Then
*
There's that spot just there, just a little up Angelo Espinosa's neck and a bit to the side, that seems sometimes more sensitive than his whole body.
Strangely, he doesn't remember that from Life Post Pete, from Life Post Kissing This Man, from Life Before. Maybe it's selective memory, or maybe in the year and a half that he's been nookie-less this spot smehow grew extra nerve endings. But when it's touched those days, that spot --
--When it's kissed, just like that, nipped a little, licked, carefully --
-- He makes those little bets with himself. Those little games. Don't moan, even when he hits that spot. Don't make a sound. Don't make a sound until he does.
He always loses, because here is Pete Wisdom, a man he barely knows, a man he's talked to about nothing and the important parts of nothing on late nights, a man whose body he still doesn't know well enough to know all the sensitive spots.
A man he's kissed. A man he's -- drawn to, really drawn, somehow. A man he doesn't understand the first thing about. And he doesn't even know if there'll be time to learn.
And this man is standing right here -- sitting, really, or - or bending, or - whatever. Some kind of body politics, touch-jugling, maximum body parts at minimum distance.
Leaning over him. *Draped*. That must be the word. Kissing his neck.
Hands trailing under his shirt, while Angelo's hands, braving his own mind, sneak lower.
That ought to mean something.
And it does. It means that someone, someone who happens to know wehat he's doing much better than Angelo does, someone whose hair just happens to have a scent more incredible than shampoos have a right to, is kissing his neck.
Biting. Just a little.
And he moans. Loses another bet.
Hands skirting higher before reaching Pete's waistband, because hell, if you've lost one bet, you've lost everything.
And he's losing really fast. Let's face it -- he's not even trying to win.
Winning means a semblence of control. Pulling back. Having at least one part of his mind and memories keeping away from Pete Wisdom. And when could he ever stay away?
Too scared, too thrilled, too swept up in this new strangeness -- too busy staring at another man's face --
When he's honest with himself, and burning heavy with desire and groaning is a good enough time to start... he has to admit the truth. When did he even try.
*
The whispers, touch, feeling, sensations, God, right there...
Angelo was as close to heaven as he'd gotten in a while. There'd been no one since Torres, and while she was gritty, and knew her way around a cock, Pete made each touch a fire, a burning, and a plea. He had no idea, no *IDEA* that Pete would turn into this person in bed.
No idea at all.
He seemed so bitter, like there was nothing he could take joy in.
Ange would never be able to look into his face, and not know that there was something hiding in it, deep down and lonely. Something stirred within Pete Wisdom, and it came out in bed.
A harsh groan, so tight and hoarse, Angelo grew harder to hear it. Such a long time, and he was nervous, a little bit, because Pete was...
Pete was Pete.
He seemed so bitter, like there was nothing he could take joy in. Whether it was a permanent thing, or a man on the rebound, Angelo didn't know... but Pete smiled genuinely, so very rarely.
***But Ange would...***
And Pete was desperately *alive*. Angelo would never forget it.
He turned red, when Pete put his hand underneath his--could he even think it? No, but it felt incredible anyway -- and Pete saw it, somehow, and said, "Do you really want this?"
Angelo suddenly froze, not used to hearing a voice in the midst of it all. This was supposed to be a language of touch, not of words. He stuttered. "Hombre, what are you--"
Pete stopped kissing, stopped touching, and looked into his face. "Are you sure?"
***This was something Torres never asked. She assumed that he was ready, and that he always wanted it, and that he was never nervous, or scared, or confused, or not-- ***
But; "Si, Pete."
Pete nodded, in the darkness, and Angelo relaxed. He wouldn't have to volunteer anymore information tonight. Pete put his head down to suck on his stomach, and then asked, muffled by the droopy skin caressing his face, "What you like, mate?"
Again, Angelo froze. "Huh?"
Pete stroked his hips, invitingly. "You want me to do anything?"
A snort, partly out of fear, and Pete smiled. "I get it. Okay." He put his mouth back down, and Ange gasped. Bellybuttons were so... and Pete was so... and...
He moaned, "Keep doing that."
He felt himself shiver, once again, and the loss of control suddenly overwhelmed him. This man who he barely knew, even after endless nights of half-silent conversations, even after living in the same house for weeks now, this man could do just about anything at this particular moment, and he would be more than helpless to stop him.
It only scared him all the more that he didn't really *care*.
It was never like this with Torres, not the same way.
*Quit being such an asshole, Espinosa,* said a little voice inside his head. *Quit comparing them all the time.*
*You owe her more fairness than that, at least.*
But that wasn't the important thing now, and so he pushed the voice away and refused to listen.
Movement brought with it small shards of his lost control, silvery and almost painful. And so he brought a hand up to Pete's head, burying it in hair a shade lighter than his own. Brought his other hand to stroke a sweaty shoulder. Found that his leg was free enough that he could move it, twist it, rub.
The sound of the other man's groan brought control back in a rush, hurrying to Angelo's door and begging to be let in like it never went away. And something in him smiled as he let it enter, as he allowed it to fill him, knowing Pete would balance him and never let it overrule him.
And something else inside him, perhaps that same small voice, felt something suspiciously close to regret for the loss of something he never had.
~*~
Now
*
"So. Why did you and Captain Commando really break up?"
"You mean his cheating ass isn't enough?"
"Not bloody likely. People cheat all the time, and get over it."
"... Honestly? It just wasn't there anymore. Don't know, hombre. Maybe it never was."
"So? Maybe *it* doesn't even exist."
"S'possible, sure. But I wasn't about to find out with him."
"But here you are, with the likes of me?"
Angelo looked away, unwilling to answer seriously. "You cook better."
Pete stubbed out his third fag in ten minutes with a nervous hand. "I asked a girl to marry me once. Know what she said?"
"What?"
"No. We'd only known each other for a few months. I was so taken, though--"
He didn't want to ask, but... "Kitty?"
"Hell no! I was about nineteen, and she was a little blond thing, 'bout J's size, who had delusions of home-making. I thought... well. It doesn't matter what I thought." Angelo covered Pete's hand with his own quietly, and Pete continued, "Guess it was the year I was thinking 'bout family."
"Captain Commando asked me."
"Really?"
"Yup. But then there were rumors going around, and they made him look like a dickhead."
"So, he was being really indiscreet, like, and people saw, and started talking... was he fucking another guy?"
"I... yeah, I think so."
"Ouch. Did you beat the bastard up?"
"Nah. His command was already in trouble. He asked me to marry him because he thought I was in love. If we actually went through with it, we'd both have been kicked out. We were going to wait until I was out." He sighed, quietly, and added, "I thought it would reassure me enough, but..."
"But what?"
"But nothing. He claimed he was in love."
Pete was quiet, drawing on his cigarette. "Maybe he was."
"Maybe." A slender, gray-skinned hand reached out to grab his cig and take it to quiet, thoughtful lips. "But not enough."
Pete let the action of smoking clear away Angelo's memories, before reflecting, "I dunno if I even want to get married, anymore."
The cigarette froze, startled. "You wanted to in the first place?"
"Didn't I just say I asked someone?"
Angelo laughed, and it sounded a little bitter. "Doesn't mean you wanted to."
"True." He reclaimed the last puff from Angelo. "But yeah, I did."
"A Pete Wisdom wanting to get married." Angelo, apparently having completely forgotten the moments before, turned on his side. Pete was perfectly willing to play along. "A Pete Wisdom *thinking* about marriage, yeah, that I can handle. I thought about moving to Canada once, for god's sake. But..."
He shook his head, lips twitching with amusement, when Pete didn't answer. "Can't imagine the person capable of keeping up with you for ten years, I have to tell you. Or the person you'd be willing to stick around for that long."
It was easy enough to ignore the tension rumbling beneath the words. They were the masters of painful little jabs, after all, all the more painful when the person making them wasn't even aware of it.
Even though that was right in the gut... "Last girl I was with -- that spy chick, as you called her -- might have made a good wife. Brains, balls, great in the sack. But I would have had to chain me wallet to the wall each night just to make sure it was there in the morning."
Ange chuckled. "Last girl I laid was... Dios, at least three years ago."
Pete blinked a few times, and sounded surprised. "You went back to girls?"
"Yeah. I always wanted kids, figured that was a way to do it."
"But, not with--"
"... turned out to be a psycho. I was working with an X-unit at the time. It figured."
"Bloody spandex'ers. Ruin a bloke's sex life every time."
"Oh well. I can't believe you never asked Kit to marry you."
"Who says I didn't?"
~*~
Then
*
All right.
He was supposed to be running. For track.
Angelo snorted. That was not going to happen. He had an aversion to track. And running.
So, all right. He was somewhere else, instead.
He was standing outside Pete Wisdom's -- of the nice assed people, but he hadn't been staring, not at all -- room. But that was of no consequence.
And he didn't want to think about what he was planning on doing tonight. No.
Because then he wouldn't do it.
He knocked, and made sure his face looked right. See, there was a thing about Pete. He liked to know that everything was casual. Since they'd only found themselves making out a few times. And they hadn't really talked about it.
Since there was nothing to talk about.
Pete opened the door. He didn't have a shirt on. Angelo swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "H--"
Pete motioned him inside, and was already turning back around before Angelo could choke the nervous greeting out. When he'd stepped inside, Pete put a hand on the back of his neck, firmly, and closed the door.
Pressing Angelo against it.
Angelo leaned in. Apparently, he wasn't going to have to do anything, wasn't going to have to ask, this time.
Oh. Good.
Warmth on his nape, and warmth at his side as a half-clothed body moved in to almost-mold, almost-melt into him. Lips on his neck, on his cheekbone.
He swallowed -- and didn't think anymore about *that*, because it burned. 'Hey."
He thought he could make out a faint, "Yeah." Or maybe it was an answering, 'hey,' or someting. Or just a gasp. But it was stifled when his hand moved, as though his brain hadn't short-circuited on justapproaching that wooden door. Skimming Pete's chest, fumbling over nipples, sailing down to stomach. Touch.
The lips warming his neck, spreading shivers, moved higher, nearer to his ear. "Kid --"
There was something very satisfying about being able to make Pete Wisdom shut up.
Angelo didn't know what he would've said if he was told, half a year ago, that he would be sliding his hand into another man's pants. He didn't know what he would said at knowing how bold he would be about it, that his insides would forget to twist, just for that split second. That he would know perfectly well by now where to touch, where to squeeze, how to reach up and swallow that moan.
What is, is. He can't remember where that one's from, but it fits perfectly.
It doesn't matter.
Because all he's thinking about is how much Pete tastes like something else he can almost remember-- but he can't quite bring the memory into focus.
Maybe something from a dream.
He pushes those thoughts down, too. He can remember that place that Pete likes to be licked, just below the nipple and just above the heart, or where Ange always felt it beating under his tongue. He can remember the exact amount of pressure to put on his asscheeks to make him tilt his pelvis, desperate.
Pete Wisdom might be a lousy math teacher, but Angelo's learning things, here.
Somehow, he loses a shirt, and a belt.
And somehow, his fingers turn magic, and find a way to take off Pete's track pants without dying of desire and pressure. Nervous? He can barely remember the feeling.
Pete's a good teacher, he thinks. This is an easy class to get into, he thinks. He starts to feel wary, unsure, when Pete says nothing, about how Pete never says anything and never seems to want to--
But then their lips meet, and he closes his eyes, and thinks simply, 'Of course.'
He understands.
The secret of it is not to think.
Thinking with his heart, or with his guts, or whatever, isn't allowed either. That's just cheating, and not even cheating well.
He never needed Wisdom to teach him about cheating. He learned that one all by himself. But maybe he learned, purely by osmosis, something about the fine art and importance of cheating *well*.
There's a dark hidden beauty to a well-crafted lie. There's a dodging mystery to a just-slightly-false-edged, blank indifference. There's a glowing, irredescent quality to the small bits of honesty people get to glimpse, from time to time, just rarely, just enough to leave them hungry.
Oh, yeah. He's learning. Even if he has a long way to go to reach that place.
But the important thing is, don't think. Don't even feel too hard. Just act, just move, and let your fingers do the talking.
Let them say: Ohhh, fuck. Yeah. Dios, yeah. I want you.
Touch me there.
That felt good. How does this feel? Do that again.
Let them say, 'please'.
Because there's Pete's fingers, and they're saying a mouthful as well. They're whispering about the cocks -- focus, feel that little movement, ah!-- brushing together.
They're making sure all the *feeling* is centered down between their legs, and as Pete moves, squirms, he fits himself between, and below, and you manage to find that secret place where you fit just right, and then all both of you have to do is thrust, little pieces of hip-jerking.
And moan.
And that wetness leaking out of him. It makes him moan a lot more. It's painful, holding it in, but he wants to prove something, that lie, that he can make it as long as Pete. That he could, if he wanted to, avoid it.
But his fingers stroke Pete's tailbone, crushing on top of him, and as they grind against each other, sweaty, he knows each stroke says 'Please.'
And, 'More.'
Always more.
If you were in any condition to be thinking, if thinking was allowed, you might have thought: This is Angelo Espinosa, two years dead in the eyes of everyone he used to know, every person he used to love, every person he ever got to smooth his hands over. This is Angelo Espinosa, a mutant ex-kinda-gangster spic just two months out of his eighteenth birthday, fighting the good fight and trying not to wonder when he's gonna finish living in a highschool. This is Angelo Espinosa, almot a month after admiting to himself that he might be interested in kissing someone who wasn't a girl, three weeks after kissing someone who wasn't a girl, grinding cocks with a man two times his age.
Well, no, not two times. More like 150%.
Well. Maybe a hundered-and-seventy-per-cent, really, but --
This line of thought doesn't fit here, and he pushes it out of the way. Doesn't think and just sucks on a tongue, pulls on an earlobe, feels a stranger's body known and familiar under his hands.
His fingertips tingle.
His mouth is-- strangely numb.
Looking back to maybe an hour ago, he sees himself actually making a move on his teacher. If he were allowed to critique the lines, he probably wouldn't have even given himself a D. Lousy form. Worse delivery.
But Pete--
He needs to moan here, to stop thinking. He presses upwards with all his strength, slotting himself between the thighs of a man who is 170% his age. He can't stop touching him, grabbing him. He is surprised, each time Pete lets him get this way.
Pete's teeth are on his neck, biting. If there's ever a chance he'll get to rub himself over anyone else more, or become closer to another human being, he thinks, he'll just spontaneously combust on impact. He can barely contain himself at this.
But he's straining to, and his fingertips beg.
Pete whispers something unintelligable, something about being close, and it being okay. And to go with it. And he thinks he may have heard something else, a phantom whisper. Maybe an echo of what he wanted to hear--
And that's when he realizes how dangerous thinking is. And just lets go, with a mighty sigh. His eyes are closed tightly, savoring this.
Pete is the same. Except his eyes are open.
Angelo's arms fall slack, and his muscles tremble. Deep in his throat, he whimpers.
...Over from a hundred miles away, a stiffled gasp, a moan, a possible whimer answer his own, all rolled into one desperate sound...
But he doesn't know if he really heard that from beneath the haze or just pictured it up, and he doesn't want to wonder. Doen't want that mirror sound tell him if it's pleasure that pushes sound and rasping breathes between lips that are tightly stretched over teeth. Doesn't need to know if it's something else.
No. That's the last thing he needs.
The fine art of cheating -- and if there's something he's learned in his life it's the ability to say, this doesn't matter, this has no importance, no impact. This doesn't mark my world or my soul.
He wonders if Pete Wisdom believes his own self-made lies. He wonders if he can catch that knowlege, purely by osmosis, transferred by spit and sweat and heat and cum on naked tissue and bare skin dragging over skin, by sheer free-flowing want alone.
He wonders when he stopped fully believing the truths inside his head, he wonders if he can start believing the false lines.
He doesn't wonder. He just arches and feels his skin tingle where Pete is going to touch it in a second, twitch at some spot on his thigh where his hand might touch in a silent sign to lift, to draw down unzipped jeans and touch much more directly, much more...
Not tonight. He knows. Not this minute.
Soon.
There's a hand on his cock yet again, and he comes.