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There’s a palpable sense of cheer in the air after the final New York show. Even with his bum knees, Greg feels like he could almost float along with the rest of them, as the many beers backstage are downed.
There’s chatter amongst the crew as the guest comics are wrapping up to leave – something about going out to a bar, and then another, and another if there’s one going. Perhaps one where they’re less likely to run into the many friendly faces of their fans, Paul suggests. Really let loose, he says – as though they hadn’t been doing just that after most of the tour shows anyhow.
Greg’s relieved. Of course he is. He’s riding the high with everyone else, and when the unprecedented bar hop through downtown is floated, he agrees without really thinking – somewhat distracted by the way Alex is already bounding along down the steps, leading their contingent back out into the freezing night.
He’s pleased to see that Alex is already well and truly stuck, tipsy and barely holding back giggles, in play mode. Greg doesn’t mind it. Not the arm slung about him, nor the hand casually dipping under the collar of his jacket to grasp at his shoulder, as they pile into the cab back to the hotel to change and prepare. He doesn’t mind the way their orbit seems to narrow as these nights wear on, until they end up only with each other for company in the corner of a closing bar, then in a hotel room, all soft murmured conversation that tapers off until someone eventually falls asleep. It’s a closeness that feels unnatural, but it’s one Greg delights in anyway.
When their cab finally peels away from the footpath, Greg ponders what it is about New York that exacerbates things. That blurs the boundaries until they’re in each other’s space more than not, almost living out of a single hotel room, much to the bemusement of their tour manager. Well, it makes it easier to round you both up, at least! – he’d declared to their slightly hungover faces as they’d stumbled out of Greg’s room in DC. It doesn’t escape Greg that it’s always his room, as though Alex already knows that Greg will never go to his, no matter how much he might want to.
Maybe it’s not the being here, necessarily, but just the being away – away from the carefully defined scope of studio recordings, those couple of weeks, twice, three times a year, to work themselves to the bone and be grateful for every moment spent in that strange, perfectly choreographed dance they’ve learned so well together. The one that ends the same way every time – a long hug that’s just for them, and then Alex’s chagrined apologies about having to get back home. Perhaps it’s the being away that presents these… other possibilities.
In the cab, Alex sighs and lets his head tip – the way it has every night of this tour – onto Greg’s shoulder. He’d kicked up a fuss the first time, but hasn’t since – happy enough to accept the cost of that slight, discomfiting note that thrums underneath the rightness of Alex’s small intimacies. He entertains himself by tucking a single finger into Alex’s jacket pocket. Completing the circuit, perhaps.
After more than ten years, he thought he’d have a handle on it’s dimensions by now – the size and shape of his…relationship with Alex Horne. Thought he could label and sort it, slide him into the appropriate box – co-worker, friend, sometime confidant, but only after three drinks. There’s a few good people in there. But Alex has always refused definition. An enigma?, Alex would likely ask, all hopeful – oh, he’d love that. But no, at this late date, Greg knows exactly who Alex is. It’s knowing what he is to Greg, exactly, that presents the real problem.
One that rears its ugly head when they arrive at the lobby, and Paul mentions some gimmicky bar he’d heard about, eyes bright with excitement. Greg just rolls his eyes, already wondering if he can take the opportunity to slink away somewhere quieter, just him and Alex.
He turns in time to see Alex pulled aside by the younger members of their group, begging for him to come along – and watches as he locks in so easily, nodding at their exclamations, chatting happily and genuinely with the lot of them, still so quick to make sure everyone feels listened to, included – while Greg stands solitary, perhaps too intimidating for all that, or too tired to do the work tonight.
There’s the old flare of possessiveness, of wanting to save Alex from those well meaning youngsters, of wanting to tell everyone else to piss off, but the fight goes out of him almost immediately. Greg winces at the uncharitable thoughts. It’s strange, perhaps, when he’s been spending more time with Alex than ever before, that it’s so hard to stomach sharing him tonight.
He can admit, on stage, it’d felt like their victory, the wave of thunderous applause and whooping like nothing either of them separately had ever experienced back home. Of course it’d been an overwhelming and exhausting group effort, the lot of it – but that doesn’t stop the irrational way Greg’s proverbial hackles rise when Maria links one arm through Alex’s and Dave claps his shoulder, both of them cheering, when Alex agrees to go along with the group.
When cautious eyes shift automatically to Greg, he nods a maybe a little too casually in agreement. Can tell Paul’s already clocked him flaking as group plans are made to meet back in the lobby once everyone’s changed. No one would question it in the morning, Greg reasons. Bar hopping is for the young, after all. And he’s not been that in a long while.
Alex follows close behind him as they jumble into the lift to their shared floor. He’s no longer touching Greg as the rest of the party fade from view, and once again Greg finds himself wondering if that particularly silly and affectionate, loose and softened version of the usually staid man is another of the many masks Alex happily dons for others. People like it, after all – this image of them, close, bosom buddies, with that inexplicable hint of more – just not so close that anyone save the internet perverts will see any more in it.
The cynic in Greg suggests, not for the first time, that Alex has truly curated and perfected their public dynamic over the past ten years. A little risque, but always in the realm of committing to the bit. That’s it. That’s Greg and Alex. The singular. One entity.
When the lift doors shut, and Alex steps away to lean on the back wall, Greg stays facing him and impulsively grabs at his hand. Not quite willing to let all of it slip away without a fight. He’s tired, he’s sore – knees fucked. He doesn’t want to go to the bar. He doesn’t want to let Alex go either.
Alex hits him square with a gap-toothed grin as he settles back into himself, a different version to the other, this one just for Greg – he’d noted the differences years ago, but couldn’t begin to say exactly where the game ends with this one either. Alex never seemed very interested in drawing solid lines around… whatever it is they do together.
He squeezes Alex’s cool hand in his own, slightly sweaty one, and Alex squeezes back twice, swinging their hands playfully as the lift doors open and they shuffle down the hall.
Greg’s door opens after a second go with the card, and Alex, bemused, lets himself be yanked inside, hardly for the first time on this trip.
Usually, it’d herald the end of their night. A softly spoken debrief on the couch, or sometimes on the bed, if Greg couldn’t be bothered to stay upright. What went well, what they’d have to rejig somehow, a joyous moment of triumph that they’d somehow pulled it off, shared.
This time, when Alex moves toward the sofa, Greg doesn’t let go. He pulls Alex back by the hand. Hugs him. Hard. Like how they were on the stage, but the kisses Greg presses into Alex’s thinning hair are softer, no pantomime lip smacking. Alex laughs joyfully at it all the same. Leans up a little to plant his own silly kiss to Greg’s cheek after. It’s the sort of thing he’d do with his mates on a night out.
Of course, Greg’s not a mate. Not really – at least, he’s never seemed to quite fit that mold. But that doesn’t stop him from getting an even stronger grip on Alex’s wriggly body and kissing that balding spot once more.
“We did it.” Greg says, lips moving in Alex’s hair.
“Mm, we did.” His voice is still laughing, searching for the set up, the punchline to the oddly extended physical contact – Greg can tell. He squeezes a bit harder anyway. “Er, thank you for my kisses?” Alex squeaks out.
“Nothing less than what my VGB deserves, don’t you think?”
Maybe he can draw it out by playing along, Greg thinks – he’s too pathetic not to try.
“Not sure I’ve been VG tonight,” Alex says, muffled, somewhere under Greg’s chin. He sounds that bit more serious now. Worry bleeding through his humourous tone.
“…The shorts?”
Alex nods, still pressed against Greg in the middle of the hotel room. He seems to give up moving away, and instead loops his arms over each of Greg’s shoulders like they’re slow dancing. Greg doesn’t really know what to make of that.
“Fucking hell. I’m the one who told you to pop em on, don’t worry about it.” Greg shifts his weight, swinging back and forth slightly, to some sappy, slow song in his head.
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he follows the dance. Of course he does.
“Really were something on you though, weren’t they?” Greg teases softly.
“Mmm.” Even more doubt.
“Lovely legs.”
Alex’s strutting walk on stage replays in his mind, but this time he’s bending over for Greg – just for him. The slightest suggestion of a curve of muscle peeking out under the white piping. He’s drunk too much, and he’s going to hell, Greg decides.
“Yeah, alright.” Alex scoffs out in disbelief, before deigning to finally pull away from Greg. It takes a concerted effort not to stop him this time.
There’s something in how Alex moves purposefully to stare out the grand floor to ceiling windows for a long moment that makes Greg stop himself from following. He watches, waits as Alex seems to contemplate the precipice.
Alex fiddles with his jacket, almost nervously, then stops himself, only to attempt to shove his hands in the pocket of his trousers – going for casual, nonchalant, but failing miserably. There’s…something, Greg senses, hanging here between them.
“Are you coming back out tonight?” Alex asks eventually, face still turned to the outside world, the lights of the city illuminating silent snowfall.
“Not a chance,” Greg replies. He’s already flying awfully close to the sun here. Wax wings dripping alarmingly – as if they were ever capable of supporting the weight of Greg’s troubled thoughts in the first place. Drinking even more in this mood would lead to something of a catastrophic fall, he’s sure now.
If it hasn’t already.
“Okay,” Alex says flatly. He’s disappointed, but trying not to show it. Not trying that hard, to be fair, Greg thinks.
“Too old.”
“Late middle-aged,” Alex shoots back. There’s a hint of a smile at last.
“Fuck off.”
“No thank you.” Alex finally turns. He stares straight at Greg, all shiny-eyed mischief.
A thousand images run rampant through Greg’s mind, each more brazen than the next. But one calls out the loudest. And in that moment he’s so sure, can see it in the way Alex shuffles awkwardly, hands again shoved too casually in his pockets.
“You’ve still got them on,” Greg whispers with dawning realisation.
“Hm?” Alex only raises a brow.
“You filthy bastard – are you still wearing them?”
“Guess you’ll have to come back out with us to find out…” Alex grins, before dodging a swipe at his shirt front.
“You’re right. You’re no VGB of mine.”
Alex pouts. It looks ridiculous on a middle-aged man but Greg is struck intensely by the need to kiss his stupid mouth all the same. He settles for covering his own with a hand, stroking at his beard, and trying but failing to keep his eyes from the way the material of Alex’s grey trousers bunches weirdly at the pockets, the…he physically moves away, collapsing to sit on the end of his hotel bed.
It’s rather too low – for aesthetic purposes no doubt – and manages, incidentally, to put him at eye level with the cursed trousers anyway. He kicks his shoes off, and his sore legs splay awkwardly – probably looks ridiculous, but still, he’s relieved to be able to at least take some weight off his feet, even if his mind is a lost cause.
“Look, they’ll be waiting for us,” Alex steps in closer, as though he’s going to help Greg back up, but the protest is half-hearted at best. Of course he knows Greg well enough to know when his mind’s set.
“For you. They know I’m dead on my feet.” The feet Greg finds himself staring at. Seems safest in the moment.
There’s a beat of silence as Alex just stands there, stock still, in front of Greg’s splayed knees, brows furrowed as he weighs his options. “I guess – I should really go…” Alex trails off.
“Yep.”
“I don’t want to?” His inflection indicates it’s a question, more than a statement.
Greg raises a brow, watching as Alex turns and picks his way over to the stocked fridge, bending down low to pull two more beers from it.
The evidence sits there, riding just a touch above the waistband of Alex’s trousers, shining like a beacon. It’s not quite the bend he’d performed on stage, but this time it really is just for him, Greg decides. Those fucking shorts. Bright red. A stop sign. A warning. A wax seal. An invitation.
“You don’t want to,” Greg confirms. His mouth feels suddenly dry, and he’s swigging back the proffered beer as soon as it hits his hand.
“Yeah. Rather stay here, if I’m honest.”
“With me, like usual.” Greg says it out loud, staring up at Alex and daring him to acknowledge it – that it has been shockingly usual. That Greg’s been laying beside him while he chats to his wife and kids on the phone each night, that he sometimes wakes up in his hotel room and Alex is still there, working on his laptop, or just drinking and pretending that he wasn’t looking anywhere near Greg as he stirs into consciousness.
“Aren’t I always?” Alex shrugs, then smiles. Taps their bottles together in a mock toast. He’s dancing around it, still.
But Greg’s had enough dancing, old fuck that he is. Late middle-aged. Whatever. The red spills over.
“Alex, listen.” He plonks the bottle beside the bed and shuffles forward so that Alex is practically caged in the space between his knees.
“Mm?”
“You really should head down without me,” Greg says wryly.
Alex frowns, confused. “I thought –”
Greg shakes his head. “You can head out. Or stay. But if you’re staying here…” His hand snakes out faster than Alex can react, grasps onto his hip, and pushes his shirt up just enough to reveal the shorts again. “I will be sucking you off in these fucking shorts.”
Alex gasps out a choked laugh, shocked.
Greg could hardly blame him. He’d shocked himself. All that careful sidestepping, toeing the borderline of what they had, and what they could never have. He thinks perhaps he really has misread it – Alex’s persistent presence in his space, all the long glances that skitter away, just a touch too late. The tired, fluffy-haired head collapsing onto his shoulder as soon as they pile into the car from each venue.
Then, Alex’s expression stutters. It’s like one of those magic eye puzzles, Greg thinks. If he squints, turns his head a little, he can see it. The shine of mischief, of plausible deniability, changing to something darker. His breath hitches visibly as he shakes, just a little, right hand flexing where it hangs by his side. His left hand covers Greg’s, where it rests at his hip, now mostly lax, a single finger hooked in the revealed red waistband.
“Erm,” he manages.
“I should probably take that back but–” Greg trails the teasing finger along, pulling at the tight band just enough to make it slap back across Alex’s belly with a muffled thwap.
“Oh god. You meant it,” Alex says, voice cracking.
Greg sighs at the panic plain in Alex’s tone. There’s not really any walking it back, not when he’d been this damn obvious, but he can’t bring himself to care anymore. In for a penny…“Yeah. I did. Er, do. Mean it.”
“Oh.” Alex nods, trying to wrap his mind around several revelations at once. His hand pulls the shirt back down, properly covering the band from view.
That’s that then.
Greg shuffles back on the bed – collapses back onto the covers with a huff.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.”
“I thought…Greg–” Alex winces, rubs at his greying temples, then shakes his head, resolute. “It’s just a – a game. You know – we know that, right?”
There’s desperation there, and Greg has to work hard not to shout and curse, not to push hot-faced embarrassment back onto Alex for every look and touch and hug and – those fucking shorts. No, he’ll own his own damn mistake.
“Yeah. Of course. We’ll laugh about it later, or never speak of it again, whatever you like, I suppose,” Greg offers, swallowing it down.
“Right. Yeah.” Alex says, eyes distant.
He’s fucked it. Royally fucked it.
“I should…I–” Alex stammers, looking for an exit, surely.
“Go on then,” Greg sighs, defeated.
He’s gone in half a heartbeat, and damn if that doesn’t cause Greg’s to stutter hopelessly.
He chokes. Coughs it back. Pretends with everything in him that he didn’t just proposition Alex fucking Horne. His eyes burn anyway.
The powerful knock on the door comes later – whether it’s been minutes or hours, Greg doesn’t really know. Still, he rolls over in an attempt to get upright with a groan, ready to send Paul on his way.
He should be more surprised when he opens the door to Alex, who stands stiffly in the hall, face stern. But all he can manage is relief. At least Alex is good and kind enough not to keep the sword dangling, eager instead to fix the problem of Greg and move on, same as he does with every unexpected obstacle.
“Let me in,” he says. Not asking permission.
“Right.” Greg sighs.
Alex strides back in, all confidence, no doubt ready with his scripted statement and blandly comforting lines – something about ensuring the agents get a sanitised version of whatever the fuck reason he’s come up with for why Greg’s going to need to be phased out of the show. No need for any drama about it, it’s just between us, or some shit like that.
He turns away, not quite willing to look at Alex just yet.
“Greg. Please, sit…?”
It doesn’t seem like a great plan – returning to the scene of the crime, as it were – but Greg goes back to the end of the sprawling bed, and falls onto it heavily. Alex makes no move to sit beside him, instead kicking his trainers off to the side and padding over slowly to lean on the dressing table opposite.
“What do you want, Alex?” Greg dares a glance upward.
Alex is planted far more firmly than before, all the loose, soft lines of his body gone – replaced with tensely crossed arms and thoughtful frown.
“May I ask a question?” For the first time since his return, Alex sounds unsure. His fingers fiddle and tap at his elbows nervously, before he shifts his gaze to meet Greg’s.
Greg nods.
“You meant what you said before?”
“You know I did,” Greg scowls up at him, “You ran off. Question asked and answered.”
“Sorry… it’s just–” He drops the confident act completely, and Greg can see how Alex’s knuckles whiten where he’s grabbing at his arms, trying desperately to hide the nervous shakes.
“Just come out with it mate,”
“I had to make a call.”
Call who? The Andys? Avalon? Greg swallows anxiously, but can’t bring himself to break eye contact. Not if Alex won’t.
“Rach.” Alex says, answering the unasked question.
“Fucking hell, Alex. Why–”
Alex stops the tirade before he can even get started. “–It…can happen,” he says, almost apologetic. “But. Just this once. It’s…” He holds up his index finger. “One time thing?”
Greg can’t quite believe it. He ought not be surprised at this point, that Alex would take in Greg’s request and find a way, somehow, no matter how insane, to meet it. But this wasn’t adjusting the whole taping schedule for one of Greg’s fuck ups, or running interference with well-meaning fans after a show so Greg could just go back to the hotel unaccosted. This was–
“That’s beyond the pale mate,” Greg murmurs. “You can’t just…”
Alex looks immediately pissed, in that particularly prissy way of his, throwing his hands up in frustration. “What do you mean? So it was fine when I didn’t have permission but now it’s–”
“It’s fine!” Greg panics. Never did learn to keep his fat mouth shut, even when he’s so damn close to…well, it’s something, isn’t it? “No, look it’s fine – you… you’re sure?”
“Greg.” Alex steps in closer, dares to place a hand down on Greg’s shoulder. The good one. “Please don’t make me have made the most damning possible call to my wife at seven a.m. on a Saturday morning and ask me that?”
"Yeah, right. Got it.” Greg drags a clammy palm down his face and lets out one long exhale into it, in lieu of screaming, yelling, crowing victoriously. He can do one time. What’s another ‘just this once’, after all?
Alex’s hand slides inward, squeezing the taught muscle where neck and collarbone meet. His thumb tracks back and forth, rubbing at the bone – an all too pleasant tickling sensation that has Greg closing his eyes to just bask in it, the casual intimacy, just for a minute longer.
“Greg?” He’s nervous now. Of course he is. Greg’s not under any illusions that Alex does this on the regular. Doesn’t really like the part of him that preens at the idea of being the first man take Alex apart, but he leans into it anyway. If he’s only got one shot at this, he’s planning on leaving one hell of an impression.
“Alright. Yeah. C’mere then,” he says, donning a smirk that’s about a hundred times more confident than he feels, just to get things started.
Alex smiles a little coyly as he shuffles in closer again at Greg’s tug on his hip. It’s so uncharacteristically sweet an expression that Greg has to remind himself of the parameters of this…encounter.
“I…should say I don’t really know what–” Alex stumbles on the words. “Well, I mean I know what … er… oral is like–”
“Oh, you do?” Greg acts surprised, if just to wind him up.
Alex scowls down at him, grip tightening. “Yes.” It comes out as a slight hiss, as Greg pushes his shirt suddenly upwards, tickling at the soft, sensitive skin on his sides.
“Pull it over your head – I like to see you,” Greg explains, motioning for Alex to tuck his shirt over, keeping his arms in the sleeves, but his torso bared for Greg’s greedy perusal.
He’s got strangely trim lately, Greg notices – probably all that running he’s been doing to support Will’s marathon training, he recalls – but there’s still enough swell of belly that Greg can shove his whole face against it like a big, content cat.
Alex makes a hiccoughing noise of shock, then laughs, tummy shaking as Greg tickles at the hair there with his nose. This time he’s not remotely holding back as he pulls along the red elastic waistband, still, rather tellingly, sticking out above Alex’s trousers.
“Show me. Properly this time,” Greg demands.
He doesn’t make it easy, not quite willing to let go completely as Alex makes just enough room to fiddle with his button and zip. Greg pulls on one side while Alex shoves at the other, the grey trousers soon pooling at his ankles.
“Oh god…” Alex seems newly embarrassed in a way he’d not been on stage when he’d strutted about in the shorts. He crosses his hands conspicuously in front of his crotch before Greg can see anything and turns swiftly on his heel.
He’s even more a vision like this, Greg decides, shirt bunched up around his shoulders in an almost makeshift harness, the bright red shorts a near match for the blush that mottles skin even in patchy spots on his furry back.
“Fuck…Alex,” Greg croaks out, far more affected than he can remember being the last time he’d indulged in something like this. But none of those people were, well, his – quite like the man in front of him now. Certainly none of them had it spelled out across the seat of their pants in garish white lettering.
He grips and hauls Alex backwards toward him, reveling in the shocked honk of laughter that comes out as Greg kisses the soft swell of belly at the side of the rather tight shorts. His hands luxuriate in tracing up the back of Alex’s thighs, to where the shorts meet the curve of his arse so fetchingly.
Greg’s Lil Slut. It’s ridiculous he’s turned on like this, Greg thinks, snorting at himself. Nevertheless, he’s hopeless but to grab and grope the soft skin, to let his fingers tease underneath the white contrast piping.
Alex grunts, almost tips forwards with the force of it, but he stills immediately as Greg’s thumbs tease up his inner thighs, discovering just how free Alex was flying underneath.
“Alex…have you been like this all night?”
“Couldn’t exactly fit much else under there,” Alex admits, embarrassed.
“Naughty boy.”
Alex shakes his head, and turns, finally revealing the extent of his arousal. “Have to do as I’m told,” he repeats, tugging at the waistband carefully, like he wants this but doesn’t quite know how to ask.
“Yeah, you do.” Greg smiles wide. “Poor love, do you want a hand?”
“I…you said–” He looks torn.
“You’ll have my mouth too, don’t worry,” Greg laughs. “But…” He holds up one index finger. “Just the once, yeah?”
Alex mirrors the gesture and nods. “Once.”
“Best make it worthwhile then, don’t you think?”
Alex’s face is so painfully serious for a long moment. He nods, and Greg nods back. Then, the tension snaps, and Greg is pulling him forwards by the waistband.
A hand slips up the shorts again, paired with another on the outside, as Greg fondles and gropes. He can feel the perfect outline of him through the cheap polyester, can see already the wet spot spreading by the head.
The hand inside cups and pulls at Alex’s balls, making him groan and thrust awkwardly into Greg’s outer hand.
“God… can I take– take them off ? Please?”
He really does beg prettily, blue eyes dark in the lamp-lit room, big and wide and shining down at Greg. There’s something in how he asks, the same way he’s asked Greg a million times before, a set up for the punchline – that Greg will deny him for the sheer joy of it – and Alex will thank him for that too. Of course, it’s never been quite like this… but Greg can still play his part, easy as breathing.
“I don’t think so. I said I wanted to suck you off inside them, Alex,” he tuts.
Alex groans, at once devastated and desperately relieved. “Won’t work,” he grits out, leaning more of his weight onto the hands that grip at Greg’s shoulders. “Too tight…”
“We’ll make it work love,” Greg reassures him gently. “Let’s see what a mucky pup you can be first, hm?”
He’s pushing it, the dirty talk, he thinks. But Alex doesn’t flinch away, not at the tone, nor the words. He loves this – Greg fucking knew it.
He thumbs under the head of Alex’s cock through the fabric of the shorts, rubbing at it, encouraging him to leak even more. It must be more than a little painful, he thinks happily, the chafing feeling of that rough surface against his most sensitive parts. Even so, Alex moans, gasps and shakes through it.
When he’s panting, and sweat is beginning to bead and drip down his bright red face, Greg changes tack. He pulls his hands away and instead dives right in, a face full of horrid fabric and hard cock, his breath warm and wet against it.
Alex’s hands shift for the first time, moving to cup the back of Greg’s head. It’s gentle, but he’s rubbing into Greg each time he mouths at the shorts.
There’s a litany of god and please happening somewhere above him but Greg’s hardly cognizant of it, more interested in finally cupping Alex’s lovely arse with both hands under the shorts. He delights in the shocked noise Alex makes when he pulls each side apart, spreading him lewdly.
“Greg!” It’s a strangled warning, and Greg heeds it immediately, letting go with a smug chuckle. “Fuckssake,” Alex hisses, panting through it.
“Close call?”
Alex’s stare is dark and desperate. He almost looks angry, and would do, to those who don’t know him the way Greg does. This man that winces away from discomfort, embarrassment, humiliation – but always leaves the opening, almost expectant at this point, for Greg to demand it anyway.
“Please.” The hand cupping Greg’s head pulls him in closer again, squeezes a little tighter, while the other desperately scrabbles at the taught red waistband.
He’s been so damn good. And isn’t that just like Alex? I’ll do what I can – Greg’s heard him say it a million times over, to anyone who asks anything of him – and he’s taken that sentiment to a perverse extent tonight.
All that fundamental goodness channeled towards Greg – it’s overwhelming. And what a fucking waste, he thinks, before finally helping Alex to hurriedly get the waist band down, only at the front of the shorts, so it’s tight and awkward, just underneath his balls.
Alex groans, dismayed, as Greg stops him from shoving them off entirely. He takes a moment to take stock of his prize then, how painfully hard he looks, how desperately his reddened cock twitches and leaks. It’s a gorgeous sight, and Greg wastes no more time in getting his mouth on it properly, and his hands back on Alex’s arse through the shorts.
His fingers pull desperately at the cheap white lettering on the seat, scrunching and pulling them up even tighter, forcing the fabric to gather and painfully split his cheeks apart, to ride against his hole.
Alex chokes out a curse, and outright whimpers even as he thrusts into Greg’s mouth, taking the discomfort given like a gift.
It’s been too long since he’s had someone at his mercy like this. He wants Alex mindless. He wants him to beg, snarl, cry out…any noise he can pull from him. Greg wants everything, to swallow all of it down, keep it somewhere safe inside. Somewhere to revisit when he’s alone in the too quiet space of his house, when the next visit from friends and family feels too far away. When there’s nothing else to prepare for…just time, passing.
Greg pushes the pitiful thoughts aside and instead focuses on his concentrated offensive – sucking Alex down as far as he can manage, encouraging him to ride his face a little once everything’s nice and wet, remembering how to manage his breathing, to relax his throat enough to get Alex in. It’s just the tip, really, but its enough to get Alex cursing and giving in to Greg’s encouragement – if that’s what being bisected by cheap polyester could be construed as – to really start to thrust in with some force.
It’s probably only a few minutes, but Greg is sure he doesn’t know who he is anymore, if he’s not got Alex’s lovely cock in his mouth. Ironic perhaps, given the epithet on Alex’s tiny shorts, but he couldn’t be more pleased with his work, really. He manages to look up a little here and there and each time is greeted by the soft shaking swell of Alex’s stomach, his furry chest, and the way his head is tipped back, a snarling expression somewhere between pain and bliss that satisfies something deep within.
He gives the shorts another shocking yank upwards as Alex’s pleas gather steam.
“Fuck! Greg–”
Laughing with a cock buried in his throat isn’t exactly easy, but Greg manages something like it as Alex pulls free, gasping and leaning heavily onto his shoulders.
“Do– do you want–?”
He’s not sure how Alex manages to go even redder than he already is, in the poor attempt ask if Greg wants to swallow.
“No,” Greg croaks out, his throat already starting to kick up a fuss from the evening’s treatment.
“Alright?” Alex says, already moving a hand to stroke himself. It’s slow, and his eyes stay on Greg’s, as if asking permission.
“Not yet,” Greg confirms, stopping him with a barely there touch. Alex obediently drops his hand back to his side, even if he lets out the sweetest groan of despair as he does.
“Never did like to make anything simple, huh?” Alex laughs, exasperated – just for show, Greg knows.
“You love it.”
“Yes,” Alex admits simply. His hand – slow again, unsure – comes back to rest, not on the back of Greg’s head, but instead cups at the rough beard along his jaw.
They swap small, tired smiles before Greg shuts his eyes, luxuriating in the intimate hold for just a moment.
This will be the only time he gets to have Alex like this, Greg tries to remind himself. Still, he can’t help but wonder whether they really can just move on after. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something like this, and ended up fading from a person’s life – their curiousity sated. Of course, he’s the one who asked for it, this time. Alex might–
He has to open his eyes, push himself back into the present to stop that particular train of thought from jumping it’s carefully negotiated tracks. He lifts his head, if a bit hesitantly, from Alex’s hold to take him in properly.
The shorts are so tightly gathered from Greg’s yanking that the fabric’s been left holding on for dear life, trapping Alex perfectly, arse barely covered even as bits of cheap white lettering are pulling away in strips. The waistband is still sitting tight under his cock, pushing the lot forward, forming a lewd tableau Greg won’t soon forget, shitty piecemeal memory be damned.
He’s so damn exhausted. Alex too, Greg knows. But still, he wants to enjoy what time he has here. Eternally grateful for whatever magical thinking manifested Alex Horne responding like this, to him.
There will be plenty time enough for regret later. Now, though, Greg pulls Alex forward, encouraging him to move up onto the bed, so Greg can finally lie down to save his neck and back, which he does with a comically loud sigh of relief.
“Okay, Greg?” Alex asks, concerned.
“Just…let me?” He holds up his index finger cautiously, a reminder of the limits they both have to contend with. Alex acknowledges it with a barely-there nod.
When Alex is comfortable, or as comfortable as the obscene outfit allows, Greg lowers his mouth back to his spit-drenched cock, and just holds it in his mouth. His hands leave the shorts and travel, tickling at Alex’s sensitive sides, the soft skin of his belly, whatever he can reach of his chest.
He holds fast when hips attempt to buck, stopping Alex entirely from seeking the sensation that’d had him so close to the edge. But Alex is a quick study. Learns what Greg wants from him, and leans back into the pillows at the head of the bed, to simply watch and wait. He understands that the game hasn’t really changed – that Greg will enjoy him on his own terms. From Alex’s soft groans, it seems those terms are acceptable enough to him as well.
Greg startles in his mindless sucking, not expecting the gentle touch that returns. It’s both hands now, the long, lovely fingers of one just barely making contact with a hollowed cheek, as the other shakily pets through his hair. It’s soft and comforting in a way that makes his chest ache, even as he applies that bit more pressure to Alex’s cock, enjoying the way it jumps on his tongue. In this position he can even manage a half-hearted hump into the covers – it’s something, a slight scratch of an itch but nothing more. Greg doesn’t mind.
When Alex next manages something intelligible, its a strangled “Greg!” and nothing more.
“That’s it,” Greg moans, fondling and pulling at Alex’s sack as it draws up tight and high. “Come on then, baby boy.” He manages to get his mouth back on him just in time to catch the lot of it as Alex pulls him in that bit harder.
It’s an unwieldy amount, but Greg’s a good sport, swallows what he can, then, seeing Alex’s shell-shocked expression, gives him a nice little show of the rest – pornographic, really – opening his mouth and poking the cupped tongue out a little.
“Oh my god.”
It’s probably not very dignified, spit and come both dripping into his beard, but Greg can’t help but pull a Cheshire cat grin at Alex’s reaction. It doesn’t taste great at all, but it’s not so offensive that Greg can’t manage to hold it in while he pulls himself up to the head of the bed.
Alex’s breathless laugh breaks into more of an offended gasp as Greg reaches his goal – rubs his mucky face along Alex’s chest, tweaks those perfect stiff, pink nipples, then leans up for a kiss.
“Oh Greg, that’s–” Alex’s nose scrunches up, and he pulls away, gappy teeth bared in a grimace. “Do people actually do that?”
Of course, it’s rude to speak with a mouthful, so Greg spits the mess out first – directly back onto Alex’s crotch.
The dismayed whining only intensifies when Greg tops it off by finally pulling the waistband free, and back over Alex’s cock, trapping the sticky mess inside.
“Just putting it back where I found it, since you’re going to be a coward about it,” Greg laughs. He’d not really expected Alex to go for it, of course. He really could be such a priss about the oddest things, given his history of consuming all sorts of rubbish.
Alex’s lips thin, like he’s particularly dissatisfied. “Could’ve at least spat on the floor – I’d have cleaned up,” he says grumpily.
“You’ll be cleaning up anyway,” Greg says reasonably, before giving Alex’s soft, sensitive cock a massage through the shorts, making sure to really rub the mess in. “Just not tonight.”
It says something about them perhaps, that Alex just hisses through the treatment and nods at that proclamation, like he’d long accepted he’d be trapped in the come filled slut shorts. It signals a sharp pang of affection through Greg. A feeling that has him throwing a possessive arm around Alex’s shoulders and pulling him in for a cuddle as they slowly collapse, flat, onto the bed.
Alex, thank god, hugs back. It’s that sort of awkward sideways hug across Greg’s chest, trying to keep their lower halves from making contact. Except this time it doesn’t stem from some weird sense of awkward propriety, but instead a matter of comfort – Greg can only imagine how disgusting every small movement must feel now. It makes him smile, even as he insinuates his thigh against the shorts and rubs, just so. Alex struggles for a moment, then finally goes still under the ministrations with an exasperated sigh. Greg pushes it that bit longer, of course he does, then settles for petting at Alex’s sweaty hair instead.
Long moments pass, the two of them just breathing, lying side by side on the plush hotel bed. The end of their time together hangs between them heavily, and the internal countdown begins in Greg’s head – the timer ticking away the moments before the reality sets in. Before Alex will no doubt rise from the bed, and disappear in silence.
He would clean himself head to toe in the hottest shower he could stand, Greg imagines. Then, dutifully report back to his wife – before magically putting all of it aside to sleep the last few hours of night away before their flights in the morning. Something like that.
Greg grimaces at the image, even as he calmly pets Alex’s furry chest. He can feel a heart beat thumping away under there, strong and vital – can feel as Alex draws in the long, shuddery breath, deep and deliberate, that heralds the start of the end.
He’s surprised, to say the least, to find a hand shakily moving down to grope at his bits instead. Brave boy, he thinks proudly, even as he gently pushes Alex’s hand away.
“You didn’t…?” Alex of course, can’t seem to say it, still.
“I was busy,” Greg says glibly.
“Right. It’s only – it doesn’t seem very fair…” Alex trails off, but dutifully withdraws, crossing his hands over his belly, like he’s reminding himself to keep them still.
“The way I remember it – this was always going to be a one-way situation, love.” Greg says, voice just a touch too casual.
Greg knows all too well which direction it goes. He covers his face with an arm, not quite able to look at Alex any more. The thoughts of Rachel, how he’s going to face her, how immediately she’ll be able to cut through – to see–
“I don’t recall agreeing to that.” Alex frowns.
“Sure,” Greg allows, and shrugs even as he hides his face. “Moot point anyway, my dick doesn’t work great at the best of times.”
“Mm, yes, very old,” Alex agrees.
They slip back to the usual dynamic, just for a moment. Greg pinches and smacks at Alex while he laughs, joyful, hiding behind pillows and trying not to fall off the bed entirely. But the laughter is only a momentary balm. When their eyes meet, Greg pulls up short of throwing the next cushion and instead lets his hand drop impotently back to the mattress. Alex is the first to shuffle backwards, brows drawn in thought.
Greg can still taste him all over his tongue when he swallows nervously.
“Did…was it any good?” Alex asks, all serious consideration. “Is it what you wanted?”
The tone is, odd, to say the least. Sounds something like how he’d check in with the directors – is that the shot you wanted, should we do another? – and it makes Greg’s teeth ache, somehow.
“What do you think?” Greg shoots back bitterly.
“I – I think…” Alex pauses, trips over whatever he’s trying to say next. The lines drawn in the sand.
It’s not how Greg wants this to end. Selfishly, perhaps, he pulls Alex forcefully back down, settles him by his side once more. Alex goes willingly enough. But the tension stays until he tries again.
“I didn’t think… I don’t think I know how to do this,” Alex says. “I can’t make any promises but–”
“Then don’t. Don’t think about it at all. You’re good at that right?” Greg interrupts, defeated, imagining the pained silence of the flight home already.
“Shut up.”
Greg’s eyes boggle at that, but there’s no time to hit back with anything when Alex is there, hovering above him, face stern.
“I wanted – want this. Want you,” he looks pained to say it, like he does whenever a grain of emotional truth dares to escape from him.
“Okay,” Greg says. Because what else is there to say to that?
“Okay.”
Then he’s kissing Greg. Properly, this time. Crowded in close, pressing in, some kind of breathless, wordless conversation. There’s some light noises of distress as the aftertaste hits, but Alex doesn’t, can’t seem to stop himself from dipping back in for more, open mouthed, in between Greg’s bemused laughter.
When Alex’s hand cups his face, Greg goes quiet. It’s too much again. Too intimate. Reminds Greg that he wanted – wants this. More than once, more than a filthy mouthful and a sore throat in the morning.
Eventually, he allows himself the luxury – runs a hand over Alex’s furry shoulder to pull him closer, and the other around the back of his head, fingers shoving into the soft feathery hair there.
When they pull apart this time, it’s only so Alex can settle into the bed proper – for a time, tucked into Greg as close as he can, then, when it gets too hot, moving to lay side by side – still maintaining as many points of contact as possible.
Sleep eludes him entirely, but Alex is already dozing on and off, Greg can tell. His fluffy head dips down and onto Greg’s chest, then hurriedly pops back up each time he stirs. He doesn’t suggest Alex leave – no matter how much he’d like him to get some actual sleep before their trip tomorrow. When does a single night end, when it only began at two in the morning?, Greg wonders uselessly.
The fourth time Alex shudders awake and the shorts crinkle horribly in the silent room, Greg gives in and nudges him, hard.
“Take those fucking awful things off.”
“Yes, thank you,” Alex sighs, relieved, peeling the filthy shorts down and throwing them into the dark as he trips over toward the bathroom. It’s almost a shame to know they’re entirely a lost cause, but Greg can’t find it in himself to be too disappointed. They’d served their purpose admirably tonight.
When Alex returns to hover at the bedside, stretched shirt in his hands, and grey trousers pulled back in place, Greg pushes his luck one more time. The covers are thrown back ever so casually, and his gaze stays steadily on the triangle of light spilling out from where the bathroom door was left, ajar.
Greg does not flinch. He doesn’t. Not when the light clicks off. Not when weight settles on the bed beside him. He definitely doesn’t shudder with something like relief when Alex pulls the duvet up to cover them both.
He tucks himself in so tightly that Greg can just see the top of his fluffy hair, a hint of silvery temples and the tip of a reddened ear poking out.
He collapses back down with a sigh, determined to have this – to eke out the every last moment of his one night. Shifts so their fingers brush under the covers. Alex’s long fingers brush back, experimentally. It’s promising, Greg thinks, before tucking himself under as well. There’s only the bedside lamps now, and they cast just enough light to make out Alex’s tired, if still pleased expression. The slow blinks that will see him back off to sleep proper, soon.
Greg looks down where their hands are brushing back and forth against each other and purposefully forms a fist. Alex’s curious movements stop, then, tentatively, he explores Greg’s knuckles – the veins, the jumping tendons – then finally, the single index finger he’s raised. He wraps his fingers around it, like he’d done so long ago, done so many times whenever he wanted to see the difference again. Show me – show me your ridiculous hands, please – he’d laugh.
Greg breathes deep, then dares to raise a second finger beside the first, and watches, heart pounding, as Alex’s eyes squeeze shut. He grabs at them both with a long sigh.
“Greg…”
“Alex–” Greg tries, but stops, unsure. How can he even think to ask for the impossible, when he’s already got so much more than he thought he’d ever get? “I think I–” Greg croaks, voice breaking slightly on the impossible question. He gives up on symbols and instead grasps at Alex’s hand proper, squeezing hard.
“Yeah,” Alex whispers. “Me too.”
Greg holds on. Even when Alex falls into deep sleep, and when he wakes up, half panicked in the morning. He’s still holding on when they tiptoe out to unceremoniously dump the remains of the shorts – one hand resting on Alex’s shoulder as they giggle their way toward an unattended cleaning cart. And when they’re boarding the plane in a desperate rush to beat the impending blizzard, Greg’s got a hand grasping at the hood of Alex’s jacket, like he’s stopping an unruly child from escaping.
They do finally part at the airport in London, Alex squeezing two of Greg’s fingers gently before they separate, to find their individual rides.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Alex says by the exit, shouldering his backpack. It’s matter of fact, like he’s discussing a work event. Nothing untoward. Even so, Paul shoots a questioning look at Greg as he clatters past with the heavy airport trolley – no doubt sensing the strange tension between the two.
“Yeah, alright.” Greg tries, but ultimately fails, to match Alex’s casual tone. “Whenever you can then,” he manages to croak out.
Whenever. It’s probably far too telling, pathetic, even, Greg thinks. But Alex only looks pleased when he shuffles off to his car with a wave. It’s not enough to stop the whirring of the machine in Greg’s head, the one that so helpfully produces scenario after scenario of how it will all inevitably go wrong –
“Greg!” Alex’s voice cuts through the noise, somehow, from afar.
Greg’s head whips up in time to see Alex, turned back to face him at the bank of waiting cars. He grins wildly when their eyes meet, and then he’s unzipping his jacket in spite of the brisk winter air, just enough so Greg can see the writing on the familiar white shirt beneath.
“Alex Horne, you fucker.”