolish and into reckless, and even sometimes more like what could have been called a death-wish, if anyone else had been given an opportunity to have an opinion on the thought. Those thoughts were the precursors to his creation, the devaluation of Barry Allen's life in the face of everyone else who could live and live fully, unlike him. You'll never be truly happy, Barry Allen, trust me. After Iris had died he had truly believed Thawne's words. It became no longer a haunting fear, instead a warning that had been dismissed disastrously.Barry raises his hand and fingertips graze the raised skin, though he hesitates to touch the area properly. Savitar could almost laugh at how gentle Barry is as he moves his hand to trace over the scars, considering the nerves are long since burned away, the whole area of his face numb now. Except it isn't a laughing matter. No one has ever touched his scars. No one has been this close to him since it happened, since everything happened that turned him into someone else.
He lets Barry have this moment. Not the Barry in front of him. No, the Barry that remains deep inside him -
incapacitated
as he is by his anguish, the memories, unable to function - is who he gives this moment to, letting him out of his self-imposed cage. Savitar is the numb one, trying not to feel, going harder and faster and burning away what does not fit. But that Barry wants to be heard still, wants the pain to be seen. That is maybe the only thing Savitar and the Barry he used to be have in common – the desire for recognition. Briefly, the Barry Allen in front of him is indulging that desire and it twists his stomach, in good ways and bad. He wants to reject it at the same time he wants to lean into the touch, sense the pressure it's still possible for him to feel there.
“We never were very good at loving ourself, were we?”The acknowledgment is the first step of realizing it could be different, should be different.Maybe that's why Barry kisses him. Maybe that's why he lets him.Barry pulls him onto the cot, loose-limbed but careful, fingers switching between tender tracing and firm grasp; between the hardness he needs and the softness he wants. Common sense would say stop, but he has no words left. Common sense would question if this is a good idea. It's not, but it's hardly the worst they've had, certainly the least self-destructive unless he counts how messed up his head is going to be after. There will be an after though, because he isn't stopping and Barry isn't stopping.Whatever it is, is happening, in a sort of slow motion compared to most things in his life. Each action is so very deliberate despite that he isn't really thinking much anymore. For a while, there is no sound in the room except for sighs that escape him, the wet noises of sloppy kisses and low moans in response.
He wanted to be worshipped, men on their knees before him. He'd just never envisioned
this
. Barry's peering up at him from on the floor, waiting for an indication to keep going. Savitar nods slightly and watches Barry take him in, his head of mussed up hair bobbing up and down with an enthusiasm that is wrong but feels so so right. He makes no argument, accepting everything Barry is willing to do as if it can heal something inside him. It won't, but he wants to see how far this goes, how far Barry is willing to push himself this time. It's looking more and more like neither of them knows when it's good to quit.
Barry sucks and licks every inch of him, no hesitation at this point, and something in Savitar does give in, give himself over. Even with Barry on his knees, this is so much more complicated than one of them supplicating to the other. Barry Allen can still surprise him, splintering them off track and spiraling towards something else entirely. Maybe they don't have to keep making the same mistakes. He's never going to be
not
fucked up. Being fucked up together's a second best. It's not alone.
Savitar comes with ragged breath and hips jerking up to fuck into Barry's mouth and he wonders if this is where they go too far. The culmination of this bad idea, the final picture painting the scene in the worst possible light of day once they come out of the night, once the lust has receded. Barry merely holds his hips down with one hand and drinks him up greedily. There's a bright smile at what he's done, with a tiny twist of satisfaction marring it, when Barry looks up to him again. Yeah, they've definitely been a little fucked up for a lot longer than was obvious and maybe they can meet in the middle somehow, someday, some way (like this).