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It was the smell that hit him first when he stepped off the plane. Not that Chicago was all flowers and sunshine, sweet and pure, but L.A. had a different kind of big-city smell. He'd hoped he'd be able to smell the ocean, see if it was the same as back home, but it was all just grey concrete and dirty blue sky, ozone and carbon and noise and confusion.
Alec had not jumped at the chance Nate had offered after their first job together; he had never felt the lure of California, of sun and sand and happy smiles. Chicago was as far as he'd ever run from home, as far as he'd ever needed to go, and yeah, it was cold sometimes, snow and ice and the soot of old car exhaust turning the slush in the gutters an ugly grey-brown. But he knew the places to go—little restaurants, stores, the right hairdresser—where all he had to do was open his mouth and use his back-home voice, and people would smile, and someone would call him honey and ask just what part of Carolina he called home. Someone else would have an aunt or an uncle or a cousin who was a policeman or a fireman or a teacher back home or at least they'd know someone else who did, and he'd smile and nod and say, "Yes, sir, I think I may just remember them." He was always tethered, connected to his home by the thinnest of threads, and he almost never chaffed at it, never called it a leash, because it kept him warm when the winter sun was too weak to heat him through.
California though, Los Angeles, that was something else, that was a strange land, and he would surely be a stranger there. The idea sent a little thrill through him; he'd never been the boy who shied at adventure, at risk. The sun would never be too weak, and to live near the ocean again, to feel the sand between his toes, and see the endless expanse of glittering marine blue, not the tepid and turgid waters of Lake Michigan, was not to be dismissed. He could look for the places there, they surely existed, where he wouldn't be a complete stranger. So he went to L.A., but he didn't get rid of his apartment in Chicago, didn't cut the tether, just stretched it a little more.
The place had an enormous closet; the listing for this apartment had called it the feature every woman wanted. He'd clucked his tongue, and then laughed out loud when he imagined what Parker would say to that. He'd let the agent show him around, listened to the man's practiced speech about this feature and that feature and the security of the building and the quality of the neighbourhood, and when he'd finally got a look at the closet, he immediately said he'd take it, voice echoing in the empty space. The closet was bigger than any bedroom Alec had had as a kid, and he did have a lot of shoes.
The agent frowned and him and carefully explained, "We will need to see an approved mortgage document and proof of the down payment, sir."
Alec turned and leaned against the closet door, and he stared down at the agent for a long time. His last foster mother had spent six months looking for a place with enough bedrooms for all her kids—they'd kept mysteriously going off the market as soon as people got a look at just how many kids she had.
"I could pay cash," Alec said, examining his shirt for nonexistent lint, "but that's so vulgar. How about a bank draft for the full purchase price?"
They signed the papers on the kitchen counter—black solid surface with an under-mounted double sink in enameled cast iron. Alec clapped his hand onto the agent's shoulder and squeezed, hard. "Don't worry," he said in a tone for sharing secrets and with a smile full of teeth, "I'm sure I'll fit in here just fine."
When they're not off on a job, Eliot and Parker drop by a lot, and by some secret code or psychic connection or the alignment of the stars, usually at about the same time. Maybe they just call each other and pick a time like normal people do. Eliot knocks, Parker doesn't.
They watch Alec's television—52-inch surround-sound plasma, because anything larger is just ostentatious. They eat his food or, at least, they order from his take-out menus. They play pool; the only thing he'd had shipped from Chicago was the pool table. Eliot keeps trying to teach Parker how to hustle, but she can't get the trick of underplaying her skill. They argue over what music to play, and they don't play video games because they can't find one they're all good at, and none of them like to lose. After a while, Parker will stand up and announce that she's had enough people time for one day, and she'll leave—sometimes by the door.
The first time, Eliot had stayed for a while, and then he'd stood abruptly, said, "Reckon I should go," and left.
"Reckon?" Alec had said to the empty room.
The second time, Eliot had just stood up and walked out, but that was because his bottom lip had four stitches in it, and he hadn't said anything beyond a grunt all night.
The third time, Eliot had stood up and, instead of leaving, knelt between Alec's wide-spread legs and said, "You pull the hair, I'll bite it off."
Alec had been more surprised that Eliot had actually got down on the floor—he had about thirty fresh stitches in his left thigh and a collection of smaller cuts and bruises that would have kept a less stubborn man in the hospital—than he was that Eliot gave really great head. Eliot had waved off all offers of reciprocation, claiming he was so high on pain killers there was no point, and he'd left without another word.
Alec had stared at the flashing images on his television, not seeing anything but an abstract play of colour and light, his dick still hanging out of his pants, until the obnoxious crowing of the late-night sports news team had roused him up and to bed.
The forth time, Alec waited patiently until Parker's head had just disappeared over his balcony railing, and then he flung himself gracelessly at Eliot, pinning him to the sofa by straddling the man's lap and letting gravity do the work. "Eliot," he said, "have you ever had sex with a guy someplace that wasn't a disgusting bathroom or back-alley?"
Eliot paused in the act of pushing Alec off, and shook the hair out of his eyes. "Sure," he said.
"Not counting this room."
Eliot heaved out a sigh, and the hands that he'd wrapped around Alec's arms to shift him, dug in painfully. "No," he said, "but–"
"And you currently have less Vicodin in you than a rodeo cowboy on the wrong side of thirty?"
"Yeah—what?"
"Sorry, man, I was just trying to frame that in cultural terms you could understand."
"Hardison," Eliot said, and he started to squirm around again, which wasn't making Alec want to climb off, but was making him think more thoughts about bull riders and cowboys, and–
"You ever thought about trying it in a bed?"
Alec ignored Eliot's expletives and his ineffectual squirming, and the angry toss of his head that punctuated his cursing—well, actually, that was kind of cute—but he was concentrating on a plan to crack Eliot's firewall, because a few minutes of bouncing around on Eliot's lap had him wanting that damn bed right the hell now. Kissing was likely a bad idea, which threw Alec off his game big-time—he could make very convincing arguments with his mouth. Hands were always good, and Alec had the kind of hands that people noticed, big, long fingers, the kind of hands that made people think dirty thoughts if they were so inclined. Alec was pretty sure Eliot was so inclined.
Alec touched his finger to Eliot's lips, just one, and he let it slide over skin and stubble; he caused a bit of a diversion over near Eliot's right ear while he moved in, not with his lips, but with his teeth. He scraped his teeth along Eliot's jaw and used that to cover the slide of his hand around Eliot's neck. He held Eliot's head still while he nibbled along that stubborn jawline and down to Eliot's stiff neck.
Eliot wasn't making a sound, wasn't moving; he wasn't fighting, but he wasn't giving way either. Of course, it's not like Eliot knows how to give way. Alec kept pushing with his hands and his teeth, nibbling back up to Eliot's ear and biting down hard on the lobe. He paired that up with a hot, dirty and hard grind down with his hips. He didn't wait for a reaction, he just did it again.
Eliot let out a growl of frustration, bucked up to meet Alec on the way down again, and he was in motion, arms and hands and everything moving too fast to track, until Alec was standing, swaying, held up only by the tight grip of Eliot's hands on him. Eliot tipped his head back and fixed Alec with his squinty glare. "You wanna show me what you got, Hardison? Let's get to it."
Alec nodded and pointed in the direction of the bedroom, solemn and serious and not doing a victory dance right in front of the other team's bench, because that got you your ass handed to you. Not that Alec ever played sports in high school, but he'd spent some quality time with his fair share of jocks, and he knew their rules.
Eliot grabbed Alec and manhandled him in the direction indicated. Alec landed face first on the bed, and Eliot crashed down on top of him. Alec figured he better grab the reins back in a hurry before Eliot got the wrong idea and started thinking he was in charge here. Alec wriggled his ass in just the right way, and Eliot was focused on grinding down against him, so he never saw it coming when Alec heaved up with all of his upper body strength, and Eliot was suddenly enjoying a view of the ceiling—seven layers of fine Venetian plaster applied by hand.
"Think we can declare a cease fire long enough to get naked?" Alec said, and he peeled off his shirt, in case the answer was no. "I sort of have a rule against cowboy boots in the bed."
"City boy," Eliot said with a smirk.
Alec smiled, slow and hot and full of every bit of want he'd been keeping at bay. If Eliot was mouthing off, then he was relaxing again, so Alec upped his game. He stood up and kicked his shoes in the direction of the giant closet. He skinned out of his pants, taking his underwear with them, and they sailed through the air too.
He let Eliot look; he knew what he looked like, knew every tight line and smooth curve belied his geekboy image. He'd wanted the jocks when he was younger, loved watching the muscled up boys with their brash manners and their loud voices full of life, so he'd made himself look like them, and some of them had started looking back.
Alec figured it was time for Eliot to make up his mind, so he stretched out on the bed, not touching, just there, propped up on one elbow, waiting. Eliot appeared to have a keen interest in Venetian plaster. "You going to jump off my balcony, cowboy, because I try to limit that to one guest per night."
Eliot erupted off the bed and stomped across the floor—reclaimed hardwood, 100% free of rain forest wood. Eliot stripped carefully, folding his clothes and setting them neatly on the dresser. He set his boots, pointy-toed little shit-kickers, against the wall and tucked his socks inside, giving Alec a view of his ass that was maybe, probably, artlessly done, and slowly walked back to the bed.
Some guys could wander around and act like the hard dick that stuck out, or curved up, or down or whatever just happened to be there and they just happened to be naked. Eliot was really good at the casual wander. He was also curving up, which gave Alec an idea.
"Hell," Eliot said, and stopped a foot away from the bed, "that's your brilliant idea face."
"Uh-huh."
"But your brilliant ideas are not always so brilliant."
"I'm wounded, also, you have me confused with Parker." Alec shook his head sadly. "Get your ass on this bed, you'll like this plan." Alec patted the bed like he was coaxing a reluctant animal to come eat out of his hand.
Eliot climbed aboard, and Alec reached out and ran his finger along the still-livid scar on Eliot's thigh. Eliot shivered under his touch, so Alec did it again.
"I'm putting you to work," Alec said, "and I know you know how to use that mouth of yours, so no shirking on that part." Alec twisted around and rifled the nightstand for supplies. He tossed up a bottle of lube that Eliot snatched out of the air, and he flopped onto his back. Alec wiggled the fingers of one hand, and Eliot's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "This is the part where you prove you can walk and chew gum at the same time."
Alec watched, fascinated, as Eliot pulled an elastic off his wrist and used it to tie back his hair. He snapped open the silver bracelet off the other wrist and pulled off all his rings, carefully threading them on the bracelet. He snapped it closed again and tossed it in a perfect arc to land on the pile of his folded clothes. He knelt on the bed, in fighting form and ready for the ring, and hesitated. "I've never done this before," he said finally.
"I know that," Alec said. "You want me to give you an earpiece, and I can talk you through it?"
Eliot flipped him off and snatched up the lube.
It wasn't the worst blowjob ever, Eliot was really good at that, even when distracted by the other part of his task. It wasn't even the most uncoordinated sex he'd ever participated in—that honour went to the time in the back seat of Joseph Miller's car when he'd accidentally kicked out the side window—it was messy and sloppy, and Eliot could do two things at once, just not in exactly the same rhythm, but it all felt damn good.
"My turn, man," Alec said, pushing away from Eliot and rising up on his knees. He found himself facing Eliot in the middle of the bed. He locked his gaze with Eliot's, leaned in so very, very slowly, darted his tongue out and across his bottom lip. Eliot's gaze dropped to his mouth, and he leaned a little himself. Alec took a breath, parted his lips, and he wrapped his hand around Eliot's cock and stroked him hard and fast.
Eliot cursed and Alec kissed him once, hard, his lips tingling from the rasp of stubble when he pulled away. "Flat on your back," he said, and Eliot did as he was told and watched with glittering eyes while Alec slid a condom slowly down Eliot's cock.
Alec straddled Eliot's hips and bent low, his mouth a whisper away from Eliot's ear. "You know, I've got, like, a million ride 'em cowboy jokes just bursting to come out, right?"
Eliot huffed out a surprised laugh, and Alec took full advantage of his distraction, and the laugh turned into a low groan. "Oh, shit, man, that's–"
"Yeah," Alec said, as he slowly lowered himself down the full length of Eliot's cock, "it is."
Alec leaned forward slowly, letting his hips rise up and his weight rest on his hands. He concentrated on getting the rhythm right and the angle just perfect to drive himself insane, Eliot's harsh panting breath and his own thundering heart and the slick slide of flesh the only sounds in the room.
"I need, man—I need to move, I'm going nuts here," Eliot said. He was thrusting up for all he was worth, but Alec wasn't letting him have much room to move.
Alec laughed, bent low again, made his voice come out all rough and deep. "You one of those guys who always wants to drive?"
"Hell, yeah."
"You'll get your chance, just not yet," Alec said, and picked up the pace, rising up to slam back down. "Fuck, that's so good."
When Alec thought he'd tortured Eliot, and himself, enough, he rose up and off and crashed to the bed. "Your move, cowboy. Give me your best shot."
Eliot actually growled at him, which was also kind of cute, and he sprang into action, shoving Alec's legs around, bending one at the knee flat to the bed and hooking the other up over his shoulder. "You might want to hang on," he said and slammed in hard.
Alec scrambled to get his arms braced against the headboard, and then took the time to yell out his approval. Eliot was pounding him, hard and fast, and Alec was going to feel the tight grip of Eliot's fingers on his hips for days, and that was just fine with him. He risked pulling one hand away to go for the only weapon he had in this fight. "Come, on, baby," he said, and he yanked hard on his cock, slicked with nothing but sweat.
Eliot growled at him again, and Alec came hard, damn near getting himself in the face. Eliot rasped out a few hoarse curses, dropped forward to rest his weight on his arms and bulled his way through a few more hard thrusts. He stayed where he was, head down and drawing in great gulps of air, sweat darkening his hair.
Alec amused himself watching the flush slowly retreat from Eliot's skin. "You back with us yet?" he said.
"Saw the face of god, man." Eliot eased himself out and crashed over in a sprawl of limbs, one arm tossed over his eyes.
Alec stretched his hamstrings a few times and thought about getting up to deal with the mess on his chest and belly and elsewhere. He didn't want to rush into anything. He was still feeling like his bones might have melted.
"Alec?"
"Mmm?"
"No, never mind."
"Got something on your mind," Alec said, and levered himself upright, "say it in the shower." He swung his legs off the bed and put a little shimmy in his walk to disguise the waddle.
He wasn't sure Eliot would take him up on the offer, wasn't sure he wouldn't just leave, and he was nearly finished cleaning up when the shower door slid open—Italian glass tile, six shower heads with five spray settings and a 54-nozzle rain panel in the ceiling. Eliot gave Alec a look that Alec couldn't begin to read and ducked his head under the water.
"I wanted to ask you something," Eliot said, eyes closed and shampoo pouring down his face.
Alec leaned against the wall, mostly out of the spray and waited. Eliot took his time rinsing his hair, and Alec had to force the conditioner on him, which explained a lot.
"You, um, obviously—liked that," he said, and that wasn't a question, so Alec reached around and turned the water off, stepped out of the shower and tossed a towel at Eliot's head. He almost took it away again when the man started scrubbing at his damn head like he wanted male pattern baldness or something. Eliot buried his face in the towel, and Alec braced himself for the judgements he knew were coming; it wasn't his first rodeo, after all.
"Do you, ever," Eliot said and cleared his throat noisily, "I mean—do you top?"
Okay, that was not the question Alec was expecting. At all. He smiled, and it was probably a very dirty smile, because he was picturing that, picturing it happening in the bed they'd just messed up, picturing it a few other places too. He realized he was just standing there grinning like a guy watching the 24-hour porn channel in his head, and he coughed and scrubbed his towel over his already dry face. "Only if you take me to dinner first," he said, "and not some cheap-ass place either."
Eliot grinned and counter offered, "What if I cook you breakfast?"
Alec didn't answer right away, but Eliot just stood there grinning and not moving, and Alec wondered if he might just have his own 24-hour porn channel in his head. Though, with Eliot it was probably a combination porn-food-football channel.
"A real breakfast," Alec said, "with eggs and bacon—lots of bacon, none of that damn prissy California food."
"Deal," Eliot said, and he snatched away the towel Alec was still clutching, pulled his head down and kissed him nice and slow and easy.