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Blackie. Even after all these years, the name still sent a chill down his spine. Blackie Fucking Lawless. When Nikki said it to him, time stopped for a moment. His heart stopped for a moment.

"Totally out of the fuckin' blue, you know?"

Nikki's post-coital stories were always animated recitations of his day's events, thoughts, desires. Lying on his side and propped on his elbow, he chattered contentedly, tracing invisible circles and swirls on Mick's chest with his finger, their legs intertwined. Mick loved this time together as much as the time immediately preceding it, the tastes and smells and sensations of passion still lingering, but being slowly replaced by a sleepy intimacy that lasted a lot longer and felt a lot more important. He had learned more about his old friend like this in the last few months than he had in the last twenty-five years. It was easily his favorite part of the day. Until he said that goddamn name.

"Gonna stop by here tomorrow. Just back from Russia. He's got a new record out soon. I don't know, didn't listen to the last three at least. Toured all over fuckin' Finland and Norway and shit, too. Scandinavians fuckin' love 'em. Don't know what the fuck he wants."

He continued rattling off W.A.S.P. trivia as Mick struggled to breathe, the burning chill spreading from his spine to his chest.

He had always been intimidated by Blackie. Six-foot-four in his socks, Blackie was never in his socks. Back in the day, he wore six-inch platform boots and teased his hair a good three inches, making him seem more than seven feet tall. He weighed at least 200 pounds and carried himself like a professional athlete, which he nearly had been. More intimidating to Mick personally than his size, though, was the fact that he talked constantly. As though he were trying to control everyone around him with the sound of his voice. Or hypnotize them.

People either loved Blackie or they hated him, sometimes both at the same time, but nothing in between. He had known Blackie held an almost mesmeric power over Nikki, but hadn't truly understood the depth or extent of it until recently. Nikki had been so young, Blackie irresistible, so different than anyone else in L.A. back then. Charismatic, alluring, brilliant, predatory. Not the most talented, but totally committed to everything he did.

"Talkin' some shit about the old days. Who knows with him," he continued, his finger still dancing over Mick's chest, but in the dark, unaware that he had stopped breathing altogether.

When Mick first knew him, fresh from having left Blackie's fold, he just assumed he was one of the people who mostly hated him. Violent, frothing rants about what a controlling bastard, fucking thief, evil goddamn fucking sonofabitch jackass shithead motherfucking cocksucker, seemed to support the assumption. But that kind of vehemence focused so viciously and intently on one person could easily be redirected into a different kind of extremism, Mick knew, and now it fucking scared the crap out of him. He realized that he had been fighting Blackie's influence in one form or another since the very first time he'd met Nikki - Frankie - in that liquor store. Now he had a lot more to lose.

Nikki hadn't seen Blackie at all since the early 90's, and only sporadically for a couple of years before that, but every time it had incited a brief mania followed by several days of brooding and vitriol. What could Blackie possibly want after all these years, and what would it do to Nikki to see him. Mick was terrified to find out, because inextricably bound up in Blackie were two things that he could never compete with: Nikki's youth and Nikki's memory. The two things that could conspire to steal him away.

"Been a long fuckin' time. Guess I should see what the hell he wants. Might be dying or something."

Even the tickle of Nikki's calloused finger on his bare flesh no longer registered, his whole body having gone numb. He wished to God he had never heard that fucking name again.

The seeds of this dread were first planted the night Nikki had told him about Blackie's dungeon. So long ago, he had promised, he was not interested in that kind of thing any more. But the fire in his eyes as he told it was obvious, and it burned a hole in Mick's soul. He would never be part of that memory, Blackie so huge, his scorching hands on Nikki, marking him with his fingernails, his teeth, his whip. He would never be invited into that dungeon, Nikki's wrists cuffed over his head, swinging with each snap of the crop, Blackie looming in the darkness. He would never be the one hiding in that corner, instead of Lizzie, waiting to cut the rope loose just in time, Nikki gasping and choking, Blackie already gone, his hair blowing behind him like a cape. He fucking hated Blackie Lawless.

"Maybe I should call Lizzie, see if he's heard anything."

His finger stopped, and he rolled over like he meant to pick up the phone that very moment. Mick grabbed his wrist. If he was worried that Nikki's history with Blackie would cloud his mind and make him too likely to yield, then Lizzie Grey would just roll over and play dead. Distracting Nikki with a kiss, he suggested waiting for morning instead. Lizzie would only make it worse.

Nikki's sleep was fitful, sweaty, and he cried out. Mick didn't sleep at all, not sure if his lover was dreaming of the dungeon or prospectively of Blackie. Obsessive and catastrophic images tormented him all night. He clung to Nikki, carefully noting his warmth, the smell of his hair, the curl of his eyelashes, the roughness of his jaw, the curve of his neck. Memorizing in the most meticulous detail how their bodies fit together, how their legs wound around each other, how their arms held each other. In case it was the last time. And he prepared for war. With Blackie Fucking Lawless.

Not too surprisingly, though, Blackie did not show up the next day. Or the next. As he could have predicted, it only made Nikki more agitated, his sleep more disturbed. Though he didn't say so, Mick calculated that Blackie would probably arrive about three days late - long enough to whip Nikki into an unbridled frenzy of uncertainty, anxiety, self-doubt and anticipation, but not so long that he said fuck it and moved on. That man was truly an evil fucking genius.

By the third evening, Nikki was like a caged tiger. Or a child who couldn't read a calendar, but knew Christmas was close. Waiting for Santa, Mick thought bitterly. He found it physically painful to be in the same room with him, so intensely that even Nikki understood and did his best to dial it down, however unsuccessfully. He certainly knew better than to mention His Name again. Finally, to relieve them both of the unbearable tension, he jumped up and announced that he was going to the store.

Appropriately at sundown, and as if on cue, Blackie's car pulled into the driveway. As soon as Mick saw him through the window, sauntering to the front door, there was no question in his mind as to why he had returned, and what Mick had to do about it. It was a fucking war, and he quickly crept upstairs to retrieve the weapon he had stashed at the back of Nikki's guest closet, concealing it in his pocket and returning to the foyer to greet his smiling adversary. Thank God Nikki was not at home.

If Blackie was surprised to see Mick instead of Nikki, his eyes did not betray it. He stood in the foyer, surveying the scene with a casting glance. Sizing up his surroundings, noting anything useful, he quickly evaluated the house and its contents, no doubt mentally updating his psychological profile of Nikki based on what he saw.

Mick silently closed the door. Without a word, he dropped to his knees at Blackie's feet and ripped open his t-shirt, tore it to his waist. Blackie arched his eyebrow, a smirk settling on his lips.

"Nikki around?" he asked, amused.

Mick narrowed his eyes. Swallowing hard, he produced a pair of handcuffs and a key from his pocket, threw them on the floor in front of him. He unbuckled his belt, slid it off, threw it down on top of the cuffs. Blackie's chuckle was low and guttural.

"You really think you're an even trade?" he taunted, toeing the hardware with his boot.

Mick was at once relieved and sickened that Blackie was actually more than happy to follow him up the winding staircase, carrying the gifts he had laid out for him. Apparently the game was more interesting to him than the player. The ominous jangle of metal and the foreboding slap of leather against Blackie's palm trailed behind him.

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he braced himself as best he could. He had lived most of his life with chronic pain. He could not understand why someone would want his hands shackled together, hooked over the door, arms aching and toes reaching for the floor. Shit. If only he were taller. Fuck. Jesus. Did not understand why someone would want worn leather searing into his back. Fucking hell. The bite of a buckle across his ass. Jesus, no. God, no. Not around his neck. Struggling for air, he just prayed there wouldn't be blood. Fuck. He didn't want to have to explain it to Nikki.

At least Blackie had finally shut the fuck up, had quit incanting obscenities and endearments as he smacked his ass, cuffed his wrists, arranged him on the door. The balls of his feet and his toes lost contact with the carpet. Eventually, though, and before he lost consciousness entirely, Blackie stopped. He leaned down, breathing heavy in Mick's ear, on his neck, kissing his cheek, rough stubble scraping his skin. Mick squeezed his eyes tighter, seeing stars.

When he was lifted off the door, wheezing and dizzy, Mick rolled his shoulders, stretched out his back, shook his head, raked his cuffed hands through his hair. Had to keep it together. His body hurt all the time, and he had no fucking idea why anyone would deliberately seek out more pain, much less get off on it. They were all too old for this kind of shit anyway.

He knew Blackie could easily inflict serious damage on him if he wanted to, but that was not really what he was about. His personality was aimed at achieving willing submission, not forcing violent domination. He cultivated adoration, not fear, though fear would suffice in a pinch if he couldn't orchestrate an appropriate level of worship. As much as he was trying to hide it, Mick was near the breaking point, and they both knew it. Blackie spun him around, still wearing that arrogant fucking smirk.

"How 'bout a hug?" he needled, spreading his arms wide, his smile wider.

"Fuck you," mumbled Mick under his breath.

Another arch of the eyebrow. He desperately could not fuck this up, so he reluctantly, but obediently, looped his arms over Blackie's head, trapping himself against Blackie's broad chest, shackled wrists at the small of his back. Blackie was clearly enjoying himself immensely, the scent of angst that hung in the air a potent aphrodisiac. His mouth and tongue and teeth bruised Mick's lips as he kissed him hard and rough.

Seizing him by the back of the head, Blackie urged his reluctant lover onto his knees. Think of Nikki, he told himself, Nikki unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, Nikki holding his cock. Nikki's cock. He wouldn't gag on Nikki's cock. But Nikki wouldn't force his head like that, pull his hair like that.

Blocking out Blackie's exaggerated moans, he sucked and licked and worked his mouth over his cock skillfully and well, hoping to end it as quickly as possible. Blackie grasped the hair on top of his head and thrust into his mouth, deep into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He thrust hard, came hard and fast, immediately releasing Mick's head and stepping through his arms, which had dropped around his knees.

Mick grabbed his torn t-shirt from the pile of his clothes Blackie had peeled off him and thrown into a heap on the floor, spitting the contents of his mouth into it, wiping his tongue.

"Not very polite," Blackie chided, buttoning his jeans and smiling haughtily.

Naked, handcuffed and sitting on his heels, welts rising on his back and ass, and wiping cum off his face with his own shirt, he glared savagely at Blackie, hating him, hating himself.

"Don't worry, I understand the deal," he laughed. "This has all been enormously entertaining. Please thank Nikki for me."

He tossed Mick the key and strode out of the room and down the stairs, heading for the front door. Scrambling to unlock the cuffs, Mick hurled them across the floor.

On his way out, Blackie bumped into Nikki running through the front door, nearly causing him to drop a bag of groceries in the foyer, first from the impact and then from the surprise. Nikki said nothing, just gaped at him. Blackie grinned.

"You're one lucky fuckin' bastard, Sixx."

Blackie's voice had always been authoritative, complex, haunting, but Nikki heard something new in his tone, too, something he found jarring. He thought it sounded like jealousy, or regret, maybe some combination of the two. Nikki stared at him, shock, confusion and anger thrown across his face.

"That fuckin' wife of yours up there would do anything for you."

He gestured dismissively up the staircase before swooping down the front steps to his car, trying to mask that same tinge of longing in his voice.

Then Nikki did drop the groceries. Bruised pears and melting sorbet seemed utterly insignificant. He heard water running and knew immediately what had happened. Silently cursing himself for not having come home sooner, he took the stairs two and three at a time.

The bathroom was already steamy and warm. Leaning back with his arms over the sides, Mick lay in the large marble tub. He looked up and saw Nikki standing miserably in the doorway, no single emotion having yet fully formed and taken him over, still a jumble of grief, fear, confusion, anger, pain, and who knew what else, roiling in the pit of his stomach. Mick closed his eyes again. Blackie was gone. Whatever else might happen, he figured he could fix it eventually, but that motherfucker was gone. He did what he had to do.

He felt hot water sloshing around him as Nikki climbed into the tub, sliding in behind him, his clothes in a mound at the door. Nikki saw the unmistakable marks on his weary lover's back, swept the damp hair off his shoulders and saw the marks on his neck, took his hands, saw the marks on his wrists. He knew what, he obviously knew who, and, in that moment, he even knew why.

"Holy shit, baby, you didn't have to do this," he whispered softly.

This is how it should be, he thought. Nikki holding him gently, kissing him gently, on his shoulders and neck and cheek. Gently stroking his hair.

"Yes, I did," he said quietly.

The heat from the bath and Nikki's touch had relaxed his joints, eased his pain somewhat. Turning carefully in the huge tub, he wrapped his arms around the younger man's neck and kissed him insistently, as if he had been away a long time.

Pressing into him, Nikki kissed him back tenderly, laying him against the tub, his lips finding his forehead, the tip of his nose, his mouth. A deep breath and his head below the water, his lips found his chest, his belly, his cock. A warmth spread from Mick's groin throughout his body, matching the warmth of his skin in the bath. Then, coughing and spluttering, Nikki threw his head back, his hair slinging water in an arc across the bathroom, into Mick's face, as he pinched his nose and rubbed water out of his eyes.

"That did not turn out as hot as it was in my mind," he said, blinking violently and still coughing water.

Mick laughed, thinking how comfortable he was with Nikki, and how tragic a sexual mishap like that would have been in any of his youthful encounters. He supposed they had both reached an age where sex was no longer such serious business. It was much better like this, he thought, when it could be about enjoyment and sharing and pleasure, and even the occasional pratfall.

"It was incredibly hot," he said.

Nikki laughed, too, and kissed him, quick, light, playful kisses. Playful turned to passionate, and some slipping and splashing, as they jockeyed for position in the tub. Nikki slid down, knocking the back of his head on the edge.

"Fuck me," he cursed, breaking off their kiss, laughing and rubbing the back of his head.

Mick dove forward, mumbling "hell yeah" against his lips as he reclaimed them.

This is how it should feel, he thought, holding the side of the tub with both hands, this warm body pressed beneath him, this soft mouth on his, this searching tongue, these waves of pleasure, this electricity, their erections sliding together under the hot water. He put one hand in the water, gently pushed his fingers into Nikki, slowly, gently, how it should be.

Moaning softly into Mick's mouth, Nikki began groping for the bottles haphazardly lining the edge of the tub. Without releasing their kiss, he held up, examined, and discarded two bottles of shampoo, one conditioner, shave gel, shower gel, and the apricot facial mask Mick always teased him about. Finally finding what he wanted, he clicked open the bottle and poured the baby oil down his neck, his chest, Mick's back, into the water, and rubbed it over them with his hands, coating them both in it.

A sheen of oil floated on the surface. Mick used it to slick his cock, pressing slowly into Nikki as their hips rocked together under the water. He still gripped the side of the tub, thrusting, but in so much oil he nearly slid underwater. They giggled quietly as they kissed, and splashed, and churned the water and oil. Nikki grabbed the edge of the tub and wrapped his legs tight around him, holding on for dear life, sighing as Mick pushed his cock into him again, this time finding some leverage and a rhythm. One hand still gripping the marble, he took Nikki's cock in the other and fisted it in time with his own thrusts, deep into him, but not rough.

This is how it should sound, he thought, gentle sighs, gasps, quiet moans, building louder, breathing faster, shallower, cries of pleasure, crying out his name, his lover's name, God's name, coming together, panting softly in each other's arms. Everything else forgotten. He rested his head on Nikki's shoulder, still holding the side of the tub, still inside him, Nikki's legs still coiled so tight around his waist, nearly pulling him under.

"We're gonna look like fuckin' prunes," Nikki said.

They laughed, splashing more water out of the tub trying to sit up.

"Or break our necks in all this damn oil," said Mick, as they stood, reaching for their towels.

Climbing out of the tub, Nikki slipped and nearly pulled them both back into the water, and they laughed some more as they gingerly tiptoed to the safety of the carpeted bedroom to dry off.

As he lay back in the soft mattress, Mick pulled the comforter above their waists. Lying on his side with his head resting on his hand, elbow nestled in the pillow, Nikki curled his legs around Mick's. Their skin was smooth and soft and sweet, their hair damp and fragrant, from the bath, the baby oil, their love-making. The warm tingling was just starting to dissipate. Nikki's finger traced invisible circles and swirls on Mick's chest as he spoke softly to him. Better than any memory.