One-shot: State of Balance
Title: State of Balance
Pairing/Group: Ace/Arsenal, rest of 8Uppers in the background
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: -
Notes: For spurious, as a part of je_holiday 2011. Originally posted here
Thanks to my beta, pashoshi, and a few other people who helped me out. 9900 words.
Summary: 8Uppers. The boys go on a road trip to clear their minds. Ace seems to focus more on Arsenal than on what the road has to offer.
It’s Jacky who suggests the road trip. Beyond that, he doesn’t say much about why they should just pick up and drive across half of Japan.
Johnny’s been gloomy since Eito left, and Gum has made a milk bottle several times out of the habit. Mac has been crying more than usual while reading that old worn out fairytale, that sap. Unfinished kids’ clothes still lie around Toppo’s DJ booth. Ace has picked a fight every night for the past two weeks, but Arsenal doesn’t seem as energetic when giving him advice as he used to be. They don’t miss Eito. They are tough men handling serious business that does not go remotely well with raising children, and tough men with life missions go on road trips to renew their state of balance.
It is agreed on by overwhelming majority, and Arsenal lags behind the rest of them when they pile into their van, knowing he might die of hunger with everyone at least a bit capable of cooking gone. They set off, and each of them regrets going before the first bathroom break.
It has something to do with the fact that Ace took it upon himself to navigate Mac out of the city. He just didn’t want to sit in the back-that much is clear-but they let him do it and only really manage to get onto the highway an hour later. Ace is complaining and telling Mac that he sucks at this. Mac seriously contemplates making him drive since he seems to know all about it, but remembers how many bottles of beer it took Ace to start his day and just grips the steering wheel tighter. That is when Jacky decides to voice his opinion on the speed of the car, and Toppo puts on his big headphones, the sound of which almost overrides the music streaming from the radio. Mac catches Arsenal lighting another cigarette in the rear mirror and wonders if maybe he should have one too. Gum starts to wrestle with Jacky, and Ace tries to join in from the front seat. Arsenal grabs him by his hair, pushes him back down onto his seat and sticks the lit cigarette in between his lips.
“I don’t want to die riding off the hill in a big family van, so shut up,” Arsenal groans.
Ace smirks around the cigarette-he forgot his supply at home on the counter when he stopped for one last shot-and stretches contently, old worn Converse landing on top of the glove compartment.
Mac wants to protest.
“You’re as boring as ever,” Ace says, then slumps back into his seat contently, turning up the radio and humming in between inhales. He seems to agree that it would be a boring death for a cool guy like him.
Mac decides to take what he can get. He wishes Jacky would stop shouting, but soon Johnny actually pulls the man back by his t-shirt, and suddenly the car is almost peaceful. Arsenal isn’t stingy with his cigarettes until they stop to buy more, for which Mac decides to cut him a deal next time it’s his turn on cleaning duty.
By the time they decide to stop for the day, the salt of the ocean mixes with the smell of the outside food stands, and they are all in dire need of beer. Some more than others, as it turns out. Arsenal tugs his gun deeper underneath his jersey when Ace reaches for it drunkenly, wanting to be taught how to shoot. Gum pushes him back and puts another beer into Arsenal’s hand.
“You should have left it at home,” Gum murmurs. But his mask is stacked neatly in his pocket, so Arsenal doesn’t believe him. He watches Ace lying sprawled underneath the bench in the parking lot just where Gum pushed him, smiling stupidly up at them.
“Bang,” he says, giggling, then adds, “So gloomy,” when he gets no reaction from any of them. Just when it seems he’s fallen asleep, he scrambles blindly to his feet, steals Gum’s beer, stubbornly punching him in the shoulder, and shuffles off. “Nothing interesting around here,” they hear him mumbling.
“Idiot should just look up,” Johnny murmurs from where he’s taken up another whole bench and stretches out his arm, then opens his palm as if touching the stars above.
An hour later, Arsenal finds Ace leaning against the van’s fender, beer bottles all around him, while he nuzzles the taillight, making kissy faces at it.
“For weeks now, there’s been nothing interesting happening. It’s boring to get beaten up every night.”
“I told you to start with small punches, to stay on guard,” Arsenal mutters.
“But that’s boring,” Ace says to the taillight. “You sound like that gloomy guy. If only he got a little mad.”
Arsenal sits next to him. “Get it together,” he murmurs.
Ace makes kissy faces at him instead of the taillight in reply.
In the end, Arsenal frowns and gets up. He looks down at Ace, thinking maybe he’ll get up too. Ace doesn’t; he just looks back up at Arsenal and then starts searching through his pockets. Arsenal kicks the packet of cigarettes lying behind Ace towards him, but Ace doesn’t stop searching, so Arsenal gives up and retreats into the car. As far as he knows, that’s where they’re sleeping tonight, and so far only Toppo is huddled inside. The sooner you get in, the better sleeping place you’ll get. In theory. Arsenal smirks and turns the keys in the ignition then turns the lights on. He hears a breathless squeak followed by giggles. He turns the lights and the engine off and goes to sleep.
Ace wakes up to the feeling of nauseous movement. It’s like the van is slowly taking off into the air. His stomach flutters, and he decides this is just another half-drunken dream, nightmare, the illusion of motion, whatever. Vans don’t fly. They also don’t grunt.
“No fucking way,” Arsenal’s voice says, and it sounds almost like he really is doubting whatever reality is around.
“Yeah, vans don’t fly,” Ace groans. He finds it pretty evil that Arsenal is in his nightmare. Then he promptly rolls off the seat he was curled up on, right on top of Arsenal stretched on the floor underneath him. The van starts moving forward. It’s still stuck in a weird angle though.
“Get off me. We’re being towed.” Arsenal pushes at Ace and squirms underneath him. Ace’s head pounds, and his vision gets a little blurry as he tries to stare at Arsenal from this angle. He has hair in his eyes and one single hair is stuck to his lip. Ace reaches out to brush it off.
“What the . . .” Arsenal starts, pushing at Ace with more force.
“Oh, just relax and let me sleep more.” Ace tries to make himself comfortable against the seat in the small gap that separates it from Arsenal’s body.
“No way,” Arsenal says and punches his side. Ace growls and his knee collides with Arsenal’s thigh. Ace shifts, and when Arsenal hits him again, he grabs Arsenal’s hands and pushes them up, holding them above his head. That makes Ace’s entire body ache, but at least no one is hitting him anymore.
“You should start with the small punches; stay on guard,” he mutters viciously.
Arsenal struggles against Ace, trying to twist out of his hold. “Jerk, let me go.” His breath tickles Ace’s neck.
“I would stay still if I were in your place,” Ace says, and this time his voice sounds dangerous in a completely different way. Arsenal freezes beneath him then swears again.
“Mac will kill us,” he mutters.
“But something fun is finally happening. You should enjoy your life more anyway,” Ace whispers suggestively into Arsenal’s ear, squeezing his wrists.
“Don’t you dare move an inch,” Arsenal rasps back, his knee dangerously close to Ace’s crotch, but not in a good way, not at all. In the end, they stay like that, neither of them wanting to budge, until the tow truck stops and lets the van down. They peek out of the window and find the police parking lot rather abandoned.
“We should just drive away,” Ace says, slowly inching towards the front seat.
“If they catch us . . .” Arsenal starts.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid. Some criminal you are,” Ace says, and starts up the car.
“Idiot, I have a gun on me . . .” Arsenal tries to get the point across once again.
“So use it,” Ace grits out through his teeth.
The guard at the gate is faced with the head of an old but well-kept revolver.
“I think it’s time to get back on the road,” Arsenal murmurs when they find the rest of the group in the parking lot by the ocean. He glares at them, making sure they know how much he appreciates them leaving him in the car with Ace.
“He wouldn’t even budge, and you pointed a gun at me and told me to go away,” Jacky complains. “I thought you could at least make sure the car stays safe.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Mac sighs. He doesn’t let Ace sit in the front seat again. Ace sits particularly close to Arsenal instead, grinning at him every time he manages to get his attention, offering him pretzels he found in his jacket and making obscene slurping noises the more Arsenal pushes him away with a slightly pained look.
Ace gets into a fight the next night. Arsenal isn’t there, but later he finds Ace lying in the middle of a narrow alley, looking like a complete stray. He crouches down and stares at him.
“Johnny says the stars are prettier by the ocean,” Ace murmurs, and Arsenal pokes the puffy place where Ace’s cheek bone would normally be.
“Let’s get you some ice,” he says and stretches out a hand to pull Ace up. Ace winces once he’s on his feet but still steers Arsenal away from the busy streets and in the direction of the beach.
“Cold water it is,” Arsenal mutters. He pulls out Ace’s shirt that he collected from the corner of the alley, the trail that had led to Ace in the first place, and dampens it in the water.
“Here,” Arsenal mutters and hands Ace his jersey.
“Even your clothes are boring. Always the same black stuff,” Ace mutters as he spreads it on the sand and lies down. Arsenal ends up lying next to him, spreading the shirt over Ace’s face.
“Can’t see the stars,” Ace mutters and pulls it away from his eyes. He grimaces at the salty taste it leaves on his lips, and in the end, he holds it only to the most swollen part of his face, side eyeing Arsenal.
“What’s so pretty about something small and faraway?” he asks. Untouchable.
Ace used to like the stars. When he was small, they used to be his excuse to not go to bed.
“They could burn you to ashes if you got too close,” Arsenal says, what a nurse once told them when they sat on a windowsill, looking up at them.
“That would be a cool death.” Ace smirks.
“I don’t think there’s anything cool about . . . about that,” About death. Not anymore, Arsenal wants to say. He’s seen people dying in an instant, and others begging to stay alive. There was nothing cool about either.
“You’ve changed, become even more solemn,” Ace muses, looking at Arsenal instead of at the stars.
“And you’re still the same.” Arsenal thinks Ace still likes the stars. “You’re not cool at all,” he adds.
Ace looks away. He lights a cigarette, hands it to Arsenal, and lights one for himself.
“It looks almost as bright as the stars,” he says, holding his own against the skies.
“It’ll burn out,” Arsenal notes.
“So will those suns, you gloomy old man,” Ace laughs. Then he hisses because the entire left side of his face hurts.
“I’m not sleeping in the car today,” Arsenal murmurs much later.
Ace doesn’t say anything to that, just pulls the jersey from underneath them and covers them both with it.
Sand against bare skin is a feeling that makes one feel alive.
“Maybe Johnny is right,” Ace notes a little later, turning away from the stars and curling up on his side. His back rises and falls with his breathing against Arsenal’s arm. Arsenal falls asleep counting the stars that are already fading away into the morning light.
“We should go shopping,” Ace suggest next morning. Other than Toppo and Gum, no one seems too enthusiastic.
“Let’s go. You need something to replace that murky black jersey of yours,” Ace says to Arsenal.
When Ace starts prodding Arsenal onto his feet, Toppo and Gum lose interest, neither of them feeling like they need to know exactly how it looks when Arsenal goes shopping.
“It’s none of your business,” Arsenal snaps, sitting back down and lighting another cigarette before the one in his mouth is even finished.
“I want new shoes, and you destroyed my favorite T-shirt yesterday,” Ace says and pulls him to his feet. The shirt really wasn’t anything special.
“You lost it before I destroyed it,” Arsenal points out. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Details,” Ace counters, snatching the entire pack of cigarettes from Arsenal. “Not giving them back,” he challenges. “And I stole your wallet yesterday.” He smirks, pulling it out of his jeans.
They’re in public, which is the only reason Arsenal doesn’t actually pull out his gun and shoot the wallet out of Ace’s hand. It would totally be worth the money in it. He might be sorry to see the photo he’s kept in there go, but maybe it’d be better gone anyway. He’s been dreading someone actually finding out that he snatched one of those pictures they had made with Eito.
“Whatever. I’m not buying anything anyway,” Arsenal says in the end, fingers uncurling from his gun. Jacky chokes on his drink hearing it. Mac almost gives them some pocket money, for ice-cream or something. It feels like it would be appropriate since the kids are going out. Arsenal looks like he wouldn’t appreciate the joke. He drags himself after Ace, who is too bouncy as he puts on his sunglasses and smugly sticks his tongue out at Toppo.
“What are you doing?” Arsenal asks when Ace stares at him then takes a random Hawaiian shirt off the rack and puts it against his chest.
“Guessing your size. And your style,” Ace grins. He had to throw the lollipop out at the entrance to the first store they went into, but his bottom lip is still slightly pink and sticky from it. It’s distracting.
“I’ll shoot your head off if you ever suggest me wearing something like that,” Arsenal says, and turns around to march out of the store.
Ace smirks. “Something more subtle, then,” he says to the shop attendant that has been watching them rather cautiously. She totally checked Ace out when he came out of the changing room with a shirt that he didn’t bother buttoning up, so Ace doesn’t believe her weariness anyway.
“Just one pair of pants and one t-shirt,” Ace bargains in the next shop, and Arsenal gives in.
He watches Ace turn into a little kid as he goes around the place, picking up different outfits, holding up the most horrendous ones over the racks of clothes so that Arsenal can see them.
It’s fun.
It looks like fun.
Arsenal just wants to get out of there. He rakes his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.
“Here.” Ace is in front of Arsenal the next moment, looking at him like he wants to tear his clothes off. Well, he’s been hinting that he doesn’t like them, but there’s no need for so much . . . urgency.
Arsenal really wants a smoke.
The clothes are actually kind of okay. The jeans go only down to his knees and hang weirdly off his hips. Just like Ace likes to wear them. Arsenal’s hipbones just do an even poorer job of holding them up. At least they’re black. The t-shirt is red though, deep red, and has these three weird buttons on top and a scratchy collar.
“They call them polo shirts,” Ace says, and Arsenal does not jump at the sudden sound.
“It’s blood red.” Arsenal scrunches his nose up and faces Ace. “I’m taking it off and leaving.”
Ace steps closer to him, and somehow his hands are in Arsenal’s back pockets. Arsenal reaches for his gun, only it’s lying on the chair, safely in its holster that he took off with his jeans.
“The pants fit you. It almost looks like you have an ass,” Ace hisses, smirking when he realizes what Arsenal wanted to do. “Got you, all right.”
The candy smudge isn’t on Ace’s lip anymore, but his breath somehow smells like cotton candy. Too sweet, too intense.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Arsenal breathes out.
“Having fun,” Ace whispers right into his ear. His breath and Arsenal’s hair moving with it tickle his neck. Arsenal tries to stand still as Ace steps closer. But then he’s too close, so Arsenal tries to get away.
His back collides with a mirror.
“Nice,” Ace mutters, now pushing his hips forward, hands in Arsenal’s back pockets squeezing and bringing him up a bit to meet the movement.
That is when Arsenal remembers that even without his gun, his hands are free this time. He pulls Ace’s head away, grabbing a fistful of his hair and wondering how far his head could go before something would snap.
Ace likes that too, though. It’s exhilarating if anything. He smirks and his own hands don’t budge, his lower body pressing more against Arsenal’s.
“What the fuck?” Arsenal hisses. It comes out raspy, and he almost stops pushing Ace away when he realizes.
Ace makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, wanting to drag it out, but it turns high and painful when Arsenal’s other hand punches him in the stomach. Ace stumbles back. He somehow didn’t expect Arsenal to punch him of all things.
Arsenal moves fast; he grabs his things and realizes he’s still in the store’s clothes only when he’s almost out of the changing room. He quickly puts the gun where it belongs, safely and heavily at his side, and strips off his shirt. He catches sight of Ace leaning against the mirror, massaging his stomach and looking at him with a gleam in his eyes. Arsenal keeps the store pants, rashly puts his own t-shirt on, and bolts toward the cash register.
“You keep away from me,” he hisses as he pays.
Ace runs off to a different store after that, and Arsenal relaxes, crumpling his old pants in his hand and shaking off the weird feeling that is his calves being exposed to the air. It’s all just child’s play. Ace is bored. Arsenal is unimpressed. That just makes Ace play some more. Once they come back from this trip and go back to work, Ace will fall into his old pattern of finding entertainment elsewhere.
The next ride isn’t that long and it’s mostly winding along the coast. Ace forgets to be annoyed by the lack of good music and watches waves crash against the rocks. They break and fall apart into a million little crystals gleaming in the setting sun. Jacky catches him at it and teases him for leaving spots where his nose touched the window. When Ace breaths on it, it shows a weirdly patterned smudge, a fleeting image, there just for a moment.
Mac says they might hang around for a few days so they should make sure not to do anything stupid. He eyes Arsenal and Ace like it was their fault the car was parked in a spot with the no parking sign right above it. They stay in some run down hostel, but besides a bed for each of them, it has a bar and darts. They all probably missed it because they round up a small table, shots of whisky and a soon overfilled ashtray, and place random bets as they pass over the set of darts with bent tips.
Ace probably isn’t the only one who notices Arsenal getting up and leaving. It’s not like he was all that subtle about it. His chair screeched against the floor and he heaved a sigh after downing one more shot. Only Ace might be the one that actually cares about where Arsenal is going. He likes to think he’s sneakier about leaving, though he tries to be inconspicuous just because it’s more fun like that. He imagines Johnny looking for him in confusion after he’s disappeared because it’s been him handing the darts over to Ace the entire evening.
Ace can’t fool Arsenal, though. He hears the click of gun in the dark, sees the glint of it as Arsenal stands facing away from him. He could still aim well enough if he wanted to.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m keeping you company. You seem to be the most interesting among the dreary bunch today,” Ace says lightly.
“Don’t get in the way,” Arsenal says to that.
They walk for quite some time, leaving the town behind. Ace buys takoyaki and trails mostly behind Arsenal. He finds himself in a field and realizes they must have passed it earlier that day. He can hear the ocean beneath them on one side. Arsenal pulls out his gun and shoots, a tree branch falling heavily into the grass.
Ace probably knew all along; Arsenal was just itching to use his gun, not really allowed to even pull it out for the last few days. Ace tagged along because the old revolver is fascinating to him, always has been. He sits on the edge of the field, smokes and watches Arsenal’s shadow moving in the field.
It’s somehow more real to shoot with someone there. Even if the person isn’t a target, it makes Arsenal’s heart race a little. He cleans the gun when he’s done, sitting a bit further away from Ace, who hums a strange melody under his breath.
“Isn’t this boring?” Arsenal can’t stop the digging remark.
“I’m used to it, being around you all the time,” Ace replies.
They walk back in silence, almost peaceful. Dangerous, but Arsenal’s instincts slacken anyway. Ace knows that. His own posture is tense.
They turn into a dark alley close to the place where they’re staying. Slowly, late night voices die out in the distance. The place looks like any other dark alley in the country, like the one in which Arsenal found Ace a few days back.
Ace pounces. Arsenal’s back hits the wall and his hand finds Ace’s left wrist when he reaches for his gun. Ace is smug; Arsenal is very awake.
“Got you, all right,” Ace murmurs.
Arsenal doesn’t say a word, lips in a tight line as he feels his gun being pulled out of the holster. His breath hitches when it digs into the small of his back, Ace’s arm coming around him. It’s strange feeling, almost an embrace, as much as that can be when one has the head of his own gun digging somewhere into his ass. The hammer is loose, the latch is pulled back, and Ace isn’t going to do anything stupid. But it’s the gun, not Ace with his mouth latched to Arsenal’s neck, pulling them close together that makes his pulse quicken, drumming in his ears and growing louder with more pressure.
“It wouldn’t be fair otherwise,” Ace eventually adds. He tries to grin, but it’s crooked and laced with urgency. One of his legs slips between Arsenal’s, and he bites the vein that is straining in Arsenal’s neck.
“Just play with me,” he breathes out. Arsenal tries to push himself off the wall, but that just brings him closer to Ace, and the grip on his waist tightens.
Ace is growing hard against Arsenal’s hip, and it’s so good-the feel of Arsenal’s hard body against him, Arsenal’s harsh breaths in his ear, the illusion of power seeping from his fingers where they feel the cold metal of the gun. He’s not even holding it properly, just clutching it as he moves his hips. He wants Arsenal to pull at his hair. He isn’t going to beg though. Or order him.
Arsenal does it anyway only a moment later, staring hard into Ace’s eyes when he pulls his head back. He knows Ace just wants to get a rise out of him. Fine. Still, quickly jerking off in the dark like this is one thing; sucking and biting and nibbling the skin in the process is another.
“Stop fucking around,” Arsenal says harshly. Then they both stop breathing for a moment when a loud thud sounds through the alley.
A stray cat brushes against Ace’s legs a moment later and he laughs. It comes out breathless. “Fine,” he whispers, and fits his right hand between them, pulling at a zipper, his or Arsenal’s.
“Jerk,” Arsenal says. He was not encouraging Ace. He pulls at Ace’s hair again, and the man arches into him. Arsenal’s boxers are pulled down-harshly, just so-and his hips move because there’s a thumb in the slit of his cock.
“Cheater,” Arsenal hisses. Ace pulls down his own boxers and braces his right hand against the wall next to Arsenal’s side. He does most of the work, doesn’t mind because it means they’re going his pace, faster and harder, and clashing. His left wrist is painfully pressed against the wall, but he keeps the gun in place while he slides his right hand down the wall onto Arsenal’s thigh, bringing it up.
“You like it,” Ace says when he feels Arsenal’s cock twitch against his stomach.
Every time Arsenal moves, the gun digs painfully into his muscles, be it the trigger guard, the handle or the head. He’s biting his lip, trying not to moan, not to make a sound every time it happens. Everything is sharp-the pain in his back where it’s pressed against the wall, the short groans when he pulls at Ace’s hair more to keep him away from his neck, Ace’s gaze when he thrusts forward, his own inhales when their cocks brush, and the feelings coiling in his stomach.
Ace is close, his palm is sweaty around the gun, and his control is slipping. Arsenal narrows his eyes with his next thrusts. He wants this, they need this, harder and faster, just like that, more, until finally Arsenal grips Ace’s hips, actively meets him, and Ace’s right hand moves from his thigh, and he fits it in between them. He wraps his fingers around them both. Arsenal’s leg slips down from Ace’s hip, and he closes his fist even tighter in Ace’s hair. It hurts. In return, Ace pushes the gun against Arsenal’s back, fighting to gain back control. He wants to lick the sweat he sees gleaming in the faint light of the distant lamp off Arsenal’s neck, wants to suck at his jaw, but there’s no time, no room for it as he thrusts forward and groans.
“Come,” Arsenal rasps out. It’s dark, low and bossy. It would’ve sounded unimpressed if Arsenal didn’t moan for the first time and go rigid after his next thrust, going still between the wall and Ace. Ace feels come spilling over his fingers and pushes Arsenal into the wall, one, two more times before he really does come himself. He shudders and scrambles for purchase, letting go of their cocks and grabbing at the wall.
“Was that an order?” he breathes as he slumps against Arsenal, who finally lets go of his hair.
“Get off,” Arsenal murmurs, gasping for air before he can say more.
Ace just did, but even though the gun is still in his hand, he decides against saying so. He rolls to the side, pulling his left arm from behind Arsenal. He doesn’t give the gun back, not until he wipes his right hand on his shirt and tucks himself in.
Arsenal grabs the gun when he fixes his own pants.
“Go away,” he hisses, still leaning against the wall. He needs to check the gun, to see that Ace didn’t scratch the more fragile parts. He needs to lean against the wall a little longer before taking a step. He can’t stand the trail of Ace’s soap and sex in the air.
“Go away,” he repeats.
Ace is gone before Arsenal finishes the sentence this time. Maybe this was a little too much fun for such a gloomy old man. It felt like too much, anyway.
“We have a job,” Mac says the next morning as they sit on the pier, half-asleep or eating breakfast.
“I thought we were on a road trip to clear our minds,” Johnny says, wrinkling his nose at the idea of strong perfume and desperate women. But maybe it’s already past that stage.
“Well, I was inspired by a certain letter when choosing where we’d go,” Mac says.
They vote on it, but it’s clear what the result is going to be when Jacky mentions an amusement park that they could stop by with the extra money.
Arsenal grunts; like this string of too bright beaches, chirpy girls and pink drinks wasn’t enough. But he can already picture Toppo trying out all the rollercoasters he can queue, Jacky wondering how many games he can abuse with his throwing skills, Mac going to a fairytale castle if they have one, Johnny trying out different types of cotton candy, and Gum buying some stupid mask he’ll never really use anyway. Ace will probably end up riding some of those kid rides with big ponies that swing back and forth while sucking on a big lollipop and scaring all the children away.
“Is there a circus?” Toppo asks. “I’d like to go see a show,”
“Clowns are creepy,” Ace mutters from where he’s lying on the hot wooden deck.
Yeah, they are, and Arsenal doesn’t like them.
Mac and Jacky explain the plan. Ace sleeps through most of it. Arsenal pets his gun, cleaned and ready.
“Tomorrow night,” Mac concludes.
They are left to spend the day at the beach or wherever they want. Toppo wants to see the local aquarium and Gum agrees; Johnny tags along. Jacky and Mac seem to still have a lot to discuss, and Arsenal gets up, leaving before Ace really wakes up, and disappears into the labyrinth of small streets in search of strong coffee and quiet. Ace spends the morning lying on the pier, sun in his eyes and warmed wood against his back. He fiddles with his shirt, pulling loose threads off it. He isn’t really that hangover or that sleepy. A little dulled maybe, annoyed because Arsenal is avoiding him, and he’s out of cigarettes. He buys a cone of ice cream for lunch and stumbles into Arsenal, sitting in a girly café with pink and yellow sunshades. He’s sitting in a corner with a big plant shading him from the sun, smoking and drinking the blackest coffee they have on the menu. Ace runs and buys another cone. He tries to give it to Arsenal.
“It always works with girls,” he mutters.
He really should have just stayed quiet.
Arsenal looks up at Ace only when melted ice cream drips down Ace’s fingers towards his wrist. He blinks away a fleeting image of a long tongue licking it off, slowly. Ace’s eyes are on him when Arsenal looks at his face.
“I’m leaving,” Arsenal says. He leaves and doesn’t pay, so Ace is pretty pissed off. He throws the ice cream away-untouched-and pays for the coffee and his lemonade. For such a morose man, Arsenal sure knows how to have his panties in the twist.
What the fuck is going on with him? With Ace, with Arsenal. What the fuck are they doing?
Ace kind of wants to do it again.
He doesn’t want to think about it, though. He’s at the beach and has tons of time before tomorrow night, before the next job. He knows this: how to kill time, how to have fun in between jobs. He strolls out of the café and stays out of Arsenal’s way for the rest of the day. He finds a loud bar full of people, locals and tourists, to drink at that night.
It’s a pretty standard job. Lives don’t have to be spared, but they’re going for minimal attention and minimal noise. There are a few people guarding the place, but they shouldn’t be armed beyond an occasional stick or maybe a knife. Gum, Jacky and Ace are to go; Arsenal is to be backup only. The rest of them stay out on guard. Mac drives for the night.
Standard, my ass; the first guy Ace meets pulls out an automatic which Ace just manages to kick out of his hands before it goes off. The bullet another man fires misses Ace’s ear by millimeters. He’s all alone, and he’s lost his sense of direction. At least there’s only one man around at the moment. Okay, so there are two. This is a bit too much fun even by Ace’s standards. There’s a gun pointed at him, and it’s new and shiny and by far not the first one tonight. Is this really worth the ponies he’ll get to ride tomorrow?
He’s smirking because that thought is funny. But then there’s a quick movement, and he doesn’t know where any of the men are. There’s a fist coming at him out of nowhere-no small punches at all-and the gun is, yet again, aiming right between his eyes. A shot hits the gunman in the shoulder and another finds his stomach as he falls. Ace swings his fist at the other man and spots Arsenal standing in the doorway, his eyes checking the room for more people. Well, this hasn’t really been a quiet job from the very beginning. Ace runs ahead again, but from that moment on, until they’ve got the papers and searched everything, he can feel Arsenal and his gun in his shadow. They’re the last to leave, and before Ace knows it, he’s thrown against the wall and Arsenal’s got him by his collar.
“Reckless as always,” he hisses. Okay, so maybe Ace could’ve signaled for back-up right after the first guy.
Arsenal doesn’t say anything more, just lets Ace go and walks ahead. Ace brushes off his shoulders and searches his pockets for some food. He’s pretty sure there’s a mochi somewhere in his pants that he didn’t get to eat on the way here.
It’s silent as they ride out of the town. Mac steers the car inland, into the mountains, but essentially back home. They stop somewhere to collect the money, but the silence isn’t broken. It’s mostly just the clicking of Arsenal’s gun as he decides to clean it straight away, the rustling of money as Jacky divides it between them, and the general rummaging when someone finally remembers to be hungry and thirsty. They sleep in the forest, most of them huddled in the car. The night is colder here, and they wake up to stale air and fogged glass.
Arsenal can see smudges on the window above him; with his eyes half closed, it looks like there’s a word written in between them, want. Maybe an I that was wiped away. He rubs his eyes then rolls the window down, wiping everything away and gulping for air, for life.
They find a small inn not far from where they’re parked. It seems safe enough to go have breakfast. The old lady doesn’t seem to mind them looking a bit haggard.
“Coffee smells nice here,” Mac says happily as he sits down.
Ace makes a face. He’d rather have a shot, really, to kill the buzz of last night’s bullets still in his head. He grabs a bowl of rice and watches Arsenal sniff his own cup of coffee, all suspicious. That snob. Arsenal takes a gulp, and Ace practically sees the old-man wrinkle on his forehead disappearing. That good, huh?
Arsenal isn’t all that hungry. He eats only because he knows he probably won’t have another chance until they get sufficiently far down the road. Eventually, it gets too loud and cheerful for him, so he grabs his cup, pours himself some more coffee and heads out for the veranda. The old lady insisted on a ‘no smoking while eating breakfast’ rule.
The smell of freshly lit cigarette hits Arsenal’s nose when he opens the door. He’s already searching for his own pack, sitting down on the bench and going through his pockets with his free hand.
He can’t find the lighter. “Here,” Ace says, handing it to him. He hovers over him while Arsenal lights up, takes a short sip of his coffee then sticks his cigarette back between his lips, eyes narrowing.
Ace isn’t moving, isn’t saying anything. “What do you want?” Arsenal asks.
“Just to sit down on the bench,” Ace says, and Arsenals sighs, scoots over. It’s quiet but for the tapping of Ace’s shoe against the veranda floor.
“This . . . it’s a phase . . .” Arsenal doesn’t know where he was going with that.
“Huh?” Ace says gruffly and painfully loud.
Well, that makes two of them.
Still. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, really.” Ace slumps against the backrest, smoke curling from his lips in the foggy morning.
People who want nothing don’t scribble about it on car windows. Not even when they’re bored.
“Where the fuck are we headed anyway?” Arsenal asks this time.
“Amusement park,” Jacky says from the doorway then scolds them for bringing the dishes outside. Arsenal notices the rice bowl on the handrail.
Ace seems to be content with that answer.
It’s more a fair than an amusement park, but it will do. Arsenal doesn’t feel like shooting colorful roses off their wooden stems, but of course Johnny makes him. And then Toppo, and then Jacky and Gum, just to annoy him. Ace finds the carrousel. He rides the ponies. And the big, chubby red convertible. He also makes a small girl cry when they fight over who’s going to ride the unicorn next.
“But I’ve waited two rides for it already!”
“Yes, but she’s five,” Mac has to interfere.
That gets them sulky Ace sitting on a bench, alternately drinking from a juice box and sucking on yet another lollipop. Arsenal sits next to him. It seems pretty safe to glare at the world in unison. However, Ace can only sulk for so long with all the fun the fair offers. Arsenal ends up shooting down four roses for him. Well, he’s not the one paying for the bullets. Ace carries the biggest one in his teeth until Jacky whacks him over head and makes him bite through the stem when they’re entering the public bath and people keep staring.
The next morning, the person who’s the most sober gets to drive. This means Johnny and way too slow of a tempo, so soon enough they settle on taking turns. By late that night, they’re back home, the van parked in the garage by their bar. They all feel pretty broken and not refreshed at all. Clearly the trip has been a success. Gum pulls out a weird pouch from the crevice of his seat.
“I knew something was digging into my ass,” he mutters.
“I’m sure you liked it,” Ace says grumpily. He doesn’t try to take the pouch away from Gum, but it’s a close thing.
“What is that?” Mac grabs it and feels the contents shift underneath his fingers. It’s somehow familiar.
“It’s coffee beans,” Ace murmurs, grabbing his bag and marching inside. “Don’t you have that super private morning coffee club of yours? You and Arsenal,” he adds over his shoulders.
Jacky pounces at him. “What is that? What is it?”
“He seems to like grinding them. It’s an old man thing, isn’t it? I don’t know; they said at the store that it’s good stuff.” Ace shrugs Jacky off and disappears.
Once inside, Mac opens the pouch and grins. The coffee sure smells good. Arsenal pushes him away a little and dips his fingers into it, lets them sink between the beans then rubs a few of them between his fingertips. He goes to bed right away and ignores the pouting Mac who wants to try the coffee right away.
“I’m tired. Don’t be greedy,” he mutters. What the fuck is this anyway? They’re back now. The phase should be over.
The bar is loud and full of people. They’ve been back for almost a week and things are settling down, old and new patterns coming to them as they fall into the rhythm that has been there all along. It’s not the same. It’s not better or worse, sadder or happier; it just is, them and the lives they decide to live in that moment. It’s a fun night, really, plenty to see and laugh at, even more to do. There are so many options, right there, in the space between the DJ booth and the bar.
When the music is loudest and Gum and Johnny could probably use a hand at the bar, Ace finds himself closing the door to Arsenal’s room. From the inside.
Ace isn’t floaty; he might have whims, but not everything he does is caprice, arbitrary, a sudden impulse that will be swiped away by the next newer or more interesting one. He watches Arsenal as he puts his gun back together after a thorough cleaning. It’s a slow and meticulous process. His hands look strong, confident as they fit everything into the right place, the occasional click resounding between the more distant bass beats. When he’s done, Arsenal loads the gun, one bullet after another. He doesn’t put it back in its place at his waist. It lies there, in the middle of the table, while Arsenal gets up and walks towards Ace. He stops only when the toes of his heavy army shoes are touching the tips of Ace’s Converses.
Ace’s fingers are rough and cold when he runs his hand down Arsenal’s cheek and neck. It’s not a gentle touch, but Arsenal doesn’t budge. It’s familiar. It’s harder to stay still, to keep looking into Ace’s eyes, when he doesn’t stop there. Instead, his hand moves back, squeezing Arsenal’s neck, and then Ace’s fingers are running through his hair. He grabs a handful but doesn’t really pull, just goes still in that moment. And that-all of it-is completely new.
It makes Arsenal want things much more than if Ace just took them. So he leans closer and kisses Ace. The hand in his hair relaxes for a second, then the fist closes even tighter, and Ace is kissing him back, opening his mouth and running his tongue over Arsenal’s bottom lip. The wet, warm feeling makes Arsenal jerk a little, but Ace is holding him tightly in place now. He’s licking into Arsenal’s mouth; he’s persistent, almost forceful. In return, Arsenal pushes him more into the door, fitting himself between Ace’s spread legs, one hand on his hip, the other pressed against the door between Ace’s side and arm.
The kisses get longer, the atmosphere shifts, and it’s unsettling how comfortable it is to press against Ace and kiss him, to pull at his lip and swallow the moan that spills from him, how normal it is when Ace’s tongue dips deeper afterwards. It’s breathtaking, and Arsenal is pretty sure he wanted to pull away after just one kiss, after just trying it out, after finding out how Ace tastes.
In the end, it’s Ace who pulls Arsenal back by his hair, and his mouth moves behind his ear and lower, sucking at his neck, nibbling and biting lightly until Arsenal turns his head into the touch himself. He arches and finds himself much closer to Ace than he’s ever planned to be.
The next moment, Ace presses them even closer, wrapping one hand around Arsenal’s waist and holding him steady. Ace’s hips jerk just a little, and he groans, struggling to control his body because he wants more, but not yet, not now when Arsenal is willing to let him suck at a spot in the crook of his neck, pushing into Ace on his own, not now when he doesn’t fight the closeness like the last time.
“You’re stupid,” Ace murmurs against Arsenal’s skin when he remembers he came here to actually say something. Only that wasn’t it. Oh well. Arsenal grinds his hips then, slamming Ace into the door again, and Ace is done talking. He slides his hand under Arsenal’s t-shirt and then up his side. It’s firm pressure and Arsenal gasps, his mind all muddled.
“Wait,” he tries to say, but it’s swallowed by the music from downstairs and Ace’s sucking noises, his mouth latched to the part of Arsenal’s shoulder not covered by his t-shirt.
“Fucking stop,” Arsenal tries again. This time it’s too loud, and rough, and so charged Arsenal hardly recognizes his own voice.
Ace kind of obeys. He lifts his head, leaning back against the door, his breath coming out in a rush. His lips are a little swollen, and they’re glistening. His hair is in his eyes, and Arsenal can’t properly see them. His neck is flushed.
“Are we . . .” Arsenal starts then stops. “Do you want to take a shower?” That’s how you do this, right? That’s how you find out.
“Fuck no, do you?” Ace says, a bit puzzled, his hands dropping from Arsenal’s body.
“Oh.” Arsenal steps back, looking at the floor. He realizes he’s hard. Of course he is.
“What the fuck,” Ace says again and takes a step forward. “I just . . .” He stops, then suddenly bends down and takes his shoes off along with his socks.
“What?” Arsenal looks him in the eyes. Ace shoves at his shoulders and when Arsenal stumbles back, he does it again and again. Arsenal’s calves hit his bed, and he falls back then scrambles up, but Ace is already crawling over him, stopping to angrily pull at Arsenal’s shoelaces. It’s quite a lot of work to get those shoes off, so Ace is stuck there with one knee on the bed, cursing, while Arsenal sits up and watches.
“Don’t stare,” Ace hisses angrily when the shoes are finally off. He slides up and kisses Arsenal again, their teeth crashing because he’s too fast and harsh. They both wince, but Arsenal doesn’t pull away. Instead, he pushes himself up the bed, settling against the headboard with Ace straddling him, knees on either side of him and hands pulling at his t-shirt.
The clothes come off fast, Ace scratching Arsenal in the process, first by accident, but later on purpose because Arsenal’s breath hitches and he shudders every time. Arsenal gives back as much as he gets, biting at Ace’s lips and sucking the bitten skin so much it stings. Ace fumbles through the pockets of his jeans before he sits back on Arsenal’s thighs and takes them off. He pulls at Arsenal’s pants and boxers at the same time, not minding what they catch on, and Arsenal’s nails sink into Ace’s side in return.
Ace doesn’t waste any more time and wraps his hand around Arsenal’s cock. His fingers aren’t cold anymore. His entire body is warm and flushed, and sweat is starting to form behind his ear where Arsenal is scraping his teeth to keep himself quiet when Ace’s hand moves, stroking him from the base to the tip. Ace’s other hand is tracing Arsenal’s ribs, hurried and hungry for more skin to touch. Arsenal holds on, holds Ace close, gripping his arm and feeling the muscles there move. The hand on Arsenal’s cock tightens, the pace quickens just as he wants it to, and he’s starting to gasp and fall apart, his stomach tightening with the pleasure.
“Do something,” Ace mutters then, right into Arsenal’s ear, then takes his earlobe in between his teeth. Arsenal almost jumps out of his skin, his cock twitching when Ace slows down, moves his hand to Arsenal’s balls for a moment.
Arsenal’s hand is in Ace’s boxers before he can think about it too much. The angle is all wrong, and in the rush he squeezes too tightly. Ace lets out a high pitched moan and throws his head back. Arsenal now has to look right at him, stretched and tense before he bites his lip and lifts his hips, pushes up into Arsenal’s hand impatiently. It’s not enough; Ace’s hand doesn’t start moving again and his body is arched away from Arsenal. Arsenal is trying to pull him close so he can kiss him again, make him do something, and what the hell is he doing anyway? Arsenal groans in frustration, pulls his hand away from Ace, and Ace whines. He looks up into Arsenal’s face again, eyes narrowed and dark and determined.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. It doesn’t sound like a random profanity, more like an instruction. Arsenal tenses at the recognition.
Before he can try to move, Ace is slipping out of his boxers and scrambling for the things he fished out of his pants earlier. When he returns, he places his knees on either side of Arsenal’s thighs again but doesn’t sit down. He places one of his hands on Arsenal’s shoulders, leans forward a bit, and his other hand disappears between his legs. Arsenal is frozen for a moment, watching Ace as his eyes widen, mouth opening and going slack. His breathing is ragged and his stomach muscles are trembling from the tension. Arsenal runs his palm over them, rubbing Ace’s hipbone. When Ace hisses, pushing a second finger inside of himself too soon, Arsenal looks into his eyes again and can’t look away. His hands settle on Ace’s hips, and he leans forward to lick at his lips. Ace doesn’t relax, his nails digging into Arsenal’s shoulder more and more. Arsenal can’t take not being capable of doing at least something, anything to change that. He forces his hand to move, runs his fingers up Ace’s cock, and Ace exhales suddenly. Arsenal does it again, swipes his thumb across the tip and rubs a spot at the base of Ace’s cock. Ace bucks up and then groans.
“Don’t stop,” he says in a rush, and Arsenal keeps touching him, watching his every reaction while Ace starts to move between his own hand-two fingers pushing deeper, scissoring-and Arsenal’s. Ace starts to let out small moans, his hips moving faster, so Arsenal dares to kiss him. Ace whimpers into the kiss, and suddenly his hand is swatting Arsenal’s away. Arsenal pulls at Ace’s hair with his other hand, wanting to see what’s going on, and catches Ace’s hands fumbling with a condom. Then it’s being rolled onto his cock, and Ace is spreading some cold gel over it and . . .
“Fuck,” Arsenal hisses.
“Yeah, now,” Ace mutters and grabs the base of Arsenal’s cock, sinking all the way down onto it.
Arsenal’s cock feels like too much, stretching Ace even more, filling him completely, and he has to stop, his muscles tense again, his breath stuck in his throat. Arsenal doesn’t seem to be any better off, his mouth hanging open, one hand on Ace’s thigh, the other gripping the sheets. But Ace’s tension doesn’t seem to seep away. So Arsenal touches him again, hand wrapping around his cock and moving up and down. Arsenal is impatient, and so is his pace. Ace moans, his hips moving into Arsenal’s touch, and he feels Arsenal’s cock shift inside him.
“Yes,” Arsenal whispers. It’s needy and it makes Ace try again. He rolls his hips and he still feels too full, but it also starts to feel good, so he does it again and again and then Arsenal is pressing up into him. Ace tries to brace both hands on Arsenal’s shoulders so he can lift up properly. Instead, he flails a bit when Arsenal grabs his ass with both of his hands and tries to somehow push him backwards. He pushes at Arsenal’s shoulders, but Arsenal pushes back. They shove at each other some more, Arsenal’s cock slipping out of Ace. Ace lets out a surprised groan, and Arsenal finally tackles him down and to the side, flipping them around.
That won’t do, and Ace struggles, wanting to sit up, but Arsenal grabs his wrists and pulls them up and above his head. He holds them there, staring down at Ace before he kisses him forcefully, pushing one if his legs up. Then Arsenal’s fingers are tracing Ace’s rim, and Ace shivers. Arsenal’s cock slides into him, and the hold on Ace’s wrists tightens. Ace whines and lifts both of his legs, wrapping them around Arsenal and pushing him deeper.
It’s fast and hard after that. Arsenal’s tongue is in Ace’s mouth and Ace sucks at it between gasps and moans, stealing at least that tiny sliver of control. Arsenal’s free hand digs into Ace’s hip as he drives into him, brushing against something that makes Ace choke and ask for still more. He feels himself slipping into orgasm, his hips jerking and his whole body shuddering because Ace is tight and hot and a writhing mess. Ace’s wrists still struggle a little against Arsenal’s hold, and the muscles in his arms are straining in the way that makes Arsenal wants to feel it beneath his fingers. He wants to last a little longer, wants more of this pleasure where everything but Ace moving and moaning underneath him blurs, but he needs to let go. He wants Ace to let go.
With much effort, Arsenal moves one hand between them, and Ace almost screams when Arsenal touches him, starts pulling him off, fast and with intent. Ace can’t kiss anymore, so he at least sucks on Arsenal’s shoulder and gasps into it. Arsenal barely holds on until Ace goes still underneath him and comes in between them. He tightens around Arsenal’s cock even more, and his legs press Arsenal closer. It’s enough for the orgasm to finally wash over Arsenal too. It wraps around him completely, until he can only clutch Ace as he rides it out.
They’re both loose and kind of soft when Arsenal starts breathing again. He pushes himself up and slips out, getting rid of the condom and sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the man lying in it. Ace has his eyes closed. He’s all sweaty skin, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. His chest is rising and falling quickly as his breath doesn’t seem to be slowing down at all. His own come is on his stomach, white against the flushed skin. He’s stretched out like a cat, his hands still over his head where Arsenal left them. Arsenal grabs a discarded t-shirt and wipes Ace’s stomach clean. He doesn’t linger. He’s just making sure he didn’t miss anything.
That’s when Arsenal notices the bass downstairs still going strong. It’s almost the same rhythm as the pounding in his ears was when he fucked Ace just moments ago. He gets his cigarettes, frowning when his big toe pokes the open tube of lube and a pack of condoms by his bed. He leans against the headboard and lights up, taking a long drag.
The familiar scent finally makes Ace open his eyes. Arsenal manages one more inhale, and then Ace is in his mouth again, stealing the air out of him. Arsenal’s hands flop around helplessly, and Ace finds the cigarette between his fingers, steals it away before pulling away from Arsenal’s mouth. A small curl of smoke escapes through his nose, and Arsenal finds himself holding the back of Ace’s neck, keeping him close. Ace takes a drag of the cigarette next, smirking lightly, and Arsenal figures it’s his time to kiss Ace. He rakes his nails down Ace’s back, all the way to his ass, and squeezes it for good measure. Ace lets out a soft moan and his tongue pushes Arsenal’s back into his mouth. They pull apart only because it’s a waste of a cigarette to let it just burn out between Ace’s fingers.
Arsenal lights up one more cigarette after that, and Ace lies on his side next to him, stealing it from time to time and continuing his silence. Arsenal wonders if this means the only way to shut Ace up is to fuck him. He watches the curls of smoke leaving Ace’s mouth, which is quirked into a content smirk.
“Don’t fall asleep in here,” Arsenal sighs and slides down under the covers.
Ace wakes up to someone pulling his blanket away from him.
“Get back to your room before anyone finds you here,” Arsenal mutters. His hair is hanging in his face and he seems still half asleep. Ace grunts and rolls over, curling into himself.
“Go.” Arsenal nudges him with his foot. Ace glares and stumbles out of bed. He doesn’t bother finding his clothes, just pushes the handle and falls out into the hallway and across it into his own room.
Arsenal is at his heels, dumping all of Ace’s clothes on the floor.
“Asshole,” Ace mutters as he buries himself under the blankets. His voice is rough at the edges. It sounds almost the same as when he moaned for more just hours ago.
“I told you to not fall asleep,” Arsenal mutters, distracted.
“Hey,” Ace’s voice comes from under the pile of sheets. Secretly, he’s found a gap in it and his eyes are fixed on Arsenal. “Was the coffee any good?”
Arsenal forgets to quickly leave the room before someone wakes up to the noises they’re making.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
Ace wakes up the last the next day. It’s more afternoon than morning when he half falls down the stairs. He gets scolded by Mac for leaving the guys alone at the bar last night and ends up cleaning the bar. When Arsenal passes by him, Ace steals his cigarette, taking one long drag and giving it back. He smirks. Arsenal looks at him, just a little longer than normal, then runs his hand through his hair. He doesn’t help Ace clean, but he sits at the bar, mindlessly flipping through the newspaper from yesterday, letting Ace whine and moan at him until he’s done. When he looks up, he catches Ace looking back at him. The smile Ace gives him is more shy than smug. Arsenal grabs a bottle of whiskey that Ace is holding and takes a shot.
This time, Ace’s laugh is loud and rich and happy. “Get it together, you old man,” he says, and pats Arsenal’s shoulder over the bar. If his fingers slide down Arsenal’s arm and rub the inside of his wrist before he goes back to cleaning, both of them pretend not to notice.
end
A/N:THIS FIC!!! I thought I would never get it written. I don't even know what to say about it. There IS SO MUCH! *flails like a kid* There is a part or two, that I really love. There are parts I don't want to ever see again and I fail at gun play. Also googling gun parts is hard work, lol. Ace and Arsenal are hard work. The teeeeension . . . the "deep talks", the tough men act, the way Ace is always eating something in my mind, the way Arsenal's hair is everywhere. Okay, I will stop now. Just THIS FIC!
There's one thing that I want to say. I can't imagine Arsenal making coffee. But I've read all of Mac's journal entries that were published and translated after 8Uppers came out and apparently it's his thing. So yeah, coffee grains for Arsenal.
I hope people who read this enjoyed it at least a bit. If you read the fic over at Hols with the wrong formating. I'm sorry, I know it must have been super distracting and I have no clue what went wrong ;__;
Comments? Edits?
Pairing/Group: Ace/Arsenal, rest of 8Uppers in the background
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: -
Notes: For spurious, as a part of je_holiday 2011. Originally posted here
Thanks to my beta, pashoshi, and a few other people who helped me out. 9900 words.
Summary: 8Uppers. The boys go on a road trip to clear their minds. Ace seems to focus more on Arsenal than on what the road has to offer.
It’s Jacky who suggests the road trip. Beyond that, he doesn’t say much about why they should just pick up and drive across half of Japan.
Johnny’s been gloomy since Eito left, and Gum has made a milk bottle several times out of the habit. Mac has been crying more than usual while reading that old worn out fairytale, that sap. Unfinished kids’ clothes still lie around Toppo’s DJ booth. Ace has picked a fight every night for the past two weeks, but Arsenal doesn’t seem as energetic when giving him advice as he used to be. They don’t miss Eito. They are tough men handling serious business that does not go remotely well with raising children, and tough men with life missions go on road trips to renew their state of balance.
It is agreed on by overwhelming majority, and Arsenal lags behind the rest of them when they pile into their van, knowing he might die of hunger with everyone at least a bit capable of cooking gone. They set off, and each of them regrets going before the first bathroom break.
It has something to do with the fact that Ace took it upon himself to navigate Mac out of the city. He just didn’t want to sit in the back-that much is clear-but they let him do it and only really manage to get onto the highway an hour later. Ace is complaining and telling Mac that he sucks at this. Mac seriously contemplates making him drive since he seems to know all about it, but remembers how many bottles of beer it took Ace to start his day and just grips the steering wheel tighter. That is when Jacky decides to voice his opinion on the speed of the car, and Toppo puts on his big headphones, the sound of which almost overrides the music streaming from the radio. Mac catches Arsenal lighting another cigarette in the rear mirror and wonders if maybe he should have one too. Gum starts to wrestle with Jacky, and Ace tries to join in from the front seat. Arsenal grabs him by his hair, pushes him back down onto his seat and sticks the lit cigarette in between his lips.
“I don’t want to die riding off the hill in a big family van, so shut up,” Arsenal groans.
Ace smirks around the cigarette-he forgot his supply at home on the counter when he stopped for one last shot-and stretches contently, old worn Converse landing on top of the glove compartment.
Mac wants to protest.
“You’re as boring as ever,” Ace says, then slumps back into his seat contently, turning up the radio and humming in between inhales. He seems to agree that it would be a boring death for a cool guy like him.
Mac decides to take what he can get. He wishes Jacky would stop shouting, but soon Johnny actually pulls the man back by his t-shirt, and suddenly the car is almost peaceful. Arsenal isn’t stingy with his cigarettes until they stop to buy more, for which Mac decides to cut him a deal next time it’s his turn on cleaning duty.
By the time they decide to stop for the day, the salt of the ocean mixes with the smell of the outside food stands, and they are all in dire need of beer. Some more than others, as it turns out. Arsenal tugs his gun deeper underneath his jersey when Ace reaches for it drunkenly, wanting to be taught how to shoot. Gum pushes him back and puts another beer into Arsenal’s hand.
“You should have left it at home,” Gum murmurs. But his mask is stacked neatly in his pocket, so Arsenal doesn’t believe him. He watches Ace lying sprawled underneath the bench in the parking lot just where Gum pushed him, smiling stupidly up at them.
“Bang,” he says, giggling, then adds, “So gloomy,” when he gets no reaction from any of them. Just when it seems he’s fallen asleep, he scrambles blindly to his feet, steals Gum’s beer, stubbornly punching him in the shoulder, and shuffles off. “Nothing interesting around here,” they hear him mumbling.
“Idiot should just look up,” Johnny murmurs from where he’s taken up another whole bench and stretches out his arm, then opens his palm as if touching the stars above.
An hour later, Arsenal finds Ace leaning against the van’s fender, beer bottles all around him, while he nuzzles the taillight, making kissy faces at it.
“For weeks now, there’s been nothing interesting happening. It’s boring to get beaten up every night.”
“I told you to start with small punches, to stay on guard,” Arsenal mutters.
“But that’s boring,” Ace says to the taillight. “You sound like that gloomy guy. If only he got a little mad.”
Arsenal sits next to him. “Get it together,” he murmurs.
Ace makes kissy faces at him instead of the taillight in reply.
In the end, Arsenal frowns and gets up. He looks down at Ace, thinking maybe he’ll get up too. Ace doesn’t; he just looks back up at Arsenal and then starts searching through his pockets. Arsenal kicks the packet of cigarettes lying behind Ace towards him, but Ace doesn’t stop searching, so Arsenal gives up and retreats into the car. As far as he knows, that’s where they’re sleeping tonight, and so far only Toppo is huddled inside. The sooner you get in, the better sleeping place you’ll get. In theory. Arsenal smirks and turns the keys in the ignition then turns the lights on. He hears a breathless squeak followed by giggles. He turns the lights and the engine off and goes to sleep.
Ace wakes up to the feeling of nauseous movement. It’s like the van is slowly taking off into the air. His stomach flutters, and he decides this is just another half-drunken dream, nightmare, the illusion of motion, whatever. Vans don’t fly. They also don’t grunt.
“No fucking way,” Arsenal’s voice says, and it sounds almost like he really is doubting whatever reality is around.
“Yeah, vans don’t fly,” Ace groans. He finds it pretty evil that Arsenal is in his nightmare. Then he promptly rolls off the seat he was curled up on, right on top of Arsenal stretched on the floor underneath him. The van starts moving forward. It’s still stuck in a weird angle though.
“Get off me. We’re being towed.” Arsenal pushes at Ace and squirms underneath him. Ace’s head pounds, and his vision gets a little blurry as he tries to stare at Arsenal from this angle. He has hair in his eyes and one single hair is stuck to his lip. Ace reaches out to brush it off.
“What the . . .” Arsenal starts, pushing at Ace with more force.
“Oh, just relax and let me sleep more.” Ace tries to make himself comfortable against the seat in the small gap that separates it from Arsenal’s body.
“No way,” Arsenal says and punches his side. Ace growls and his knee collides with Arsenal’s thigh. Ace shifts, and when Arsenal hits him again, he grabs Arsenal’s hands and pushes them up, holding them above his head. That makes Ace’s entire body ache, but at least no one is hitting him anymore.
“You should start with the small punches; stay on guard,” he mutters viciously.
Arsenal struggles against Ace, trying to twist out of his hold. “Jerk, let me go.” His breath tickles Ace’s neck.
“I would stay still if I were in your place,” Ace says, and this time his voice sounds dangerous in a completely different way. Arsenal freezes beneath him then swears again.
“Mac will kill us,” he mutters.
“But something fun is finally happening. You should enjoy your life more anyway,” Ace whispers suggestively into Arsenal’s ear, squeezing his wrists.
“Don’t you dare move an inch,” Arsenal rasps back, his knee dangerously close to Ace’s crotch, but not in a good way, not at all. In the end, they stay like that, neither of them wanting to budge, until the tow truck stops and lets the van down. They peek out of the window and find the police parking lot rather abandoned.
“We should just drive away,” Ace says, slowly inching towards the front seat.
“If they catch us . . .” Arsenal starts.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid. Some criminal you are,” Ace says, and starts up the car.
“Idiot, I have a gun on me . . .” Arsenal tries to get the point across once again.
“So use it,” Ace grits out through his teeth.
The guard at the gate is faced with the head of an old but well-kept revolver.
“I think it’s time to get back on the road,” Arsenal murmurs when they find the rest of the group in the parking lot by the ocean. He glares at them, making sure they know how much he appreciates them leaving him in the car with Ace.
“He wouldn’t even budge, and you pointed a gun at me and told me to go away,” Jacky complains. “I thought you could at least make sure the car stays safe.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Mac sighs. He doesn’t let Ace sit in the front seat again. Ace sits particularly close to Arsenal instead, grinning at him every time he manages to get his attention, offering him pretzels he found in his jacket and making obscene slurping noises the more Arsenal pushes him away with a slightly pained look.
Ace gets into a fight the next night. Arsenal isn’t there, but later he finds Ace lying in the middle of a narrow alley, looking like a complete stray. He crouches down and stares at him.
“Johnny says the stars are prettier by the ocean,” Ace murmurs, and Arsenal pokes the puffy place where Ace’s cheek bone would normally be.
“Let’s get you some ice,” he says and stretches out a hand to pull Ace up. Ace winces once he’s on his feet but still steers Arsenal away from the busy streets and in the direction of the beach.
“Cold water it is,” Arsenal mutters. He pulls out Ace’s shirt that he collected from the corner of the alley, the trail that had led to Ace in the first place, and dampens it in the water.
“Here,” Arsenal mutters and hands Ace his jersey.
“Even your clothes are boring. Always the same black stuff,” Ace mutters as he spreads it on the sand and lies down. Arsenal ends up lying next to him, spreading the shirt over Ace’s face.
“Can’t see the stars,” Ace mutters and pulls it away from his eyes. He grimaces at the salty taste it leaves on his lips, and in the end, he holds it only to the most swollen part of his face, side eyeing Arsenal.
“What’s so pretty about something small and faraway?” he asks. Untouchable.
Ace used to like the stars. When he was small, they used to be his excuse to not go to bed.
“They could burn you to ashes if you got too close,” Arsenal says, what a nurse once told them when they sat on a windowsill, looking up at them.
“That would be a cool death.” Ace smirks.
“I don’t think there’s anything cool about . . . about that,” About death. Not anymore, Arsenal wants to say. He’s seen people dying in an instant, and others begging to stay alive. There was nothing cool about either.
“You’ve changed, become even more solemn,” Ace muses, looking at Arsenal instead of at the stars.
“And you’re still the same.” Arsenal thinks Ace still likes the stars. “You’re not cool at all,” he adds.
Ace looks away. He lights a cigarette, hands it to Arsenal, and lights one for himself.
“It looks almost as bright as the stars,” he says, holding his own against the skies.
“It’ll burn out,” Arsenal notes.
“So will those suns, you gloomy old man,” Ace laughs. Then he hisses because the entire left side of his face hurts.
“I’m not sleeping in the car today,” Arsenal murmurs much later.
Ace doesn’t say anything to that, just pulls the jersey from underneath them and covers them both with it.
Sand against bare skin is a feeling that makes one feel alive.
“Maybe Johnny is right,” Ace notes a little later, turning away from the stars and curling up on his side. His back rises and falls with his breathing against Arsenal’s arm. Arsenal falls asleep counting the stars that are already fading away into the morning light.
“We should go shopping,” Ace suggest next morning. Other than Toppo and Gum, no one seems too enthusiastic.
“Let’s go. You need something to replace that murky black jersey of yours,” Ace says to Arsenal.
When Ace starts prodding Arsenal onto his feet, Toppo and Gum lose interest, neither of them feeling like they need to know exactly how it looks when Arsenal goes shopping.
“It’s none of your business,” Arsenal snaps, sitting back down and lighting another cigarette before the one in his mouth is even finished.
“I want new shoes, and you destroyed my favorite T-shirt yesterday,” Ace says and pulls him to his feet. The shirt really wasn’t anything special.
“You lost it before I destroyed it,” Arsenal points out. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Details,” Ace counters, snatching the entire pack of cigarettes from Arsenal. “Not giving them back,” he challenges. “And I stole your wallet yesterday.” He smirks, pulling it out of his jeans.
They’re in public, which is the only reason Arsenal doesn’t actually pull out his gun and shoot the wallet out of Ace’s hand. It would totally be worth the money in it. He might be sorry to see the photo he’s kept in there go, but maybe it’d be better gone anyway. He’s been dreading someone actually finding out that he snatched one of those pictures they had made with Eito.
“Whatever. I’m not buying anything anyway,” Arsenal says in the end, fingers uncurling from his gun. Jacky chokes on his drink hearing it. Mac almost gives them some pocket money, for ice-cream or something. It feels like it would be appropriate since the kids are going out. Arsenal looks like he wouldn’t appreciate the joke. He drags himself after Ace, who is too bouncy as he puts on his sunglasses and smugly sticks his tongue out at Toppo.
“What are you doing?” Arsenal asks when Ace stares at him then takes a random Hawaiian shirt off the rack and puts it against his chest.
“Guessing your size. And your style,” Ace grins. He had to throw the lollipop out at the entrance to the first store they went into, but his bottom lip is still slightly pink and sticky from it. It’s distracting.
“I’ll shoot your head off if you ever suggest me wearing something like that,” Arsenal says, and turns around to march out of the store.
Ace smirks. “Something more subtle, then,” he says to the shop attendant that has been watching them rather cautiously. She totally checked Ace out when he came out of the changing room with a shirt that he didn’t bother buttoning up, so Ace doesn’t believe her weariness anyway.
“Just one pair of pants and one t-shirt,” Ace bargains in the next shop, and Arsenal gives in.
He watches Ace turn into a little kid as he goes around the place, picking up different outfits, holding up the most horrendous ones over the racks of clothes so that Arsenal can see them.
It’s fun.
It looks like fun.
Arsenal just wants to get out of there. He rakes his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.
“Here.” Ace is in front of Arsenal the next moment, looking at him like he wants to tear his clothes off. Well, he’s been hinting that he doesn’t like them, but there’s no need for so much . . . urgency.
Arsenal really wants a smoke.
The clothes are actually kind of okay. The jeans go only down to his knees and hang weirdly off his hips. Just like Ace likes to wear them. Arsenal’s hipbones just do an even poorer job of holding them up. At least they’re black. The t-shirt is red though, deep red, and has these three weird buttons on top and a scratchy collar.
“They call them polo shirts,” Ace says, and Arsenal does not jump at the sudden sound.
“It’s blood red.” Arsenal scrunches his nose up and faces Ace. “I’m taking it off and leaving.”
Ace steps closer to him, and somehow his hands are in Arsenal’s back pockets. Arsenal reaches for his gun, only it’s lying on the chair, safely in its holster that he took off with his jeans.
“The pants fit you. It almost looks like you have an ass,” Ace hisses, smirking when he realizes what Arsenal wanted to do. “Got you, all right.”
The candy smudge isn’t on Ace’s lip anymore, but his breath somehow smells like cotton candy. Too sweet, too intense.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Arsenal breathes out.
“Having fun,” Ace whispers right into his ear. His breath and Arsenal’s hair moving with it tickle his neck. Arsenal tries to stand still as Ace steps closer. But then he’s too close, so Arsenal tries to get away.
His back collides with a mirror.
“Nice,” Ace mutters, now pushing his hips forward, hands in Arsenal’s back pockets squeezing and bringing him up a bit to meet the movement.
That is when Arsenal remembers that even without his gun, his hands are free this time. He pulls Ace’s head away, grabbing a fistful of his hair and wondering how far his head could go before something would snap.
Ace likes that too, though. It’s exhilarating if anything. He smirks and his own hands don’t budge, his lower body pressing more against Arsenal’s.
“What the fuck?” Arsenal hisses. It comes out raspy, and he almost stops pushing Ace away when he realizes.
Ace makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, wanting to drag it out, but it turns high and painful when Arsenal’s other hand punches him in the stomach. Ace stumbles back. He somehow didn’t expect Arsenal to punch him of all things.
Arsenal moves fast; he grabs his things and realizes he’s still in the store’s clothes only when he’s almost out of the changing room. He quickly puts the gun where it belongs, safely and heavily at his side, and strips off his shirt. He catches sight of Ace leaning against the mirror, massaging his stomach and looking at him with a gleam in his eyes. Arsenal keeps the store pants, rashly puts his own t-shirt on, and bolts toward the cash register.
“You keep away from me,” he hisses as he pays.
Ace runs off to a different store after that, and Arsenal relaxes, crumpling his old pants in his hand and shaking off the weird feeling that is his calves being exposed to the air. It’s all just child’s play. Ace is bored. Arsenal is unimpressed. That just makes Ace play some more. Once they come back from this trip and go back to work, Ace will fall into his old pattern of finding entertainment elsewhere.
The next ride isn’t that long and it’s mostly winding along the coast. Ace forgets to be annoyed by the lack of good music and watches waves crash against the rocks. They break and fall apart into a million little crystals gleaming in the setting sun. Jacky catches him at it and teases him for leaving spots where his nose touched the window. When Ace breaths on it, it shows a weirdly patterned smudge, a fleeting image, there just for a moment.
Mac says they might hang around for a few days so they should make sure not to do anything stupid. He eyes Arsenal and Ace like it was their fault the car was parked in a spot with the no parking sign right above it. They stay in some run down hostel, but besides a bed for each of them, it has a bar and darts. They all probably missed it because they round up a small table, shots of whisky and a soon overfilled ashtray, and place random bets as they pass over the set of darts with bent tips.
Ace probably isn’t the only one who notices Arsenal getting up and leaving. It’s not like he was all that subtle about it. His chair screeched against the floor and he heaved a sigh after downing one more shot. Only Ace might be the one that actually cares about where Arsenal is going. He likes to think he’s sneakier about leaving, though he tries to be inconspicuous just because it’s more fun like that. He imagines Johnny looking for him in confusion after he’s disappeared because it’s been him handing the darts over to Ace the entire evening.
Ace can’t fool Arsenal, though. He hears the click of gun in the dark, sees the glint of it as Arsenal stands facing away from him. He could still aim well enough if he wanted to.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m keeping you company. You seem to be the most interesting among the dreary bunch today,” Ace says lightly.
“Don’t get in the way,” Arsenal says to that.
They walk for quite some time, leaving the town behind. Ace buys takoyaki and trails mostly behind Arsenal. He finds himself in a field and realizes they must have passed it earlier that day. He can hear the ocean beneath them on one side. Arsenal pulls out his gun and shoots, a tree branch falling heavily into the grass.
Ace probably knew all along; Arsenal was just itching to use his gun, not really allowed to even pull it out for the last few days. Ace tagged along because the old revolver is fascinating to him, always has been. He sits on the edge of the field, smokes and watches Arsenal’s shadow moving in the field.
It’s somehow more real to shoot with someone there. Even if the person isn’t a target, it makes Arsenal’s heart race a little. He cleans the gun when he’s done, sitting a bit further away from Ace, who hums a strange melody under his breath.
“Isn’t this boring?” Arsenal can’t stop the digging remark.
“I’m used to it, being around you all the time,” Ace replies.
They walk back in silence, almost peaceful. Dangerous, but Arsenal’s instincts slacken anyway. Ace knows that. His own posture is tense.
They turn into a dark alley close to the place where they’re staying. Slowly, late night voices die out in the distance. The place looks like any other dark alley in the country, like the one in which Arsenal found Ace a few days back.
Ace pounces. Arsenal’s back hits the wall and his hand finds Ace’s left wrist when he reaches for his gun. Ace is smug; Arsenal is very awake.
“Got you, all right,” Ace murmurs.
Arsenal doesn’t say a word, lips in a tight line as he feels his gun being pulled out of the holster. His breath hitches when it digs into the small of his back, Ace’s arm coming around him. It’s strange feeling, almost an embrace, as much as that can be when one has the head of his own gun digging somewhere into his ass. The hammer is loose, the latch is pulled back, and Ace isn’t going to do anything stupid. But it’s the gun, not Ace with his mouth latched to Arsenal’s neck, pulling them close together that makes his pulse quicken, drumming in his ears and growing louder with more pressure.
“It wouldn’t be fair otherwise,” Ace eventually adds. He tries to grin, but it’s crooked and laced with urgency. One of his legs slips between Arsenal’s, and he bites the vein that is straining in Arsenal’s neck.
“Just play with me,” he breathes out. Arsenal tries to push himself off the wall, but that just brings him closer to Ace, and the grip on his waist tightens.
Ace is growing hard against Arsenal’s hip, and it’s so good-the feel of Arsenal’s hard body against him, Arsenal’s harsh breaths in his ear, the illusion of power seeping from his fingers where they feel the cold metal of the gun. He’s not even holding it properly, just clutching it as he moves his hips. He wants Arsenal to pull at his hair. He isn’t going to beg though. Or order him.
Arsenal does it anyway only a moment later, staring hard into Ace’s eyes when he pulls his head back. He knows Ace just wants to get a rise out of him. Fine. Still, quickly jerking off in the dark like this is one thing; sucking and biting and nibbling the skin in the process is another.
“Stop fucking around,” Arsenal says harshly. Then they both stop breathing for a moment when a loud thud sounds through the alley.
A stray cat brushes against Ace’s legs a moment later and he laughs. It comes out breathless. “Fine,” he whispers, and fits his right hand between them, pulling at a zipper, his or Arsenal’s.
“Jerk,” Arsenal says. He was not encouraging Ace. He pulls at Ace’s hair again, and the man arches into him. Arsenal’s boxers are pulled down-harshly, just so-and his hips move because there’s a thumb in the slit of his cock.
“Cheater,” Arsenal hisses. Ace pulls down his own boxers and braces his right hand against the wall next to Arsenal’s side. He does most of the work, doesn’t mind because it means they’re going his pace, faster and harder, and clashing. His left wrist is painfully pressed against the wall, but he keeps the gun in place while he slides his right hand down the wall onto Arsenal’s thigh, bringing it up.
“You like it,” Ace says when he feels Arsenal’s cock twitch against his stomach.
Every time Arsenal moves, the gun digs painfully into his muscles, be it the trigger guard, the handle or the head. He’s biting his lip, trying not to moan, not to make a sound every time it happens. Everything is sharp-the pain in his back where it’s pressed against the wall, the short groans when he pulls at Ace’s hair more to keep him away from his neck, Ace’s gaze when he thrusts forward, his own inhales when their cocks brush, and the feelings coiling in his stomach.
Ace is close, his palm is sweaty around the gun, and his control is slipping. Arsenal narrows his eyes with his next thrusts. He wants this, they need this, harder and faster, just like that, more, until finally Arsenal grips Ace’s hips, actively meets him, and Ace’s right hand moves from his thigh, and he fits it in between them. He wraps his fingers around them both. Arsenal’s leg slips down from Ace’s hip, and he closes his fist even tighter in Ace’s hair. It hurts. In return, Ace pushes the gun against Arsenal’s back, fighting to gain back control. He wants to lick the sweat he sees gleaming in the faint light of the distant lamp off Arsenal’s neck, wants to suck at his jaw, but there’s no time, no room for it as he thrusts forward and groans.
“Come,” Arsenal rasps out. It’s dark, low and bossy. It would’ve sounded unimpressed if Arsenal didn’t moan for the first time and go rigid after his next thrust, going still between the wall and Ace. Ace feels come spilling over his fingers and pushes Arsenal into the wall, one, two more times before he really does come himself. He shudders and scrambles for purchase, letting go of their cocks and grabbing at the wall.
“Was that an order?” he breathes as he slumps against Arsenal, who finally lets go of his hair.
“Get off,” Arsenal murmurs, gasping for air before he can say more.
Ace just did, but even though the gun is still in his hand, he decides against saying so. He rolls to the side, pulling his left arm from behind Arsenal. He doesn’t give the gun back, not until he wipes his right hand on his shirt and tucks himself in.
Arsenal grabs the gun when he fixes his own pants.
“Go away,” he hisses, still leaning against the wall. He needs to check the gun, to see that Ace didn’t scratch the more fragile parts. He needs to lean against the wall a little longer before taking a step. He can’t stand the trail of Ace’s soap and sex in the air.
“Go away,” he repeats.
Ace is gone before Arsenal finishes the sentence this time. Maybe this was a little too much fun for such a gloomy old man. It felt like too much, anyway.
“We have a job,” Mac says the next morning as they sit on the pier, half-asleep or eating breakfast.
“I thought we were on a road trip to clear our minds,” Johnny says, wrinkling his nose at the idea of strong perfume and desperate women. But maybe it’s already past that stage.
“Well, I was inspired by a certain letter when choosing where we’d go,” Mac says.
They vote on it, but it’s clear what the result is going to be when Jacky mentions an amusement park that they could stop by with the extra money.
Arsenal grunts; like this string of too bright beaches, chirpy girls and pink drinks wasn’t enough. But he can already picture Toppo trying out all the rollercoasters he can queue, Jacky wondering how many games he can abuse with his throwing skills, Mac going to a fairytale castle if they have one, Johnny trying out different types of cotton candy, and Gum buying some stupid mask he’ll never really use anyway. Ace will probably end up riding some of those kid rides with big ponies that swing back and forth while sucking on a big lollipop and scaring all the children away.
“Is there a circus?” Toppo asks. “I’d like to go see a show,”
“Clowns are creepy,” Ace mutters from where he’s lying on the hot wooden deck.
Yeah, they are, and Arsenal doesn’t like them.
Mac and Jacky explain the plan. Ace sleeps through most of it. Arsenal pets his gun, cleaned and ready.
“Tomorrow night,” Mac concludes.
They are left to spend the day at the beach or wherever they want. Toppo wants to see the local aquarium and Gum agrees; Johnny tags along. Jacky and Mac seem to still have a lot to discuss, and Arsenal gets up, leaving before Ace really wakes up, and disappears into the labyrinth of small streets in search of strong coffee and quiet. Ace spends the morning lying on the pier, sun in his eyes and warmed wood against his back. He fiddles with his shirt, pulling loose threads off it. He isn’t really that hangover or that sleepy. A little dulled maybe, annoyed because Arsenal is avoiding him, and he’s out of cigarettes. He buys a cone of ice cream for lunch and stumbles into Arsenal, sitting in a girly café with pink and yellow sunshades. He’s sitting in a corner with a big plant shading him from the sun, smoking and drinking the blackest coffee they have on the menu. Ace runs and buys another cone. He tries to give it to Arsenal.
“It always works with girls,” he mutters.
He really should have just stayed quiet.
Arsenal looks up at Ace only when melted ice cream drips down Ace’s fingers towards his wrist. He blinks away a fleeting image of a long tongue licking it off, slowly. Ace’s eyes are on him when Arsenal looks at his face.
“I’m leaving,” Arsenal says. He leaves and doesn’t pay, so Ace is pretty pissed off. He throws the ice cream away-untouched-and pays for the coffee and his lemonade. For such a morose man, Arsenal sure knows how to have his panties in the twist.
What the fuck is going on with him? With Ace, with Arsenal. What the fuck are they doing?
Ace kind of wants to do it again.
He doesn’t want to think about it, though. He’s at the beach and has tons of time before tomorrow night, before the next job. He knows this: how to kill time, how to have fun in between jobs. He strolls out of the café and stays out of Arsenal’s way for the rest of the day. He finds a loud bar full of people, locals and tourists, to drink at that night.
It’s a pretty standard job. Lives don’t have to be spared, but they’re going for minimal attention and minimal noise. There are a few people guarding the place, but they shouldn’t be armed beyond an occasional stick or maybe a knife. Gum, Jacky and Ace are to go; Arsenal is to be backup only. The rest of them stay out on guard. Mac drives for the night.
Standard, my ass; the first guy Ace meets pulls out an automatic which Ace just manages to kick out of his hands before it goes off. The bullet another man fires misses Ace’s ear by millimeters. He’s all alone, and he’s lost his sense of direction. At least there’s only one man around at the moment. Okay, so there are two. This is a bit too much fun even by Ace’s standards. There’s a gun pointed at him, and it’s new and shiny and by far not the first one tonight. Is this really worth the ponies he’ll get to ride tomorrow?
He’s smirking because that thought is funny. But then there’s a quick movement, and he doesn’t know where any of the men are. There’s a fist coming at him out of nowhere-no small punches at all-and the gun is, yet again, aiming right between his eyes. A shot hits the gunman in the shoulder and another finds his stomach as he falls. Ace swings his fist at the other man and spots Arsenal standing in the doorway, his eyes checking the room for more people. Well, this hasn’t really been a quiet job from the very beginning. Ace runs ahead again, but from that moment on, until they’ve got the papers and searched everything, he can feel Arsenal and his gun in his shadow. They’re the last to leave, and before Ace knows it, he’s thrown against the wall and Arsenal’s got him by his collar.
“Reckless as always,” he hisses. Okay, so maybe Ace could’ve signaled for back-up right after the first guy.
Arsenal doesn’t say anything more, just lets Ace go and walks ahead. Ace brushes off his shoulders and searches his pockets for some food. He’s pretty sure there’s a mochi somewhere in his pants that he didn’t get to eat on the way here.
It’s silent as they ride out of the town. Mac steers the car inland, into the mountains, but essentially back home. They stop somewhere to collect the money, but the silence isn’t broken. It’s mostly just the clicking of Arsenal’s gun as he decides to clean it straight away, the rustling of money as Jacky divides it between them, and the general rummaging when someone finally remembers to be hungry and thirsty. They sleep in the forest, most of them huddled in the car. The night is colder here, and they wake up to stale air and fogged glass.
Arsenal can see smudges on the window above him; with his eyes half closed, it looks like there’s a word written in between them, want. Maybe an I that was wiped away. He rubs his eyes then rolls the window down, wiping everything away and gulping for air, for life.
They find a small inn not far from where they’re parked. It seems safe enough to go have breakfast. The old lady doesn’t seem to mind them looking a bit haggard.
“Coffee smells nice here,” Mac says happily as he sits down.
Ace makes a face. He’d rather have a shot, really, to kill the buzz of last night’s bullets still in his head. He grabs a bowl of rice and watches Arsenal sniff his own cup of coffee, all suspicious. That snob. Arsenal takes a gulp, and Ace practically sees the old-man wrinkle on his forehead disappearing. That good, huh?
Arsenal isn’t all that hungry. He eats only because he knows he probably won’t have another chance until they get sufficiently far down the road. Eventually, it gets too loud and cheerful for him, so he grabs his cup, pours himself some more coffee and heads out for the veranda. The old lady insisted on a ‘no smoking while eating breakfast’ rule.
The smell of freshly lit cigarette hits Arsenal’s nose when he opens the door. He’s already searching for his own pack, sitting down on the bench and going through his pockets with his free hand.
He can’t find the lighter. “Here,” Ace says, handing it to him. He hovers over him while Arsenal lights up, takes a short sip of his coffee then sticks his cigarette back between his lips, eyes narrowing.
Ace isn’t moving, isn’t saying anything. “What do you want?” Arsenal asks.
“Just to sit down on the bench,” Ace says, and Arsenals sighs, scoots over. It’s quiet but for the tapping of Ace’s shoe against the veranda floor.
“This . . . it’s a phase . . .” Arsenal doesn’t know where he was going with that.
“Huh?” Ace says gruffly and painfully loud.
Well, that makes two of them.
Still. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, really.” Ace slumps against the backrest, smoke curling from his lips in the foggy morning.
People who want nothing don’t scribble about it on car windows. Not even when they’re bored.
“Where the fuck are we headed anyway?” Arsenal asks this time.
“Amusement park,” Jacky says from the doorway then scolds them for bringing the dishes outside. Arsenal notices the rice bowl on the handrail.
Ace seems to be content with that answer.
It’s more a fair than an amusement park, but it will do. Arsenal doesn’t feel like shooting colorful roses off their wooden stems, but of course Johnny makes him. And then Toppo, and then Jacky and Gum, just to annoy him. Ace finds the carrousel. He rides the ponies. And the big, chubby red convertible. He also makes a small girl cry when they fight over who’s going to ride the unicorn next.
“But I’ve waited two rides for it already!”
“Yes, but she’s five,” Mac has to interfere.
That gets them sulky Ace sitting on a bench, alternately drinking from a juice box and sucking on yet another lollipop. Arsenal sits next to him. It seems pretty safe to glare at the world in unison. However, Ace can only sulk for so long with all the fun the fair offers. Arsenal ends up shooting down four roses for him. Well, he’s not the one paying for the bullets. Ace carries the biggest one in his teeth until Jacky whacks him over head and makes him bite through the stem when they’re entering the public bath and people keep staring.
The next morning, the person who’s the most sober gets to drive. This means Johnny and way too slow of a tempo, so soon enough they settle on taking turns. By late that night, they’re back home, the van parked in the garage by their bar. They all feel pretty broken and not refreshed at all. Clearly the trip has been a success. Gum pulls out a weird pouch from the crevice of his seat.
“I knew something was digging into my ass,” he mutters.
“I’m sure you liked it,” Ace says grumpily. He doesn’t try to take the pouch away from Gum, but it’s a close thing.
“What is that?” Mac grabs it and feels the contents shift underneath his fingers. It’s somehow familiar.
“It’s coffee beans,” Ace murmurs, grabbing his bag and marching inside. “Don’t you have that super private morning coffee club of yours? You and Arsenal,” he adds over his shoulders.
Jacky pounces at him. “What is that? What is it?”
“He seems to like grinding them. It’s an old man thing, isn’t it? I don’t know; they said at the store that it’s good stuff.” Ace shrugs Jacky off and disappears.
Once inside, Mac opens the pouch and grins. The coffee sure smells good. Arsenal pushes him away a little and dips his fingers into it, lets them sink between the beans then rubs a few of them between his fingertips. He goes to bed right away and ignores the pouting Mac who wants to try the coffee right away.
“I’m tired. Don’t be greedy,” he mutters. What the fuck is this anyway? They’re back now. The phase should be over.
The bar is loud and full of people. They’ve been back for almost a week and things are settling down, old and new patterns coming to them as they fall into the rhythm that has been there all along. It’s not the same. It’s not better or worse, sadder or happier; it just is, them and the lives they decide to live in that moment. It’s a fun night, really, plenty to see and laugh at, even more to do. There are so many options, right there, in the space between the DJ booth and the bar.
When the music is loudest and Gum and Johnny could probably use a hand at the bar, Ace finds himself closing the door to Arsenal’s room. From the inside.
Ace isn’t floaty; he might have whims, but not everything he does is caprice, arbitrary, a sudden impulse that will be swiped away by the next newer or more interesting one. He watches Arsenal as he puts his gun back together after a thorough cleaning. It’s a slow and meticulous process. His hands look strong, confident as they fit everything into the right place, the occasional click resounding between the more distant bass beats. When he’s done, Arsenal loads the gun, one bullet after another. He doesn’t put it back in its place at his waist. It lies there, in the middle of the table, while Arsenal gets up and walks towards Ace. He stops only when the toes of his heavy army shoes are touching the tips of Ace’s Converses.
Ace’s fingers are rough and cold when he runs his hand down Arsenal’s cheek and neck. It’s not a gentle touch, but Arsenal doesn’t budge. It’s familiar. It’s harder to stay still, to keep looking into Ace’s eyes, when he doesn’t stop there. Instead, his hand moves back, squeezing Arsenal’s neck, and then Ace’s fingers are running through his hair. He grabs a handful but doesn’t really pull, just goes still in that moment. And that-all of it-is completely new.
It makes Arsenal want things much more than if Ace just took them. So he leans closer and kisses Ace. The hand in his hair relaxes for a second, then the fist closes even tighter, and Ace is kissing him back, opening his mouth and running his tongue over Arsenal’s bottom lip. The wet, warm feeling makes Arsenal jerk a little, but Ace is holding him tightly in place now. He’s licking into Arsenal’s mouth; he’s persistent, almost forceful. In return, Arsenal pushes him more into the door, fitting himself between Ace’s spread legs, one hand on his hip, the other pressed against the door between Ace’s side and arm.
The kisses get longer, the atmosphere shifts, and it’s unsettling how comfortable it is to press against Ace and kiss him, to pull at his lip and swallow the moan that spills from him, how normal it is when Ace’s tongue dips deeper afterwards. It’s breathtaking, and Arsenal is pretty sure he wanted to pull away after just one kiss, after just trying it out, after finding out how Ace tastes.
In the end, it’s Ace who pulls Arsenal back by his hair, and his mouth moves behind his ear and lower, sucking at his neck, nibbling and biting lightly until Arsenal turns his head into the touch himself. He arches and finds himself much closer to Ace than he’s ever planned to be.
The next moment, Ace presses them even closer, wrapping one hand around Arsenal’s waist and holding him steady. Ace’s hips jerk just a little, and he groans, struggling to control his body because he wants more, but not yet, not now when Arsenal is willing to let him suck at a spot in the crook of his neck, pushing into Ace on his own, not now when he doesn’t fight the closeness like the last time.
“You’re stupid,” Ace murmurs against Arsenal’s skin when he remembers he came here to actually say something. Only that wasn’t it. Oh well. Arsenal grinds his hips then, slamming Ace into the door again, and Ace is done talking. He slides his hand under Arsenal’s t-shirt and then up his side. It’s firm pressure and Arsenal gasps, his mind all muddled.
“Wait,” he tries to say, but it’s swallowed by the music from downstairs and Ace’s sucking noises, his mouth latched to the part of Arsenal’s shoulder not covered by his t-shirt.
“Fucking stop,” Arsenal tries again. This time it’s too loud, and rough, and so charged Arsenal hardly recognizes his own voice.
Ace kind of obeys. He lifts his head, leaning back against the door, his breath coming out in a rush. His lips are a little swollen, and they’re glistening. His hair is in his eyes, and Arsenal can’t properly see them. His neck is flushed.
“Are we . . .” Arsenal starts then stops. “Do you want to take a shower?” That’s how you do this, right? That’s how you find out.
“Fuck no, do you?” Ace says, a bit puzzled, his hands dropping from Arsenal’s body.
“Oh.” Arsenal steps back, looking at the floor. He realizes he’s hard. Of course he is.
“What the fuck,” Ace says again and takes a step forward. “I just . . .” He stops, then suddenly bends down and takes his shoes off along with his socks.
“What?” Arsenal looks him in the eyes. Ace shoves at his shoulders and when Arsenal stumbles back, he does it again and again. Arsenal’s calves hit his bed, and he falls back then scrambles up, but Ace is already crawling over him, stopping to angrily pull at Arsenal’s shoelaces. It’s quite a lot of work to get those shoes off, so Ace is stuck there with one knee on the bed, cursing, while Arsenal sits up and watches.
“Don’t stare,” Ace hisses angrily when the shoes are finally off. He slides up and kisses Arsenal again, their teeth crashing because he’s too fast and harsh. They both wince, but Arsenal doesn’t pull away. Instead, he pushes himself up the bed, settling against the headboard with Ace straddling him, knees on either side of him and hands pulling at his t-shirt.
The clothes come off fast, Ace scratching Arsenal in the process, first by accident, but later on purpose because Arsenal’s breath hitches and he shudders every time. Arsenal gives back as much as he gets, biting at Ace’s lips and sucking the bitten skin so much it stings. Ace fumbles through the pockets of his jeans before he sits back on Arsenal’s thighs and takes them off. He pulls at Arsenal’s pants and boxers at the same time, not minding what they catch on, and Arsenal’s nails sink into Ace’s side in return.
Ace doesn’t waste any more time and wraps his hand around Arsenal’s cock. His fingers aren’t cold anymore. His entire body is warm and flushed, and sweat is starting to form behind his ear where Arsenal is scraping his teeth to keep himself quiet when Ace’s hand moves, stroking him from the base to the tip. Ace’s other hand is tracing Arsenal’s ribs, hurried and hungry for more skin to touch. Arsenal holds on, holds Ace close, gripping his arm and feeling the muscles there move. The hand on Arsenal’s cock tightens, the pace quickens just as he wants it to, and he’s starting to gasp and fall apart, his stomach tightening with the pleasure.
“Do something,” Ace mutters then, right into Arsenal’s ear, then takes his earlobe in between his teeth. Arsenal almost jumps out of his skin, his cock twitching when Ace slows down, moves his hand to Arsenal’s balls for a moment.
Arsenal’s hand is in Ace’s boxers before he can think about it too much. The angle is all wrong, and in the rush he squeezes too tightly. Ace lets out a high pitched moan and throws his head back. Arsenal now has to look right at him, stretched and tense before he bites his lip and lifts his hips, pushes up into Arsenal’s hand impatiently. It’s not enough; Ace’s hand doesn’t start moving again and his body is arched away from Arsenal. Arsenal is trying to pull him close so he can kiss him again, make him do something, and what the hell is he doing anyway? Arsenal groans in frustration, pulls his hand away from Ace, and Ace whines. He looks up into Arsenal’s face again, eyes narrowed and dark and determined.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. It doesn’t sound like a random profanity, more like an instruction. Arsenal tenses at the recognition.
Before he can try to move, Ace is slipping out of his boxers and scrambling for the things he fished out of his pants earlier. When he returns, he places his knees on either side of Arsenal’s thighs again but doesn’t sit down. He places one of his hands on Arsenal’s shoulders, leans forward a bit, and his other hand disappears between his legs. Arsenal is frozen for a moment, watching Ace as his eyes widen, mouth opening and going slack. His breathing is ragged and his stomach muscles are trembling from the tension. Arsenal runs his palm over them, rubbing Ace’s hipbone. When Ace hisses, pushing a second finger inside of himself too soon, Arsenal looks into his eyes again and can’t look away. His hands settle on Ace’s hips, and he leans forward to lick at his lips. Ace doesn’t relax, his nails digging into Arsenal’s shoulder more and more. Arsenal can’t take not being capable of doing at least something, anything to change that. He forces his hand to move, runs his fingers up Ace’s cock, and Ace exhales suddenly. Arsenal does it again, swipes his thumb across the tip and rubs a spot at the base of Ace’s cock. Ace bucks up and then groans.
“Don’t stop,” he says in a rush, and Arsenal keeps touching him, watching his every reaction while Ace starts to move between his own hand-two fingers pushing deeper, scissoring-and Arsenal’s. Ace starts to let out small moans, his hips moving faster, so Arsenal dares to kiss him. Ace whimpers into the kiss, and suddenly his hand is swatting Arsenal’s away. Arsenal pulls at Ace’s hair with his other hand, wanting to see what’s going on, and catches Ace’s hands fumbling with a condom. Then it’s being rolled onto his cock, and Ace is spreading some cold gel over it and . . .
“Fuck,” Arsenal hisses.
“Yeah, now,” Ace mutters and grabs the base of Arsenal’s cock, sinking all the way down onto it.
Arsenal’s cock feels like too much, stretching Ace even more, filling him completely, and he has to stop, his muscles tense again, his breath stuck in his throat. Arsenal doesn’t seem to be any better off, his mouth hanging open, one hand on Ace’s thigh, the other gripping the sheets. But Ace’s tension doesn’t seem to seep away. So Arsenal touches him again, hand wrapping around his cock and moving up and down. Arsenal is impatient, and so is his pace. Ace moans, his hips moving into Arsenal’s touch, and he feels Arsenal’s cock shift inside him.
“Yes,” Arsenal whispers. It’s needy and it makes Ace try again. He rolls his hips and he still feels too full, but it also starts to feel good, so he does it again and again and then Arsenal is pressing up into him. Ace tries to brace both hands on Arsenal’s shoulders so he can lift up properly. Instead, he flails a bit when Arsenal grabs his ass with both of his hands and tries to somehow push him backwards. He pushes at Arsenal’s shoulders, but Arsenal pushes back. They shove at each other some more, Arsenal’s cock slipping out of Ace. Ace lets out a surprised groan, and Arsenal finally tackles him down and to the side, flipping them around.
That won’t do, and Ace struggles, wanting to sit up, but Arsenal grabs his wrists and pulls them up and above his head. He holds them there, staring down at Ace before he kisses him forcefully, pushing one if his legs up. Then Arsenal’s fingers are tracing Ace’s rim, and Ace shivers. Arsenal’s cock slides into him, and the hold on Ace’s wrists tightens. Ace whines and lifts both of his legs, wrapping them around Arsenal and pushing him deeper.
It’s fast and hard after that. Arsenal’s tongue is in Ace’s mouth and Ace sucks at it between gasps and moans, stealing at least that tiny sliver of control. Arsenal’s free hand digs into Ace’s hip as he drives into him, brushing against something that makes Ace choke and ask for still more. He feels himself slipping into orgasm, his hips jerking and his whole body shuddering because Ace is tight and hot and a writhing mess. Ace’s wrists still struggle a little against Arsenal’s hold, and the muscles in his arms are straining in the way that makes Arsenal wants to feel it beneath his fingers. He wants to last a little longer, wants more of this pleasure where everything but Ace moving and moaning underneath him blurs, but he needs to let go. He wants Ace to let go.
With much effort, Arsenal moves one hand between them, and Ace almost screams when Arsenal touches him, starts pulling him off, fast and with intent. Ace can’t kiss anymore, so he at least sucks on Arsenal’s shoulder and gasps into it. Arsenal barely holds on until Ace goes still underneath him and comes in between them. He tightens around Arsenal’s cock even more, and his legs press Arsenal closer. It’s enough for the orgasm to finally wash over Arsenal too. It wraps around him completely, until he can only clutch Ace as he rides it out.
They’re both loose and kind of soft when Arsenal starts breathing again. He pushes himself up and slips out, getting rid of the condom and sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the man lying in it. Ace has his eyes closed. He’s all sweaty skin, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. His chest is rising and falling quickly as his breath doesn’t seem to be slowing down at all. His own come is on his stomach, white against the flushed skin. He’s stretched out like a cat, his hands still over his head where Arsenal left them. Arsenal grabs a discarded t-shirt and wipes Ace’s stomach clean. He doesn’t linger. He’s just making sure he didn’t miss anything.
That’s when Arsenal notices the bass downstairs still going strong. It’s almost the same rhythm as the pounding in his ears was when he fucked Ace just moments ago. He gets his cigarettes, frowning when his big toe pokes the open tube of lube and a pack of condoms by his bed. He leans against the headboard and lights up, taking a long drag.
The familiar scent finally makes Ace open his eyes. Arsenal manages one more inhale, and then Ace is in his mouth again, stealing the air out of him. Arsenal’s hands flop around helplessly, and Ace finds the cigarette between his fingers, steals it away before pulling away from Arsenal’s mouth. A small curl of smoke escapes through his nose, and Arsenal finds himself holding the back of Ace’s neck, keeping him close. Ace takes a drag of the cigarette next, smirking lightly, and Arsenal figures it’s his time to kiss Ace. He rakes his nails down Ace’s back, all the way to his ass, and squeezes it for good measure. Ace lets out a soft moan and his tongue pushes Arsenal’s back into his mouth. They pull apart only because it’s a waste of a cigarette to let it just burn out between Ace’s fingers.
Arsenal lights up one more cigarette after that, and Ace lies on his side next to him, stealing it from time to time and continuing his silence. Arsenal wonders if this means the only way to shut Ace up is to fuck him. He watches the curls of smoke leaving Ace’s mouth, which is quirked into a content smirk.
“Don’t fall asleep in here,” Arsenal sighs and slides down under the covers.
Ace wakes up to someone pulling his blanket away from him.
“Get back to your room before anyone finds you here,” Arsenal mutters. His hair is hanging in his face and he seems still half asleep. Ace grunts and rolls over, curling into himself.
“Go.” Arsenal nudges him with his foot. Ace glares and stumbles out of bed. He doesn’t bother finding his clothes, just pushes the handle and falls out into the hallway and across it into his own room.
Arsenal is at his heels, dumping all of Ace’s clothes on the floor.
“Asshole,” Ace mutters as he buries himself under the blankets. His voice is rough at the edges. It sounds almost the same as when he moaned for more just hours ago.
“I told you to not fall asleep,” Arsenal mutters, distracted.
“Hey,” Ace’s voice comes from under the pile of sheets. Secretly, he’s found a gap in it and his eyes are fixed on Arsenal. “Was the coffee any good?”
Arsenal forgets to quickly leave the room before someone wakes up to the noises they’re making.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
Ace wakes up the last the next day. It’s more afternoon than morning when he half falls down the stairs. He gets scolded by Mac for leaving the guys alone at the bar last night and ends up cleaning the bar. When Arsenal passes by him, Ace steals his cigarette, taking one long drag and giving it back. He smirks. Arsenal looks at him, just a little longer than normal, then runs his hand through his hair. He doesn’t help Ace clean, but he sits at the bar, mindlessly flipping through the newspaper from yesterday, letting Ace whine and moan at him until he’s done. When he looks up, he catches Ace looking back at him. The smile Ace gives him is more shy than smug. Arsenal grabs a bottle of whiskey that Ace is holding and takes a shot.
This time, Ace’s laugh is loud and rich and happy. “Get it together, you old man,” he says, and pats Arsenal’s shoulder over the bar. If his fingers slide down Arsenal’s arm and rub the inside of his wrist before he goes back to cleaning, both of them pretend not to notice.
end
A/N:THIS FIC!!! I thought I would never get it written. I don't even know what to say about it. There IS SO MUCH! *flails like a kid* There is a part or two, that I really love. There are parts I don't want to ever see again and I fail at gun play. Also googling gun parts is hard work, lol. Ace and Arsenal are hard work. The teeeeension . . . the "deep talks", the tough men act, the way Ace is always eating something in my mind, the way Arsenal's hair is everywhere. Okay, I will stop now. Just THIS FIC!
There's one thing that I want to say. I can't imagine Arsenal making coffee. But I've read all of Mac's journal entries that were published and translated after 8Uppers came out and apparently it's his thing. So yeah, coffee grains for Arsenal.
I hope people who read this enjoyed it at least a bit. If you read the fic over at Hols with the wrong formating. I'm sorry, I know it must have been super distracting and I have no clue what went wrong ;__;
Comments? Edits?