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They’ve subjected themselves to what amounts to a full-scale investigation into their suitability, though it stops blessedly short of what it might take to work in the post room at Vauxhall Cross.
Fingerprints, retinal scans, background paperwork, interviews on the phone, interviews in an office, bank statements, character references, until the only thing left, Sol imagines, will be a urine sample, an anal probe, maybe some blood.
Don’t be daft Edward says, dry as anything. It’ll be your sperm they’re after.
What he freezes, suddenly paralyzed with alarm. What really?
No Edward laughs. But my God the look on your face just now.
~*~
Sol quits his job. At least, he tries. His gaffer laughs and asks if he’s sure and he says no not really. He’ll keep on part-time, all the while taking classes for a qualification that he probably won’t get a chance to use, because it could just as easily happen tomorrow morning as it could take years. Edward seems certain it won’t be as long as all that.
Fixing up the second bedroom properly would only tempt fate, so instead they put a pull-out sofa back there, and Edward stashes his tennis stuff in the closet, leaving just enough space for him to rack some free weights right there across the floor, because he keeps moving further and further away from his own gym, right out here in the bleeding edge of Zone 2.
It’ll happen Edward says, but then a year has passed, and in all honesty he is not handling it too well at all. Come morning Sol will have to go back in and shake him out of bed, otherwise he’ll be late for work, late again, yet not a day later he’ll be calling up any old acquaintance who isn’t saddled with children of their own. Friends from school. Straight people. Straight people in his flat until all hours, doing fuck knows what, and the only times he sticks around are when Lou joins them. She’s good for a laugh, but.
Then she gets pregnant. Didn’t mean to just happened is what she tells them during one Sunday lunch and Sally must’ve known already, because she doesn't blurt out whose is it the way Beth does.
Her fucking ex Edward says a few days later. Sol can tell he’s bothered by it because he says he’s going for a walk.
Don’t forget your phone Sol says over his shoulder, opening the oven to check on his tray of marinated chicken breasts.
Edward waves a hand towards where it sits on the granite counter, and leaves without it, despite having a screenful of red text notifications.
A heap of bullshit, is what it is. That she can just fall on any old dick and have done with it.
Edward has his wobble; Sol sees that it doesn’t get too out of hand. He goes to Edward’s gym with him, Edward’s yoga studio with him, has Edward help him out in the kitchen, setting up their playlists, sending him to the shop to pick out their wine. They leave the house: with Archie and the girl he’s been seeing, to the theatre with his in-laws. A weekend in Oxfordshire: nieces and nephews, pets and chaos.
Back home they go out on a weeknight, to the cinema, then for cocktails, wrap it all up with late-night Chinese about a mile and a half from theirs.
It’s Edward who suggests that they walk home.
Sol takes his hand. Was hoping you’d say that he says, and, finally, finally Edward smiles.
~*~
At the clinic — the private fucking clinic what they’re paying for genetic tests, and long-term storage — a woman with thinning blonde hair in a smart twill jacket says I’ll give you a minute before leaving them alone in the room, which has all the hallmarks of being an office, clearly, it’s an office, with corkboard walls and institutional heating vents, but someone has made an effort to soften the beiges and greys by lining up plants on the windowsill, hanging pastel abstract paintings in IKEA frames on the walls.
He is indeed the one made to suffer the indignity of wanking off into a clear plastic cup labelled with his name, and the date, and the words viable sample on it. The magazine selection looks like something from a grotty Soho sex shop, and Sol is glad to have saved photos, video clips, on his own phone, so he can at least look at something that gets him going.
That humiliating experience calls for chips and beer, after which they spend the remainder of the weekend in bed, just lying next to one another.
~*~
They go to a smart hotel in town for their anniversary; Sol surprises Edward with the spa upgrade where he has his first Thai massage since the honeymoon, and as the girl is digging her forearm into the raveled knots he calls his IT band, vows to find a place where he can get this done more than once a year. Edward gets the multimodal. He puts the cost of the toweling robes from the room, now ruined from the massage oil they’d purchased on the way out, on his credit card.
~*~
Henry and John wrote. Edward hands out the postcard for him to read.
A vineyard? Sol squints at the picture. Karl’s stag do was two nights ago and he hasn’t quite felt himself since. When did his hangovers start sticking around for so long?
Technically it’s a share in a vineyard Edward corrects.
Still Sol says and whistles under his breath.
We really should go out there this summer.
Right there on the card, in Henry’s ferocious scrawl, he has in fact written Come see us now the renovation’s done. We’d love to have you to ourselves for a few days. John’s dig will be on hiatus come August.
Sol moves to the fridge and finds an expired takeaway coupon no longer in need of its magnet, replaces it with the postcard: blue sky, white windmills. It does look lovely.
~*~
They’re coordinating dates when the call comes. And then all of a sudden there is paperwork, new, different paperwork, and a million things to be done.
We should still go Edward says and Sol agrees because he has been preparing himself for this eventuality, that even with room for his mum to visit, the in-laws just down the road, it’ll be a complete and total upheaval of his — their — life, and that is before they get another call, not to apologise that it’d fallen through but to inform them that there's a sibling. A girl, older, with what the case worker refers to as lasting psychological trauma — if that was something they had considered? Then they’re paying for classes in parenting, and more assessments, and while it wasn’t mandatory, a few therapy sessions. Family therapy, they call it.
~*~
Don’t take it personally Mags says as they’re drying the dishes — they’re never fully dry once they come out of the dishwasher and need to be so before going back in the cabinets. Sally is minding the children with Edward, indoors because it has been raining off and on all weekend and the back garden is too soggy. Simon has gone to make a phone call. George is having a lie-down in the spare room. They just want to make sure that...well, you know. That you’re the right sort of people?
~*~
Plenty of people go on holiday there. Edward is getting mugs down from the cabinet. Don't see why we should be any different?
Maybe we shouldn’t go Sol suggests. Edward’s back on his phone, one hand on the handle of the tea kettle, frowning at something in the group chat. You don’t think it looks bad?
Hm? Edward absently hefts the kettle from its base and, finding it too light, holds it out for Sol to take to the fridge and fill.
Some people are getting a place Edward says later once they’re settled into bed. First week in August. We’ll have to tell them by Thursday at the latest if we want to come.
What place? he asks, confused by this new development. Which people?
~*~
You ever fuck on amyl Edward asks a couple weeks later, looking up from his phone and directly up Sol’s nose. He shifts to the side, folds his paperback closed on his index finger.
His brow creases as he ponders this question. No he says while looking down at Edward I mean, not that I’m aware of.
Hm.
He returns to his texts, Sol to his book.
~*~
At lunch with the in-laws he's doing what he can to stick to the chicken, avoiding the skin as well as the bread sauce, politely eating the bizarre vegetarian sides that are Lou’s disturbing but high-fibre contributions, and wondering if he can skip the pudding without coming off rude.
Oh he says when Sally puts a massive apple crumble on the table, right within arm’s reach of him, and a jug of custard, which she knows he likes, a million miles away from that powdered stuff in the tin he was raised on. He has a bit but only to be be polite, then a bit more while Simon and Edward are watching the tennis, and is later talked into taking a foil wrapped dish of it home.
That night when they're on the sofa, Edward watching music videos on his phone with the sound down low, he records all the details of the day. There are apps that can do this, computer programmes, but he enjoys the old-school nature of it, the same way Edward likes to watch live concert footage from decades ago.
Columns and boxes calm him. What he ate, when. His workout from warmup to cool down. Ounces of water, units of booze. Percentages which tell him that he’s over on carbs, which he already knew of course, and that he’ll have to choke down some whey protein in water to right the balance before bed.
~*~
Henry picks them up at the teeny tiny airport in what he tells him, after hoisting their bags into the tiny boot, is the car John uses for site visits. It’s seen better days from the sounds the transmission is grinding out, but at least the traffic’s moving.
He's been cooking all week Henry says, dropping the car keys into a ceramic bowl on the sideboard.
John embraces them both in turn. How wonderful to have you with us he says, with his hand on Sol's shoulder. Now we’ve got you in the master bedroom. When Sol begins to protest he squeezes and says I must insist. Besides, we often sleep out on the roof when it’s as hot as all this.
Henry leads them into the bedroom. It’s only the four of us tonight and tomorrow. We’re expecting John’s field assistant mid-week.
Where will he sleep? Edward wonders out loud.
Oh Henry says pointing through the door to the open loft with its mattress we usually put him up there.
~*~
The food’s great, if salty enough to get him anxious about water retention. John grills them fish, chicken, lamb and there’s tons of vegetables to balance out the wine served at every meal save breakfast. He does squats whenever he’s alone in the bedroom for a few, wishing to hell he’d brought resistance bands along with, wondering if getting a day pass for a hotel gym would be worth it; if he could borrow the car for an afternoon. Instead he obsessively charts his potassium balance and each time he passes by the mirror in the bathroom, lifts his shirt up over his stomach to see if it’s making any difference.
~*~
They call him by his surname, less because it suits him and more to simplify having two Johns in the house.
I remember when I met you John says across the shaded farm table where they're sampling vintages from years gone by. If I recall correctly you were going by Jack back then?
He grimaces in John’s direction.
Am I wrong?
Sol listens in a disaffected way. No need with this group to fill the silences, not when John has a tendency to declaim verses from epic poems and Henry to take issue with his too-literal translations.
Edward has his forearms on the table, hands just touching his elbows. The placement of his wrists makes his shirtsleeves ride up.
Sol catches himself looking. How afternoon orange sun brings out the ginger in Edward's close-trimmed beard, illuminates the few greys threaded through the hair on his wrists. How Henry’s shorts, already borderline indecent, have ridden way up into the crease of his thighs, the way John’s broad chest vibrates when he laughs, which he does, often, and loudly.
He listens with one ear, easily able by now to pick up the conversation, whether it's about the cost of property in different boroughs or the logistics involved in underwater archaeology, all the while absorbing the way his even white teeth worry at his lower lip, a quirk all the more attractive for it being, he supposes, unintentional.
~*~
You think they’re fucking him? Edward asks, peeing at the same time as he’s brushing his teeth and not doing a very good job of either. He spits into the toilet and flushes it.
Sol scoots over to share the single sink — funny how quickly he’d got used to having the two, wasn’t it? You can always ask Henry he says, standing back as Edward spits again, turns on the tap and rinses his mouth out.
When he stands he’s grimacing, wipes the back of a hand across his lips. Bottled water he says, swaying gently out of the room and flopping, face-first, onto the bed on its white platform. That stuff’s brackish.
Hey he says to the top of Edward’s head. Hey can you turn the right way round? He gives him a shove on the shoulder to get the process underway. That accomplished, Edward’s head lolls to one side, his mouth open in a wide yawn.
He reaches over to find Sol’s body. Not any particular part of it, just touching him. He smacks his lips together, mouth dry. Henry says he’s fucking hung he says.
Well Sol says, locating Edward’s limp hand and putting it on his chest there’s your answer then.
‘S not like that though he says, chewing on the words as he’s fading into sleep. It’s when he goes on dives. The thing they wear?
Wetsuit? Sol asks.
Edward pokes him in the pec. That’s the one.
Go to sleep Sol says.
Wanna mess around? Edward asks, turning the poke into a clumsy attempt at a caress.
Sleep Sol repeats, more firmly. We’ve got days here yet.
Should find out Edward suggests. You should.
You taking the piss?
He’s cute Edward says. I’d let him. Fuck me, I mean. If I were you. If it were me. Y’ know?
There’s no hurry. he repeats for the last time before switching off the light.
Back home, sure. In the steam room, round someone’s flat, in certain kinds of pubs on certain kinds of afternoons, but that's a physical need more than real want. Like popping a dislocated joint back into place, the hurried handful of cashews eaten when it was somehow three p.m. and you realized you hadn’t had anything that day but tea that had managed to go cold before you got to drink it, no matter how many times it went round and round in the microwave.
Sol’s heartbeat thumps in his ears. Inwardly he curses. Every bit of him is on fire for it. Only it’s been so fucking long. He can’t be bothered to get up for lube or some of that rebottled massage oil, so instead he spits in his palm and drags it down the length of his cock, tip to root, and lets his eyes fall shut.
He’ll just do it long enough to ease the ache. Picture Henry's legs, Edward's crinkled smile, the copious dark hair clearly visible through the nearly transparent shirts John wears, and yes, if he lets himself, him as well.
He can almost see him worrying his bottom lip until it’s puffed up pink and swollen. Christ. He’d be happy to sit square on his chest, desecrate that choirboy face. A big dick would just give him something to hold on to during. Knowing his ass would be tight as all fuck. Sol’s checked it out, in sensible khaki shorts, cargo pants made from parachutes. He digs his thumb into the base before releasing it all at once and sending it bouncing up into the air: eager, leaking.
Maybe he could give it a shot. Edward seems to think it's a possibility.
Morning’s light makes him regret even considering that plan for a second. It wouldn’t work out for him, even if he made the effort. Not with that ass. Not with that mouth. No. No way.
~*~
Despite the presence of a fifth disrupting their four, it's a good visit, and their goodbyes are sincere. Sol takes with him a list of recommended books and a couple cast-off paperbacks, and Edward puts down a deposit on some cases of wine.
The harvest from a few years back, a good, dry year, is almost drinkable. Soon. John rubs his hands together when he tells them about it. It’ll be ready soon.
Soon Henry says, after he drives them across the island. He waves goodbye as they pull out their luggage and hoist it to the entrance. See you soon.
Compared to their little whitewashed house with its overflowing bookcases and discreet erotic art, this is a full-on mansion. They ditch their bags after which Edward wants to see every bedroom, Sol suspects, to make sure no one’s got a nicer view than they do.
He opens the windows and the smell of weed wafts up to their room. Do you want to go down? Edward asks, looking at the bodies bobbing in the pool below, entwined on lounge chairs, circulating around the open space.
I’ll catch you up. In response to Edward’s disappointed face he says hey, we’ve got days yet, yeah?
Right Edward agrees, shoving his hands in his pockets. He traces a semicircle on the floor with his foot. Sure you don’t mind?
No no he says squeezing Edward around the waist by all means. Go on ahead.
~*~
The sun has set and a chill is just starting to seep into the air.
Are you going to dinner? someone — Hugh? Hank? fuck if he can remember — asks them from where he has been swimming a lazy breaststroke back and forth in the water.
Sol twists his head to look behind them into the kitchen. The house is emptying out for the evening, exactly as they'd hoped. I think we might just stick around here. He looks down at Edward, who's burrowing into his upper arm and sliding a bit into his armpit from where his skin's still damp. Yeah? Edward nods, cute, shy. Sol kind of wants to carry him back to the bedroom, playact like they've only just met. Enough of this already.
The man does another languid lap. Underneath the oversized towels that they'd used to dry off and which are now serving in place of a decent blanket, Edward scoots a little closer to him. His feet are visible through the edge of the towel, and they articulate back and forth as Edward positions himself against Sol’s thigh.
He rubs his hand against the middle of Edward’s bare back, up towards his nape. His shirt's in the wicker basket beneath the lounge chair, removed when he was certain no one was paying attention, when people were starting to drift off for disco naps and pre-dinner showers, and Sol had suggested they finally get in the pool, with their drinks in plastic glasses.
Edward rouses himself, says I’ll go get us another and pads off in the direction of the kitchen, towel draped around his upper body, but still, remarkably, shirtless.
Are you? he asks the man — Hank, yes, it was Hank — Reckon we’ll probably just stay put.
Fair enough Hank replies, standing up and wiping a hand down the front of his face, before unsticking his hair from where it clings to his forehead, soaked. Sol's stomach does a backflip. Jesus, those arms.
He startles when Edward taps him on the shoulder. They're mostly dried off by now, though Edward's hair is dark with damp as he sits down next to Sol and takes a sip from his drink, his eyes now on the horizon, dim but still visible, at the ships moored along the harbour, the white edge of the pool and the other person in it.
Do you want to get into the hot tub? Edward asks.
Depends Sol says, putting his arm around Edward’s shoulders. What were they doing in it before? The rule, in this rental at least, is to go back to your room. The villa adjacent does not adhere to these common sense choices, and Sol shudders to think about the state of their water.
Edward thinks on it a minute before standing up. He announces that he’s going to the hot tub in a way that reminds Sol, weirdly, of his mother-in-law, and his impulse is to point this out but Hank is also pulling himself up onto the side of the pool, water sluicing down his arms, and maybe now is probably not the time to joke about how you sound exactly like your mother.
Instead he rinses his feet and goes inside to preheat the oven, deal with some stuff before changing into dry clothes. The second he slides the elastic straps into place, one at the top of each thigh and a thicker one across his lower back he’s already dizzy from the way he's being grabbed, supported. Walking back to the kitchen is a slow, methodical torture, the aches of own body already heightened even before adding in this extra constraint.
When the food's finished he puts it on three plates and brings them to the smaller of the outside tables.
Hey he calls out across the terrace there’s food that’s ready.
A murmur followed by a splash. Hank emerges first, walking straight past Sol and heading in the direction of the house. The drawstring on his swim trunks has been undone. One side in the back sits lower than the other, his left hip fully out. Oh he says, noticing the place settings, just as Sol says there’s three plates. Hank pulls his trunks back up.
This many years on he knows what Edward looks like when he’s three sheets, overtired, hopped up. When he wants to fuck, when he’s hungry, irritable, all of which can usually be remedied with a little strategically applied attention.
One more thing he’s well aware of is what Edward looks like when he’s just been kissed. Especially if he’s tipsy on his way to drunk, how he'll get eager, sticking his tongue into Sol’s ear almost gracelessly, tugging on his shirt and saying fuck, kiss me, kiss me.
Edward trails in behind him, high pink on his cheeks like he’s overheated, looks over the table and smiles at them. Should we open the Vidiano?
Sol can’t argue with that. It'll go well with the fish. Sure, sounds good.
There’s mineral water in the fridge too Hank says and then actually, I’ll come with you to get it.
Edward returns with the bottle of wine held in one hand, the rabbit corkscrew sticking out the top like a man crucified, Hank carrying the water. When their plates are empty Hank pats his mouth with his napkin and thanks Sol for cooking. Did they want coffee?
Sol says yes, while Edward requests a brandy with water. Sol clasps his hands together right in front of his chin, sinks weight into his elbows, and looks askance at him until he caves. I’ll have one too, I suppose.
Bring the bottle along though. Hank stacks their plates and says Wilco.
You’re not into him. Edward says once he's gone. He folds up his napkin, shifts in his seat.
Sol is taken aback at the directness. I like him fine he says. Doesn’t say much, though, does he?
Edward looks over at him, tilts his head to the side. You should write that down he says, drumming his fingers against the table.
They have the coffee and linger, a bit, until Edward stands up, his hand on the neck of the open brandy bottle and says let’s go and sit. Without waiting for an answer he lopes off in the direction of the open-air veranda set some distance back from the pool. Hank stands, tentatively, pushes his chair in and stands there behind it.
You coming with? he asks.
Hm? Sol shakes his head. Sorry he says went offline for a second.
I know the feeling Hank replies.
Sol fights the urge to cross his arms, instead picking up his empty coffee cup and looking into it as if he could read his fortune in the sediment at the bottom.
The seating is intended for more people, six at least, and could easily accommodate more if they were willing to get cosy, before taking into account the low table in front with the decorative stools all around it, barely any distance up off the floor.
Hank sits down right next to Edward. Sol spaces himself out, finding a spot far enough away that it makes him feel like he can leave if he needs to. If he keeps his eyes on the entryway that leads out to the patio and the pool, he’ll be able to see if anyone’s coming, though he knows, same as Edward knows, that they won’t be. They’ll drink and then there will be talk of going to a club, to be followed by drunken shouting over who will handle the bill, until someone well-intentioned, only partially sober, will fork over his credit card and take care of it.
The brandy gets doled out and, with a little bit of prompting, Hank tells them a toast that he learned while hiking in the Carpathians, sleeping rough and paying for bread and wine in little villages along the way. More than one old woman had plied him with tea and invitations to meet her granddaughter.
Edward leans his head on his hand, laughs. That’s so funny he says, reaching down to put his drink on the floor. When he sits back up he is closer to Hank, somehow, his knee pressed against Hank’s big bare thigh, and tips his head down until he’s got his chin right against his shoulder. Then he stretches his legs out, toes barely grazing the table until he slides down a bit and laughs.
Oops. Edward wriggles himself back onto the sofa and retrieves his drink. With three long swallows he finishes it, then leans over to the table again to deposit the empty cup there next to the glass bottle. He may be off his head, but he’s still conscientious about the rules. Edward loves rules; he seems happiest when he knows exactly what’s expected of him.
Their only — okay, not only, but that’s not so much a rule as it is Sol's sole hard and fast limit — rule for this trip is to check in. That’s it.
Edward sidles a few inches closer to Hank. He only glances up at Sol for a second. Blink and you’d miss it, like he’s already decided to do whatever the fuck he wants.
Sol holds his glass between his spread legs with both hands, gripping the clear plastic tight enough for it to creak between his fingers. Hank touches Edward's chin, then, waits for him to lean forward onto him until their lips barely graze.
Between the two of them, Sol’s the one who loves to kiss. A kiss can make even the most fleeting encounter into a condensed little memory, can connect you more with a man, how he responds, what he tastes like, infinitely more than having your dick inside him. For a second he worries that he’s coming down with a headache. Unbelievably bad timing, that, but then he realizes it’s just him, clenching his back molars against one another until pain radiates out across his jaw.
The noises carry, soft smacks and wet groans. Edward deals with the remaining buttons on Hank’s shirt, already pretty well undone to begin with, and pulls it back carefully. It drapes over either side of his stomach and he cards his fingers through the hair there and further up his abdomen to where it grows thick and dark on his pecs.
Edward’s the one to break away first, licking his lips, taking a deep breath before glancing up and then immediately looking away in a way that will never cease to make Sol's heart flutter with protectiveness and pure, undistilled want.
He and Edward can’t have what this is ever again. They might spend months, years apart, and despite the attempt, what they have might be altered, but it would always be a known quantity. And no matter how much he asks leading questions or looks at old photographs, he'll never know for himself what Edward was like before. At nineteen, twenty-two, with his fluffy hair and childish pout.
Hank brushes Edward’s fringe back from his forehead. He whispers against Edward's neck, something too quiet for Sol to make out. Whatever it is it has Edward shivering, nodding his head as their mouths meet once more. Sol wonders if he should smash up some beer bottles when this is all said and done. Only a few, mind you, for the joy of it.
Edward stands up, holding Hank's hand in his and leaning down for another kiss. He takes one of the pillows and drops it to the floor to kneel on. Sol braces himself to deal with what's in Hank's trunks, but Edward doesn't appear to be in any hurry to get it out. For one thing, he spends a good five minutes touching around the whole area lightly with the pads of his fingers. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the fabric, rubbing the tip of his lovely little nose against the tight-packed line of Hank’s cock, grown rigid in his trunks.
Sol's mouth waters as he wishes for a long, excruciating moment that he hadn’t spent all that time saying slow down baby there’s no rush — through my pants, babe, yeah, feels so good like that — look up here, Edward, let me see that pretty face of yours.
With his hands around Hank's thick waist to steady himself, his face disappears from view as he mouths at his balls, comes back like he’s surfacing from underwater, using his hands to draw the fabric of his trunks taut so he can suck a wet spot over those, another one further up along the thick shaft of his dick.
He whines against Hank's hip, turning his head to the side to give it all a long, heady sniff, before kitten biting his way up to the bare skin right above Hank’s waistband and the gentle slope of his stomach. Hey he says, with a coy little tug on the drawstring can these come off?
Oh hey wait he says, as Hank stands up to his full height and begins to strip off without ceremony wait hang on a second.
From his position a few feet away, Sol sees the way Edward's tongue darts between his lips. Once to wet them, another time to rest between his teeth as he pulls the waistband of his trunks down — and yeah, okay, that's pretty fucking impressive, actually — and looks even more so when Edward arranges the elastic so it's holding his balls up, the whole of it presenting a nice, snug package.
There's plenty of surface to kiss and mouth at. Edward is pulling the fat head of it into his mouth, and keeps it in that same spot as he tightens his lips around the shaft. Sol watches him move on it, his own cock hardening without so much as a touch.
Shit Hank says to the ceiling, rubbing his hand into Edward’s short neat hair. Without breaking stride for a second, Edward reaches back behind himself to tug his own trunks down until the top of his ass is visible, a line between the pale skin there and the holiday tan above it.
As he sucks his free hand wanders beneath that opened shirt, pushing the curtains of it back so Sol can see: Edward's throat, Hank's obliques, before they swing forward again to conceal his face. Edward uses his hands to keep Hank's package steady, gripping around the base of his balls and working them gently with his fingers each time he pulls his mouth back. Hank's cock grows slicker, redder, impossibly thick.
From where he sits it seems as if he's setting a pace that is just a hair too slow for Hank to get his nut. It certainly would be for him. At this point Sol might thrust, involuntary, because he wanted deeper into Edward's mouth, or intentional, hands interlaced behind his head all the better to make use of him. Hank, though, seems more than content to let Edward work over the head, suck on the shaft from the side, nose beneath his balls before helping him out of his trunks entirely.
Hank takes a wider stance and Edward promptly disappears between his legs. He surfaces eventually, the veins in his forehead standing out, his head and neck flushed from exertion.
Hank holds the top of Edward's head while guiding it back into his waiting mouth. He moves, then, gets Edward by the shoulder and holds him firm in place until he coughs wetly up onto Hank's cock as it wavers in front of his face. The first time he does it nothing comes up save a little saliva. The second time it's foamy, but still just regular old spit. The third time it's dense and tacky, the kind of thing that clings. The noise Edward makes is absolutely indecent.
Edward’s mouth opens in anticipation, his neck straining until his tendons pop out, and held there for some long seconds while swallowing all around it; a perfect little slut, hot as shit.
Sol reaches back with his free hand and pinches his upper back in a listless attempt to loosen himself up. Every muscle in his body clenches when Hank leans over, casting Edward's face into shadow as he rubs down his back and then further beneath his lowered trunks. He hears the gagging sound, watches Edward slide off while grasping at his wet dick with one hand. There's a long string of spit now between his bottom lip and the fat red tip of Hank's cock, an unbroken thread caught shining in the lamplight.
Hank strips off his shirt and helps Edward move from a crouch to a reclined position on the cushions. Like this, Hank's back blocks his view but he does see when Edward's trunks join the other clothes on the ground and hears the wet sounds of kissing.
Oh my god Edward says, parting his legs at Hank’s urging, a fireball of indigestion rising up in Sol’s chest that chants mine mine mine mine even as Edward is holding Hank’s face lovingly between his hands, his eyes locked into him as Hank slings his legs over his shoulders, both of them at once like it’s fucking nothing.
He has never considered how watching someone else lay into Edward’s ass would make him feel, like it was merely enough for them not to fuck him and he hadn’t thought it through any further past that. How with every drawn-out whimper his stomach tightens up like he’s just cranked out a hundred bicycle crunches. How he would like to elbow Hank out the way and say cheers for the warmup mate but I can take over from here. How maybe he'll speak up and say you two have fun with that and leave by the side door, find a place where he can get double chips and sink about six beers, and spend the rest of the weekend down on the beach proper with one of the used paperbacks John had passed along.
He pulls on Hank's hair when he twists his fingers just so, and Edward gasps. Just so.
God he says drawing out the word in a long, high-pitched whine. God that’s so hot.
The muscles in Sol's thighs are tense, prepared for him to stand up before the thought's actually occurred to him
Edward’s dick is red, the sparse hair on his stomach glistening here and there. Sol wants to duck down, taste it, stick his tongue in Edward’s navel, get his fingers in his ass, wedge his cock into his mouth, to create an infinite loop between the two of them.
You sucked his cock so good, pup Sol says as he looks down at Edward sprawled out beneath him. His voice is foreign in his own ears, blood thudding in his temples. You want another one?
Edward isn’t too far gone not to nod, not yet.
He rubs his hand over Edward’s stomach and up to his chest, puts his hand right under his jaw while getting himself out one-handed, pulling the thick elastic of the strap underneath his own balls, and says, as he guides his cock into Edward’s waiting mouth okay okay there you go.
Edward’s eyes open and shut, open and shut. When he pulls out Edward gasps for air but every time he demands put it back in put it back in even before he's caught his breath fully. Sol figures this is as good an opportunity as any to slide his cock sidelong against his parted lips until his balls chafe from being rubbed against his prickly cheek.
I wanna fuck you so bad he whines around the head. Sol decides that this is meant for him and him only, against any firm evidence to the contrary.
Meanwhile Hank's thick fingers are wrapped firmly around Edward’s dick. He jerks him slow and steady, his other hand underneath his ass encouraging him to grind down onto his waiting tongue.
Open your mouth back up. Sol says and leans down to spit in it, fucks it a little more loose and warm and open.
Edward's face is sweaty. Sol sits him up enough to watch Hank, wedging his knee under Edward’s shoulder blade. The palm of his hand heats as he gives him a tiny slap across the cheek, then rests it lightly on the column of Edward’s throat.
He doesn’t much care for this. He might rather say Edward, Edward, his name keeping him tethered to the ground, with Sol. That he prefers, nine times out of ten, ninety-nine out of a hundred.
That one time, though?
Hank follows his cue and pins hims too, holding his spread legs apart while Sol gets him round the chest, taking most of the pressure into his own arms but giving Edward enough, only enough, with a hand on his throat and filth in his ear until his eyes are streaming and wetness seeps out from his nose and eyes onto onto his upper lip.
Edward grapples at his forearm while Hank rubs him off, thrashing between them until he comes all over himself at last.
Sol doesn't waste any time in shoving him to his knees, doing his damndest to get a good enough handful of hair to angle his face the way he wants it. His lips are parted, and at the sight of his tongue darting to wet them over and over again Sol very nearly pops off. From behind, Hank moves over and sits, one leg either side of Edward, caging him in, and now gets both his huge hands around Edward's neck until he's blissed-out, somewhere else entirely, with his mouth hanging open.
That's all for you Hank says, as he releases Edward from his grasp get in there only for Edward to grab him by the wrist and yank it back to where it was. Please please don’t stop doing that it’s so fucking hot.
The pink sliver of tongue, barely visible between his lips, is its own kind of invitation. But Sol hardly ever gets to do this. One time in a hundred if he's lucky, which is why he can still hardly believe it when Hank lets go again and Edward tilts up to him like a flower to the sun and rasps out need your load on my face. Jesus. If that doesn't do it then nothing will.
It’s really fucking good.
It looks really fucking good.
There's a lot, for one, thing. His balls have been full to bursting for weeks now, and the sensation of emptying them like this is almost painful. Enough to make him lose his footing for a second, which misdirects it into Edward's hair and brings on a harsh pang of disappointment, but that wasn't all, was it. No, there's plenty to go round, forceful spurts to mark up Edward's forehead down the bridge of his freckled nose and spilling off to the side down his cheek and, when Edward shakes his head, God, right down over his mouth, dripping down from his forehead to catch in his eyelashes and the hair of his brows.
It's opaque enough to see the contrast beautifully — dark hair, tan skin — but loose enough to have some movement.
Sol gasps, then, as Hank catches a trickle of come with his fingers before it makes its way down his chest. Edward cranes his neck and sucks them clean with a muffled groan. Hank's cock is still hard, an obvious enticement to Edward who's using his hand to coax Hank's enormous prick in the direction of his mouth.
Sol rights himself down below and removes his shirt while they're otherwise occupied. He thinks about asking Edward if he wants a towel or something, usually he's pretty fastidious, but he's sucking away blissfully even as the come dries in flaky ribbons on his face. He goes to get one anyways, and when Edward's pulling on Hank's dick, one hand after the other like he's trying to drain him dry, wipes down his face and neck.
Oh my God Edward says, when that's done, which he repeats as he sees what Sol's been wearing underneath his trunks. You look amazing. Don't you think? he asks Hank, all the while working him one-handed from his position on the ground, his dick in just the right position to shoot another load onto his neck and chest.
You're in great shape. Hank rubs Edward's back. The approval in his voice makes Sol feel as warm and malleable as hot tar on a country road. Turn around for us?
Sol's face burns but he does. He does it.
God Hank says, sounding impressed. You weren't lying now were you?
I know Edward says, and Sol hopes he's proud of all the work he's been putting in. He's so hot. Can't wait to watch you fuck him.
Come sit? Hank pulls away from Edward's rhythmic stroke, his heavy cock bouncing up and down as he situates himself further back on the cushions. Sol comes forward hesitantly, the few feet taking whole hours to cross. When he's close enough Hank hooks two fingers into the elastic and pulls him forward, right into his big warm lap.
They kiss. Hank's hands are gentle, kneading his ass as Sol straddles him and they grind against one another.
Just when he thinks he can't take much more Hank manoeuvers him onto all fours and, like he did with Edward, puts his mouth right on him.
He’s so good at that Edward says, his voice rich with suggestion. Gonna get you all loosened up for his cock.
His own cock is filling out again, trapped against heavy fabric to strain the elastic that bites into his waist, and each pointed thrust of Hank's tongue sets his balls to aching. Hank sucks on his asshole, fingers it, kisses it gently. Slow and patient, deep and thorough. Long enough that Edward loses interest in watching, and instead gets on his fucking phone, of all things.
The noise from next door, music and chatter, has been steadily increasing for the last hour or so, but over it he can hear a sneery public-school voice say Edward's name. Sol freezes in horror as Hank's fingers continue with their attention. He tries to hold himself still, he really, truly does, but he can't help rocking minutely back against them all the same.
Edward reaches out to touch his ass with the tips of his fingers, to run them along the elastic bands where they cut into his upper thighs. After he mutters a breathy nice under his breath he shouts over his shoulder Hey, hang on I’m coming to you. He tugs his trunks back on and leaves the two of them there in that position.
You sure? I don’t mind sticking around.
Their conversation continues but all Sol can focus on is the way Hank has one hand on either ass cheek and is pulling them apart. He hopes it looks good, that the crease where it swells out from his back and the line above his thighs is well-defined even in the low light. Lord knows he's been putting in the hours.
Hank dives back in face-first. Sol can't help but moan, his arms suddenly unable to support his weight. Hank slaps his ass on one side and Sol tries to let his muscles relax enough for it to bounce around like it should.
You work out? Hank asks, like that's even a fucking question. As if he comes by that stack naturally.
Uh-huh Sol manages even as Edward is saying Thanks for coming through.
Any time the other voice says. I’ll ask them keep the music down if you like.
Go on, get the fuck out of here.
When he returns he's got the big bottle of water from dinner, which he sets down on the table. He lays out his vape pen, a flat, pocket-sized bottle of silicone lube, a brand they don’t use, a few condoms, a couple little metal bottles.
We good? Edward asks, with what sounds like a catch in his voice. Probably soreness from having his throat reamed out two times over.
Sol nods his assent.
You’ll have to tell me what it feels like Edward says, his matter-of-fact tone barely concealing the look of absolute hunger on his face. Hank uses his thumb and forefinger to prise him open, spits onto the top of his asscrack, and rocks his bare dick through that wet indentation.
His asshole is grabbing for it without him doing anything. Every time the head slides back close enough to penetrate Sol swears he can feel the involuntary gape. As if he's asking for it without having to say a word.
Edward's isn't the only cock he takes but it's the only one that doesn't hurt, sweetly curved and cute like the rest of him. But he’s never done this in front of him.
Hank presses his asscheeks together and fucks into that channel. Edward he says nodding at where the condoms sit on the table. Do you mind?
He hands one over, and Hank rolls it on, pinching up a big reservoir at the end. Sol reddens. He twists his head to the other side, away from Edward, whose chuckle is a familiar sound amidst all this strangeness, but not fast enough to miss him picking up his phone.
Turn him this way a little?
No faces Hank tells him, holding up his hand, palm out in front of the phone. Edward says no of course not and then Sol?
Sure Sol answers, blinking away sweat yeah sure thing. It's fine. More than. Fine to be nothing more than a body. His physical form he can whip into the shape he knows it needs to be in, to keep himself in trim so he will continue to be wanted, appreciated, looked at, loved.
Hank thumps the head of his cock against Sol's tailbone until the head catches in his hole. He thrusts once with a grunt and Edward says sorry can you do that again? I just really want to watch it go in.
He pulls out entirely and buries his face in Sol's ass again until he knows, he knows full fucking well he could handle it already.
Sol braces himself on his forearms, popping his ass out so the cock he's taking, one tight ring of muscle at a time, is visible to Edward, who lets out an impressed whistle at the size of it, the stretch.
Want a look?
The flash goes off several times in quick succession, a cluster photo that renders him temporarily unable to see the screen Edward is now holding up for them to look at and approve.
You take it so well he says in the most even way possible, putting the phone aside to stroke the bare skin of his lower back, his thighs, hips, butt. God, look at you. Getting owned by such a big fucking dick.
Think he needs some more? Hank asks, hands around Sol's waist and tugging gently back and forth.
Sol’s breath has been stuck in his chest and it finds its way out, at last, in one harsh angry sob. His body is light, his mind giddy as they talk over him.
Yeah he breathes, hands roving over Sol's body, Hank's powerful arms and chest. The pace quickens, an easy stroke that has him spreading his legs and tipping his pelvis until he can take it balls-deep.
That's great Edward says yeah that's perfect. He's close, he's almost there but Hank hauls him back from the edge.
Grind it out Hank tells him. Yeah there you go, you got it.
Sol gulps in air and moves on it until Hank tells him to stop. He places his hand on Sol's lower back beneath the waistband, then to Edward he says What do you think, you want him to get on top?
Sol manages to shake his head no but it's Edward who answers, excited, eager enough for the both of them. He looks good where you've got him. Go for it. Pound that ass.
Hank's hips undulate up against him, rolls alternating with sticky thrusts, the skin of his thighs suctioning itself to Sol's asscheeks and over again, as sweat builds up between their bodies. He winds the big strap around his hand, tells Edward he should snap the smaller ones over his thighs until they sting.
You want to come like that Edward asks, more than a little mean. You want to come with that big strange cock in your fat fucking ass?
Yeah he breathes out, clawing at the cushions and screwing up his eyes yeah yeah yeah.
He hopes he's making Edward proud, doing right by him.
You want some help? Edward cocks his head at the table.
Sure Sol answers on an out breath. It’s only the one time, right? His brain will be fine, probably. It’s never been his best attribute anyways.
Yeah you fucking do Edward says as he twists off the metal cap, releasing a smell of solvent and gym socks. Put your head down he instructs, and Sol does that, sniffs when Edward tells him to, and is just catching sight of the bottle moving from Hank’s face back over to his nose when it washes over him.
Sol has stopped clenching his back teeth but still grips up tight through his abdomen, receiving each thrust like a punishment until the moment his head cleaves open and searing pain ricochets up into his cranium. Oh my god he blurts out oh what the everloving fuck. The harsh smell fades only to be replaced with the yeasty tang of mingled sweat, the lingering bite of chlorine no longer wedded to dry skin.
More? A new bottle is already hovering by his nose, ready to be cracked open as soon as he gives the word.
Okay Sol manages to croak out as he bangs his fist down in front of him fuck whatever.
This time it’s less like being punched in the face with a knuckle duster made of diamond, and more this impossible expansion of everything below the waist. His cock is as hard as it’s ever been in his entire adult life, doesn’t flag even for a second, dripping, sopping wet inside the fabric. All of a sudden he’s got room to catch Hank’s dick, and Edward’s dick. Hell, a whole fucking fist could slide in there right now with hardly any trouble. God, how good it feels to be nothing other than a receptacle. Only a hole, to be fucked up and open and used.
He draws Hank’s hand across his chest and grips it tightly in his own. Through gritted teeth he says harder.
Hank chuckles, delighted. There he is he soothes.
Don't fucking tease Sol demands. C'mon, harder. Throw it to me.
You think you can handle it?
Sol growls over his shoulder plow my ass you fucking piece of shit.
Oh damn Edward says from behind his phone once more.
Huh-uh. Hank bends his arm behind him, then the other, holding his wrists together as he pushes down on them and without withdrawing his cock entirely, gets his knees in between Sol's thighs, already spread and shaking, and shoves them further apart.
You could have said, Edward. His thrusts come more quickly and yes, hard enough to light his whole ass up. There it is, God, there it fucking is. What a dirty little fuck-pig you've turned out to be.
A wave of hot shame roils over him but he rides it out. It spurs him on, and just as Edward's reaching under his jock to get at his erection, so hot and wet and sensitive that he hisses at the touch he blurts out I'm gonna fucking come. Edward moves the fabric aside and pulls, pulling it all out of him, spurting and dribbling all over the place.
Hank flips him onto his back. Blood rushes into his limbs and out of his head. Dizzily he watches as Hank tosses the condom aside and strips his dick over Sol's stomach, his load joining the wet mess of his own making. The jockstrap is probably ruined and they're going to have to pay for the cushions to be deep-cleaned after they leave, but for once Sol doesn't care about the money.
His head still aches: sun and drugs and wine. His ass, when he moves to sit up, is sore and tender enough that he can't put weight on it directly. His thighs hurt from bracing himself upright, his abs from contracting over and over again, and that's before even mentioning the red chafed mess of his cock.
But damn if he doesn't feel good. High, almost, keyed up on the potent mix of endorphins and dopamine he usually only gets after a really intense workout, which this has been, in a way.
Sol can’t even be annoyed when Edward pulls out a pack of real cigarettes from somewhere and lights two at once: one for him, one for Hank.
You done for the night Edward asks Hank, who is quietly puffing away.
Think so Hank says, and coughs up some smoke. But that was fantastic.
Ah, cheers Edward takes another long drag, his hand curving around his face as he does it.
What about you?
Dunno Edward leans over to extinguish the cigarette on the floor next to his foot. Thought I might go check out what they're into next door. Whose room are you in?
Hank says he's bunking with Sam. Edward checks the time and suggests they clean up before anyone discovers them or has cause to complain about how they've treated the communal space.
Come back to ours Sol says, halfheartedly wiping himself down, already anticipating how delicious a stinging hot shower will feel.
Well Hank says tentatively, like he wouldn’t want to presume.
Oh, Edward won't mind he ventures. A shower, first, to take advantage of the high-end toiletries and massage jets, and then they'll get under the covers, where Sol can be held tight and fast in those strong arms as he drifts off into well-deserved sleep. Do you, Edward?
No says Edward evenly. It’s fine with me.