Title: Say My Name

Author: Kylie Lee

E-mail: kylielee1000@hotmail.com

Author's URL: http://www.geocities.com/kylielee1000/

Date: 06/26/03

Length: ~5200 words, 31 kb

Fandom: Star Trek Enterprise

Pairing: Archer/Mayweather

Type: M/M Slash

Rating: NC-17, and baby, I mean it

Status: Complete

Summary: Archer contemplates Mayweather and the nature of their burgeoning relationship.

Feedback: On list EntST*, privately otherwise

Series: Wanting

Previous story: Privileges of Rank

Archive: Permission granted to EntST*, Tim Ruben, Archers_Enterprise, Allslash, Complete Kingdom of Slash, Luminosity

Disclaimer: Original material copyright 2003 Kylie Lee. This is not an attempt to infringe on Paramount's copyright. No money was made.

Spoilers: Strangely, none

Beta: The Grrrl and Sarah, rockin' in their beta-y goodness.

Comments: This is set sometime after "Stigma." I originally had it set during "Future Tense" but it is all internal action, so I deleted all references to the ep, and such temporal location is not really important. This story is more powerful if you're familiar with a previous story in this sequence, Having, but it stands alone. I anticipate two more stories before the canon is closed. Finally, Kipli said NO, no need to write a sequel to the fic I wrote for her graduation, R/M Incursion; she would just as soon have the next fic in the Wanting sequence. So…here you go, Kipli.

*** 1

You sit back and start sorting through reports. Paperwork. What an old-fashioned term, you think, now that there's no paper. But bureaucracy just has new ways of expressing itself. You have a half hour before you have to go to dinner. It's not dinner you're looking forward to. It's what happens much later—after dinner, after bedtime, when the door slides open and your lover enters. Your cock stirs just thinking about it, about what you might do together. It's still new.

The door chimes, and you don't bother asking who it is. You know. You were just thinking about him, and now he's here. You can feel it. You just open the door, and you were right. He's there, padd in hand. He looks deferential.

"Captain," he says.

"Ensign," you say.

He extends the padd, and you take it automatically. "I'm running those power-source statistics you asked me about. I still have to get some information from Commander Tucker. But do you mind? I'd like to go over the preliminary findings." His eyes meet yours, earnest, eager, helpful.

You smile, a slow smile. "I have to go to dinner in a half hour," you say.

"This won't take long."

"Well, then, come in, Travis." You throw the padd on the desk. Just as you turn around, just like you knew he would be, he's there, right behind you.

"Captain," he whispers, and he kisses you. He tastes smoky. "Jon."

"Travis," you say. You put your hands on his hips. You can feel the heat of his groin. He kisses you again, and you close your eyes. When you open them, you are hard. You stare at each other for a long moment. You realize you are panting.

"Now," Travis says, and he pushes you against the wall. It triggers the door. You hear it whoosh open. Travis manages to hit the control that shuts it, lock the door, and unzip his uniform all at once. "Jon, now."

You know you're not going to talk. You only have a half hour. Travis shrugs out of his uniform and you're sliding your hands up under his shirts, and he's leaning against you. You pull his shirts up and feel his oddly hairless skin, smooth and satiny. You can smell him. He's musky. He pins you to the wall, and his mouth is desperate. You love that he's desperate—desperate for you. He's built, he's tall and solid, his muscles ripple, he's young and hot, and he wants you. He wants you.

You spread your legs and pull him in. You caress his ass, feeling the coiling muscle underneath. Your fingers dig in, and he only moans. Your mouth is trying to pull him into you. He's aggressive; you're aggressive. Travis rubs himself against you, and you realize you're still in uniform. You like the contrast. You're tall and commanding. He's got his uniform around his ankles, his erection is huge, his shirts are rucked up, and he wants to come so bad that he's moaning.

"Jon," he says, and the name hits you like a bolt. No one calls you Jon anymore. It's an incredible turn-on.

His mouth leaves yours and he presses his face against your neck. "Shit," he says, and he starts masturbating. "God damn it. Jon." He moans, a long, drawn-out sound, and you can feel his hand working his cock. You dig your fingers into his ass. Your own erection is pressed uncomfortably against your leg. A second later, he says, "Fuck," and comes.

He pushes himself off when he's done. You're so hot that you're shaking. Travis pulls his shirts off, revealing his upper body. You love his upper body. Hell, you love his body, period. "God, Jon, you should see yourself," he says. "You're untouchable in that uniform. But you've got come all over it."

You look down. He's right. You have a sudden flash of what he would look like, in a uniform stained with come, eyes dark with desire, mouth bruised from hard kisses. You like the contrast of Starfleet coolness and with the heat underneath. And that's what he sees, only it's you—you hot, you unobtainable, only you're not. Oh yeah.

"There's only come on the outside," you point out. You unzip yourself. "Come here. Help me take care of that."

He does. His hand slides inside, under your briefs, and he untangles your cock. You kiss him as he begins stroking you. You can smell his skin, and it goes to someplace in the back of your brain. That smell can trigger an erection. His tongue swirls as his hand moves. You feel your balls tighten as his hand speeds up, and then, oh god, oh god, you can't hold back, oh fuck, you're gone, and you want to say something but you need to not say it, so you grab his head and devour him as you come and come and come, all over his hand, all over the inside of your uniform.

"Fuck," you pant, rubbing sticky seed across the chest of your uniform. May as well go all the way. "Now I'm going to have to change."

*** 2

Travis puts his chin in his hand and stares levelly at you. You eye him, then the board.

"I think you have me pinned," you say. "Can I just give up now?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Travis asks. He points. "Your move."

"Knight to queen's bishop four," you grouse, moving a piece.

"This isn't chess." Travis jumps the piece you just moved, then hopscotches over two more pieces and plucks all three of them off the board.

"Hey! You can't move backward like that."

"Yes I can. I got kinged."

"Oh, that's right."

Travis wiggles the double stack of checkers pieces at you. "I should get a tiny little crown to stick on there to remind you."

"I think stacking the two together is supposed to remind me." "I didn't want to say anything."

You move again, deliberately putting your piece in harm's way to get the game over with. Travis sees through you and refuses to take the bait, but the game is over within five minutes anyway.

"Do you want to play chess?" you ask hopefully. "I'm much better at chess."

"I don't really like it," Travis says. "Maybe some three-dimensional game? Pilot against pilot? Test your sense of spatial relations?"

You stand up and throw yourself on the bed. You gesture to Porthos, who hops up beside you. "No," you decide. "I want you to tell me a story."

Travis looks blank. "A story?" he says.

"I'll trade," you say. "You tell me a story, and I'll tell you about my days as a test pilot for the warp 5 engine. I've got some great anecdotes, some of them involving Ruby at Club 602. Ruby…and Trip."

"Oooh, tempting."

You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively. "Tell me…tell me about your desert training," you say.

"I got hit on by a girl with a neat accent."

"That's it?"

Travis grins and lies next to you on his stomach, cushioning his head in his bent arms. "Some of my equipment malfunctioned."

"Sounds scary."

"It was."

Travis likes to tell stories, and he does a good job with them. He lays out the scenario, draws out the implications of events, and finally works the big finish. This is no exception. You idly play with Porthos as he tells you about his near-death experience, complete with sound effects.

You didn't know Travis before his posting to *Enterprise*, so all the stories are new. You don't go out in public together as a couple, so it's hard to build experiences, just the two of you. You've taken a shuttle out now and again and had little adventures, and of course, sometimes you're on the same away team. So talking—just talking—is important, because that's how you learn about each other. What you like about Travis's story this time isn't the narrative logic. It's the way he meets your eyes, talks to you matter-of-factly, like a regular person, tricks you into laughing. Lots of things you could talk about—day-to-day happenings on board *Enterpise*, for example—have been categorized as forbidden topics. Anything that only the command crew was supposed to know, for instance, wasn't discussed. Travis did not want to hear about top-secret missions or classified data. And in turn, you think that he is aware of some stuff among the rank and file that he's not telling you because you're the captain and would have to take an official stance—romances, maybe, or some petty rule-breaking in the name of fun.

It strikes you, as you laugh in the right places, that you're courting each other—an old-fashioned notion, but the term seems applicable to you. You know that Travis likes you as a person, because he's told you so, and you like him as a person too. Paradoxically, if your relationship with Travis were only about the sex, it wouldn't be forging this emotional closeness. Used to be that the latter led to the former, but now sex can be had without an emotional context.

Like, you think, sex with Malcolm Reed. For only a moment, you flash to a scenario: Malcolm is next to you, not Travis, telling a story about his experiences, smiling and open. And you just can't see it. Malcolm is not that kind of a person. You can't imagine the kind of animation on his face that you see in Travis's. Malcolm puts up barriers. Travis doesn't seem to understand why they can be useful.

But you think about Malcolm and the single time you made love, and you almost gasp with the intensity of the feelings. Travis is right here, but despite Malcolm's emotional unavailability, you wish it were Malcolm instead.

*** 3

"Say my name," you say.

"No, sir."

You haven't kissed him on the mouth. He won't say your name until you kiss him.

He pushes you, and you throw out your arms to catch your balance. You're on all fours on the floor of Travis's quarters. You're close. You're very close. You look over a shoulder. "God damn it, Ensign," you say.

"Yes, sir."

He hasn't touched your cock. He's pushed you and slapped you. He's teased your body to the breaking point. He will only call you "sir," but he's the one in control right now. He's the one with the power. Every time you reach for your cock, he knocks your hands away. He wants you to come without touching your penis.

You come up on your knees, and Travis is behind you. You can feel his rod poking into your ass, long and hard and hot.

"Say my name," you plead, and you know if he says it, you'll come.

Travis puts his hands on your tits and bites the side of your neck. "No, sir," he gasps, and you can hear the excitement in his voice. He squeezes hard and twists as he pulls your body against his chest. You put your hands over his, and the pain lances through your chest right to your groin. "Captain Archer," he says.

"Oh, god damn it," you say, and you close your eyes as you let the pleasure take you. Your cock pulses strongly, and you can feel every jet of come as it forces its way out. You can feel every place on your skin Travis struck or bit, the tenderness of the skin radiating outward, joining the hot pleasure rushing through your body. You can feel hands on your chest, fingers on your nipples, and the sensation can never be enough. You choke back a word coming to your lips. Instead, you say, "Shit. Shit. Shit."

You're hardly aware of it when he pushes you forward. You roll into your back and Travis looms over you. His cock is huge, shiny skin pulled tight, almost purple. He kneels between your legs and puts a hand on his cock. He knows you like to watch him jack off. As one hand begins stroking his length, the other moves behind him. You know he's sliding fingers inside himself. The muscles in his arms bunch as he strokes himself.

"Captain," he says. "Jesus. Oh, please."

His eyes close when he crests. You feel the come rain onto your stomach. His hand pulls the skin of his cock up and down, and with each upward movement, more come is forced out. You see his mouth move. "Jon," he's saying, only no sound comes out.

*** 4

He sits there quietly and steers the ship. You used to be a pilot. In fact, you used to be a test pilot, a hotdogger, someone who felt the need for speed, someone who took serious, serious risks—with his life, with his career. You like to think you're still that person, but when you look at Travis sitting at the helm, you think maybe you turned into some boring old guy, someone who plays it safe. Travis is the hotdogger now. He's the one who thinks accelerating until he passes out is a good time. He's the one who likes it fast.

Hard and fast.


Last time you had him, late last night, you sucked him until he exploded, and the taste was still in your mouth when you came over his nude body. You could still feel the pleasure in your gut when he was ready again. He took it slow, masturbated for you, and when he was done, you were finally ready, but it took a long time.

Hard and fast, and maybe you can't keep up.

He's glorious. He's handsome, built, cut. He looks at you and you see it in his eyes: adoration. You don't know what you did to deserve that, but you understand that he really likes you. He really wants you. The latter is mutual. You touch him, and something primal takes over. Nothing matters but his taste and scent, skin against skin, the inevitability of orgasm. And every time, it's a surprise, because it shatters you. He says your name, and it touches you so deeply that you have to react. You open to him.

He sits there and you walk around behind him—because you're restless, because your chair isn't that comfortable. He sits there and you walk around behind him because you can smell him, a musky odor you associate with the scent of his cock, with the scent of his seed. You can sense him with a kind of sixth sense that means you know when he stirs, when he's about to speak. He sits there and you walk around behind him and you're lovers and nobody knows. You're in uniform and it hides everything, presses everyone into the cookie cutter that is Starfleet discipline. Lift up the cookie cutter, and what do you have? Look! A captain. An ensign. They're not so different. The uniform makes everybody the same. Your heart is beating fast and your body is thinking about working up an erection, and nobody knows, because you're in properly in uniform.

You shut your eyes and you want his mouth on you.

You look at him and you see yourself, years ago, all eagerness, all get the job done, all enthusiasm. Take the world by storm. Don't hold back. Take no prisoners. Make a difference.

You look at him and you feel ancient.

You know the cure for that.

You put a hand on his shoulder and lean down next to him. You catch his scent, and your cock begins to harden. The bridge is quiet, mostly empty. "Travis," you say.

"Captain?" He looks up, polite inquiry on his face.

You let him go, because you're in uniform. "Things are quiet," you say. "I thought now might be a good time to go over those power-source specs. Got a minute?"

"Yes, sir," he says, swinging to his feet.

"T'Pol, you have the bridge," you say, opening the door to the ready room for Travis. "I guess we'll be ten, twenty minutes."

"Yes, Captain," T'Pol says, seating herself gingerly in the captain's chair as another crew member moves to the helm. You think that maybe the chair isn't too comfortable for her either. She always sits right on the edge. Your eyes flicker from T'Pol to Malcolm Reed. He doesn't look up from his station.

The door to your ready room slides shut and you lock it. Travis never knows if you're calling him in to fuck him or to give him a real debriefing. You like it like that. You've had entire conversations with him in this room, the two of you alone, every word loaded with meaning, that ended with his deferential "yes, sir" and a return—unkissed, unfucked, unacknowledged lover—to the bridge.

You gesture to a padd lying on a desk. "My comments about the power-source specs," you say.

"Yes, sir."

"Come here."

"Yes, sir." He follows you to the large window.

"Take off your shirt, Ensign."

He smiles. And he does. As he's stripping to the waist, you unzip yourself and follow suit. You pull everything else down to your knees. Without a word, you position him so his back is to the window. You lean over and gently kiss the dark skin of his chest. The scent hits you like it always does, and your penis is hard in a second. You run your tongue along a plane of muscle. You close your lips around a nipple and suck. His nipple perks up and you lick it gently, then harder. Travis throws his head back and moans as you taste him. His hands go out to steady himself on the sides of the window. You scrape him with your teeth. You can feel his breath quicken as he grows more and more aroused. You kiss him, open mouthed, and your hands trail along his chest, along his sides, and the smell is everywhere.

"Now," you gasp, and he falls to his knees.

As his warm mouth closes around you, you put your hands where his were a minute ago: on the window frame. Anyone looking in would see you standing there, legs wide, panting, leaning forward, while someone kneels at your feet and sucks you. But no one can see in, because you are in space going faster than the speed of light. It's deceptive, this sense that someone could see, but it gets you hot. You look down and see your huge, straining cock disappearing into Travis's mouth, and suddenly you can't wait for the build.

You reach a hand down and grab the base of your cock. Travis pulls back a little, and you begin pumping. Your cock is slick with his saliva. He sucks on the tip as you work the length, and oh yeah, you swear you've never been harder. His mouth glides down and your fingers slide into his mouth, and shit, that's a rush, so you do that a few times, and yeah, you're almost there, you can feel it, and Travis can feel it too, because he puts some force into his sucking, because you're saying, "Harder. Oh, shit, harder." You let go of your cock and grab your balls and give them a squeeze, and suddenly it hits and you're gone. You can feel your cock pulsing over and over again, but it's from far away because of the pleasure that slammed into your stomach. From far away, you're aware that you're trying to force back words, trying to come soundlessly. Your choked "Ah" turns into "Jesus." You lean into the window as you come. "Jesus."

You stagger back when you're done. Travis wipes his mouth and struggles to his feet. "Captain," he says, and you know what he wants.

He wants you.

You grab him and kiss him, and he tastes like your seed. That mouth just made you come. Now you plunder that mouth and you revel in the sensation of how much he wants you. He's panting for you. He's hot for you.

You pull his uniform down and turn him so his back is to you, and you put his arms on the window. This time, when you look out the window, you don't focus on the stars. You focus on the faint reflection of Travis. You put an arm around his chest, a stripe of fair skin against his dark skin, and your other hand strokes his erection. He's large and hard, and he's primed. His balls are tight. You put your mouth in the crook of his neck and bite as you begin driving him to orgasm. Travis rotates his ass into your groin as he grows more excited. Your free hand ranges up and down his muscular body. You push harder as he gets hotter. You rub your face against his back, then stare at the reflection of his face. His head is thrown back. His teeth are bared.

"Jon," he gasps, and you feel the word through your whole body. "Make me come. I want you." His voice sounds raw.

"It's okay, Travis," you soothe. Your hand tweaks his nipple and you push your body against his.

"Jon," he says, and you watch in the window as he falls into orgasm, white come fountaining, and you can feel his cock move rhythmically in your hand, hard and strong, and he's yours.

You don't know why, but he is.

*** 5

"That was very nice," Travis says. He pulls you up, and you both turn awkwardly onto your sides, so you're face to face. You're in Travis's small bed.

"Yes, it was," you say. You've just sucked him off. You spent a long time with it, letting it build and then pulling back, toying with him, biting and rubbing and licking, before finally giving him what he wanted. You kiss him lingeringly.

"Do you want me to return the favor?" His face is sheened with sweat.

You don't feel desperate. You feel only anticipation. You're very close. "No," you whisper. You don't want him to suck you. "Here."

You put his hand on your cock, covering yours, and you stroke in tandem. The sharp pleasure makes you gasp. "Stop," you say, and you both stop. "Say my name," you whisper. You're not playing. You tremble on the knife's edge. "Say it now."

"Jon," Travis says. You can smell his musky scent. "Jon."

You keep your eyes open as you come. Your hand involuntarily squeezes, but it was Travis's voice saying your name that triggered it. Travis's hand is over yours, large and strong and gentle. You gasp and pant, and Travis's eyes stay on yours, keeping you with him. The pleasure is so acute that you can't speak. You don't have to choke back words or think of a mantra, like "shit" or "fuck" or "harder," this time. Instead, the pleasure inhabits you completely.

"Jon," he says again when you've quieted, and he releases your cock and pulls you close. You put your arms around each other. When you begin kissing him, you can't stop. Sometimes it's like that with him: you climax, but you don't feel like you're done.

You force yourself to pull back, to scale down the intensity, and the kisses become infrequent and sleepy. You're pressed together, body against body, and you realize how much you've wanted this. For two years, you've wanted this—sex, affection, cuddling. You've wanted someone who can call you Jon.

You stroke Travis's face and smile at him. You've had one brief conversation with him about the age and rank difference. The topic hasn't come up again. Therefore, you reason, it must be irrelevant to him. Your feelings about Travis are muddled: "he's young and hot so he can't want you" wars with "he clearly adores you." Travis's willingness and availability fit nicely into your desire for discreet sex and companionship. His playfulness arouses you. He's smart and perceptive, and his sense of humor ranges from the arcane to the silly. Climaxes with Travis have been among the most heart-pounding, bone-melting pleasure you have ever experienced.

Maybe it's enough for now to explore each other. Maybe thinking about things too much this early in the game is a bad idea.

"I don't want to go," you whisper. You feel safe and comfortable.

"Then stay."

"There's no room. Neither of us will get any sleep."

"I have no intention of sleeping," Travis says.

You blink. "I can't keep up with you," you admit.

Travis shakes his head, amused. "I want to watch you," he says. "I want to watch you sleep. If you wake up in the middle of the night, we can make love—" He bites your lower lip, turns it into a kiss. "—Or we can talk." He nuzzles you, and you draw him closer. "Don't you get it? Sure, sex. Yes. Sex is fun. But actually, I'm interested in you."

You turn so you're spooned together, Travis's arm around you. "I don't like to talk about myself," you say.

"Yeah, I kind of got that."

You won't talk about your family back on Earth, and it troubles Travis. "Tell me more about your brother," you say. "You hardly talk about him."

"Paul?" Travis's breath brushes your ear. "Oh, Paul," he laughs, and his body is warm against yours as he tells you all about Paul.

*** 6

You lie in the dark and stare at the little lights glowing on your com panel. Travis is in bed beside you, breathing deeply and slowly. You don't know what time it is. You can't sleep.

You can't sleep because Travis fucked you tonight. He fucked you while you were lying on your sides, Travis heavy as he leaned into you. He bit your shoulder, and when he came inside you, he said, "Jon."

The word bubbled up again, the word you can't say, that you shouldn't say, but you cut it off in time. "Malcolm," you almost said. You closed your eyes and let the orgasm take you, and instead you said, in despair, "Shit. Shit." You often swear when you come. So does Travis. So do a lot of people.

When you opened your eyes, when the pleasure had abated and you could think clearly again—that's when you realized. Travis says "Jon" when he comes, and sometimes, when he says "Jon," it triggers your orgasm, like tonight—tonight, when Travis unwittingly reenacted the single sexual encounter you'd had with Malcolm Reed.

You never say Travis's name when you come. You haven't really thought about it until now. You think back, rewind and replay each encounter. No. You never said "Travis." Another word was underneath the surface and you knew you shouldn't say it, but you didn't know what it was or why it shouldn't be spoken. Now you know that word.

The thing with Malcolm had happened when you were awaiting execution. You had known how you felt about Malcolm since the incident with the minefield, but Malcolm turned you down. But when you and Malcolm had both thought you were going to die, you'd made love. You hadn't died. You'd hoped that afterward, Malcolm would look at you and see someone other than a captain, but he couldn't do that. Rank and power and sex didn't mix for Malcolm. You'd wanted him so bad that your chest hurt for weeks. And then Travis had come along. It was still new with Travis. One big attraction with Travis, you admit, is that he really likes you. That's flattering.

But when he bit your shoulder and said "Jon," you realized that the most intense sex you ever had was a one-time thing with a guy you thought you loved who in fact probably returned your feelings, but who you can't have. You think back to that experience, and it was terror and fear and love and arousal all mixed up, a big, bad Molotov cocktail of emotions just setting you up for disaster. You were going to die. Of course it was intense with Malcolm. Nothing was simple with him in the first place, and when you pile everything else on—

You don't want to think about it.

You can't stop thinking about it.

You can't have him, but that doesn't mean you don't want him. And you can want someone, in a kind of distant "he's hot" sense, and be with someone else, and that is okay. Admiring from afar is just fine, with the keyword being "afar." Anyway, you know exactly what would happen if you knocked on Malcolm Reed's door and—once again—professed your undying devotion. That it was apparently true did not mitigate the fact that Malcolm refused to consider it.

Travis is a good, decent, loyal man who deserves better than a much older guy who still has the hots for someone he can't have. You know that you and Travis could be really good together, and not just because he puts up with you. And you know that something is up with Malcolm and your best friend Trip Tucker, only they aren't saying much about it. In any case, Malcolm is with Trip now, and that makes him unavailable to be with you.

And you're with someone young and hot who trembles when he touches you, someone who looks at you with naked adoration in his eyes when you're alone. Why can't that be enough?

You flip onto your back and turn your head. You can barely see Travis in the darkness, but you can sense him with your body. As always, when he's near, you are aware of his scent. You've never been so physically aware of someone. You love that he's not afraid of you. You love the way he calls you "sir" when you're in bed.

You roll up onto an elbow and place a ghostly hand on Travis's warm chest. You get it now. Thinking about Malcolm made it clear to you. You like the games you play with Travis, the games about rank, because at the bottom of it, it was just a game, and you are just men, and both of you understand that. You thought that the games exchanged the power, first one having it, then the other. Malcolm Reed granted you the power, and he meant it. You were the captain, he couldn't see past that. But now, you worry. You worry about power and Travis, because you don't want to be the captain with him. You want to be Jon.

"Mmm," Travis says, responding to your stroking hand, and you sense him smiling at you. "Jon."

"Travis," you say. Travis sleeps incredibly heavily. You know he's not quite awake. You know he'll never remember this conversation. You have to ask. You have to know. "Do you love me?"

"I love Jon," Travis says. "I'm waiting for him. Don't tell the captain."

"I am the captain."

"Oh. That's right."

"Go back to sleep."

His voice is suddenly sharp. "Where's Porthos?"

"He's on his cushion."


Travis settles down and you put an arm around him and nestle yourself against his body. He's warm and solid. He's not going anywhere. He won't go unless you send him away.

You lie there with your lover, and you want him, but you also want someone you can't have. You think about what the right thing to do is. You think you should probably tell Travis you're not over someone else and that you need time. But you've been building something together this last month or two. You thought you were over Malcolm Reed, you really did or you would have said something sooner, but every time you come, you want to say his name. It's Freudian, you decide, frighteningly simple in its lack of ambiguity. Now it's too late to say anything.

And now, just like with Malcolm, you have all the power. But it's not about rank with Travis, not like it is with Malcolm. It's simpler than that, and more complex. Travis loves you and you don't love him. And he knows it.

He's waiting for you to love him back.

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