Chapter Text
They only travel in the same circles occasionally, him and Leakee—Mox doesn’t have a circle so much as a disjointed collection of line segments, and Leakee’s friends are as insufferable as him, most times—and when their eyes met across the crowded bar, there was a warning, there, unmistakable in its intensity. It’s a glint that sparks off Leakee each time they meet unexpectedly, something that will have to be picked apart, later. A reaction depends on so much more than just the ingredients, than the catalyst, after all—it’s also based on entropy, on timing. On the best possible moment, and Mox knows how to spot those a mile away. That time is coming.
He’s busying himself with some pretty little blonde thing, sweet and tired and boring and safe. Her smile is soft where it should be sharp, should bite a little, and Mox already knows he won’t be bringing her home. She gives him careful, closed-mouth kisses, vodka on her lips, and he’s looking for something a little faster, a little more danger.
He backs away to get another beer, a shot of tequila, thinks that maybe anything might feel like a risk with enough alcohol in coursing its way through his bloodstream. That extra two ounces of Dos Manos in, his cheeks start tingling pleasantly, though he’s still not tipsy enough to mess around with the majority of the people here. He waves the bartender down to pour one more glass, and that’s when he sees it. Him. Them.
Leakee has a guy pressed back against a wall, some face Mox vaguely remembers seeing around shitty bars in weeks past, and from the bit of his face Mox can make out, he’s smiling. Hand lingering on the guy’s hip. It’s unmistakable, what’s going on, and the liquid in his stomach churns around.
Leakee is angled away from him, can’t see that he’s watching, and that somehow makes the whole thing worse. He’s used to Leakee as provoking and Leakee as aggravating, and the fact that he’s visibly, handsily flirting with another guy in a way that’s completely unrelated to Mox and his reaction, he’s never really thought about it happening, but seeing it is something sickening. They’re not—they’re not anything, but they’re not nothing, either, and to do this, out in the open, where Mox can see, Leakee is supposed to know, he’s supposed to know better. He’s supposed to know Mox.
He still feels sick, and the warm fire in his stomach is blazing behind his eyes, now, when he storms over. His hand is on Leakee’s arm seconds later, the one that was grabbing at the other guy, pulling him back. “Excuse him, man,” he tells the dude. Short and brunet, darker skin, not the furthest one could find from Mox but not anything like him, either. “He told me to remind him to take his Valtrex. Fuckin’ herpes, y’know, never really goes away.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just walks away, Leakee’s arm caught in a vice grip as he pulls him along. There’re angry words he’s not listening to, that are just passing through air around him, and Mox pushes the front door open, lazy heat from the late summer month hitting him full in the face. There’s an alley, next to the rundown place, the sort of establishment he never thought Leakee would frequent, and he drags them both into it, backs Leakee against the gritty brick wall.
“What. The fuck. Was that,” Leakee asks, less a question and more a demand, and Mox scowls, makes sure Leakee’s eyes are all on him, nowhere else.
“I should ask you the same fuckin’ thing,” he answers, jabbing a finger sharply into Leakee’s chest. “Playing grabass with that dickhead, what the fuck.”
“What gives you any say in what I do?” And that, that’s the fuckin’ question, the one that Mox can’t find the answer for, because he doesn’t but he should because somehow, sometimes, Leakee decides things for him when he’s not even present, and Mox can’t stand the playing field being this unlevel, the disadvantage being his. “I’m here on my time, with my friends, for some fun. Find your own.”
“I just did,” Mox claims, grabbing Leakee by his hair and pulling their mouths together. These lips on him do bite, lessen the sting that’s had a frown pulling at his mouth since he glanced away from the rows of liquor. He leaves one hand twisted in the strands, pulling occasionally, as the other pushes up and under Leakee’s shirt, nails running down the skin there. Leakee shudders and moans into his mouth, but it’s not enough.
He tears his mouth away, pulling at Leakee’s belt single-handedly. Mox gives up and brings the other hand down, making quick work of the buckle, then does the same to himself. “Where did all your lofty standards I’m constantly falling short of go?” The words are spoken into Leakee’s neck, a perfect place to hide his face while they come out. Leakee’s eyes are narrowed at him, full of fire, when he pulls away, and Mox stares back, hoping his are cooler, give less away.
His pants are down around his knees, and Leakee grabs him behind the neck, twists them to press his front into the brick. Mox braces himself against the wall, lower body far enough away that his dick doesn’t get sanded. There’s the tiniest zippered sound of foil tearing open before two fingers are teasing his hole, wet with actual lube. Leakee is the only fucking person in the world who would carry packets of the stuff around, he swears.
“What are you even talking about?” The rough voice is nearly swallowed up by the moan Mox lets out when those fingers push in, two at once. It’s a lot, a lot to go from empty to feeling full so suddenly, and he presses back even more, letting them work him open. He’s glad, glad Leakee can’t see his face right now, especially when he adds a third and twists them just right, because Mox is so keyed up right now he could probably come from just this, if he weren’t in such a hurry to just get fucked right now. To get fucked by Leakee.
“He—ah!—wasn’t even in the same league, I’m actually saving you from terrible—fucking terrible embarrassment when you wake up sober and bright-eyed, you should be thanking me doubly right now.” The fingers are gone then, and he groans, waiting one breath, two, for what’s next. Another crinkling metal sound, the wet roll of a condom, and then. There’s a split second of warning, as Leakee lines himself up behind him, to prepare himself, and then Leakee’s pressing in, slowly, inch by unbearable inch. It burns, makes him cry out, and Moxley’s hands scrabble against the brick, try to find a hold in the mortar between them. His fingertips dig in hard, in a way that means he won’t be able to feel them, tomorrow, but he’s going to be feeling Leakee all week and that more than makes up for it.
There’s a pause, when Leakee’s balls deep and waiting, waiting for Mox to give him the word, where there’s cars driving past in the distance and voices echoing in screaming laughter from blocks away, but the only sound between the two of them is deep, gasping breaths. When Leakee’s hands move from his hips to brace himself against the wall, one covering Mox’s own, and he thinks, maybe. That’s the something the two of them are. An almost, a possibility. Maybe.
“Now, asshole,” he growls, the last syllable a little breathless as Leakee pulls back and pushes forward again. The idea fades with each thrust, too slow and too gentle and infuriating in all the worst ways. It would probably hurt less if Leakee would just wreck him—at least then the sting would distract him from these goddamn mindless thoughts.
“You’re an idiot,” Leakee says, hand drifting back down to grab Mox’s hip tight again. He hopes the fingers squeeze bruises that he can show off, later, so Leakee can’t forget that he was here with Mox, tonight, that no one else’s ass is quite like his. “You’re—you’re so dumb, you’re an idiot.” There’s a kiss pressed to the back of Mox’s head, and his laugh shatters when it leaves his mouth.
“You said that already.” His voice is deep, a little soft; he doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel anything like himself when Leakee grabs his cock from behind and starts stroking, hand barely wet with the remnants of lube and some spit. The heat must be getting to him, a little, or the smell from the dumpster they passed by on the way here, a combination of the two, but Mox lets his head fall back against Leakee’s shoulder, mouth open and gasping at the dual sensations.
Leakee plants another kiss on his temple, nearly misses with the way Mox’s head is jerking around, the force of Leakee’s quickening thrusts and his own twitchiness jostling it around. “Yeah, well, it’s true, asshole,” he hears, nearly whispered, right in his ear, before a hand slaps him upside his head and this time, when Mox laughs, it rings more true.
His orgasm takes him by surprise, painting the wall in front of him with white stripes, tearing a moan out of his throat that sounds a little more like lay— than he’s strictly comfortable with. Another minute, that burning feeling still present through the rough pushes of Leakee’s cock in and out, through the static buzz in his head and his gut, and Leakee bites into his shoulder, smothers some sort of sigh of his own in the t-shirt there.
Leakee moves back, takes the weight off of him after awhile. He has nothing to clean himself up with, so Mox just sort of shakes himself before pulling his clothes back up, buckling his belt around his waist where it immediately slips down from. Leakee has a rougher time of things, nose wrinkled as he fastens his jeans around his own mess, because he cares about shit like that. Doesn’t matter, to Mox; he’s just bailing on his bar tab and heading home. They know he’s good for it, here.
He’s letting Leakee retreat into the silence that’s fallen, again, before he’ll follow—that’s a rule, just in case. They’re in public, and Mox isn’t a person he’ll be seen with, even exiting a trash-filled backroad. Especially exiting a trash-filled backroad, maybe. Leakee stops, suddenly, turns back to face him. “You comin’?”
Mox doesn’t hide his surprise well; he can tell from the way Leakee’s eyes glimmer in the low light, a laugh hidden in there. “Thought we were done, here,” he says, trailing his hand along the brick, in case Leakee somehow forgot they just screwed up against it. Another rule, put in place by Leakee, because there’s an awful fucking lot of knots he’s tied up in something with no strings attached.
Leakee just blinks a couple times, then shrugs with one shoulder. It’s hard to see, with him walking backward, in the dark. “I just willingly fucked in a disgusting alley. Think you’ve corrupted me.”
It’s an olive branch, offered out, and Mox shrugs back in response, moseys on over to where Leakee is standing, now. “Doesn’t seem like such a problem to me, prick.” He bumps his shoulder into Leakee’s, as they walk, and a few blocks pass in silence before he speaks again. “Think I could corrupt you into sucking my dick?”
Leakee pushes him toward the road, where he stumbles over the curb, barely stopping himself from careening into oncoming traffic, the absolute jackass. Those cars were mere yards away. “Don’t push your luck.”