Alecsey Kovacs

    “I like the idea o’ bed rest don’t get me wrong but I don’t like it much when it goes on a prescription past twelve hours. I’m bored. How do ya’ll stand just…sittin’ around?”

Downing hers Margaux danced around the kitchen, easily producing a pan from one cupboard which she set by the stove. Her problem came when as she glanced up at the crepe pan handing from the rack above the stove far above her reach. And of course there were no stools because– god forbid someone under five foot five dare to try and use the ever dangerous stove!– and she wasn’t too keen on climbing over the counters like she usually would if something was out of reach. Least of all with Alec looking on. 

He glances at her. One corner of his mouth quirks up. “I haven’t made crepes in a long while,” he admits, drifting over to where he sees the proper pan. “But I think I still remember the technique.” Of course he remembers. Alec reaches up, going on his toes slightly to take the pan down from the hook, and settles it on the stovetop. At her request, he also retrieves the saucepan for her and places it on the burner next to his.

    Before he can help it, his arms are around him, yanking him in close and a hand is at the back of his head. Digits muse pale locks held in such order and he’s dragging himself back against the side of the truck, pressing his bulk to it as he drags the shorter male in close to devour with such a hunger. A moan, muffled sound so broken and more so a whine (an animal trapped, ensnared) as eyes screw shut.

    This was what he needed.

    He doesn’t want to count the days between then and now, a happier age where he didn’t have this weight in his chest or the scabs over his heart. Three weeks had never felt so long, and he’d been trapped in some shitholes for longer stretches. He needs to feel the heat of the other’s flesh, he needs to get his hands under all these layers, all these expensive fabrics—another layer of the masks Alec did don. Even when he was without them, he still was more together than Alistair would ever be—even when he was a body underneath his teeth, he was still wearing his masks.

    It should bother him, it should sicken him and drive him mad. But he didn’t want to demand more—even when he hungered for it, for something he knew the man would never give. Who are you for me? Who do you make yourself into for me? He supposed he should be flattered the man would go through so much for him. But that hunger rumbles in his chest, the beast inside demands more he demands to strip him to the bone until it is truly Alec under his hands, Alec’s cock in his mouth, Alec’s mouth saying his name after all is said and done.

    He can feel himself breaking, it’s a terrible sensation. Shattering like fine glass against the vehicle, the pieces cutting him further on the way down. His tongue is in his mouth, blunt nails digging into his scalp and a heat uncurling in his gut. But he remembers, so careful—he has to be careful, toe the line when they’re at work. Was Alec drawing his foot across the line, erasing it? His hands move to the other’s shoulders in quick succession, his chest heaves with a monumental effort as he pushes the other away but his hands still clench at the fabric of his suit, staining it where he wishes only to tear away.

    To find flesh to bruise under his mouth.

    “Wh-What are ya’ doin’ Hoss?” he asks then, his voice a low rumble as he opens his eyes to watch him—he feels heavy, like he’s sinking.

    I am drowning.

    Thank you, thank you, thank you.

    His tongue moves along his lips, tasting the other’s lingering presence and he wants more wants to have him against the truck, fuck he’d even take fucking him on the lawn. He recoils quickly, realizing he’d begun to draw him in again—kindness burned. Alec burned. The heat unbearable to the Russian, and he’s so fucking pathetic, he can feel something that was very much not a headache picking at his eyes. “Ya’ made it very clear we weren’t to….” He’d dropped his keys at some point and he gestures between them, his hand from his own chest (a choice spot right over his heart) and jerks it towards the other “Here.”

  Alec just reached the calming idea that the kiss helped when Alistair shoves him back and the illusion shatters. Alec’s hands still stay fisted in Alistair’s jacket, confusion choked and killed before it has time to appear on Alec’s features. “I was kissing you.” Blunt and to the point, except not revealing anything of substance. Too many masks, too many deaths, too much darkness to ever reach the light of truth, not even for himself.

  Before he could draw back in, let Alistair pull him back in, Alistair flinches back. Alec lets go as a result, startled at the reactions he’s getting from the closest thing Alec has had to a consistent lover. Alec slowly locks up, his hands not drifting fully to his sides or safely in his pockets. What, Alistair wants to analyze this now? Right here in front of his ugly truck? Why is his blunt tongue searching for these answers now?

  Yes, there were rules, there were lines, there were silent agreements not to reveal what was going on between them to others. Hell, even to each other. But neither of them are bloody goody-two-shoes. They’re monsters of the highest order and they get the job done by playing in grey areas. No one knows, no one was outside, and no one was watching, so Alec followed the rules they (or he thought they) set up. But who was breaking them now by saying things too complicated to properly quantify?

                    Ya’ don’t got no clue the sort o’ shit ya’ do to me.

  Alec stares, mouth opening to shoot back something witty or deceiving or brutally honest, but nothing comes out. It’s fear. It’s fear he’s getting from Alistair, continues to get from Alistair no matter how he tries to bring them back to balance. Alistair wanted him, wanted that kiss, Alec fucking knows it like he knows Alistair’s resting heart rate. But the fear Alec receives back, instead of joyous like with everybody else, makes Alec physically sick. It tastes like death. That was the bitter taste on the back of Alec’s tongue that forced him to kiss Alistair in the first place. Death and rot are settled in Alec’s chest and that brings clarity to why Alistair scratches at his own chest so much.

  “What...” What shit am I doing to you that you aren’t already doing to me? What do you want from me? “What did I do?” Oh now Alistair brought Alec to the point where he wanted to break the rules, was desperate and lost enough to chance it. Alec cuts a hand between them quickly, realizing his misstep. “No, don’t answer that.” Alistair was just blunt enough and tortured enough and afraid enough to possibly give an answer that would only make Alec’s stomach hurt more.

  Alec looks up at Alistair, not even realizing he glanced away at some point. He steps in close, mask back in place and irritatingly neutral. “Whenever you’re up for something with far less words involved, you know where I live.” Whenever you stop being terrified of me, come clean out the mildew and mold your vacancy left behind in my chest. The urge to touch him was almost as strong as the need for survival, but he can’t. Whatever damage they’ve done to each other today stopped now. Alec moves away just as quickly before Alistair could possibly stop him. “Climb in through a window, knock on the door, whichever you prefer.”