Tangible Schizophrenia


Only the Good Die Young

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Pairing: Smecker/Sands
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: Does not belong to me.
Notes: Title from Billy Joel’s song. Set several years prior to both Boondock Saints and Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Inspired by bwinter.
Summary: Paul has a semi-professional tryst.


It’s a little-known fact, but Paul Smecker was once on the fast-track into the CIA. He eventually ditched it in favor of the FBI for reasons that he’s not going to go into unless equipped with a much goddamned bigger bottle of whiskey than the one he had earlier, but he came away with a short list of contacts. Most of them were for mutual backscratching down the line.

Sands, however, Paul keeps mainly for fun. Entertainment. The kind of amusement one derives from standing at the end of the road less traveled and watching the cripples and dreamers and fools that might have been. He wasn’t even a fellow classmate—he’s about half a generation behind Paul, but even spit-washed behind the ears he had a talent for double-dealing that usually lands people in political campaigning jobs. Of course, he was also an arrogant, piss-taking lightweight who’s heading for one hell of a reality-check in regards to just how much a guy can fuck over before he eventually has to bend down and get fucked himself. He used to be the adorable little wunderkind that everyone figured was a smarter-than-average puppy with no clue about society at large, and he’s been riding on that one trick ever since.

At some point during their little get-togethers, Paul always wants to pick up his glass, toss it back and tell Sands, “Sheldon, you’ve become your own fucking con. You are clueless about society.” It’d be damned fun if only for the irony that this still-pretty son of a bitch has become outdated way before Paul, never beautiful when young and only getting more gnarly by the minute, saw even the first hint of senility. But then there’d be another number scratched out of Paul’s book, and his list of guys that he’ll trust to fuck him is damned short by now.

“Trust is the most misunderstood concept in the world today,” Sands is saying, perching on the side of the bed. He’s got on a floppy fisherman’s hat, khaki shorts and is toeing off sandals that he probably got at the Kmart just before showing up. Fucker may not be high-class about it, but he cares as much about his look as any dumbfuck Valentino clone.

“Yeah. For example, everyone thinks it’s such a big deal for the poor bastard on the bottom to let go.” And in his tiny black heart, Sands makes the same mistake, but if Paul’s bothered enough to take off his socks, he’s not about to spoil his night now. He tosses his pants over the side and spreads his knees, rubbing around his crotch till his finger slips along one edge and tips inside.

It’s been awhile; he hisses and jerks his hips so Sands lets a grin out. Paul’s inclined to do the same, only for him it’s because yes, he’s getting fucking on in years and he’s going to let this urban peckerwood fuck him till his joints regret it, but he’s not going to be the one walking out of the room with blinders on. Whereas Sands just thinks that Paul’s being a bitchy old hypocrite again.

“You know, if you really wanted to fool anyone about not being a control freak, you wouldn’t prep yourself.” Sands stands up and turns, pushing down his shorts. His eyes lazily take in every detail of how Paul’s hands disappear between his thighs, how Paul grimaces without letting up on himself. He likes watching people fuck themselves. He thinks it makes him clever.

He’s just a moron. Someday his eyes are going to get ripped open, and then he’ll see the value in finding other people’s flaws in himself. He likes to gloss over, like the way he’s sliding across the sheets right now, all smoothness and false grace. He’s a glissade in Paul’s head, and once he’s pushing between Paul’s knees, he swells to a crescendo too early. Amateur.

Paul picks at scabs. He knows he does, he knows he’s fucked-up and on some level he likes it. He likes to dig in like how his nails curl hard into Sands’ buttocks as they gasp and strain together, as Sands’ hair turns wet against Paul’s neck and Paul’s breath goes ragged by Sands’ ear. He takes a twisted delight in staring at mirrors while every wrinkle, every sag, every cracked little flaw stares back at him, wide-eyed and red-lipped and so, so blind.

“As always, it was a pleasure,” Sands says later, jamming his feet into his shoes. “I just love our little meetings.”

If Paul smokes hard enough, he can blow out enough to obscure the smug little fucker. “While we’re still having them.”

“Oh, true, true. Men like us, well.” There’s a self-satisfied note of finality in that last word, closing the books. “See you around, Paulie.”

It would be damn nice to slap him upside the head for that oozing familiarity, for the presumption implied, but then again, it’d also be damned predictable. And for all Paul knows, it might even teach Sands a lesson, and fuck if he’s going to develop mothering instincts now. He’d rather lie back and watch Sands walk out of his door, swagger in his step and doom on his shoulder, and smile grimly, nostalgically, bitterly to himself. “Oh, I already saw you coming a long time ago…”

The best mirrors are men. Mirror-men, shadows of the self, the only guy—guys—Paul ever trusts to fuck him right. He knows better than to trust anyone else.