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Tommy’s been around this block before. Parked by that fire hydrant. Carved his name into that tree. There’s an art to fucking straight guys—you do it one way when you’re in the closet, a different way when you’re out. Makes him feel like shit afterward no matter what, but hey, what’s the difference, right? Tommy tried the whole love thing—made a bet with his therapist, deleted Grindr, took risks and held boundaries and said “yes” and all the other bullshit everyone says you have to do to open yourself up to love, and look where it got him.
On his knees in the bathroom of a sports bar, Eddie Diaz’s dick stopping up his airway.
Best laid plans.
Tommy does that thing JR from West Covina taught him to do with his tongue, and Eddie doesn’t make a sound, but his thighs do tense up, one big muscular flinch, and then he starts trembling after Tommy goes back to suction, which Tommy feels spitefully pleased about.
They’re here because Tommy’s an asshole who can’t leave well enough alone, and Eddie’s clearly desperate for someone to fuck him and be enough of an asshole about it that he can hate them in the morning. Match made in heaven.
Tommy showed up at the bar in a bad mood. He was out of work on FMLA until the broken wrist he got in the Bakersfield wildfire healed, and being out of work and out of the air wasn’t great for his brain. Then this morning his truck wouldn’t start, and it was fucking expensive to take an Uber all the way to his therapist’s office. Then his fucking therapist wanted to talk about Evan again, and Tommy left the office feeling a familiar cocktail of dread and shame roiling around in his stomach, something between wanting to hurl and wanting to cry. Then he grimly Ubered to meet Jones for drinks and watch the game, because his fucking therapist also said getting out of the house and seeing people was good for his mental health, and Jones bailed on him halfway through the first quarter because his babysitter texted with some kind of low-stakes kid emergency, and Tommy was left sitting there looking at the game without really watching it, feeling awful, awful, awful.
Then he felt someone staring at him, and he looked across the bar, and there was Eddie Diaz, drinking a beer with the same grim determination that was keeping Tommy on his barstool instead of out in the parking lot, waiting for an Uber to take him back home where he could sleep for the next six to eight weeks. He’s not sure who spit in Eddie’s cornflakes, just that Eddie came over and slid onto the barstool next to him, and Eddie’s smile was friendly and his tone was casual, but Tommy was instantly aware that Eddie was aching for a fight. It was a bad night. Tommy felt bad enough to give him one.
So he leaned back on his elbows and said “Back from Texas, huh?”, and Eddie gave him a fixed smile and said “Yeah, it’s been great. How’s Harbor?”, and Tommy said “great,” in the same tone, and then he said, “How’s Evan?”, and Eddie let the smile drop.
“Buck’s great,” Eddie said, in this bitchy, superior little voice. Which was rich, because Tommy might be out on FMLA, but he still heard things.
“Huh,” Tommy said mildly. “How’s he liking the 133,” because of course everyone was talking about it, how Evan Buckley couldn’t handle the switch from Bobby Nash to Chimney Han. The nice buzz on the street was that it made sense to avoid making your brother-in-law your captain, and it was probably the brass’s call anyway. The not-so-nice buzz was that Athena Grant wasn’t speaking to anyone in the 118, and Buckley and his new captain got into a screaming match on a call before the transfer, and Diaz was about to wash out of paramedic training; Nash’s death had finally spoiled whatever golden thing they’d had going all that time. Tommy didn’t believe most of the rumors, but he knew Evan really was at another house, and he knew how much Eddie must hate it.
“It’s not ideal,” Eddie said, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Trouble in paradise?” Tommy asked, to see the muscle jump again.
“Heard you broke your wrist,” Eddie said, nodding down at the brace on Tommy’s left arm. “How long are you grounded for?”
“Six more weeks,” Tommy said, making himself smile, even as Eddie clicked his tongue in fake sympathy.
“Right wrist?” Eddie said, with an unmistakable glance between Tommy’s brace and his lap, which was so breathtakingly juvenile that Tommy had to blink a few times to make sure he’d seen it right. “Must be hard for you.”
“I make it work,” Tommy said, as richly condescending as a comment like that deserved. Eddie’s eyes narrowed.
“Really,” Eddie said. “Dominant hand injury, all alone in the house? Gotta be a hard time.”
“Who says I’m alone?” Tommy said, which was a mistake, Eddie’s eyes flaring immediately.
“Oh,” Eddie said, a hound who knew he’d caught the right scent. “So you finally moved on, huh? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“I’m keeping my options open,” Tommy said as neutrally as he could, and a mean little smile flickered over Eddie’s mouth, like the asshole thought he’d already won, so Tommy nudged one of his knees between Eddie’s, almost plausibly deniable. They were both big dudes. It was a crowded bar. Maybe he just needed more space.“How about you?”
Eddie went very still, legs parted around Tommy’s knee under the bar, and two little bright spots appeared on his cheeks, maybe outrage, maybe not. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Tommy, not a hound anymore, just a deer in the headlights. Typical.
“Poor Evan,” Tommy said, and pretended to brace himself on Eddie’s leg as he stood up, thumb on the outside of his thigh, fingertips skimming the seam on the inside. God, it was a good handful, though. “Good luck figuring it out, Diaz.”
Tommy got up, and he honestly thought that was going to be it, a little nasty jab at Eddie’s soft spot and then head home to lick his own wounds, but Eddie stood up a second later, fumbling some cash onto the bar. And here’s the thing—Tommy knew Eddie, what Eddie wanted, what Eddie was capable of right now. Tommy had been Eddie. The only question was whether Tommy wanted it, too, and right then he was angry, he was lonely, and the sick feeling in his stomach was receding a little bit under the rush of adrenaline he’d gotten from touching Eddie’s thigh and watching him freeze up.
So yeah, Tommy got up, then Eddie got up, and Eddie followed him into the bathroom, and Tommy flipped the lock, which struck Eddie dumb. He didn’t say anything when Tommy backed him up against the sink, didn’t say anything when Tommy sunk down to the disgusting floor, bad wrist tucked carefully against his ribs.
He hasn’t touched Tommy at all, just gripped the wet porcelain and tipped his head up to the ceiling while Tommy unzipped him and went to work.
Tommy pulls off to give himself time to gulp in a few ragged breaths, jerking Eddie’s dick to pick up the slack, and Eddie shudders.
“You like that,” Tommy asks, and Eddie jerks a little bit against him, like he forgot they were allowed to talk. Fuck that. This isn’t a romance. “He liked it too,” Tommy says, and Eddie stops looking at the ceiling, looks down at him with huge, horrified brown eyes. “He liked it slow,” Tommy says deliberately, letting go of Eddie’s dick so he can slowly trace a vein up from the base to the head, fingertip wet with his own spit, “Just. Like. That.”
“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, and his dick twitches against Tommy’s finger. Point for Tommy.
“Not gonna lie,” Tommy comments, making a little ring between his forefinger and thumb and jerking just that under the head of Eddie’s dick, “I wasn’t exactly happy to learn the competition was back in town. But you’re not really competition, are you? Look at you. You can’t even think.”
“I’m,” Eddie says in a thick voice. “I was never competing with you.” He manages to make it sound scornful, even though his dick is hard in Tommy’s hand.
“Uh-huh,” Tommy says. He takes Eddie back into his mouth, closes his eyes and opens his throat and gets back into a rhythm. Eddie gasps, then gasps again, then audibly clenches his teeth around a little moan. Tommy opens his eyes for that one and Eddie’s looking down at him. Tommy knows his own scorn is showing on his face.
“If it was a competition,” Eddie says suddenly, “I’d be winning.”
That sends a spike of heat through Tommy’s stomach that extends all the way up to his chest. Eddie groans and lets go of the sink, a fist landing in Tommy’s hair. Tommy leans into it, sinks down even further on Eddie’s dick, gripping Eddie’s ass with his good hand to steady him.
“He, uh,” Eddie says, fist tightening, sending little sparks of pleasure down Tommy’s neck. “He lives with me. You know that?”
Tommy chokes around the head of Eddie’s cock, then pulls off it to finish laughing. Eddie doesn’t let go of him. “He didn’t tell you, huh,” Tommy says, raising his eyebrows. There’s a little string of spittle, or maybe precum, connecting his smile to Eddie’s slit.
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Tell me what,” he demands, and grabs the base of his dick to tap it against Tommy’s spit-slick chin, catching on his lower lip. Tommy lets him do it, then grins.
“When you were in Texas,” Tommy says slowly, patronizingly, “he fucked me in your bedroom.”
Eddie shoves Tommy onto his dick, breathing hard, and Tommy swallows around the onslaught, heart throbbing with satisfaction. Eddie fucks his face, mean little jabs that make things messier, spit and precum all down Tommy’s front, his eyes watering, every thrust an admission that Tommy’s right, Tommy was right all along, Tommy’s winning.
“Do you think,” Eddie gets out, panting. “Uh. Do you, uh, do you think he was. Thinking. About. You?”
No. Tommy’s not sure Evan was thinking about him once, their entire relationship. He opens his throat, and Eddie pops back down, then out, bitter taste on Tommy’s tongue, throat all swollen and abused, bitter feeling in Tommy’s chest. Eddie’s jerking himself against Tommy’s open lips now, hot and fast.
“He’s,” Eddie says, snarl twitching on his mouth, making vicious eye contact instead of tipping his head back and pretending it isn’t happening, which is honestly more than Tommy expected from him. “He was never, n-never—” Never Tommy’s, never gonna love you, never gonna stay. Tommy knows already. He doesn’t need to hear it.
Tommy reaches out with his good hand and slips his thumb behind Eddie’s balls, presses the flat of it to Eddie’s hole. Eddie chokes and immediately comes, rope of cum across Tommy’s face, another in his mouth, when Tommy opens up to try and limit the mess.
Eddie stays hunched over, hands still fisted in Tommy’s hair, as he pants and comes down. Tommy lets him slip out of his mouth, still twitching with aftershocks, and pushes his thumb into Eddie’s hole, dry. Not far, not a lot, but inside. Eddie makes a high shocked sound and starts quivering again, and Tommy looks up at him, shame-dread-spite-anger churning and churning in his gut. “Yeah,” Tommy says, and it comes out ruined, like he’s been chewing glass. “Yeah, Eddie, I know.” He twists his thumb slightly, and Eddie jams a fist against his mouth and makes a broken sound, his spent dick jerking again, although nothing comes out. Tommy kisses the wet pink head, and Eddie shudders.
Tommy works his thumb free, and works on getting up off his aching knees while Eddie hides his wet face and pulls up his pants. Tommy forgets about his stupid wrist in the process and tries to brace himself on it as he gets up, and Eddie has to grab him as his vision goes white hot with pain, hauls him the rest of the way to his feet.
Tommy gets a glimpse of them both in the mirror. Neither of them are ever going to be able to come back to this bar. Honestly it’s possible someone’s gonna take a look at them and try to start shit in the parking lot. Even hard in his jeans, with cum on his shirt, and a mouth that looks like he went three rounds with a glory hole, Tommy wishes someone would try. Eddie looks like he’s been crying, which he has, and like he just came twice, which he has, and like he’s waiting for Tommy to say something, which he is, because he’s a straight man, and straight men always think you’ll be able to make it alright again when it’s over, that you'll say or do something to separate them from you again. Tommy adjusts himself in his jeans, tucking himself into his waistband, a little less obscene than before.
“See you around,” Tommy says flatly, because he forgot how much winning this particular game sucks, an instant hangover he always forgets about, but then Eddie grabs his shoulder on the way to the door.
“But,” Eddie says, and looks down at the bulge in Tommy’s jeans.
Tommy laughs. “You’re sweet,” he says, and Eddie flushes dark and humiliated, and maybe that’s why Tommy kisses him. Even odds it ends with a punch, but he doesn’t think it will. Tommy’s good at giving people what they want, for about ten to twenty minutes at a time.
Eddie’s stiff against him for a second, then melts, soft and surprising against Tommy’s front. His mouth opens up, and Tommy licks inside, and Eddie sucks hard on his tongue, sudden and, yeah, sweet. Tommy’s chest aches, and then Eddie’s arm bumps against his wrist, and that aches too.
“Okay,” Tommy says, and pulls back. Eddie’s staring at him, a deer in the headlights again, all the viciousness put away somewhere else. It’s funny. In Tommy’s experience, it’s the other way around: the guy’s pliable until he comes, and then the cruelty comes out. Figures. “Give it a minute before you leave.”
He slips out into the bar. He gets one dirty look as he comes out of the hallway, but he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. His erection’s already going down.
He makes it outside, and calls his Uber, and of course the driver it finds for him is ten minutes away, so he’s still standing there when Eddie comes out of the bar, and he’s not lucky enough for Eddie to miss him.
“Where’s your truck?”
“In the shop.”
“Need a ride?”
“Already called an Uber.”
“Okay.” Eddie gets in a car—a little sedan, not the stupid beautiful truck Tommy remembers—and shuts the door. Engine goes on. The car starts to pull out of the lot, but then stops again, a few feet from the curb where Tommy’s waiting.
Eddie rolls down the window, his jaw clenched. “It’s an expensive Uber back,” he says tensely, because of course he knows where Tommy lives, from the five minutes where Tommy thought they were actually friends. “Would you just get in, already?”
The ache in Tommy’s chest won’t let up. He doesn’t really let himself think about it, just walks around to the other side of the car, gets in.
Eddie doesn’t say anything until they’re on the freeway. “He’s not talking to me,” he says finally, muscle jumping in his jaw again. “Not for real.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, because Evan isn’t talking to him, either, not since the funeral. “He won’t take my calls. Don’t think he read the texts.”
There’s another really long silence. Tommy’s wrist hurts.
“I don’t know what to do,” Eddie admits, eyes on the road.
Tommy’s so fucking tired of feeling this way. The breakup was months ago; hell, the hookup was months ago now. Bobby Nash has been in the ground for weeks and weeks. It’s supposed to hurt less than this. He’s pretty sure it’s supposed to hurt less than this.
“If you figure it out,” he says to Eddie, tired, “let me know.”
Eddie drives him home. The car idles as Tommy unbuckles the seat belt, reaches for the door. Eddie’s just looking at him. He probably has to get home to the kid. He has to get home to Buck, who isn’t talking to him in a different way than he isn’t talking to Tommy. He has to scrub this whole night off him, probably, wash the evidence of Tommy away, wake up tomorrow and tell himself it never happened. He’s looking at Tommy.
“Come up if you want,” Tommy says, harsh because he’s disappointed with himself. Like he doesn't know better. He gets out of the car without looking back, walks through the yellow flare of Eddie’s headlights, fumbles through unlocking his front door with his left hand, almost drops the keys while doing it. The engine’s still idling.
Tommy drops his keys and wallet in the bowl he keeps by the door. Hangs up his jacket. Turns on the living room light.
The engine turns off.
Tommy takes a deep, steadying breath.
Crunch of feet across the gravel driveway. The loneliness in his chest throbs and throbs, a starving animal too dumb to know this won’t feed it, not for real. Hungry for another creature who knows how it feels.
The front door creaks open, and Eddie comes in.