Fic: Sex and The Art of Motorcycle Maintanance (R)
Author: Ashley
Sex and The Art of Motorcycle Maintanance (with apologies to Robert Pirsig)
Rated hard R for m/m sexuality and language.
Disclaimer: not mine. I just play here.
Summary: Part of the Live By The Sword ‘verse. Post Hopes and Fears. The not so distant future. Los Angeles. Uni students Arthur and Lancelot, a motorcycle, and philosophy.
Author’s notes: A blatant little piece of fluff. I know nothing about motorcycles, so ignore the talk about repairs.
“PCH” is the Pacific Coast Highway. It runs all the way from Los Angeles to San Fransisco.
Feedback is welcomed.
“Son of a bitch.”
Clang.
“Fuck!”
ttttting.
“God-“
“What in the hell are you on about?”
Arthur looked up exasperatedly at the sound of Lancelot’s voice. The younger man’s grin widened as he got a good look at the dirt and oil smudged high on Arthur’s cheek - and the annoyed expression on Arthur’s face.
“Something wrong?”
“No, Lance. I’m just sitting here, covered in mess for my health.” Arthur made a pfffffffft sound, tossing the wrench he had just dropped back in his tool box. “Something’s going on with the muffler. I can’t seem to fix it - Gawain’s going to come over later and take a look. Stupid thing.” He kicked the bike, a satisfying rattle reaching his ears.
At the mention of Arthur’s friend’s name, Lance frowned. “Gawain? Hrm. Really.”
Arthur shook his head. Normally he’d be amused and slightly flattered at Lancelot’s jealousy - but not at the moment. He was too worked up over his broken Triumph and too ticked to deal with the younger man’s silly, unfounded feelings. Standing, he pulled a rag out of his pocket, and tried to wipe the oil off his skin.
“He knows more about motorcycles than anyone I know, Lance. He’s just going to take a look. That’s it.”
One of Lancelot’s dark eyebrows rose. “Really,” he repeated, crossing his arms. With the movement, Arthur noticed finally what the other man was wearing.
“What’s the story with the tux?”
“I told you, Arthur,” Lance sighed, “department meet and greet. There were some professors in from Chicago - they wanted all of us there. Or all of the declared students at any rate. Didn’t you notice I wasn’t home? For three hours?”
Arthur blushed; he did remember the other man telling him about the gathering - but he had been too involved in what he was doing to pay much attention.
“Sorry. Now I do,” he replied, giving up on wiping his face. Shoving the rag back in his pocket, he smiled tentatively. “Let’s go inside. I can’t do anything else with this … thing right now.”
He glared at the bike, and Lancelot had to hold back a laugh at the look. If looks were daggers…
He followed Arthur into their small rented apartment, and shut the door behind them.
*
Moving into the living room, Arthur slumped onto the couch, having the presence of mind to take his boots off before kicking his feet up on the coffeetable. He was grumbling to himself, his hands going automatically to the maintanance guide sitting on the floor. Lance watched in amusement, leaning against the doorframe that lead into the kitchen, as his friend made faces and read.
Smiling, Lancelot opened the fridge, pulling out two beers, then made his way over to where Arthur was absorbed in his book. Loosening his bow tie, he removed it, and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his tux shirt, the jacket having been quickly shed as soon as he had entered the apartment.
“Ah! Cold!” Arthur almost screamed as the younger man placed the beer bottle quietly against the back of his neck. Whipping his head around, he scowled, then took the offending drink out of Lancelot’s hands. “Very funny.”
“Just trying to help,” Lance shrugged, going for cute nonchalance. He had an idea brewing in the back of his mind, inspired by that damn black motorcycle. Sex on wheels, he liked to think of it - but would die before telling Arthur just how hot it made the older man look. He cleared his throat, focusing on the present, but kept his idea close.
“With what? Scaring me? Annoying me? I think I’m taking care of that myself,” Arthur hmmphed, and cast his eyes back on the book, taking a swig of the beer.
“Jesus, Castus, you don’t have to be quite so touchy,” Lancelot snipped back. If the other man was going to be like that, well then, he’d just keep his idea to himself, thank you very much. Pouting, he stretched out, laying his legs on Arthur’s thighs, his head pillowed on one of the arms of the couch.
Arthur looked up, ready to snap, but lost the desire at the hang dog expression on Lancelot’s face. “Damn,” he sighed, setting his book aside, turning so he could see the other man better, his hands on Lance’s feet, “it’s amazing the talent you have for making me feel guilty…and I’m still not quite sure what I’ve done.”
“Arthur,” the younger man replied, “that’s not my intention. I just don’t want you to be so serious all the time…okay? You’ve got me practically in your lap, in a tux no less, and you’re reading a book.”
Arthur snorted, his fingers rubbing at Lancelot’s feet. “You have a great deal of surity in the power of your draw,” he laughed. “Just because you look good enough to eat doesn’t mean I have to give in to every temptation. Yes,” he laughed louder at the surprised look on the other man’s face, “I noticed.”
“Well, Christ,” Lance muttered, “you could have told me - I wouldn’t have been working so hard on getting your attention.” He blushed, and rubbed a hand over his neck.
Arthur’s fingers were doing something to his feet that was rapidly making him lose his coherent train of thought, so he smirked, and pulled one foot away from Arthur’s questing hands.
“But I like to see you work at it,” Arthur answered, his hand shooting out and grabbing the appendage before Lance could get too far away. “It’s cute. In a really immature way.”
“I’m not exactly forty, Arthur,” the younger man shot back, “…and you’re not exactly that old yourself, either. So don’t go getting all high and mighty on me about maturity.”
“Oh, come on,” Arthur teased, his hands creeping higher, “you know you love it when people think you’re younger than you are. I’ve never met anyone so vain in my life. Ow!”
Lance pulled his foot back from Arthur’s arm, grinning as the other man rubbed the offended body part. “Was that necessary?”
“You have to ask?”
Huge smirk this time. Arthur shook his head. “That’s it, boy,” he accented the term, “you’re going to have to pay for that.”
Moving almost too fast for Lancelot to see him, Arthur was suddenly two inches from Lance’s face, his eyes twinkling ferally, his teeth flashing white.
Laying out on the other man, he propped his head in his hand. “Now, what was it I was saying about how you looked? Something to do with food, wasn’t it? My memory is slightly hazy…I’m old, you’ll remember.”
Lance groaned at Arthur’s attempt at flirting, which rapidly turned into a different type of groan when the older man rolled his hips slightly against Lancelot’s.
“Sssomething about eating,” he hissed, his arm quickly trapping Arthur on top of him, the hand squeezing at the other man’s ass.
“Ah yes,” Arthur murmured, dipping his head to Lancelot’s neck, the lips teasing the other man’s jawline softly, tickling where Lance’s nighttime stubble had grown in. “And I am hungry.”
“You may have to wait on that, if you want to get anything done on this bike.”
“You didn’t lock the door, did you?” Arthur gritted in Lancelot’s ear. He got off the younger man quickly, his neck and cheeks flushing a deep red. Lance took his time sitting up; he had never liked the blonde, but knew that Arthur enjoyed his company, so he was willing to put up with it for now.
“Gawain,” Arthur almost stuttered, “uh…sorry. We were just…”
“Fucking,” Gawain finished for him, “but never mind, Arthur. Can you step away from your toy for a moment and take a look at your bike? I think I may have figured out the problem.”
“Sure,” Arthur answered, casting an apologetic look back at Lancelot, who was starting to fume. “Stay here,” he mouthed at the other man, who swore to get even with Arthur for talking to him like he was the damn family pet.
*
Lancelot moved from the couch to the shower, angrily shedding his tux as he went. “Asshole,” he muttered, the soft black fabric of his trousers fluttering to the tiled floor. Shirt next. Boxers last. “Fuck that wanna be rock star. Arthur’s gonna have to make some changes in his friends…” he kept on as he turned on the water full strength, then stepped in, a small shout reverberating around the room as the heat blasted him.
He took his time, not wanting to see Gawain or Arthur for that matter. Using every product in the shower, including Arthur’s shampoo just to spite him, he finally stepped out, wrapped a towel around his slender waist, and wiped the fog from the mirror. An annoyed, pale, young face stared back at him. One dark brow rose. “He’d rather fix that damned bike than spend time with me?”
Lance would never admit it, probably not even to himself, but his insecurity around Arthur - especially when it came to their ‘relationship’ - was easy to rouse.
And it pissed him off.
“Asshole,” he repeated. He brushed his teeth with a vengeance, deciding to hell with shaving (he liked his five o’clock shadow), and slapped on some of his patchouli oil that Arthur always complained about him wearing - except of course when they were intimate and Arthur wouldn’t shut up about how much he liked the smell.
He exited the bathroom, winding his way down the hall to his room, and shut the door, thinking hard. Lighting his oil lamp - he liked the atmosphere of the throwback to ancient times much better than neon light - he threw open the doors to his closet.
Smiling, he suddenly had a better idea.
*
Arthur waved at Gawain as the blond man roared off on his Harley. Wiping his hands, he whistled, happy to have the Triumph working again. Not that he used it that much, not to get to school at any rate, but he wanted to keep it in top working order; it hadn’t exactly been cheap. Besides, he loved it. The open air and the roads to himself were sometimes the only way he had of managing to keep his insomnia under control - and that was a new thing in and of itself as well. He had never had problems sleeping before.
Not before he had moved in with Lancelot.
The smile disappeared from his face, and he thought guiltily of the way had just left the younger man alone when Gawain had shown up. He was probably going to get an earful for that. Striding quickly to the door, he shut it behind him, looking for Lance.
The damp feel to the air was courtesy of the shower being recently used; he went to the bathroom, but the other man wasn’t in it.
“Lance?” he called - knocking on the door to Lancelot’s room produced the same effect - no roommate.
Lance had obviously been in his room, due to the wet towel and shed tux laying on his bed. “Yuck,” Arthur said, picking up the towel, throwing it over his shoulder, and laying the tux out so it wouldn’t wrinkle too badly.
Hanging the towel in the bathroom, he stopped in his tracks when he entered the living room. Every light had been extinguished save that damn oil lamp that Lancelot insisted they have in the main room. Arthur sniffed lightly.
“You used your oil,” he said quietly, “trying to get me roused?”
“I like it,” came the answer, the younger man’s voice somewhat rough. Arthur walked over to the couch, where Lancelot had himself draped like a Venetian courtesan.
“…and what’s wrong with your own clothing?”
Lance shrugged, and Arthur caught a flash of pale, shiny skin. He swallowed. “Nothing. This was in my closet. I didn’t realize it was yours - I can take it off, if you want?”
Arthur laughed, sitting on the floor next to Lancelot’s head, the wet curls making a dark spot on the fabric.
“You’re getting gel on our furniture,” Arthur accused softly, a small smile rippling across his features like water absorbing a thrown pebble. Lance merely shrugged again.
“It’ll dry,” he answered. Crossing his legs, he sighed. “Is that … Gawain gone?”
“You know he is. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting out here in just my shirt, trying to guilt me into bed,” Arthur replied, eyebrow cocked. “Mind you, I never said it wasn’t working.”
“I’m not trying to guilt you into anything, Arthur,” Lancelot said calmly. “I’m merely resting after my shower. This is a nice couch. It’s comfortable. I didn’t want to be cooped up in my room, so there you go.”
He crossed his arms behind his head, which made Arthur’s buttondown rise a little, and allowed Arthur a nice view of lean bare thigh. Arthur made a choking sound, and shut his eyes.
“Did you say something?” Lance ticked his dark eyes to Arthur’s green ones, which were rapidly becoming darker, almost burning in their intensity. Lancelot doubted for a moment his intelligence in doing what he was doing, but then he caught a whiff of Arthur’s scent - a combination of leather, motor oil, and some spicy deodorant he used, and forgot about his worry.
“No,” Arthur commented dryly, and leant forward slowly until he was on his knees, one hand placed gently on the other man’s leg. “I’m sorry I left you alone when Gawain showed up. Let me make it up to you.”
“Oh, I’m not angry, Arthur,” Lancelot said, his shoulders shrugging once again. “I just think you should get your priorities straight. You chose the bike over me. Your loss.”
Arthur had to take a few deep breaths in order to keep from shouting at the other man - sometimes Lancelot was so blatant in his teasing of Arthur it was ridiculous. Arthur however would probably miss it, he thought, if Lance ever stopped doing it, so he decided to play along. Besides, the warm skin under his hand felt too good to ignore.
“Hrm,” Arthur said, “well, why don’t I show you what we did so you can see that it was worth it.”
He stood, and tugged on Lancelot’s hand, the younger man standing reluctantly. This was not part of his plan.
Making their way outside, the full dark hiding Lancelot’s state of undress, Arthur went to the Triumph, and pushed it to the small garage next to their rented place. “I need to put this thing up for the night, at any rate,” he said, opening the garage door, flipping on the light, and continued to push the bike inside, looking over his shoulder at Lancelot.
“Coming?” he said innocently. Lancelot followed, unable to stop. Sometimes he wondered whether it was him that had the hold on Arthur, or the other way around.
With a push of a button, the door slid shut, and Arthur set the kickstand back down, staring down at his bike. He had cleaned it up when they had finished working on it, and it shone like new silver.
“We had to replace the muffler,” he said, hand trailing on the chrome, “which was fucked up beyond repair. At least I was right about that,” he laughed slightly. Lance came closer, his own hand going out to trace the material. “It does look good,” he admitted. Arthur’s smile grew.
“You would notice that,” he murmured, then suddenly, an idea grew. If Lancelot thought he was competing with the bike for Arthur’s attention…why not prove him wrong?
“Sit down,” he suggested, “I also picked up a new seat today. Holds more of my fat ass comfortably,” he joked, “ and it’s easier to carry a passenger as well,” he added, waiting as Lance looked at the bike.
“Arthur, I don’t know,” Lancelot said quietly, “I’ve never been on this thing for a reason. I’m not scared of much, but …”
“You won’t be after I’m done,” Arthur answered, and Lance cocked his head in confusion. “Just sit,” Arthur directed, and Lance did.
The leather was cold under his bare ass, but it was comfortable, and his body heated the fabric quickly. “Huh,” he said mostly to himself, “I guess I’d be willing to try this. It seems more - stable, or something.”
He put his hands on the handlebars, and pretended to rev. He turned to smile at Arthur, who was suddenly seated behind him, arms going ‘round his middle. Lance tensed, then relaxed when Arthur’s mouth was at his ear.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed, and Lance did, his long lashes fluttering over his cheekbones. His breathing sped up, and he sucked in a gasp as Arthur’s fingers began to unbutton his shirt slowly.
“Now, imagine the PCH,” Arthur continued to speak, his tone soft and droning, the touch on Lancelot’s skin slow and gentle, “at night. No one else is around. The wind is buzzing in your ears; the stars dot the sky, and there are no quake watches or riots. You can smell the surf, hear it. You can see the sand, the dunes, the few gulls that are still out. The engine of your bike throbs here,” he said, fingers pushing the buttondown open, then dropping to Lance’s crotch, brushing his prick once, then resting at the inside of his thigh where the bike touched it. A small shiver took Lance’s spine, and his eyes remained closed.
He could smell the salt, taste the wind.
“Your mind is still running from all the crap you’ve done that day. You can’t shut it down. Quickly, though, as you speed up, the turns on the road making you lean into them, you began to only concentrate on three things. You, and the machine, and the sea. Three things. That’s it.”
His hand moved again, and stroked Lancelot’s body slowly, a circle made around his prick of thumb and forefinger. The younger man shuddered, Arthur’s name escaping in a quiet hiss.
“Shhh. Just let me finish,” Arthur whispered. As his hand began a rhythm, his voice matched it. “Silence. No sun, no people, no job, no school. No families. No worries. No names. No Arthur. No Lancelot. Just the sea, and the bike, and you - not you, Lancelot, but you, the faceless person - the one who’s never done anything wrong, who’s never been sad, who’s never disappointed anyone. The one who’s never been hurt.”
Lancelot’s eyes were still squeezed shut, and his hands were still gripping the handlebars. His head tilted back, his skull resting on Arthur’s shoulder. The older man pressed a quiet kiss to his neck, and spoke.
“Nothing matters but you and your connection to the sea, and the earth. It’s all you can feel, all you can breathe, all you are. And in that moment, you realize,” his voice dropped in tone, and his lips found Lancelot’s pulse, laving a line there, “that nothing else can compare.”
He sucked the skin into his mouth, and pumped the flesh between his fingers hard, so hard that Lancelot had to bite his lip to keep from screaming.
When he came, he saw stars - and the sparkling inky waves of the Pacific Ocean at night.
*
Despite the helmet he wore, Lancelot could feel the wind, and smell the salt air.
“There!” he shouted, pointing. Arthur obeyed, and they turned, pulling up into a small deserted parking lot. Dismounting, their riding leathers creaking, the two men removed their helmets, and smiled at one another.
“Wow,” Lance breathed, staring out at the water. “I wish I had my board.”
“No you don’t,” Arthur laughed, “it’s got to be below 30 out there. Besides…sharks, remember?”
“Shhhh, Castus,” Lance frowned, “don’t spoil my fantasy.”
He yanked off his boots, and dashed into the sand, still warm from the sun. Arthur grinned and followed suit.
They stood at the shore, wetness lapping at their toes, and after a while Arthur wrapped his arm around Lance’s waist.
“So,” Lance said a few moments later, “I’m thinking I let you keep the bike.”
A loud laugh barked it’s way out of Arthur, shaking them both, and they watched the sea until the moon had fully risen.
~end.