(fic) And the city makes three
Title: And the city makes three
Pairing: Boyd Devereaux / Mathieu Dandenault
Disclaimer: this is fiction
Rating: R
It starts in Detroit with about three to many glasses of a drink that Mathieu doesn’t know the name of in English and Boyd has never had before.
It starts with the quirk of Mathieu’s eyebrow and the way that a red blush rushes onto Boyd’s face. And a thrill that races up both of their spines so Boyd is stuttering and Mathieu’s pulse is skipping. And what starts that night in the bed that Boyd is renting by the week doesn’t ever entirely end.
//
Right before he comes Mathieu realizes the banging noise isn’t from elsewhere. It’s him rocking forwards into Boyd’s mouth and backwards against the hotel door. And Mathieu is relieved to remember that this isn’t a road trip. And the rest of the team isn’t staying in the hotel.
//
The curve of Boyd’s jaw will always be rough with stubble first thing in the morning, even if he shaves before going to bed. And then they’d always make a point to not kiss when they woke up.
//
In Detroit they were always cold and if Boyd had to, forced at gunpoint, he’d say he remembered lying under the covers late at night, going out after everyone else had gone home and fucking for hours. Mathieu would say he’d always think of Boyd in Detroit as laughing and how it took months for them to be serious having sex. And by then it was more serious than sex.
//
And Detroit would always feel like the most. And the clumsiest. And it would always seem to have an edge of carelessness to it. Fingers too grasping, or teeth too assuming. The boundaries of furniture to often disregarded. And it wouldn’t make sense because it had felt like in Detroit there had been little other than time. So rushing had never been necessary.
Except for need.
//
But Boyd in the desert he would have said that touching almost always felt like stubble first thing in the morning. Because there was sand between the skin of their palms and the skin of their hips, and sand clogging up their kisses, and sand in their eyes.
And wives and little girls. And almost, almost dried out.
And Boyd would remind anyone who asked, if they asked, that him in Phoenix was Mathieu in Montreal and kissing in front of hotel windows that were icy to the touch through triple glazing.
//
Or maybe Mathieu would think harder. Phoenix was sleeping together in the light of afternoons and the hum of air conditioners. And Detroit was fucking in the dark and on the floor or against the wall.
//
It’s almost to soon to say what Toronto is like. At first Boyd would likely say it felt like relief and grace. And it felt slower and sweeter. And Mathieu would say it felt like less of a secret and more of a simply is.
//
Toronto may be the return of dazed dozing together or catnaps between. Or, more likely, just after. Before they have to pack and move on.
//
And Mathieu doesn’t shave for days before arriving, or before kissing Boyd goodbye on the times they wake up together.
//
Mathieu would say, right now were he asked that he can still make Boyd forget how to speak, can’t even say god or yes. And Boyd would say when he runs his fingers up the inside of Mathieu’s wrist under the table shouting over the noise of the bar and Jeff insisting he’s right, Mathieu’s pulse still skitters like before.
Pairing: Boyd Devereaux / Mathieu Dandenault
Disclaimer: this is fiction
Rating: R
It starts in Detroit with about three to many glasses of a drink that Mathieu doesn’t know the name of in English and Boyd has never had before.
It starts with the quirk of Mathieu’s eyebrow and the way that a red blush rushes onto Boyd’s face. And a thrill that races up both of their spines so Boyd is stuttering and Mathieu’s pulse is skipping. And what starts that night in the bed that Boyd is renting by the week doesn’t ever entirely end.
//
Right before he comes Mathieu realizes the banging noise isn’t from elsewhere. It’s him rocking forwards into Boyd’s mouth and backwards against the hotel door. And Mathieu is relieved to remember that this isn’t a road trip. And the rest of the team isn’t staying in the hotel.
//
The curve of Boyd’s jaw will always be rough with stubble first thing in the morning, even if he shaves before going to bed. And then they’d always make a point to not kiss when they woke up.
//
In Detroit they were always cold and if Boyd had to, forced at gunpoint, he’d say he remembered lying under the covers late at night, going out after everyone else had gone home and fucking for hours. Mathieu would say he’d always think of Boyd in Detroit as laughing and how it took months for them to be serious having sex. And by then it was more serious than sex.
//
And Detroit would always feel like the most. And the clumsiest. And it would always seem to have an edge of carelessness to it. Fingers too grasping, or teeth too assuming. The boundaries of furniture to often disregarded. And it wouldn’t make sense because it had felt like in Detroit there had been little other than time. So rushing had never been necessary.
Except for need.
//
But Boyd in the desert he would have said that touching almost always felt like stubble first thing in the morning. Because there was sand between the skin of their palms and the skin of their hips, and sand clogging up their kisses, and sand in their eyes.
And wives and little girls. And almost, almost dried out.
And Boyd would remind anyone who asked, if they asked, that him in Phoenix was Mathieu in Montreal and kissing in front of hotel windows that were icy to the touch through triple glazing.
//
Or maybe Mathieu would think harder. Phoenix was sleeping together in the light of afternoons and the hum of air conditioners. And Detroit was fucking in the dark and on the floor or against the wall.
//
It’s almost to soon to say what Toronto is like. At first Boyd would likely say it felt like relief and grace. And it felt slower and sweeter. And Mathieu would say it felt like less of a secret and more of a simply is.
//
Toronto may be the return of dazed dozing together or catnaps between. Or, more likely, just after. Before they have to pack and move on.
//
And Mathieu doesn’t shave for days before arriving, or before kissing Boyd goodbye on the times they wake up together.
//
Mathieu would say, right now were he asked that he can still make Boyd forget how to speak, can’t even say god or yes. And Boyd would say when he runs his fingers up the inside of Mathieu’s wrist under the table shouting over the noise of the bar and Jeff insisting he’s right, Mathieu’s pulse still skitters like before.