(no subject)
The bitter taste of coffee and cigarettes is heavy on his tongue, the glaring yellow of the diner’s fluorescent lights showing the bruises on his arm all the clearer. Four, neat in a row and the size of quarters, purpling against his pale skin. Clamping the cigarette between his lips, he tugs his sleeve down, looking into the soft reflection of the mirror.
Clinking silverware and the click of sensible heels on a linoleum floor provide a simple harmony of sound. Comforting. Familiar. Until the bell above the door clangs, and he walks in.
A hundred things wrong at once.
Shoulders too thin, skin too dark. All mouth and ears and nose and hiding behind a shock of dark hair. The boy sits in the booth opposite, beanie tugged down over a wide forehead and he decides against it within minutes. He has better options.
Until the cigarette is burned to the quick and there’s a ring from the spillover of his stale coffee and it’s looking like there’s nothing left but home. It’s not acceptable. His spoon drops with a clatter into the faux china cup, rising to slide into the booth beside him.
“What are you reading?” his voice is rough from smoke and abuse. Skinny shoulders hunch over whatever thick paperback the boy’s buried himself in.
“I’m waiting for someone,” comes the muted reply, a worn page turning and this close, he can see hollowed cheekbones and dark circles. He eyes the cup of neglected coffee with distaste, the patterns of sugar traced on the sticky tabletop.
He reaches out to snatch the book from the boy’s hands, tossing it aside. “Someone just arrived.”
Eyes flash up, a slender jaw tightening and oh. There. He can work with that.
“Fuck you.”
He smirks, hand darting out to wrap around a thin wrist. “That’s the idea, kid.” The words feel tired in his mouth, the bruises stinging in his arm and godammit, he just wants. Wants taste and touch and just something.
Open-mouthed and the lips, the lips are a saving grace. He wants to use, to abuse-no. Not that. Just.
“You’re…you’re sick,” the other stutters, tugging his hands way and under the table. “I don’t even fucking know you.”
He flattens his palm against the table, the tips of his fingers yellowed and nails brittle and bitten.
“That’s why.”
*
He gets him half-unclothed before that young back even hits the mattress, crawling on top of him to inhale the scent of soap and cologne at the corner of his jaw. Small, muted noises and a thick mop of hair that slides effortlessly in his fingers. He pushes his hips down, his lips down, down and down until he’s tracing the downy trail that leads under a low waistband.
The boy’s face is flushed with heat and arousal, trapped between his mouth and wash-worn sheets.
He can forget, here, about the bruises. About the chill and the hard springs of the couch digging into his spine. He came here to forget.
“Take off your pants,” he mutters, shifting as hands scramble to obey. Sharp hips and bare skin are revealed to his hungry eyes and he yanks dark jeans the rest of the way off, underwear caught around long legs.
“I haven’t…I don’t…”
The words are stilted, too quiet and he counts ribs under the pads of his fingers. “You don’t have to do anything.” He bites at a sharp collarbone, kissing the tanned column of the other’s throat.
He shucks dark jeans, cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. Hesitant fingertips trace the jutting ridge and okay. The kid is beautiful. He can see it now. He grasps the curve of the other’s jaw, smiles at him even though he hardly remembers how.
“Lay back.”
Underwear follows, kicked to the side on the grimy motel carpet. He fishes the lube and condom from discarded jeans, moving to straddle the boy’s waist. Black hair is fanned out on the dull green bedspread and he lets dark eyes steady him. Give him balance.
Slicking his fingertips, he reaches behind himself, hissing as he sinks onto the first. It burns, pulls, but it’s worth it for the panted breaths that part chapped lips. The position is awkward but he manages, fucking himself on his own fingers as the boy’s hesitant touch brushes the head of his cock.
His head tilts back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he shudders. “Get the condom, “ he hisses, shifting back to give the other room. Watching as fingers fumble with the foil wrapper, as white teeth sink into pink lips, as the boy slides the latex over his weeping cock.
Bracing himself, he shifts into places, sitting backwards and onto the other’s length, groaning with pain and pleasure, the boy’s whimper crawling under his skin and staying there like tar. Hands settle on his hips, holding him firm and not letting him, not letting him move.
He pets the backs of them lightly, head tilted back to watch the ceiling and maybe this…maybe this is what he’d been searching for. The grasp relaxes. He moves.
Their coupling is quick, the boy’s legs straining against the sheets, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon and he comes first, spilling over that tanned, softly defined chest. Long fingers trace through the tacky mess and he is filled with warmth, peace settling in his stomach.
The moment pauses. Freezes in static. There is only the dim rush of breath and the feeling of being full, so full, but it has to break. He shifts off, grimacing as the boy slides free of him, and falls onto his back.
He hears the wet plop of the condom disposed in the waste bin, curling into his side and feeling the shift on the mattress as the boy burrows in against his back. Warm breath stirs his hair and he lets his eyes close.
“What were you reading?” he mumbles, and it takes the place of so much. Who are you? Can I see you again? Why did you come with me?
“I don’t remember,” comes the soft reply, mouthed against the nape of his neck, and there is silence. The hours until dawn whittle away, till clothes are pulled on and ways parted, but in between…
In between there are only sheets and skin and the faint smell of coffee.