Work Text:
$500
"Now," says the woman, taking a slow drag on her cigarette, "do it."
Mike pauses halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. She's middle-aged, dishy, and sitting on a chair the whole way across the room from them, fully dressed. She's wearing sunglasses, her legs are crossed, and there's a look of disdainful expectation on her face. It reminds him of one of his gradeschool teachers watching a school play rehearsal. His hands start to shake. No no no, he thinks. Not now.
"With all due respect, ma'am," Mike says, "do what?"
Scott's hands are suddenly on his shoulders, applying pressure in such a way that his heart begins to stutter. "She picked up two of us, right?" Scott breathes in his ear, nuzzling just below it. "You know, do it. Just us. She gets off on this kind of thing."
"Oh," Mike breathes, quickly disguising it as a sigh of pleasure. Which, actually, it is.
He's known Scott for about two years now, and this is the first time they've done a gig together. Scott's regulars aren't Mike's regulars, although it looks as if that's about to change. "How long's she been coming to you?" he asks under his breath, turning to face Scott. His friend's expression is serious and curiously tender. It scares Mike a little to know it's just an act. Scott is beautiful, exotic. His mother was Paiute.
At least he can remember his mother.
"About a year," Scott says, taking Mike's face in both hands, and kisses him.
Mike is amazed he's made it this far. Normally, he would have checked out by now, but there's something about the sound of Scott's voice that keeps him grounded, anchored. Maybe that's good to know. They could work together more often. Mike would make more money if he could just manage to stay awake more than half the time. Scott has already promised him three hundred of today's—
Abruptly, he can't think of anything but the kiss, because Scott's tongue has slipped past his teeth and oh, God, for how long has he wondered what this would feel like? Scott's fingers have finished off his shirt buttons and pushed the garment down to his wrists, each caress electric. Across the room, their patron shifts and clears her throat.
Still shaking, Mike's hands take on a life of their own. He unbuckles Scott's belt and fumbles at the button on his expensive trousers, finally feeling the zipper give way at the impatient push of his thumb. Bare chest to bare chest, he can feel Scott's breath start to quicken as he lets his hand delve deeper, unashamed, to find Scott already hard beneath his black silk shorts. Why would a rich boy do shit like this just for kicks?
"Easy," Scott murmurs between kisses, but his voice sounds unsteady, and that's all Mike needs. He breaks away just long enough to push Scott's trousers down and off his hips. From here on out, his time is probably short, but he'll be damned if he isn't going to make the most of it. He lets his head drop to Scott's shoulder, breathing shallowly. He presses himself against his friend, silently pleading.
"Undress him, too," says the woman, sharply. "Yes, Scotty-boy. You."
For a second, Mike apprehensively wonders if he's beginning to black out—those are the only circumstances under which Scott normally picks him up and carries him. Several moments later, he's deposited on his back against the plush bedspread, and Scott is removing his own jeans and boxers with confident, graceful, singleminded intensity.
Mike's mind reels, humming with fear and arousal. "What should we—"
"Just go with it," says Scott, and quiets him with another kiss.
Scott's naked body is perfect. Even though Mike can't see it, he can feel every inch of skin searing against his own as if it had always belonged there, as if they'd once been torn asunder, each touch an echo of the wound. Mike buries his nose in the hollow of Scott's collarbone, ashamed that he is about to receive such a kingly gift. Scott smells of spices and sage, some far away trade road winding endlessly on—
"Stay with me," Scott whispers. "She's digging it! Stay with me, please."
I'll never leave you, Mike thinks, flipping Scott onto his back in a burst of adrenaline that he knows will probably mean his undoing. He groans with the glory of it, of this, of drawing Scott's flawless thighs up to cradle his hips as he rocks them together with fierce abandon. Scott's breath in his ear is frantic, shocked, as if he hadn't been expecting to come so soon. Never never never never ever.
Mike's orgasm hits him full force, a burst of terrified joy. And then stillness.
He wakes at the foot of a familiar statue with four hundred dollars in his pocket.
$375
"I take a little...winding up before I join in, if you know what I mean," says the man with a twist of his hand. He's sitting at the foot of the plain motel bed, eyeing them both up and down like they're the most delicious double act he's ever seen. "This lady I know, she says you two are hot stuff. Said it looked pretty damn real. You boys think you've got two rounds in you?"
Mike frowns. "Two—"
"Of course," Scott says. He slides an arm around Mike's waist, drawing him close. "This guy's going to expect a little more than we gave his friend last time," he murmurs in Mike's ear before licking the lobe. "Have you been stretched recently?"
"No," Mike croaks, latching onto the sound of Scott's voice. Hold on hold on hold on—
"Okay," Scott says, sliding one hand up Mike's shirt. "I'll go easy."
It's a good thing they're already lying down. Otherwise, Mike might have collapsed at the mere thought of what is about to happen. Or at least at the thought of what he hopes is about to happen. He might not make it through that, either. Scott is looming over him now, parting his unbuttoned shirt, bending low. His look is more reverent than predatory, which is comforting, but both emotions are somehow intermingled in the set of his jaw. He kisses from Mike's throat to his navel, pinning his wrists gently at his sides.
"Take it easy," Scott says, nuzzling Mike's erection. "You'll last longer."
The john will think it means one thing, but Mike knows it really means another.
Mike almost doesn't make it through the blowjob—in either sense. About halfway through, Scott starts talking again, soft, soothing nonsense, and that brings the hovering attack down to a manageable level. Meanwhile, the swipe of Scott's tongue and the brush of the pads of his fingers are nearly too much. Scott eases off just in time, leaving a kiss at the tip of Mike's cock. Why would he even bother?
"Fuck him for me," says the john, panting—and, by the sound of it, jerking off like there's no tomorrow, but Mike only really cares about what Scott is doing. "Holy hell. Fuck. Mikey begs pretty, don't he? Pretty Mikey."
Mike feels an unfamiliar hand brush his ankle.
"Don't touch him," Scott replies, subtly defensive. "I mean," he says, lightening his voice, but the concern is still there as he continues to hold Mike's gaze with fierce intent, "he's really hypersensitive. If you jump in now, he might...well."
"Gotcha," says the john, and tosses him something.
Scott strokes Mike's cock with one hand and pops open what must be a bottle of lube with the other. "I'm sorry," he says against Mike's mouth, working a few cool, slick fingers into him. Mike knows it ought to make him shiver, but heat blooms in his chest and pools downward. Sorry? he thinks deliriously. What do you even have to be sorry for?
Scott's breath hitches as he thrusts into Mike, and the dimly lit room goes dark.
Mike regains consciousness in the middle of a blinding climax. He's drenched in sweat, his fingers tangled in Scott's hair. If only he'd let it grow longer. Scott is moaning something against Mike's neck, guttural and unintelligible. It feels amazing, like nothing Mike has ever imagined. He blacks out.
They're under a tree now, with damp, fire bright leaves raining down around them. Mike's head is in Scott's lap. He feels sore in too many places to count. As always, Scott looks concerned, but not like a mother or a brother would be.
"How much?" Mike asks. I think maybe I love you.
Scott presses something that feels like folded bills into his hand. He doesn't count it.
$250
"He's dirty," sniffs the old queen, folding his arms primly across his chest. "Just look at that skin. Mr. Waters, be a good chap and bathe him. An appropriate job for you."
"Yes, sir," Mike says, turning off the taps. Scott is up to his chin in bubbles in the old claw footed bathtub, looking vaguely ridiculous. Cleaning situations are fairly low stress. Mike is used to them. He's glad this guy doesn't make him wear a weird costume. In fact, he's naked. Scott is naked. They're all naked.
"Start with his face," the old queen instructs. "He spends too much time in the sun."
"Actually, he's just...like that," Mike says, taking the sponge to Scott's forehead. His hair is wet and slicked back, allowing Mike a clear view of his features. Scott's expression is inscrutable today, as if there are a number of elements to this particular encounter he's not sure about. But he'll never let it show. He's too professional. Mike scrubs Scott's cheeks and his chin, followed by his nose.
"Good," coos the old queen, still standing in the doorway with his arms folded and his cock half hard. "Now, get in the tub with Mr. Favor and get to work on his chest. Dreadful, what those tanning beds will do."
"Why do you tell them your real name?" Mike asks, settling astride Scott's lap. The water buoys them up, comfortably hot. It's a huge tub. He starts scrubbing Scott's collarbone. They're both hard. Mike tilts his hips forward a little, letting their erections brush, safely hidden from sight. Scott shivers under him, but says nothing.
"Why do you tell them yours?" Scott counters, shrugging.
"It doesn't matter if I do," Mike tells him. "I'm a nobody. But you're somebody."
"Everybody in town knows," says Scott, simply. "And nobody cares."
Mike nods, using his hands instead of the sponge to wash Scott's chest. He's come to relish any chance he gets to touch Scott's skin, memorizing it pore by pore. He doesn't know how long this game will last. It's been another year since the odd woman and the jerking off john, and in that time, they've done two or three other gigs. Mike doesn't like having to share Scott with anyone, he's come to realize. Gigs like this one, where it's just the two of them being watched, he's come to cherish.
The old queen takes a few steps closer to the tub, frowning at them.
"Kiss him, Mr. Favor. He's doing you one."
Sink us now, God, if you exist, Mike thinks, letting his eyes drift shut, lost in the press of Scott's lips—chaste at first, and then open and seemingly wanting. Let us drown.
It's enough that he's already coming, shaking and whimpering in Scott's embrace.
"Tsk," scolds the old queen. "Dirty again! You'll have to draw new water."
Mike's out like a light, then, lost in bliss.
Later on, when he wakes dry and wrapped in a bathrobe, Scott is already gone. The old queen brings him tea and cookies and asks him questions about where he grew up and what he likes to do in his free time. It's kind of nice.
"Snort coke, mostly," says Mike. And follow Scott Favor wherever he goes.
The old queen looks pleased. "I've got some, if you like."
$175
The prank was incredible. Stellar, in fact. Scott has so much brilliant mischief in him that Mike is sure they'll never run out of shit to do. Seeing those punks turn tail was piss funny, but Bob Pigeon shrieking and running for his fucking life? Inspired. Mike snorts the remainder of the line, but not before offering it to Scott.
"You could've done something else with your share of the money," Scott says.
Mike shrugs and brushes off the tip of his nose. "You said to buy what I needed."
"I'm not sure you need this," Scott says. When he's not spouting pseudo-Shakespearean nonsense, he can get a bit preachy. "What about a new coat?"
"You told me I could have your old one."
"Oh."
They sit in silence for a while, watching a few nighttime joggers pass. Portland is a strange, decaying city—nothing like the windswept, tumbleweed ridden Idaho of Mike's nightmares. Nothing compares to it, his empty stretch of highway with a face.
Except maybe Scott. For Scott's favor, he'd give up that wretched place.
"I'd like to find my mom," Mike says. "Sometime. Maybe soon."
Scott tilts his head. "But she left when you were little."
"I know somebody who might be able to point us in the right direction."
"Sure, why not. My mom was from Idaho, too."
"You never mentioned that," says Mike, delighted, although it made sense.
Scott nodded. "She fell right off the reservation and into my dad's arms."
"She died?"
"Yeah," Scott says, his eyes distant. "She died."
$120
"That's lousy," Mike sighs, sprawling on the bed. "For the fuck and the bike?"
"No, it's a hundred twenty for the fuck," says Scott, pulling a second wad of cash out of his pocket. "Hans gave me three hundred for the bike. This is for Italy."
"I'm out of coke," Mike says.
"Well, we're not getting any till Rome," Scott replies, stuffing the money back in his pocket. "We'll get busted going through airline security if we try to take some with us. But I'm worried about you, Mikey. You've been doing a lot lately."
"It keeps me awake," says Mike, truthfully. "I don't conk out as much when I'm on it."
Scott considers this. "True, you don't. There must be a better way, though."
"I can't afford a doctor," Mike says, stretching as he rolls onto his back. He'd give anything for Scott to look at him right now the way he'd looked at him last night.
As if reading Mike's thoughts, Scott flops down beside him, grinning.
"If we make it back from Italy in one piece, I'll take you to a doctor."
"I love you," Mike says, because he does. Even more than the night he risked saying it under the stars and Scott let him fall asleep in his arms. He hadn't dreamed at all.
Scott smiles and shakes his head. "I don't know, Mikey. I just don't know."
Mike smiles back, because don't know is better than can't.
$50
The Italian gentleman pays him in dollars, which is unexpected. He'd been hoping for something like the old queen in Portland, maybe a nice cup of cappuccino and incomprehensible sympathy, but the gentleman seems to be in a hurry to get rid of him. Maybe he's waiting on another appointment. Or for his wife.
Mike is out for nearly all of the flight home. Scott had left him enough for airfare, but he'd turned a few tricks in order to make some sightseeing money. He'd gone to Florence for a few days, because Carmella had told him that his mother had loved it there. Lacking a camera, he'd bought a few postcards. He'd wanted to send one to Carmella to thank her for her kindness, to let her know he'd made it there. The thought of Scott seeing the postcard had been too much, though.
Portland is just the way Mike left it—drunk on broken dreams. Bill Pigeon's funeral is a sobering affair. Across the cemetary green, Mike can see pain in Scott's eyes, and even loss. Carmella doesn't see Mike, or perhaps she's determined not to. Mike thinks of his mother and wonders if she's even still alive. Maybe Jack has heard from her. He spends that night with the old queen, his tea, and cookies, refusing payment.
It's in the attempt to reach his brother's place that he ends up stranded on the road—his road—with a duffel bag and no money to his name. Cars don't pass often, but pass they do. And should he chance to fall asleep or die before he wakes—
Free
—somewhere warm and bright, wrapped in what feels like silk. He blinks.
"I drove around the city for two hours looking for you in all the usual spots," Scott says somberly, lying on the pillow beside him. They aren't touching, but they're close enough to breathe each other's air and bump knees. "When I didn't find you, I figured you'd probably decided to hitchhike back to Jack's place in Idaho." He takes an unsteady breath, as if the confession pains him. "There you were. Waiting."
"Yeah," Mike says, rolling away from him. "Waiting to get run over." As glad as he is to see Scott, he's still pretty mad at him. "Where's Carmella?"
"She got homesick," Scott says, placing a hand on Mike's arm. "And I got sick of her."
"I was hoping you'd say she got deported."
"In another five months, she would have been."
Mike allows himself to be pulled back so that they're facing each other again.
"Wait," he says. "You didn't marry her?"
"No," Mike replies, confused. "Why on earth would I have done that?"
"You said you were falling in love."
"I said I thought I was falling in love."
"There's a difference?" Mike retorts, noticing that Scott hasn't let go of him.
"I was falling in love," Scott admits, his fingers tightening. "I thought I could talk myself out of it. Or have Carmella fuck me out of it. Straighten myself out."
"You are pretty sick," Mike tells him, glaring.
"Maybe I've decided I'd rather stay sick."
"I suppose you think I'm sick, too."
"There is that," Scott says, brushing Mike's hair back from his forehead. For the first time, Mike realizes that it's damp. Scott must have given him a bath. "Narcolepsy is serious business. I've done some research. A good specialist lives in Seattle."
Mike squints at him. "So, you're taking me to Seattle?"
Scott nods, letting his hand drift down to Mike's cheek. "If you'll let me."
I'll never leave you. Never never never never ever.
"I broke a promise," Mike says, edging closer. "I wasn't going to leave you."
"I left you and betrayed you," Scott answers, swallowing thickly. "That's worse."
"We'll get there," Mike says, finally snuggling up to him. Scott's hair is as long as he's ever seen it, slightly unkempt and almost to his shoulders. Mike twines his fingers in it and breathes deeply. Spice and sage. Right off the reservation and into his arms.
"Mikey, I—"
"Just sleep," Mike says, drawing back from the kiss. And they do.