#cunningallen

with roger, the main draw is that he is the strong male role model that corey never had while growing up. he's a source of validation and attention that corey felt has been missing, he's the kind of man corey thinks he wants to be.

with allyson, she is someone that corey knows has been through a trauma and who he thinks can understand him. he sees her as his lifeline back to normality -- maybe not normal normal, but a normal where they patch up their brokenness together.

if theresa had very solid evidence (like something physical, or someone telling her they've seen something, etc.) then i think roger would throw corey under the bus and blame him, but "admit" there had been a one time thing (maybe even a few times but certainly not serious), and it was a huge mistake, and it'll never happen again. i think they'd probably stay together if this was the case -- no use breaking up the family (and finances) over one mistake, it's better to just save face and deal with it at marriage counselling or whatever.

if she just called him out on there being a weird vibe between him and corey (like weird looks, or their demeanour with each other, etc.), i think he'd definitely try to downplay it -- maybe claiming that corey had made a pass at him but he obviously rejected him. i think he'd try and do some damage control though, and explain that corey was just confused and lonely, and he was honestly really embarrassed after roger rejected him, so they shouldn't hold it against him because he's a good kid really. i'm not sure that's fly with theresa, maybe she'd still fire corey, but it works to hide the real truth from her.

[in a scenario i've thought about wayyy to much] i think the only way roger is confessing to everything is if theresa literally catches them in the act. maybe roger still tries to insist it was the first time, but theresa knows it's not -- because they're too comfortable, too confident -- and corey gets thrown under the bus again, a homewrecking scapegoat who is never to be seen again. roger apologises, begs for forgiveness, spends the rest of his life with this mistake hanging over his marriage.

as time goes on, roger definitely gets more sloppy at hiding (i.e. the chocolates are definitely a risk, if they did go to chicago that is a big secret to hide, etc.), but the one thing he's certain about is corey not telling anyone. corey gets too much out the arrangement, or so roger thinks, there's no way he'd throw it all away to spite roger by telling his wife. if he did, roger would go with the option of saying corey is delusional, and it must be a crush that has spiralled into obsession.

if roger thought that theresa suspected something but didn't say anything, i don't know if he'd completely stop the affair, but he'd start limiting what he and corey did. back to the early days where corey really does predominantly do yard work and maybe sneaks in a fumbling 20 minutes on the couch when theresa isn't home. maybe it eventually slows down and stops naturally and they go about their lives like nothing happened.

"Corey?"

Corey sighs and checks the time. It had only been ten minutes since he put Jeremy to bed.

"Corey?!" Jeremy calls again, louder this time, his voice high and lifting at the end of his name. It grates on Corey's nerves.

"What is it now, Jeremy?"

"I'm thirsty!"

"You've just had a glass of milk."

"I want another one!"

They had a deal -- since Jeremy had gotten in so much trouble for his silly prank last Halloween and Corey had very generously done some self-serving damage control -- that Corey would let Jeremy do whatever he wanted (within some reason, as negotiable on the night, but usually involving too much energy for Corey's liking), and stay up as late as he wanted after he went to bed, in exchange for leaving Corey alone for the rest of the night. And if he didn't, Corey would tell Mr Allen just how much of a little shit Jeremy had been for him. It was a system that worked, even if it meant telling a couple of white lies about the evening's activities.

Jeremy was always a brat, it must have been coded directly into his DNA, but he'd been extra irritating before going to bed tonight. He tended to talk Corey's ear off anyway, asking personal questions that Corey would always lie in response to whether he strictly speaking needed to or not, and tonight he had extra ammunition.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Why not? It's because you're so ugly, isn't it."

"No, I just don't have one. I could if I wanted to."

"No you couldn't. Girls don't like boys who are ugly and poor. That's why you're bossing me around on Valentine's Day."

The back of Corey's neck itched. Sure, that's why he was spending his Valentine's Day babysitting the brattiest kid he'd ever met. Because no one wants to go out with him. Not because Jeremy's dad says "Jump," and Corey asks "How high?"

He shuts Jeremy up by letting him watch a playthrough on youtube of some horror videogame that one of Corey's friends back in high school would talk about nonstop. Turns out the game is way less scary when some hunk just talks over it, and although some of the music starts to freak him out a little, Corey surprises himself when he laughs along with Jeremy at most of the scares, even at the rabbit.

After traipsing back upstairs with another glass of milk, warm this time, Corey leaves Jeremy with a warning not to bother him again. Our deal, remember?

"What are you doing on Valentine's day?"

"Nothing," Corey replies, much too quickly. He can hear Mr Allen stifle a chuckle on the other end of the phone. Corey's cheeks burn, "Um, I mean, I don't have any plans, yet." Yet. As if they're lining up round the block to take Corey out and he just hasn't decided who's worth his time. "Why?"

"Well, Theresa and I were wondering if you'd be able to babysit Jeremy for a few hours?"

Corey bites his lips so hard he can taste blood. He soothes it with his tongue, "Sure, no problem." He kicks himself later for being such a sucker.

Mrs Allen is flustered when he arrives, putting the final touches of lipstick and perfume on while she explains the usual ground rules. Corey knows the drill. She looks beautiful, with her hair loose and curly around her shoulders and red flowers on her dress. He tries to imagine his own momma getting dressed up for a date, but he struggles to remember Momma and Ronald ever going anywhere without him. They hadn't even had a honeymoon.

Corey hovers awkwardly, trying to keep out of the way as Mrs Allen buzzes around, from the mirror to the coat stand by the door. While she puts her coat on, Corey's eyes wander as Mr Allen comes downstairs in a pressed suit. He waves at the older man, who gives him a wink that dangerously toes the line of 'friendly', before he disappears towards the kitchen.

"Oh!" Mrs Allen starts, before lowering her voice. "There's a box of chocolates in the kitchen for you, Corey. Roger put them on top of the fridge so Jeremy wouldn't see them; a little treat for you after he goes to bed."

Corey checks the time again. He hasn't heard a peep from Jeremy for a while, which is a good sign.

But the TV isn't holding his attention tonight like it normally does, and even though the Allens always tell him he can use their Netflix, he just can't settle on a movie.

Instead he scrolls through Roger's profile for a while, looking at his watch list and what he's been currently watching, what's been recommended to him and his most popular categories. Corey makes mental notes of where their tastes are similar and where they differ, thinks of how he can subtly integrate all of this into a conversation, to show just how interesting he is, how compatible they are.

His rumbling stomach puts an end to his media-stalking for now. Momma had made meatloaf for dinner, as grainy and bland as always, and Corey hadn't been able to stomach much of it. Not with the butterflies fluttering in his gut as he watched the clock, desperate to get out of the house a soon as possible tonight.

He lets a movie start playing, some 90's thriller than everyone in his American Lit. class used to rave about, before pulling himself off the couch and wandering into the kitchen.

The Allens' fridge is always fully stocked. Fruit and vegetables in the crisper, health foods that Corey's never even heard of before, branded candy and juice and condiments fill the door, cuts of meat that they probably actually knew how to cook instead of turning them to rubber or relying on boxes of lean cuisine. They even have an ice maker. There's a couple of bottles of Heineken -- because Roger only drinks Heineken in the house -- at the very front. It feels like a trick, Corey takes one anyway.

On top of the fridge, amongst juice boxes and tin that could be cookies but Corey guesses might be their sewing kit, is a red, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Just like Mrs Allen promised. Corey holds it in his hands, rubs his thumb against the satiny pink ribbon that wraps around it.

In middle school, Corey had gotten a Valentine's candygram one year. He walked into homeroom and found the pink paper heart and a cherry flavoured dumdum sat conspicuously on his desk.

There was a chorus of hushed giggles from behind him. Over his shoulder he sees Kelly and her friends, whispering. Whispering made Corey nervous. Then, Kelly waves at him shyly, a knowing smile on her face. He waved back, face burning.

He ate the lollipop over lunch, and folded the pink paper heart and put it in his pocket, carried it around with him all week. Sometimes he'd take it out to look at it, reading the message over and over and over again -- Be my Valentine?

Momma found the heart when she collected his laundry at the end of the week, emptying out his pockets onto the kitchen table, picking up the pink paper heart with her probing fingers.

Corey didn't hear the end of it for weeks.

There's a gift tag pre-attached at the bow on his Valentine's chocolates and Corey flips it open, expecting a list of the candies that are inside, but that isn't it. It's a message, handwritten in black biro in neat print-capitals. The words start to swim in Corey's vision, merging into an inky pool until he pushes his glasses up to wipe at his eyes, trying to hide his tears from an invisible audience. He isn't fooling anyone, because his lip starts wobbling instead.

He brings the candy back into the living room with him, along with his beer and sits criss-crossed on the couch, then rips the ribbon off in one go.

Corey sinks half the box before he can stop himself.

The rest he tries to savour, rolling each chocolate in his mouth, letting them melt on his tongue until he can figure out the flavoured centre while he watches his movie. The truffles are his favourites, then the pralines, followed by caramels, vanilla cream and pecan clusters, then finally the strawberry ones come last.

Between eating, he drinks his beer like a palate cleanser, finishing it only to go get the other bottle from the fridge. Two beers down, Corey can feel the buzz under his skin, in his tear-pink cheeks, and the relief of tension leaving his unsettled self.

If he takes the candy box home, Momma would ask too many questions that he didn't want to answer -- that he didn't even want to think about -- so he throws the empty tray in the trash can in the Allens' kitchen and chews a stick of bubblegum to cover the alcohol on his breath. It wasn't fool proof, but it was the most he could do.

Upstairs, Corey listens for movement from Jeremy's room. The hallway is dark, lit only by the lamps downstairs glowing up through the spiral of the staircase. Corey circles the warm light, never quite letting it catch him, as he dips into Jeremey's room to turn his TV off, then continues on to the master bedroom.

It's dark in there too, as Corey stands in the doorway. The bed is made neatly, sheets tucked cleanly under the mattress but rumpled in places where someone had sat down to pull on a stocking or tie a shoelace. He looks around familiarly, at the contemporary beige art on the walls and at the framed family pictures on the dresser, goes through the jackets and dresses that line the closet, and the messy draws full of almost designer sweaters and workout clothes and underwear. Mrs Allen's expensive lotion sits on the nightstand, next to where Corey always discards his glasses.

Laying in their bed, on Mr Allen's side, Corey looks up into the darkness. His cheeks are wet and getting wetter, and he rolls onto his front, muffles his sniffling in Mr Allen's pillow and breathing deeply the faint, shouldn't-be-comforting scent of the older man's cologne. Dark and woody, but classic in a way that compliments the rich floral perfume Corey always smells on Mrs Allen's pillow.

Part of him hopes Roger will know, hopes he'll feel the dampness there on his pillow while he tries to sleep, hopes he'll catch the taste of salt, and know exactly what he'd driven Corey to.

It's long-past midnight by the time Mr and Mrs Allen get home.

Corey hovers awkwardly by the door while Mrs Allen kicks out of her heels, hangs her coat on the stand, her conversation slower now as she thanks him again for babysitting. Corey preferred her like this, when she no longer had to worry about making their 7:30 reservation, or whether Jeremy was ready for bed before they left. When she isn't so tense, it made it a lot harder for Corey to interpret her tension as something else, something worse.

She counts his money out for him, but as he zips his coat up and prepares to cycle back home in the cold, Mr Allen stops him.

"Hold on, Corey, I'll give you a ride." The first words he'd spoken directly to Corey all night.

"Oh, no," Corey insists, hesitating anyway. "It's okay, really. I don't want to --"

"It's no trouble. We wouldn't want you out alone at this time. Unless you've got a secret black belt you haven't mentioned?"

Corey laughs, his real boyish laugh that Mr Allen likes so much.

Mrs Allen leans up, whispers something in her husbands ear, a perfectly French-manicured hand patting his chest once. Corey averts his eyes.

Then, Corey and Mr Allen are stood outside in the biting February air.

"Did you enjoy your night?" Corey asks as they pull out of the driveway. He rubs his cold hands together in his lap.

Roger turns the heater on high. "We did, thanks."

"What was the restaurant like?" He doesn't normally ask questions, doesn't normally like to know the answers, but he's feeling just a little vindictive tonight. Curious, too.

Roger catches his eye through the rear-view mirror. He smirks. "It was nice. We've been wanting to try it out for a while, actually. We don't go out as much as we should anymore."

"I just watched a movie," Corey says with a shrug, like it's no big deal. Like it's how he was going to be spending his Valentine's day anyway. "One that my friends at college always recommend, but I never get time to watch movies. Momma -- my mom -- she's always so picky about movies." Corey can hear himself start to ramble, clutching at the straws of interest. "And Jeremy was okay tonight," he lies, then changes his mind. "Well, he said I don't have a girlfriend because I'm ugly. But he didn't get up after he went to bed."

Roger sighs, "Ignore him, you know what he's like. Theresa coddles him, but he's a little terror sometimes, same as any other boy. And besides, you know that's not true -- you're not ugly." His hand leaves the wheel and lands on Corey's thigh.

The younger man hums, suppresses how utterly pleased he feels at being told that. You're not ugly, and god if Corey won't be thinking about that for who-knows how long. He doesn't say anything when Roger takes a right turn, heading for the long route back to Corey's side of town.

A stupid, sappy old love song comes on the radio. Corey reaches out to change the channel, settling on WURG, where Willy the Kid is hosting the Anti-Valentines show till late. Heartbroken love songs for all those unlucky enough to be without action tonight.

"You liked the chocolates?" Roger says. It ends in a question mark, but Corey hears a period.

"Yeah, I ate the whole box." He did like them. They were perfect and thoughtful and he's so very, very grateful because he shouldn't expect anything at all.

They pull into the empty lot of the Dollar General and Roger turns the car off, letting the sudden silence -- the stillness of the night -- settle over them. A distant streetlight casts a sickly orange light into the car, the light and shadows chiselling Roger's features deeper, more stern. Corey chews his lip until he tastes blood.

Still, it's Corey's hands that wander first. Because he's been so lonely, waiting all night long for Roger's attention. Looking after Roger's son and drinking Roger's beer and eating Roger's cheap Valentine's present, while Roger was at an expensive restaurant, eating his $80 steak, with his wife who deserves so much better. Corey doesn't though.

And Roger, not for the first time, thinks What the fuck am I doing? when his lips meet Corey's through the darkness. The younger man tastes of bubblegum and beer, but beneath that he can taste those damn chocolates. The taste suits him; sweet and boyish, a little bit cheap.

Any lingering thoughts of Theresa, of how it shouldn't take more than half an hour to drive to Corey's house and back, of how she's waiting for him with a promise -- whispered in his ear as he picked his car keys up off the the table by the door -- are quickly replaced with thoughts of them getting caught, of one of Haddonfield's finest driving by and seeing them, of a sharp tap on the window that makes Corey look up, mouth open and eyes wide and looking every bit the pretty boy he is, of talking their way out of a night in the cells for public indecency because This isn't what it looks like Officer, I swear!

And then Corey's pulling away, twisting himself around in the passenger seat so he can lean down, and Roger can't really make himself think of anything else but the way Corey is so obliging. Undoing Roger's belt, his fly, Corey pulls the older man's boxers down low enough to free his cock, slapping heavy against his toned stomach; Corey presses a wet, pouty kiss to his tip. "I missed you."

"You did?"

Corey nods, wrapping his hand around Roger's length, his fingertips just about touching. "So fucking much."

Another kiss, kittenish licks, Corey's soft hand stroking him slowly, working him like Roger isn't already rock hard for him. Roger closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy Corey's ministrations, learnt precisely by what Roger -- and Roger alone -- likes. They shouldn't be taking their time, however Roger is downright incapable of stopping Corey's hand as it smears his own precum down his shaft, slicking the younger man's movements, but not enough to take away the hint of hot and heavy friction that keeps Roger on the edge.

"I'll make it up to you, hm?" Roger manages, and Corey finally goes down on him, mouth wet and warm and always welcoming, as if to say, Go ahead.

With a sharp inhale, Roger starts, "I'll take you out somewhere. Somewhere nice. I know a restaurant that you'll love, where they do the best desserts you've ever had in your life. You'd like that, right?"

Corey hums in agreement; the vibration makes Roger throb even harder, pulsing against the soft roof of his mouth.

Roger always sounds so sure of his words, so assertive in his thoughts. It makes Corey believe him all the more, makes him want to nod and agree to whatever it is Roger tells him he thinks. Like how he always says Corey was such a tease, all those weekends he'd take his shirt off to mow the lawn, skin glistening with sweat right where Roger could see him. And how Corey had known exactly what he was doing with his wide-eyed virgin routine, as though Roger could have ever said no to him. And that Corey's so easy, so eager, so desperate. That Corey will always say yes.

"Or we could go to a bar. Shoot some pool, have some beers, catch the game. We could have a boys night." He grabs Corey's hair, applying a pressure that is more a suggestion -- more, deeper, please -- than a command.

"And then back to the hotel. Somewhere we can get room service, of course, I know you love that. And I'll take such good care of you. You know that, don't you, baby?"

Roger's getting close and he knows it, especially when Corey swallows, his throat tight and hot and clenching around Roger's cock and he's almost --

He pulls Corey off him, a thin trail of saliva dripping from his plush lip to Roger's spit-shiny head, and watches as the younger man wipes the rest of the drool from his chin with the back of his hand.

"I think you feel guilty," Corey says, voice level and surprisingly measured. There's no elaboration on what Roger should be feeling guilty about, just Corey's wide eyes and swollen lips, and Roger's left to fill in the blank space that Corey leaves behind.

Guilty about making me babysit. Guilty about driving me home. Guilty about doing this with me and then going home to sleep with your wife too.

The list goes on and on and on, and Roger tightens his grip in Corey's hair while he thinks, feeling the smooth, waxy strands twisted between his fingers. Corey will fuss over it in the rear-view mirror on the way home, combing his own fingers through those locks, back into his neat side-part, and Roger will watch him for too long, wishing he could see Corey's hair in it's full glory, not just sex-mused but his natural, bouncing cherub curls, more often.

Roger's hand is still in Corey's hair but he doesn't move, just waits to be told what to do.

"Get in the back."

It's only marginally less cramped in the back seat and darker still, the warm orange glow of the streetlight even fainter as Roger pulls Corey into his lap, lets him burrow into his neck while Roger slips a hand between his legs, palms the growing bulge over rough denim. Corey keens into it eagerly, legs twitching as he tries to keep himself from clamping his thighs around Roger's hand and humping it.

When his whines get louder, a strong hand grabs the back of Corey's knee, moving him to straddle Roger's trim hips, makes sure he's settled before teasing the zipper of Corey's jeans down, once again feeling that hard swell in his underwear.

There's a growing damp patch on the white cotton, sticking it to the leaking pink head of Corey's cock. Roger thumbs the wetness, smearing it through the fabric over Corey's burning skin, and Corey doesn't want to wait. He desperately pulls at the elastic of his briefs, pulls them down and hisses with relief when his dick springs free, resting against the pudge on his lower stomach, leaving a streak of precum on his auburnish happy trail.

Roger clasps one large hand around the both of them and Corey moans like it hurts; he grips tight, squeezing just right to press at the sensitive spot beneath his tip every time Corey's length slides against his.

Corey bucks in Roger's grasp, enough that Roger doesn't even have to stroke them anymore, just holds them still and grinds up against Corey's needy frotting. The developing rhythm is less co-ordinated than Corey can usually manage when he's on top, but the newness of the sensation, the way he can never quiet repeat the same motion or hit the same spot twice is maddening.

With all their clothes still on though, it's almost like it was back then, back when the most they did was dry hump on the couch while a football game played forgotten in the background. And it's not fair, Corey thinks. This is it? This is all he gets?

Roger once told him, "More is just never enough for you, is it, baby?", and although Corey had been kind of preoccupied at the time, the thought had burrowed it's way into his mind, repeated on a loop in Roger's low voice while Corey twiddled his thumbs in class the next day. Momma always told him something similar, when she'd decide he was being ungrateful over something or nothing -- it was always nothing -- that she didn't know what more Corey could want. A roof over his head, food on the table, his mother's love, always. Did he not already have enough? What more could Corey want? Boxed chocolates, empty promises and messy back-seat fumblings.

Roger is proven right. It's Valentine's day and Corey wants more.

"That's it, good boy. Feels good doesn't it?"

As Roger's hand slips further down the back of Corey's jeans, beneath his underwear, Corey catches his wrist, slowing the movement of his hips but not pausing, and tries to direct Roger's fingers closer to where he wants them.

Roger pulls back, resumes simply palming Corey's peachy ass. "Not tonight," he says firmly, and Corey makes a dissatisfied noise against the crisp white cotton of Roger's shirt.

"Please?"

Roger chuckles, "No, Corey." Still firm, but letting Corey down gently. "I know you want to play, but we can't. Not tonight."

"But I really want to, really badly," Corey pleads, scattering kisses up Roger's neck. It's not often Corey has to do the convincing. Rutting harder to prove his point, leaning back so Roger can see that playful little smile on his lips that always get him going, "And it's Valenti --"

"Corey," and it's a warning this time, given in a tone that Corey's never heard Roger use on him before. It's a tone he'd heard him use with Jeremy, though.

Corey shuts his mouth instantly, which is what he's always done best, and tries to ignore how his cheeks burn. The way his skin itches makes him want to scream.

After being told off, he can't bring himself to look back at Roger's disappointed face, so Corey looks down at their cocks instead, both wet with spit and precum, which is somehow less awkward. The spark in his gut rekindles slightly at the sight of Roger's dick, smaller than his by less than a half inch but big enough to knock the breath out of him, rubbing against his own.

Roger's hand has resumed stroking them together -- quickly, efficiently, like he's doing them both a favour.

A loud squeak breaks through the near-silence when Corey reaches out to brace himself against the window, his hand slipping in the condensation made up mostly of his own panting breaths. Another time, perhaps, it would have made him laugh, and his breathy laugh would have made Roger laugh and then --

Roger comes hard in his hand because he really can't let his shirt get dirty, and Corey follows with a shuddering groan, a half-word that could have been anything -- Fuck, Roger, Sorry -- warbles out with it.

"It's okay," Roger answers. "You're okay."

Corey licks Roger's hand clean, sucking the mess from his fingers. Tongue working between each digit till they're soaking wet. Tentative, playful nips at fingertips, biting just barely at his knuckles, never hard enough to leave a mark. No evidence gets left behind.

Feeling each ridge of Corey's teeth, Roger remembers the look on Corey's face from earlier, how his cheeks burned and he shrunk in on himself, making himself small and docile. If Corey bit down hard right now, sinking straight to the bone, then Roger would probably deserve it.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Corey whispers, lips brushing Roger's wet fingertips. Even in the quiet of the car, Corey's voice is smaller than it deserves to be. His big, brown eyes are glazy when they meet Roger's cold blues.

Roger stays quiet, feeling the warmth of Corey's heavy breath between them. In, out, in, out. He holds Corey's flushed face in his wet hand, strokes his thumb softly against his cheek, feels the barely-there stubble under his palm, watches Corey's eyes flutter shut, his lip twitch with the hint of a smile, his brow crease, fat teardrops well under his lashes until they spill down his cheeks.

"Let's get you home, hm?"

Mr Allen drops him off right outside his house -- "You're coming to do the gardening tomorrow, right?" -- and watches as Corey climbs out of the car and up the front porch steps. Joan lurks at the window, the curtains twitching closed once Corey gets to the door.

With one hand on the door handle, Corey turns to wave. Mr Allen is mostly shadowed in the driver's seat, but Corey half-smiles at him anyway, still looking even as Momma pulls him into the house by his scruff for being home so late.

As Corey lies in his bed, he stares up at the darkness of the ceiling. Or maybe his eyes are just closed because his fingers, slippery with the lotion from his nightstand, are shoved down his underwear. The gift tag from his chocolates -- For my Good Boy, ❤ R -- burns a hole beneath his pillow.

Corey hadn't left Haddonfield very many times before. When he was a kid, vacations had been few and far between. After his dad died, it was just him and Momma, and vacations cost a lot of money that they didn’t have. It’s not like he had any other family to visit, either. Just him and Momma, and long summers spent at home watching the neighbour kids play in a sprinkler across the street from his bedroom window.

Speaking of Momma, he’d told her he was going on a weekend trip with one of his community college classes. He’d even got one of his friends from American Lit. to forge a headed email for him, as proof. She certainly wasn't happy about it, not one bit, and took every available opportunity to chastise him over it --

Momma was in a good mood, or as good a mood as Momma could be, so Corey decided he’d take his chances.

Corey sidled up next to Momma’s chair, watching her while she watched Pioneer Woman on the FoodNetwork. He stood for a moment, waiting, until he felt that sort of lull that meant it was okay to stay. Sitting down, he settles with his back against Momma’s chair, close enough to brush against the bobbly plaid of her pyjamas with his arm.

 “Can I talk to you about something, Momma?” Corey asked.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I just wanted to tell you about how college is going…”

Momma scoffs, “College!”

He rambled vaguely about a few of his classes, carefully emitting any mention of friends, the one thing about his college education that Momma was interested in. Eventually he found his opportunity.

“You want to kill your mother, is that it?”

-- but Corey insisted he needed the extra credit and Momma begrudgingly – very begrudgingly – allowed it, though she still chastised him over it right up until he left the house, backpack heavy on one shoulder.

She'd be a nightmare when he got home, launching a full interrogation, demanding a blow-by-blow of his weekend, but he can cross that bridge when he comes to it. He had the whole weekend to mull over a convincing story to tell her.

But, that Friday morning, he walks down the block, out of sight from where he knew Momma was watching from the window, thinly veiled by the voiles, and waits on the corner, trying desperately not to look out of place as he scans the street, one way and then the other.

Just after 8AM, just as Corey’s starting to get restless, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up next to him on the corner.

Corey leans down to peer through the window. "Hi," he says, unintentionally breathless even as he tried to play it cool,

Mr Allen flashes him that roguish smile, "Want a ride?" He nods towards the passenger seat.

Corey lets himself smirk and jumps in; the leather seat smooth beneath him as he throws his bulging backpack into the backseat.

The drive to Chicago takes a few hours. At first they talk, like they always do, about work and school, about football and last night’s episode of Jeopardy!, and about some cookie cutter versions of their futures, where the other man is conspicuously absent. Once they run out of small talk, but before either of them felt like saying anything too personal, Corey’s focus drifts to the window and he spend the rest of the drive staring at the endless fields and dead-end towns just like Haddonfield that they pass through. He watches more intently when he notices the scenery get slowly more populated, and when the high rises start to spring up as they reached the city limits.

They’d stopped only once, at a gas station. Mr Allen pumps the gas while Corey wandered the aisles of the store, wielding a crisp $20 bill from Mr Allen’s wallet. The drinks fridge hummed low and constant beneath the tinny sound of the radio playing through the store as Corey contemplated what Mr Allen might want.

Back in the car, Corey handed Mr Allen a bottle of coke and then watched out of the window as they drove on, drinking his own bottle of milk.

When they pull up to the hotel, Corey cranes his neck to look up at the most lavish building he’d probably ever seen; classic Chicago School architecture, rising up and morphing into a corporate modernist skyscraper. Mr Allen stays here on business trips, he tells Corey. In his expensive suit, Mr Allen absolutely looked like he belonged there, while Corey stood awkwardly behind him, in his cheap sneakers and Target branded jeans. Corey knows exactly how he looks.

The receptionist checks them in and, if she does suspect something, she does a very convincing job of pretending like she doesn't. As they head up to their room in the elevator, the fear of being caught that churns in Corey's stomach mellows, turning into that ache of nervousness that he always has before his clothes come off and he can just stop thinking.

Fortunately for Corey's nerves, there’s no time wasted when they got to the room. Mr Allen closes the door behind them, already pulling off his tie, "Make yourself at home."

Corey kicks off his shoes at the door, wandering further into the room as he sheds his jacket. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a close-to-panoramic view of the city stretching out around them. Corey, wide eyed and staring, had always hated feeling small, but he thinks he could get used to it in a place like this.

When he finally turns away from the window, Corey’s rapt attention is instead caught by Mr Allen stripping off his own jacket, then his shirt.

The space between them quickly closes and, in the time it takes Corey to pull his t-shirt over his head, Mr Allen’s in front of him, warm hands on his warm, bare waist. Before Corey can ask, he's pulled in for a kiss.

Stumbling back, they find the bed and Corey gasps when his back hits the crisp, clean cotton sheets. He doesn’t have time to even pull in another breath, before Mr Allen kisses him again, his clean-shaved skin smooth against Corey’s own as he wraps Corey up against him.

When Mr Allen finally breaks away, standing to remove his belt, Corey sits up on his elbows and manages to heave his stolen breath back in.

More clothes come off – Corey wriggling out of his jeans, his briefs, his socks, all thrown to the floor and around the room with giddy, reckless abandon. There was no need to tame the mess, no need to keep undies in arm reach or find a quick excuse to leave without his flushed cheeks being noticed. Corey's glasses end up on the night stand and he blinks his wide eyes at Mr Allen through blurred vision.

Corey doesn't really need the hand in his hair to know what he's supposed to do anymore, but he wants it there anyway, twisting through his combed-flat curls, pushing him downward. Dropping to his knees next to the bed, he goes for Mr Allen’s black underwear, but the older man stops him.

Eager as always, Corey's mouth drops open when Mr Allen runs a thumb over his kissed-pink lips instead. "There we go," he says, his index and middle finger slipping inside.

Corey swirls his tongue, sucking obediently as the digits probe further, pressing towards his throat but pulling back before he gags.

Another finger and Corey feels the skin-warm metal of Mr Allen's wedding ring, plain gold and dulled from being worn every day for a decade or more; a permanent, boring fixture in his life. Corey lets his teeth graze the edge, then catches it again when he pulls his head back, watching the older man through his lashes as the ring slides over slick skin. Once it was freed, Corey rolls the band in his mouth, feeling the weight of it. It tasted like pennies and was probably worth more than all the clothes in Corey's closet combined.

Mr Allen makes a noise rather unbecoming of a man like him -- or the man Corey thinks he is -- sending a surge of bashful pride through Corey’s gut. He pinches Corey's jaw, thumb and forefinger digging into the hollow of the younger man's cheeks. Corey sticks his tongue out, the ring glinting in the centre.

With his wet fingers, Mr Allen takes the ring and contemplates the piece of jewellery. He doesn’t remember the last time he took it off. It was dripping with saliva.

"You don’t need that, do you?" Corey pouts.

For a long moment Mr Allen doesn't say anything at all, simply rolls the ring between his fingers. Then he wipes the spit off on the clean-for-now bed linens and places it on the night stand, beside Corey’s glasses. "Not with what I’m going to be doing with you."

Corey’s pout splits into a grin.

Later, Corey comes with a whine, head thrown back against the bedsheets, his ankles around Mr Allen’s ears.

"You can order room service, if you're hungry," Mr Allen says, as he comes out of the en suite wearing one of the hotel bathrobes. He tosses a damp wash cloth to Corey, still lay dazedly on his back in bed.

Corey stretches, feeling it all the way from his toes to his fingertips before he relaxes again, looking up at Mr Allen, "Really?" He sits up and wipes at the cum on his stomach and between his thighs with the cloth.

"Sure, anything you want," Mr Allen insists, pulling his laptop and a stack of papers from the brief case he’d brought with him. "I do actually have some work to do on this ‘business trip’,” he chuckles, settling in to a chair by the window and booting up the laptop. “But you can watch TV and get some food while you wait." Looking over as Corey rolls onto his stomach and over the edge of the bed to retrieve his underwear, Mr Allen winks, "Then we'll have some more fun later. Okay, baby?"

Baby? Now that was new. Corey couldn't decide if he likes it or not. Baby sounds so… domestic. Romantic. Sleazy.

Corey nods agreeably, gives a shy smile in Mr Allen's direction anyway, "Okay," before he grabs his briefs and rolls onto his back again to pull them on.

The room service menu is so long that Corey doesn't even know where to start with it. He reads through it twice before he can make a decision and picks the phone up off the nightstand, only to change his mind again at the last minute. When he finally does order, he asks Mr Allen if he wants anything, but the older man declines, "Get a couple of beers, though, Corey."

When room service arrives, Mr Allen answers the door and brings in the covered plates himself. He even lets Corey eat in bed, sat up against the headboard and watching some Western he found on the channel guide.

The movie is almost over when Mr Allen closes his laptop and stands from the table. With his half-drunk beer in hand, he wanders to the bed where Corey is still watching the TV, though his cleared plates and two empty beer bottles had been discarded on the nightstand.

Mr Allen leans forward, catches Corey by the ankle and drags him down towards the foot of the bed.

Corey gasps in surprise but allows the manhandling with a pout, rearranging himself until his legs rest either side of Mr Allen's trim hips.

"Now, you don't need these, do you?" Mr Allen tuts, his finger sliding along the waistband of Corey's underwear.

Corey shakes his head, a grin splitting his pout, and twitches under the delicate touch.

Then, more deliberate, Mr Allen hooks his thumbs beneath the elastic, tugging it down. Corey lets him, lifts his hips and pulls his legs up to his chest, watching Mr Allen's firm hands peel the briefs off him and drop them to the floor.

He should feel exposed, when Mr Allen spreads his legs again, but he doesn't. He should feel exposed, still loose and wet from earlier, but he doesn't. He should feel exposed when Mr Allen leans over him to reach for the lube, but he doesn’t. While they're chest to chest, Corey slips his hands lower, unties the hotel bathrobe. Mr Allen's length is half-hard already, and it twitches when Corey wraps his hand around it.

The TV is still on. Another movie, older this time, and Corey's eyes are fixed on the screen as he watched. Mr Allen has a beer on one hand and a firm grip on Corey’s soft hip with the other, a faint show of dominance while Corey lifts himself up on burning thighs before letting himself sink back down. Corey’s mouth hangs open, gasps escaping him now and then when he hits just the right spot.

Following the younger man's gaze, Mr Allen sees he's watching the leading man intently. Stoic. Weathered. Brooding. Handsome. Not dissimilar to the lover beneath him.

"I think you have a type, baby," Mr Allen says.

Corey turns to look at him over his shoulder. Mr Allen nods towards the screen, "Men like that."

His eyes flit to the screen and then back to Mr Allen before he ducks away bashfully. He shakes his head, then nods, then, "Just you."

Mr Allen smiles; Corey will be the death of him with flattery like that, his wet-behind-the-ears earnestness. He takes a final swig of his beer before discarding the empty bottle along with the others on the nightstand. His hands start drifting, up the line of Corey's spine to his shoulder blades and back down again, a rough thumb rubbing at the dimples on his lower back.

Going slow is getting old though, and Mr Allen tightens his hands on Corey’s hips, pushing him forward on his hands, manoeuvring him until he's face down-ass up.

Mr Allen kneels behind him, teasing, teasing, teasing, "Look at you, you can take it so well, can’t you?"

Corey nods; face pressed into the pillow, a shuddering gasp leaving him. “I can take it,” he reiterates, “I can take it, I can take it…”

The sun has long since set over the city, and the nightstand is piled with even more plates courtesy of another call to room service --

Mr Allen had let the young concierge in the room this time, rolling a stainless-steel trolley in with their food.

Corey sat up in bed, the sheets tangled scandalously low on his hips, watching as the dinner plates are offloaded onto the table.

There was a professional sort of tension as the dirty dishes from the nightstand were cleared away and replaced with the requested bottle of scotch and two crystal tumblers.

“Thanks,” Corey said, though he wasn’t looking at the concierge beside him, but rather at Mr Allen. The older man was wearing the bathrobe again, looking practically modest in contrast to Corey’s obvious nakedness. Corey shifted, letting the sheet fall a half-inch further, chewing on the inside of his plush lip.

The concierge gives him a measured look, eyebrows twitching just slightly, before leaving with the trolley. The door closed loudly behind him.

Corey reached for one of the tumblers, and catches sight of the gold wedding band beside the whiskey bottle.

-- but as both of them had been distinctly preoccupied since, neither had thought to get up and turn on a light. Instead, they're shrouded in darkness, with only the TV still playing in the background to cast a neon blue glow over their bare bodies.

Corey hasn't been able to think straight for hours, long since gone stupid with how good he felt, but over Mr Allen's shoulder he can see the blurry twinkle of lights from downtown. They look like stars.

"Please," Corey gasps, hips bucking and writing as he clings onto the older man, "please keep going, I don't wanna -- Please, I don't wanna stop yet," he almost cuts himself off with a sobbing moan but manages to get his words out, voice warbling and strained.

"Take it easy, baby," Mr Allen reassures him, stroking his damp curls away from his forehead. "That's it, good boy. It's okay, I won't stop."

Corey cries, desperate to chase the feeling even as overstimulation makes his legs shake, his cock aching even though he's already cum too many times.

"Fuck, if I could keep you like this forever I would," Mr Allen grunts above him. "Wanting it so bad you just cry and cry and cry."

Corey's like a live wire, buzzing with the electric pleasure of orgasm and it's too much, too much, too much --

As he comes down again, twenty minutes and another orgasm later, he’s twitching and sore and almost satiated. Corey wonders if they should slow down -- they have all weekend, after all -- but then Mr Allen's fingers are in his hair and the thought leaves him abruptly.

Cold tiles send a chill through Corey when he goes to the bathroom to freshen up before going to sleep. Most of their mess had smeared onto the bed sheets, but there was more still covering his stomach and dribbling down his thighs that he had to clean up.

And that's not all, Corey catches his reflection in the mirror over the sink. A whimper, half pained and half pleased at what he sees. Face still flushed with heat and painted with tear tracks. Lips swollen and wet. Hair damp with sweat and combed through thoroughly with fingers. Pink stains daubed onto his chest that'll darken into hickeys. The evidence of being wanted and needed and used. He almost doesn't want to wash it away, because without it, it’s to easy to think that none of this was real.

He swills his mouth, spits into the sink and scrubs his face even pinker.

Besides the rumble of traffic on the street below, all is quite when Corey turns out the bathroom light and plunges the whole suite into darkness. Mr Allen had turned the TV off while he was gone.

Feeling his way through the dark, Corey makes it to the bed and hesitates while he figures out which side to get in on. As his eyes adjust, he realises that Mr Allen is on the right-hand side, so Corey takes the left, like he knows Mrs Allen does when they're at home.

The silence as they lay there only aggravates his insecurity. So many nights lonely and crying, or flushed and yearning, or angry at the whole damn world for never cutting him a damn break.

He’s ready to roll over and just try to sleep, when he finally felt an arm reach out through the darkness. Wrapping around his waist, he let himself be pulled in. He sunk into Mr Allen's arms, cheek pressed to the older man's toned, salt-and-pepper chest.

Neither of them spoke for a while and Corey felt himself slipping away into sleep but now there was an ache in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore. This was too perfect, he thought, too domestic and it sent a wave of guilt through him. He was just playing at being a grown up. He was being a stupid, selfish homewrecker. He was --

"You're a good boy, Corey." Roger's hand was in his hair, twisting his curls between his lithe fingers. More tender than before, not guiding him this time but simply an absentminded gesture of... something. Something that Corey knew he shouldn't be thinking about. "I hope you get to college next fall."

"I hope so too," Corey mumbles. "I wanna get far away from Haddonfield... far away from Momma."

"You don't get on with her, do you?" Roger hums

Corey squeezes his eyes more tightly closed at the familiar sting of tears. "You don't know what she's like. She’s so… I dunno know how much longer I can last."

Roger’s wandering hand leaves Corey’s hair, instead stroking gently at his furrowed brow.

"And Momma’s gonna kill me if she finds out about --,” Corey cuts himself off, half because he’s fighting against the lump building in his throat, and half because he’s never – they’ve never – dared to call them “us”. For both their sakes, there was no “us”.

But Roger understands. “Oh, baby…” His voice is soft and deep as he shushes Corey.

“She won’t find out. No one will,” Roger promised. “It’s our secret, right?”

Corey’s stomach aches again, “I like being your secret.” His tears are starting to dry on his cheeks and Corey throws his thigh over Roger's hip, rocking softly against him. The motion feels a little like being rocked to sleep.

Getting off is a faraway thought as Corey drifts away into a dream he won't remember.

In the morning they wake up to the sun bouncing into their room, reflecting brightly off the skyscraper across the street. Corey stretches, back arching off the bed and he feels how his hips ache so sweetly.

Roger stirs beside him, and Corey's eyes drop to where his erection tents the cotton sheets. On his elbows, Corey edges down the bed, dragging the sheet with him, until he’s level with the older man's cock, hand circling the base as he pressed a kiss to the tip.

Roger hums appreciatively, his hand finding its way into Corey's hair. "Someone's eager," he mumbles. "Aren’t I lucky, having your pretty mouth to wake me up.”

Corey’s always been a people pleaser. And he always swallows afterwards.

Corey smiles coyly, feeling stupidly proud of himself. He licks at his swollen lips as he crawls back up the bed, settling against Roger’s chest. Roger’s jaw is rough with a shadow of stubble, but Corey nuzzles gently against him anyway, kitten kisses pressed almost hesitantly until Corey catches Roger’s lips. Open mouthed kisses, fleeting and languid all at once, get Corey giggling, though he doesn’t pull away, letting their noses bump against each other as he keeps going back for more.

"What's so funny, hm?" Roger asks, his hands palming, squeezing, groping the flesh of Corey’s ass.

"Nothing," Corey insists, stealing another kiss. "I'm just really happy." So happy that he wishes they could stay like this forever, where he feels warm and wanted and the sunrise paints everything golden.

They shower together in the en suite, in a shower big enough for four people, let alone two. The tiles are cold and wet against Corey's chest, and he shivers every time the tip of his cock brushes the condensation.

After Roger finishes up, he goes to call room service for breakfast. Corey stays longer, letting the water cascade over him until he has to come up for breath. He sighs, low in his throat, at the heat.

The bathroom is hazy with steam by the time he get out and dries off in front of the vanity mirror. Bruises have bloomed where he’d expected, just low enough on his chest to be hidden by his t-shirt.

Roger looks Corey over when he leaves the bathroom, finally utilising the second bathrobe. “Your hair looks good like that, why don’t you keep it natural more often?”

“Oh,” Corey pauses, hand automatically going to smooth his hair down but feels only shower-damp curls. He thinks about the tin of pomade in his backpack. “Momma say’s it’s untidy.”

“You should stop listening to your momma.”

They eat together at the table, pancakes and bacon drenched in syrup, and Roger tells him about the swimming pool and how there are three different restaurants to choose from in the hotel alone. They could go for a swim later, Roger says, and then Corey can choose where they eat.