Chapter Text
57…58… 59… 60…
Laurent counted each squeak of the bedframe, each exhale, each downward rut of his hips, eyes closed and head tilted back. One hand gripped the headboard and the other clutched Damen’s shoulder.
Beneath him, Damen breathed an incoherent litany of curses. He lifted a knee and braced Laurent’s thighs, pushing himself impossibly deeper. The sensation shuddered through Laurent’s hips and coaxed a quiet moan out of him. He tried not to notice his cock bouncing against Damen’s stomach and leaving behind a trail of precum, did not allow himself to think that it felt good when Damen grabbed his ass and squeezed a greedy handful of flesh…
Focus.
69... 70… 71… 72…
A desperate sound escaped Damen’s throat from somewhere deep in his body, low and raspy with need. Laurent let his head fall between his shoulders and dared to open his eyes for a moment, to look down and steal a glimpse of Damen’s blissful agony, the flicker of surprise when Laurent ground his hips down and held him there.
Damen rolled his head to the side. “Fuck… Fuck, Laurent,” he gasped. At the sound of his name, Laurent stiffened and looked away, as if he’d been caught voyeuring his own performance, summoned back into the room from the safe distance of numbers and rhythm.
79… 80… 81…
“I’m not gonna—I can’t…” Damen tried to announce, as he approached his unraveling and lost himself to pleasure. His broad hands searched for Laurent’s waist, trying to steady him, to guide him – Laurent seized both wrists, pinned them to the mattress, and ground down onto him without mercy until every muscle in Damen’s bronzed, sculpted body went taut and rigid.
88… 89… 90…
“Laurent!”
Damen arched. Laurent felt the rush of warmth, felt him writhe and tremble helplessly under his thighs as he released something that almost sounded like a whimper, dissolving into gasps. At last Laurent freed Damen’s hands so he could steady himself against the headboard, and finally, slowed to a stop. There was only the sound of their panting.
97.
Adequate.
“Fuck,” Damen managed. He laughed breathlessly and combed a hand through his dark curls. A dreamy grin played on his lips. Laurent kept his gaze trained on the bedside lamp.
When he’d caught his breath, he lifted himself, wrinkling his nose at the sensation of Damen sliding out. He scooted back and, as a courtesy, made quick work of the condom, climbing from the bed to toss it into the nearby wastebasket.
Damen half-reached toward him. “Wait… Do you want me to like, do something for you?” he asked. “I could go down on you, if you want. Whatever you want.” Laurent had thought the terms of their arrangement would be clear by now, on their fourth hookup – but he still asked, every time.
“Can I use your shower?”
Damen blinked. “Um, yeah. Yeah, there’s a clean towel…”
Laurent wordlessly made his way to the adjoining bathroom and closed the door.
He released a long-held breath and leaned against the smooth white vanity for a moment, letting his toes sink into the plush burgundy bath rug. His eyes lifted, almost nervously, to catch his reflection under the unforgiving LEDs, and found a boy unchanged – flushed, blonde hair a little mussed, but otherwise untouched. Like nothing had happened at all. If it weren’t for a certain problem between his legs, he could get dressed, catch the train, go about his business. No one would be the wiser.
He turned to the bath then – a wide tub that looked large enough for two – and fumbled awkwardly with the array of unlabeled knobs until hot water finally streamed from the square waterfall-style showerhead. He stepped into the spray and instantly melted under the heat.
Damen’s shower was like a pressure washer. At home, Laurent had to nearly flatten himself against the yellowed tiles just to reach the trickle of water. His caddy was from Dollar Tree, flimsy wire barely holding his single bottle of store-brand 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner. Here, there were shelves. Soaps. Hair products, plural. There was an Instagram-worthy reed diffuser on the top corner shelf – it smelled like lavender.
Damen had a queen-sized bed. An actual bedroom, separate from the living room. A couch. A fridge with a water dispenser, controlled by a touchscreen. A smart thermostat. There was no smell of mildew, no chipped paint. No roaches, no rats, no shouting neighbors and cigarette smoke wafting through the shitty window AC.
Damen’s whole apartment was nice.
Damen was nice.
Laurent took his time, borrowed some of Damen’s coconut-scented Luxe Curl Crème, scrubbed himself with bodywash that smelled like a campfire. When he’d savored the hot water for long enough, he flipped the dial to cold and hissed through his teeth, stiffening and forcing himself to hold still. It had the desired effect, and he was mostly flaccid within a minute. An old familiar trick. A necessary one, for situations like these.
After, he dried off with a thick, fluffy beige towel and tied it around his waist. He took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom, steam rolling out behind him.
Damen was lounging against a stack of pillows, idly scrolling his phone. He looked up and raised a brow, smirking, while Laurent searched the floor for his clothes.
“Did you just jerk off in my shower?”
Laurent froze in place, and felt a humiliating blush creeping to the tips of his ears. “What?”
Damen laughed. “You took your sweet time in there.”
Laurent rolled his eyes and snatched his boxers up. “I was enjoying the water pressure,” he said, truthfully. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be bragging about the fact that you didn’t get me off and then I disappeared into your bathroom for twenty minutes.”
“I did offer to give you a hand,” Damen protested, sitting up halfway.
“You offered to give me your mouth,” Laurent corrected coyly, tugging on his boxers and jeans in one inelegant motion.
“Hey uh… it’s pretty late,” Damen tried. “If you wanna crash here—”
“I have an early shift,” Laurent said. Also true. He grabbed his hoodie and pulled it over his head, tousling his damp hair in the process.
“Just saying, you don’t have to run off like you’re my secret mistress or whatever.”
Laurent looked down, so he wouldn’t have to see the disappointment on Damen’s face.
“Can I at least walk you to your—wait you don’t have a car, right? I could give you a ride. Or walk you to the station.”
“Damen. It’s fine. I have to go.”
Damen nodded. “Right, okay. Um… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Laurent frowned, briefly confused, before remembering that Damen was also a person with a life and responsibilities, some of which overlapped with Laurent’s.
“That’s right, yeah. See you at the Crisis Center.”
Damen gave a little wave – he was still naked, stretched onto his side like some relaxed marble statue. Laurent waved back and turned to leave, and hoped Damen wouldn’t notice the relieved fall of his shoulders.
…
It was a slow night.
The metro station was mercifully uncrowded, and so was the train. Laurent was able to find a row of empty seats and sank down carefully onto the hard plastic, wincing; Damen had the build of a titan and a cock to match. Walking tomorrow was going to be an ordeal.
He put in his earbuds, scrolled his phone for something to listen to. A man in a dark jacket boarded at the next stop and took the seat directly across from him. Laurent had the nagging sense that he was being watched, glancing up over the top of his screen.
The man was looking at him, but it was hard to tell what he saw in the greenish cast of the overhead fluorescents – a boy. A young man, maybe. A body. Nothing. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly as his eyes made a pass over Laurent’s chest, down to his hips.
Laurent straightened. His fingers slipped into his hoodie, curling around the smooth handle of his pocketknife. He studied the man’s faded gray Nikes and sifted his memory for a flash of anything familiar, coming up blank.
That was what he had looked for, always, when the blindfold was on. He couldn’t see their faces. But sometimes…
Through the little gap at the bottom, if he angled just right…
He could see their shoes.
Suddenly, the man’s face twisted. He raised his arm and sneezed into the crook of his elbow. He sniffed, blinked, looked away.
Laurent looked away, too, and wondered if he’d imagined the whole nonverbal exchange, the hungry glint in the man’s dark eyes.
Jesus fucking Christ. This isn’t Vere. Get it together.
Laurent still waited for the man to get off the train before he dared to move. Two stops past his own.
No one followed him as he exited the station. No one followed him the three extra blocks he walked to his apartment complex, past worn-down fourplexes with crumbling facades and flickering amber streetlights. He still found himself checking his blind spots over his shoulder, scanning the shadows between bushes and cars for signs of movement.
He arrived finally at his own building, careful to avoid the one precariously loose step on the second flight of stairs. A pair of dogs on the ground floor were yapping at each other in a heated squabble that would probably echo through the paper-thin walls all night. When he reached apartment 22B, he lifted the knob and wriggled it as he inserted the key – it was finicky and had to be positioned just so. He shoved his shoulder into the door and it gave with a shudder, creaking open and releasing a draft of stale air with notes of damp drywall.
Inside, he wasted no effort on a bedtime routine, knowing already that he wasn’t getting a full night’s sleep. Typical. He kicked off his shoes and jeans, crawling onto the lumpy futon that served as his bed, his couch, and really the only remotely comfortable surface in the whole 230-square-foot apartment.
Curled under a threadbare fleece blanket, he grabbed his phone to set his 4:30 alarm.
And secretly, stupidly, pathetically, he hoped that there would be a notification there. A message from Damen.
A good night text, or a “that was fun”, or even a dick pic. He could settle for a dick pic.
Nothing.
Why would you expect anything else? For all his icy refusals, it was a miracle Damen was still interested at all. He wondered how much longer that would last.
There was only the empty backdrop of his lockscreen, the blurry photo of 7-year-old Laurent, Auguste, and their parents gathered around a glimmering Christmas tree. The only photo he had of the four of them together, without Uncle.
He set the alarm, then flipped his phone over and pushed it away, closing his eyes to sleep.