Pink and Fizzy

Pink and Fizzy

Sheldon swirled the drink in his hand. How many had he swilled down as he tried to control his ever increasing rage, and what were they anyway? He didn't drink much anymore, and a pretty fluorescent liquid with a parasol on top wasn't much of a hint to the drink’s contents. He’d never liked tropical themes or Hawaiian themes or whatever this was supposed to be. What did The Brat Pack have to do with the tropics anyway? It was set in a nameless Midwestern town. They should be having franks and beer out of the can, not pink drinks and pineapple slices.

"Ah, there you are," the star of The Brat Pack, the network's newest and most ridiculous show, said. "I wondered where you'd been hiding."

Sheldon hadn't been hiding; he just wasn't circulating. He'd never been good at these parties. In town he usually brought Milton; his tall dignified presence made everything easier, and he could look and sound interested in the most idiotic conversations.

"You probably just couldn't see me over the other people's heads." Why did he resort to short jokes when he felt uncomfortable? He wasn't that short, not jockey sized or anything. 

"Your drink looks like it needs freshening."

Sheldon didn’t fight as he was towed to the bar and a fresh drink shoved in his hand. He found his speech getting louder and the people funnier and more interesting. Fuck! At least he’d only thought that word and didn't say it aloud. He was screwed and tattooed. He didn't really drink, hadn't since that horrible incident with the car. He still quivered, remembering the anger in Milton's eyes. Officially Sheldon thought he could drink now; he just hadn't--well, a few sips of wine at dinner, but Milton gave him the glass. Sheldon drank Coke at parties; he didn't drink pink cocktails in excess. 

Could he find coffee here, the blacker the better? He hadn't seen any. Sheldon tossed his glass into the trash; one missing glass wouldn't bother the caterers. He shoved his hands into his pockets. God, he couldn't stop the shaking. He hadn't drunk that much, had he?

Sheldon wanted Milton; he'd be killed for this, but he still wanted him. Milton was a several hour train ride away. Sheldon was in fucking New York. Why had the party been here? Sheldon knew why, of course; this was home to the big fish, but Sheldon wanted Boston and Milton and all his righteous fury. 

Someone in a black dress was saying something to him. Sheldon couldn't focus; he was going to be sick.

The bathroom was a standard hotel bathroom, far cleaner than a stadium, and no pee splashed on the floor. The other guests were still sober. Sheldon swiped at a tear on his cheek. This wasn't the place for crying; they wouldn't understand. "Milton, sorry," he whispered, splashing water on his hot cheeks. He clutched the side of the sink and bit his lip. He wasn't going to sob. Sheldon heard the door swing open and darted for a stall. He listened as someone did his business and banged back out to the party. That guy had it together; it was only Sheldon hiding in a bathroom stall.

He fumbled for his phone. What was Milton going to do? He was hundreds of kilometers away. He couldn't take a magic carpet and appear in the bathroom. Ryan. He lived in New York. Sheldon was supposed to be the role model, and he was thinking about calling his brother's partner. Idiot, Sheldon berated himself. Grow up and pull yourself together. Right, he'd always been so good at that. Milton got that; he kept Sheldon on the adult side of the aisle. Blade loved Ryan. He'd come; Sheldon was sure of that. He'd been on the receiving end of enough lectures by both Milton and Ryan about the value of family to know he'd come. Ryan was big and solid and far more affable than he should be. Sheldon had been a first class jerk to him, and Ryan just took it. Ryan had terrifying stuff in his cupboard and yet was too damn nice to believe.  

Someone else came into the bathroom, a clattering of shoes and the rapid spray of water. Maybe Sheldon could just stay in the bathroom. No, that was unreasonable; the cleaning crew would kick him out eventually. Man found huddled in bathroom after a high society party, Sheldon could already see the headline. The shoes and gray suit pants left. Sheldon stared up at the ceiling. Did all bathrooms have acoustic ceilings? God, he was way too drunk.

Call. Sheldon should call. Hiding in the bathroom all night wasn't an option. Ryan would feed him to the lions, but Sheldon wanted fed to the lions. It had taken him years to admit that to himself, and he still would deny it if anyone had the audacity to ask. No, he, a man of complete independence, didn't want to be chained to Milton's leg. Bullshit! He was a subbie boy through his entire soul. Milton might have to beat him black and blue to get Sheldon to admit it, not that Milton ever turned him black and blue even when Sheldon was a world class idiot, and Sheldon's fingers still shook when he touched his collar, but he was a boy.

The keys on his phone were so tiny that all the numbers blurred together. He should have bought one of those damn talking phones. He wouldn't have to find minuscule keys.

"Hello."

Oh, God, Ryan had picked up. Why couldn't it have been the voice mail?

"Sheldon, this is your phone number. If you're playing some type of juvenile phone game, stop it. Hello."

Ryan's voice was clear and sure. He sounded so authoritative on the phone, pissed too. Why had Sheldon called him? It always ended badly.

"Sheldon, I expect to hear your voice on this phone in five seconds. Five, four, three--"

"Ryan."

"Good boy. What do you need Sheldon?"

Ryan was a good top. All his natural authority was in his voice, but it was somehow inviting also. Sheldon, in one of his few moments when he hadn’t been trying to goad Ryan into a fight, had asked him how he seemed to always know what tone. He was so damn perfect as a top.

"I watch and listen to you and Milton. You're my partner's brother. I have a responsibility to do right by you." He'd kissed Sheldon's forehead in that both patronizing and reassuring way.

"I've been drinking." Sheldon knew somewhere in the back of his brain that the sentence was a non sequitur, but it was all that he could seem to get out.

"Where are you?"

"The bathroom."

“OK. Which bathroom?”

Ryan was so friggin calm and his voice so over the top authoritative that Sheldon felt the words deep inside of himself, the unspoken I’ve got it boy. Now just tell me where you are, so I can do my dominant thing. Sheldon babbled something that Ryan seemed to understand.

“I’ll call you when I’m in front of the hotel. Be in the lobby. Don’t keep me waiting.”

*******

Sheldon blinked. It was well into morning from the light through the small windows. 

“Awake.” It was more a statement than a question. Milton sat on the floor, his long legs folded around him in an impossible angle, a book on his lap.

“When did you get here?” Sheldon asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Where’s Ryan?”

“I took the early train. Ryan’s at work. Up. Shower. Talk. I brought you some clothes.”

“I need to check out of the hotel. My suitcase is still there.”

“Up. Shower. Simple enough, isn’t it?”

Sheldon stared at the face of his lover, the face of his dominant. God, how many years had they been together? And it was only now that he began to tentatively use the word dominant. Sheldon had known all along; he wasn’t that much in denial, but somehow being the brat with a partner who was toppy had been far easier than being a full blown submissive.

“Up.”

“Yes, sir.” Sheldon needed to stop staring and move, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Milton. He wasn’t angry; his expression was full of steadiness and patience and just enough force that Sheldon thought he’d better stir from Ryan’s sofa.

“Am I not being understood?”

“No, sir.” Too late for Sheldon to get up on his own. Milton hoisted Sheldon off the sofa and with a hand on each shoulder marched him into the bathroom. With two of them in the midget space, Sheldon could feel Milton’s breath on his neck and feel the beard on his cheek as Milton reached to turn on the water. 

Milton pulled the pajamas off Sheldon, not speaking as he maneuvered Sheldon into the shower. Sheldon looked up at his partner, the what forming on his lips, but not spoken.

“Quickly.”

Milton was still in the bathroom. Sheldon could see his fuzzy outline through the glass shower door. Milton wasn’t mad, or he didn’t look mad. Why was he in the bathroom?

“Done.” Milton snapped off the water and pointed to the bathmat. Sheldon automatically reached for a towel and was rewarded with a brisk slap to his hip and another point.

Great! This was beyond a short leash. “I can dry myself.” That didn’t get a reply, only a harder slap and Milton’s big hand capturing both Sheldon’s wrists and putting his arms behind his back. Sheldon didn’t need the words. He knew he was supposed to stay. “I’m not playing kinky bathroom games. That’s my brother’s schtick.” Would he ever learn to keep his mouth shut? Hands on wet flesh hurt.

“Are you ready to behave?”

Uncompromising. Milton was making a boulder look compromising. Sheldon was way too close to tears. The swats hadn’t been that hard or that many. Sheldon managed a nod.

“Good boy.” 

Milton dried Sheldon efficiently. If it hadn’t been so damn embarrassing to stand there like a rag doll, it would have been pleasurable to breathe in Milton’s scent and to feel Milton’s hands. Dressing wasn’t Sheldon’s choice either. Milton buttoned the plaid shirt and tucked it into Sheldon’s favorite jeans.

“Breakfast.”

Hadn’t Milton mentioned talking? This wasn’t talking; this was directing. Words weren’t rationed; maybe there was a new federal tax, ten cents a word. Sheldon was guided, more liked towed, into Ryan’s cubby of a kitchen and parked on a chair. Fruit and some cereal with nuts and raisins were already on the table. Milton poured milk into the cereal and sat across from Sheldon. He was silent, his brown eyes studying Sheldon.

Sheldon looked everywhere else. He couldn’t bear the kindness in those eyes right now. Ryan’s kitchen was still pink. He’d thought Blade was going to paint it. Sheldon had made Milton miss work. 

“Do I need to feed you?”

Sheldon jerked his eyes back to Milton. He hated that, the absolute loss of control using comfort and gentleness. Blade and Ryan did it a lot.

“I’ll eat.”

Milton raised his eyebrows. He wouldn’t ask again. Sheldon put his spoon into the cereal and brought it to his mouth. He didn’t want cereal. He pushed the bowl to the floor.

“Oops.”

“How badly do you need a hard spanking?” Milton asked, his voice perfectly conversational as bloated pieces of cereal floated on the floor.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Sheldon babbled. “It was an accident.”

“It was not.” That tone made Sheldon shut up. That was the tone of near death experiences.

“I got drunk last night.”

“Ryan said you were a little tipsy last night. You didn’t drive. You called him. I’m not upset about it.”

“But you weren’t there. I don’t drink when you’re not there. I just don’t.” Sheldon knew his voice was a horrible wail and that his cheeks were wet with tears. He’d betrayed Milton’s trust. Drink was a big one.

“Sheldon, the rule about drinking long ago expired.”

“I don’t do it.” Sheldon wiped his hands across his face, trying to stem the tears, but only spreading them. “I’m sorry.”

“Sheldon.” Milton picked Sheldon up from the chair over the spilled milk and soggy cereal. “Drama queen,” Milton whispered as he settled Sheldon into his lap. “Listen to me. Do I have your attention?” Milton’s hand rubbed a little too briskly over Sheldon’s thigh, a memory aid for what he could do with his hand. 

“Yes, sir,” Sheldon said into Milton’s shirt.

“You’re not the boy who drove that car all those years ago. You were only a kid then, maybe not legally, but in maturity. I made a rule to keep you safe. It was about me being the older and more sensible partner. I used the fact that you’re submissive to me to stop something that still makes me shake when I think about it. I wasn’t losing you that way.” Milton kissed the top of Sheldon’s head. “You’re not a kid anymore, not in chronological years, not emotionally. You don’t need me to step into that role.”

“But--”

“Shh. You’re a submissive. And I know you hate that word. For you, brat is easier, and I let you brat because we both have fun with it, but this isn’t a decade ago. How often do I really punish you for something that isn’t a bit of a joke between the two of us or a part of our dynamic as lovers? Think about it.”

Sheldon leaned against Milton, absorbing the comfort. He hated these questions; even in the shelter of Milton’s arms these questions were hard. “Not often,” Sheldon finally said.

“That’s right. You know right from wrong as well as the next person, and you even manage your impulsiveness so I only want to wring your neck once a month, and half that is because you want me to wring your neck. I don’t want to wring your neck about not having a good time at a party and having one more glass than you should have. The problem is that you have an overdeveloped guilt complex, and if I don’t do something, you will. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Sheldon nodded. It was embarrassing to be known this well, but also comforting.

“Yes, I know you, boy.” Milton stroked his fingers through Sheldon’s hair. “From now on you don’t drink alcohol period. You’ve wanted this rule for a long time, so now I’m giving it to you. It’s not because you can’t handle alcohol. You can. You showed both of us last night that even when upset you went for sensible and called Ryan. The rule is because you’re my submissive, so it’s my decision. No alcohol, and if I find you using alcohol to brat and get my attention, I will use the cane no matter how hard you are shaking. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now about last night. I’m not punishing you retroactively. Even I’m not that unfair.”

“You’re never unfair.”

Milton smiled, a little twist of his lips, and kissed Sheldon’s forehead. “I’m always unfair, and that’s what you love about this relationship. I call the shots and you obey. I’m going to make this relationship more unfair. Did you like what I did this morning?”

Sheldon wiggled closer to Milton’s chest. He didn’t want to answer. It was too embarrassing and humiliating.

“Sheldon.” The warning was clear in the deep bass rumble of Milton’s voice.

“Sort of.”

“You can be more articulate than that.”

“You know I did,” Sheldon spat. “I hate analyzing it.”

“I know,” Milton said gently, “but it’s more than time we stop pretending. We both have very strong needs in this dynamic, me to give the orders and you to obey and to submit. We’ve hidden an aspect of the submission with the brattiness. You’re older now; you’re ready now. It’s time I ask for more.” 

“What if I can’t?” 

“You can, and you will. You don’t have a choice. Remember I said this relationship wasn’t fair.”

“I’m not good at this.” Sheldon ducked his head. He didn’t know how to be a good submissive. He was a brat; he was good at that. He made people smile. “I don’t want whips and chains.”

“This isn’t about props.” Milton tapped Sheldon’s forehead. “It’s about excepting your submission and no longer fighting it. I know you’ve been around enough to be aware that Gordon was concerned about you when he first met you.”

Yes, Sheldon knew. The whispers had been quiet, but he’d still heard them. He wasn’t mature enough, he didn’t understand submission, he’d fight too hard, and those were the more palatable ones. There had been a betting pool about how long they’d stay together until Gordon put a half dozen stripes on the participants. Did he still fight too hard? Did he deny Milton the submission to which he was entitled?

“I still fight.”

“Sometimes,” Milton said gently. “Willing submission is never perfect. If it were easy, it wouldn’t be rewarding.”

“Gordon knew I had too much fight.”

“What Gordon said was that I had taken on a boy who had very strong submissive needs but who both feared and resisted those needs. He said it was going to be very difficult, but the reward would be enormous at the end if we both survived it. I think we survived it quite nicely.”

“I still don’t submit.”

“Most of the time you do, and I want a partner, not a robot. I’m more than capable of coping with spilt milk.”

“Sorry.” Sheldon flushed.

“It cleans.” Milton slid Sheldon to the floor. “Clean it up, and we’ll try breakfast again.”

It was only a minute before Sheldon found himself back at the table with breakfast again in front of him and Milton silent and demanding and somehow ridiculously comforting across the table. This was the way it was now. Milton had made that clear. Choice was off the menu for the foreseeable future, and Sheldon was happy. He was crazy. He’d lost his mind, but he was happy.