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“I thought I lost you.” It's small, careful. Unusual for the usually so calm and collected man, somehow level-headed even when faced with the atrocities they face on the daily despite being eleven years Steve's junior.
Steve balls his hand into a fist. It hurts, scratches painting the skin. All over his body, really, branches hitting him in the arms, the face. A cut runs from just under his eye down to the corner of his mouth.
He tripped. Almost. Just once.
That single once would have cost him his life.
He thought he was a goner, a victim at last to the horrors inhabiting this shitty excuse for a national sanctuary. Would have ended up the same as John. His colleague, his friend. Devoured in under ten seconds. His screams will haunt Steve in his sleep, dead of night, nightmare-imaginations.
He's a terrible, horrible, no good person for having thought, without a single look back: oh, god, thank god it's not me.
Steve doesn't hiss at the sting of antiseptic Alex's dabbing against his cheek.
“I thought I lost me, too.” It's ridiculous. Stupid statement, but humor's the better way to deal with it all than admitting the marrow-deep reality of having been so close to death. He practically heard the funeral bells chime cruelly in his head.
Alex turns away. Dips his hands into the first aid kit, busies himself with searching for the gauze that is very visibly stocked in the corner of the kit. Sticks out, obvious. Unmissable.
That's strike one.
Alex's always been on the quiet side, but he's never refused to answer him, inappropriate quips or no. There's no other way to live, not in this wonderland of horrors clad in natural beauty.
Alex keeps his head low even when he fastens the gauze over the cut on Steve's cheek with medical tape. Puts the supplies back in the kit and—just stares at its contents.
“Hey, Alex.” Steve tries not to draw attention by touch but voice. It's a rule; a sacred one. Don't touch, don't think, don't feel. Whatever his feelings for Alex may be, they're—out of the question. Acting on his desires, fantasizing about the possibilities. It's all a joke, anyway. Like a brother, he tells the other rangers. It's a punch to the gut. Lie filthy in his mouth like tar.
He withdrew. Not in any obvious way. Still go out for drinks, tease, talk. Despair over their fates.
You know. Casual friend-stuff.
Touch has been a forbidden word in his dictionary since a 2 am-realization months ago, ruining his life completely. No pat on the back, no arm around a shoulder. It'd be cruel to indulge. It's just as cruel to deny himself. His personal limbo.
Maybe that's why Alex tenses when Steve, breaking his rules, puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers, hollow and desperate, ”Alex.” Alex's mouth is pursed. His eyes press together tightly as he crouches over the kit. He doesn't shrug Steve's touch off, which is a win in itself.
Except, only a heartbeat later, he stands up, Steve's hand sliding down Alex's back at the action. The back that's now turned toward him, ramrod straight, shoulders pulled up to his ears.
That's strike two.
Hell. Steve's out of his depth here. They've known each other for seven years now. Steve was there from the beginning, watched the wide-eyed twenty-one year old seasonal worker turn into the competent ranger he's today. Guided him, taught him, got to know him—
fell in love with him
Maybe Alex knows. Maybe that's why he refuses his sudden touch after months of unexplained distance. Steve should respect it. Shouldn't push. The admission of worry should be enough. Yeah, Alex cares. Not the way Steve so desires but he does, even if Steve's just his partner and not his partner.
should, should, should
Steve's never been good at this game of supposed-to. Has no discipline beyond whatever the fuck the higher-ups threaten him into. That's always been Alex's part, keeping his emotions in check, putting himself on a tight leash. He's responsible like that.
Everything Steve isn't.
Maybe that's why. The stark contrast; emotional versus logical. Opposites attract, silly girl-crushes claim. He doesn't feel very different to a teenager experiencing first genuine love, these days.
He's divorced, for fuck's sake. Wife. Appropriate age. It's pathetic that he's in love with someone so much younger. Desires what he shouldn't.
But Alex—Alex is Alex, nice and caring and funny and understanding, gets Steve on a level his former wife never could. Never tried to.
Greek tragedy in three parts.
It's the near-death-experience thing. Adrenaline spiking high, survival instincts flashing could-be's through his mind, regret bubbling like poison in his heart.
He can be blamed, is the thing. He's emotional and rash and doesn't think things through, but it's been hours, sat down with the lawyers and higher-ups to recount the encounter. Told them John's location—of his body. His remains. If there even are any to recover.
It's not like he's still high off his almost-death.
He doesn't have to grab Alex by the upper arm. Doesn't have to pull him back, right against himself until Steve topples over at the collision, his back hitting the exam table, Alex on top of him, bracing his hands at the sides of Steve's head.
He doesn't have to bury his fingers in the hair at Alex's nape. Doesn't have to pull him down and crash his mouth against his in what's more a bruise than a gentle admission.
He does it anyway.
Expects to be punched, right hook to the jaw that'd leave it aching for days, leave the other rangers in bafflement where he got the sudden bruise when he was mostly fine when they rescued him from that hell-sent wendigo. Kneed in the dick, the way Alex's leg is slotted between Steve's, the other pressing against the outside of his left thigh.
Except—
No—
God—
Alex fucking reciprocates, mouth moving in perfect tandem with Steve's. Like they've done this a thousand times and not just this one because Steve got desperate, wanted to at least experience it once. No matter the consequences, not if he could end up dead any day now anyway.
Frustrated. So full of longing, the threat of death pushed him over the edge that shouldn't be crossed. Nevermind be jumped over like there's treasure buried in a hole so deep, he'd never be able to claw his way back out.
(But Alex's a treasure in his own right, isn't he?)
That's strike fucking three. Except it's less like he hit a home run and more like the ball hit him in the head.
Maybe it's a heat of the moment thing, for Alex. Excess worry turning into carnal desire, a thing to be lived out only once. Physical proof of Steve's well-being that can't be conveyed with simple words.
Steve doesn't care. God, he should, should think with his head and not his heart, but he's so bad at thinking rationally with Alex grinding his knee right against Steve's clothed cock.
Steve drags his lips over Alex's cheek, down to the throat. Uses teeth 'cause this is a one-time-thing anyway, and if he's already ruining their years-long friendship, he might as well enjoy it. Alex's breath hitches when Steve bites down, knee stopping its ministrations.
“Alex,” Steve whispers, reverent. Sounds so in love even to his own ears, it's an abrupt contradiction when he says, “we shouldn't be doing this.” Says it though it kills him because he's clear-headed on some level, and this can still be brushed off, can't it? Quash his own wants, force himself to return to a state of rationality. Play make-believe and hope it becomes reality eventually.
Alex huffs a laugh. Tellingly gyrates his knee as he says, “Well, something tells me we should.” Has Steve biting his lip, moan caught between his teeth. Both the pressure against his cock and the almost confident octave in Alex's voice leave him dizzy, hard beyond belief.
“You don't want this,” Steve tries again, hands wandering down to Alex's hips, paradox to his words as he grabs them and pushes Alex forward. This time, he can't suppress the moan.
Alex's eyes are wide. Pupils blown. Affected.
By Steve.
He scoffs, his hand touching Steve's throat, fingers slipping under his collar to trace the dip of the hollow of his throat.
“And you know that how, exactly?”
“It's not—you've never shown any interest in—in men, in anyone. In me. You—”
Alex's smile is bittersweet. Wistful.
“Maybe because there's only ever been one person on my mind? Not exactly easy talking about that person with the friend who is said person. Especially when he was still married.”
Steve barks out a laugh. Low. Puts his palms over his eyes. Can't believe it, desires so close but it's not possible. Fate's never been kind to him.
It's self-deprecating when he says, “Yeah, sure. Me, being 'the one'? Ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous. Maybe it's you who's acting on adrenaline. It's not—it's not unheard of, wanting to touch to reassure oneself of someone's survival, I think. It doesn't have to be romantic. Why would you—of all people, you—me—are you seriously trying to pitch that one to me? I'm simple-minded, not stupid.”
He's shooting himself in the foot, he knows. So what if his suspicions are true? What if, what if, what if? He's still looking the gift horse in the mouth. Wanted this for so long, longed for it so desperately, it kept him awake so many nights. Yet the fact it might be a possibility, a dream come true, even if just this one time, has him flailing.
Alex's staring at him. Frustration obvious in the lines on his forehead. Steve wants to trace them, reassure him, no, nevermind, forget what I said, fuck, let's just—
Alex hits Steve's chest. Curled fist, knuckles against his breastbone. “Jesus, Steve, just what do you want me to say? That I've been in love with you for years? That I've wanted this for so long, I can't believe it's finally happening? If anything, it's you who doesn't actually want this, considering the protests. Even if you're hard. It's the adrenaline you're experiencing. The high of having survived. You're just riled up and I'm the only one available to—”
Steve flips them over. With ease, Alex taller than him but still thinner. It's him who braces his arms beside Alex's head, now, the surprise, the hope—fuck—in Alex's eyes sending pleasure down each of Steve's vertebrae.
“God, shut up. Don't talk about yourself like that. It's just—it's not right, isn't true. You're not just—just available—you're everyth—I—I also—I lo—”
He's emotional, sure. Eloquent? No. He talks through actions, just as he does now; lips crashing, teeth clacking. They nip and bite and there's nothing nice about it, desperation carving their chests open, communicating through touch where there are no words for the emotions that have them in a chokehold.
Alex's hands tangle in his hair. Fingers pull. He's not kind about it, tilting Steve's head to a better angle. Is good. Fucking perfect.
The kiss.
Alex.
Steve's hands slip under Alex's uniform shirt, nails scratching over each rib. Feels Alex shiver against him at the feather-caress sensation, hand on the back of Steve's head pushing so hard like Alex wants to devour him whole. Steve'd let him, pick him apart and eat him piece by piece until he's all Alex's, all inside Alex, coil around Alex's ribs and his heart like a parasite.
Alex's eyes are closed when they part. Softly, long lashes brushing past the lower waterline. Black spiderlegs dancing on pale skin.
Steve's heart clenches so good at the image, his fantasy's never as intimate as reality, Alex's reaction's in his imagination ambiguous, leaving Steve feeling guilty both inside and outside of dreams. Cock in his hand, come in his palm, thoughts of Alex still lingering heavy on his mind. Sorry, he'd whisper into the cruel night air. Sorry. Meant it, too.
And yet—
He scratches his nails over Alex's cheek. Not to hurt. Not yet. Just to catch attention, Alex's eyes fluttering open, stare so intent it's got Steve hot and heady.
This is reality.
And god, if it isn't so much better.
He slips off of Alex, crouches on the floor in front of him. Unties Alex's shoes. Pulls them off, slacks and underwear down next, over Alex's feet. Alex's legs stick over the exam table. Perfect to slip between them. Grabs his foot, holds it steady. He mouths at the ankle, teeth teasing. Bites to be cruel, leaves indents on pale skin.
Stake, claim. Call it whatever you want. Easy to hide, but Steve will know it's there, hidden by layers but real. Intimate spot, unusual.
Alex pushes himself upon his elbows. His stare's intense. Makes the want behind Steve's ribs flare, ugly and hot. Possessive, to have Alex react that way 'cause of him.
“God, get on with it already. Fuck me. We're still on-call. They're gonna look for us soon.”
The them should have Steve concerned. Weary.
It doesn't. Excitement wells up instead, dark and unhinged. Caught by their colleagues, realization of what they mean to each other. Make it clear Alex's his, that stupid seasonal worker's crush on Alex hopeless at the image of Steve fucking into Alex, a moaning mess, left to his mercy.
Alex hits Steve's shoulder with the heel of his foot. “Don't even think about it.”
“Don't know what you mean.” Alex knows him well. Or maybe Steve's just shit at keeping his thoughts off his face. Both, probably.
Steve considers. Wants. God, does he want. So bad. Feel Alex around his cock. Connected on the deepest level, bodies entwined. He wants to ruin Alex. Turn him into his personal mess.
Except it'll hurt. He's got no lube. No lotion, no anything. Won't feel good at all with the only thing available—spit. The mad look in Alex's eyes tells him he doesn't care. This isn't about enjoyment.
This is pure need. Confirmation.
Reassurance.
Idly, Steve wonders if the intensity in his own eyes matches that craziness.
“We don't have—” he tries anyway.
“Don't care. Use spit or something.”
Voices the thought like he can read Steve's mind. Maybe he can. Wouldn't surprise Steve.
That's not gonna be enough, he doesn't say, least he actually distinguishes Alex's own desire.
He stands up. Leans over Alex. Looms, predator to prey, except Alex's nothing if not willing. He shoves his fingers into Alex's mouth without preamble. Doesn't even have to instruct; Alex does it all by himself, tongue lapping in-between the spaces of the digits, coating the pads, the knuckles. His mouth's wet, warm, the thought of pink lips around Steve's cock tempting.
Later, he decides. This takes precedence. To feel, to touch. Conjoining bodies because it's painful not to.
He takes his fingers out, spit-strings between the digits when he parts them. Still not gonna be enough.
It'll have to do.
Prep's quick. One look at the clock and they don't have much time.
They never do, one incident after another. Sapping at them until they're nothing but empty husks.
One finger, two, Alex cringing at the sudden intrusion. Must hurt. Definitely does, the way Alex's eyes are pressed together so tightly, breath shallow, mouth open around a whimper. Steve wants to stop. Doesn't want to be the one to inflict this kind of pain on Alex. Not when life already does its best to do it daily.
Can't stop, not with the way Alex whispers, “Go on, do it, please. It's okay, I can take it.”
Guilt and hunger war in his stomach.
Third finger. Alex's jaw turns slack, whimpers because of an entirely different reason. Ah. Must have found it.
He's not as careful as he'd be in any other situation. In a real bed, in an apartment supposedly his home when it's anything but because home's always been a person. Still, the four walls he occupies would have stopped him from going this far, doing it like this.
His fingers are kind until they're not. Ministrations turn frantic.
Alex's clawing at the exam table, little moans and whimpers that become less and less painful and are caused by pleasure instead. Eyelids hooded, sweat on his temples.
“Enough,” he says eventually, foot hitting Steve's shoulder blade. “I'm ready.”
Are you? he doesn't ask. They both know he's not, spit never enough to stretch to an extent that'd make it comfortable.
The tips of his fingers are pruney when he pulls them out. Shiny with left-over spit.
He undoes his belt, lets underwear and slacks pool around his ankles. His cock's so hard it's painful, head read and leaking. He draws his hands up Alex's inner thighs, mapping skin with his palms. He's so beautiful, so willing, so alive.
Something Steve almost wasn—
“God, Alex. Shit.” Hopes it conveys everything he feels. The love, the adoration.
The fear of—the gratitude at—
“You saved me. Fuck, I was so close, too fucking close, without you I'd be-”
One hand digs into his neck, the other relentlessly pulling on his hair. It's meant to be painful.
“No,” Alex hisses, eyes crazed. “Don't say it. Don't you dare say it.”
Steve clicks his mouth shut. But the fire's been lit, turned into a raging inferno in an instant. The grip on his hair's so tight, he feels it sting his scalp. Alex's face's so close to his own, breath hot and real, and he practically spits at him,
“You can't die on me. You're not allowed to. You don't get to leave me.”
It's fucked up. Should scare him. That—the want, the neediness. No one should ever be this dependent on another person. Should never be dependent on him. Not considering their situation, inescapable danger that will catch up to them one way or another.
(But Steve doesn't feel much different, does he? Devastating to even think about Alex dyin—)
It makes him dizzy, intoxicated, head full of sugary cotton. Alex staking a claim, the implied mine and fucking listen to me. Commanding him without actually expressing it. Two simple sentences piercing his heart, making him-
Possessive. Mine, he thinks, to have, to cherish, to love.
He needs to be inside Alex. Now.
He bends Alex's knees, puts them on his shoulders. Is delighted at the fact how flexible Alex is, future encounters playing like film in front of his eyes. Can position him any way he likes and wants, sweet and soft and comfortable and cruel and mean.
He lines himself up with Alex's hole. Enters without further ado, Alex throwing his head back so swiftly, back of it hitting the exam table, it's gotta hurt. He doesn't seem to care, scrambles to touch Steve's hand placed high up on Alex's thigh.
“Fuck. Oh, god, fuck. Yes.” He's already so gone without Steve even moving. Has Steve stunned. Excited, to render Alex useless just by being inside of him.
He could be patient. Sweet. Fuck him slow and nice, make every thrust count.
This isn't about that. Not what Steve wants. What Alex wants. Not right now.
His ministrations are ruthless, cock dragging against Alex's walls, so tight it must be painful for Alex to an unbearable level. He doesn't offer any obvious signs if it's the case, fingers digging into the back of Steve's hand still placed on his thigh. His mouth's open. Sweet, gentle o, moans and whimpers. Needy, desperate.
Steve can't exactly say he isn't, either.
Alex's body's jostled with every thrust. Steve likes it. To man-handle him. Have this power over him. Steve knows Alex concedes it willingly; could stop Steve at any time with a single no, except he doesn't seem like he wants to. Alex's got him wrapped around every single of his fingers. Maybe he knows. Maybe he doesn't.
He will, sooner than later. Steve's not exactly good at hiding his emotions. Heart on his sleeve, his ex-wife said. That's how she realized he doesn't really love her. Not anymore. Maybe he never did. She wouldn't tell him. Maybe she didn't want to admit it to herself. Fifteen years wasted on him—it must have been jarring.
Alex pulls on Steve's hand on his thigh. Maneuvers it toward his mouth and bites the back. Steve hisses at the action, hips stuttering at the mix of pleasure and pain.
“Stop thinking.”
Steve doesn't answer with words. Only increases the speed, Alex humming in approval every time his back's dragged back and forth over the exam table. His feet lock in the middle of Steve's back, heels digging into the spine.
Closer, he thinks, closer closer closer as Alex whimpers and writhes. Says, “C'mon, more. I can take it. I'm not some frail damsel.”
By god, he isn't. No matter how daring, a damsel wouldn't survive a day in this place.
Steve does as Alex demands. Has always been so weak for him, it's downright pathetic. Like a dog at its master's feet. Is pushing in and out at a ruthless pace, until only the tip of his cock is inside Alex. Slams back in with so much force, it has Alex groaning, Steve's hand in his own being littered with even more scratches as Alex clings to it.
He's so beautiful, like this. Thoughts of the inevitable, of later, gone from his mind. Only thinks about Steve, about them, the way their bodies are locked together. The drag of Steve's cock inside of him, Steve's hand on his breastbone, fingers curled into the fabric of his uniform shirt.
Or so Steve hopes. Desperately. Because Steve?
Steve—
“God, I want to disappear so badly. Leave this shithole with you and never look back.”
—dream come true, but fear's a strong opponent to pleasure. Alex's previously closed eyes draw open. Restlessness in his eyes, pupils blown but they're watery, unshed tears clinging to the lashes. Steve's not sure whether they're due to pain, pleasure, or the same thoughts that haunt Steve despite this golden moment.
Steve's breath is shallow. Groans between thrusts but his mouth's running rampant, can't stop the words from spilling out like maggots.
“It kills me that I can't.”
Alex doesn't respond. There's no answer, nothing he could reassure Steve with. It's a hopeless thing.
Reality's a ruthless mistress. No sympathy, no pity. Only harsh facts, strings around their necks. The only thing to do is wait until they snap them.
Alex grabs his hair. Pulls, lips desperately crashing. Tries to drown out any more voiced thoughts least they break them entirely.
In a way, death would be a kinder fate than keep on living through this hell.
He comes like this, mouths connected, bodies intertwined. Thoughts, too, the desperate way they are clutching onto each other like that alone is enough. Like it could be their salvation.
Alex's come splatters onto the front of Steve's uniform shirt, pressed together as they are. Steve can feel his moan vibrate in his own mouth, fingers tightly wound around his hair. Burns his scalp, but pain's just another thing to share, he decides, as he digs his fingers into Alex's hip. Hard enough to leave marks, the skin irritated at the pressure.
They can't stay like this. Steve wants to, needs it, but the threat of being caught's real. Clear-headed, need still simmering under his skin but no longer a raging fire, he realizes they can't be seen. Not like this.
He pulls out. Zips up his slacks. Come immediately pools from Alex's hole. Steve takes it in, two seconds too long. Wants to burn the image into his brain. Forces himself to be logical. He can't leave Alex like this. It'd show, slacks suspiciously wet. He grabs some paper towels, cleans up the excess come.
He offers his hand to Alex. Pulls him to his feet. He wobbles for a second, grabbing onto Steve's shoulder. Knees shaky, release leaving him weak. Steve hands him his underwear and slacks. Alex slips into them wordlessly. Sits on the edge of the exam table as he puts on his socks. Silently laces his shoes up.
When he finally looks up at Steve, his expression's—
Fuck. Forlorn. Helpless. Lost. They might have each other, have each other like this, now, but it doesn't change anything. There will never be a life for them outside of this. The park's their unwilling fate.
Their graves, too, eventually.
And Alex knows it.
So Steve kisses him again. Eyes slipping closed. Can't bear the look in Alex's eyes and this is the only thing he can do. Words would be filthy. Hope is useless.
Yet still, despite everything, despite being aware that one misstep could end them—
For Alex—
There has to be a way.
Has to be, has to be, has to be has to be hastobehastobehastob
