#post-divorce

There’s a woman in the picture on the nightstand.

The man sleeping peacefully in the bed behind him is in the photo, too. (Deacon, Rocker’s mind helpfully supplies.) Both of those strong arms are wrapped comfortably around the beautiful blonde, holding her to the body Rocker had gotten intimately acquainted with just a few hours earlier. There’s a wide and genuine smile on Deacon’s face, all of his teeth on display; the woman’s expression matches his.

The wedding bands on their fingers and the bright shine of love in their eyes each show what they are to the other.

Well, fuck him. (His pleasantly aching body reminds Rocker that Deacon had—quite enthusiastically for a man with a wife waiting somewhere in the wings.)

Rocker isn’t a stranger to being used by closeted men; this one is just… slightly disappointing. It shouldn’t be—pretty words and firm kisses and soft touches are weapons with which he’s far too familiar—but the words really had been so pretty, the kisses intense, and the touches? Mind blowing.

None of it was real, though.

She is very real—the blonde with the sweet smile and, clearly, a cheating coward of a husband.

Goddammit.

Rocker places the framed photo of the happy couple back on the nightstand (there’s only one, so what is this place? Presumably, a cheater wouldn’t have a picture of their spouse in a bachelor pad, but maybe Deacon had been careless?) and curses himself for not having noticed it before he’d let the other man put his married dick into him. (He’d been very distracted once they’d finally made it into the master bedroom.)

Fuck.

He wishes he could be a girl’s girl, so to speak, and figure out some way to let Deacon’s poor wife know she’d be better off with a battery-operated dick rather than an unfaithful one, but…

Double fuck.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. It’s fucking humiliating—embarrassing, even. He’s in his thirties; he should be better by now at choosing people who either aren’t assholes or already married.

A quick glance down at the curled fingers of Deacon’s left hand reveal the expected tan line he’d failed to take note of at any point during the previous night. (It had been so dark in the club and even darker in Deacon’s car, the older man’s right hand a heavy weight high on Rocker’s left thigh, his left flexing on the steering wheel. They’d only taken enough time to flip on the most minimal lighting so as not to break bones or valuables as they’d made their way to the bedroom.)

Triple fucking-fuck.

“Are you finished making your assumptions yet?”

Startled, he flings himself away from the sleep-rough voice, nearly flying over the edge of the bed; he’s saved from falling by Deacon, the long fingers of the other man’s right hand quickly capturing his left bicep and tugging him upright.

“Careful.” The word is teasing, gentle.

Deacon’s brown eyes are shining—sparkling, even—and so breathtaking that Rocker spares a moment to lament the comparative lack of poetry about the color so that he can properly describe how gorgeous they are before his gaze returns to the picture atop the nightstand.

“Her name is Annie,” Deacon begins, and Rocker turns his head away from the older man, readying himself for the excuses.

She’s always nagging me to do everything. I’m only one man, y’know?

I can’t get a divorce yet, but I’m working on it, I promise.

She doesn’t understand what I need—not like you.

“We finalized our divorce three months ago, but we’ve been separated for nearly a year now.”

That’s laughable, honestly, so Rocker laughs, a disbelieving snort of sound, loud and ugly in the buzzing silence between them.

Deacon’s fingers are suddenly at his chin, grip unyielding when Rocker attempts to pull away, but not painful, eyes drilling into Rocker’s. “I keep the photo here because it’s the last time I remember loving her as her husband rather than just as her friend.” Full lips, surrounded by deliciously graying facial hair, twist into a self-deprecating smile, and Rocker nearly stops breathing with how attractive it is on him. “It was the last time I felt like I knew who I was and what the rest of my life would look like before I realized that I was hurting Annie just as much as I was hurting myself. It’s…” Deacon trails off, eyes roaming Rocker’s face. “It’s a reminder that I’m living the life I want now, rather than what’s expected of me.”

That’s… a new one. (Are there classes for adulterers to become better adulterers? Probably.)

Rocker narrows his eyes.

Deacon uses the grip on Rocker’s chin to direct him back to the nightstand. “The final decree is still in that drawer,” the other man tells him. “Open it.”

(It shouldn’t matter to him—he’d had fun last night, even if Deacon turns out to be a dick; he should just take the memories and Walk of Shame his way back to his lonely apartment. That’s what he should do.)

The moment Deacon releases him, Rocker is reaching. The drawer opens smoothly and—

The judgement entry is tucked beneath a few pieces of recent mail. The dissolution box is marked. The supposed Annie’s signature with a swooping ‘y’ at the end of the surname (Kay, apparently) is feminine and pretty, just like the woman in the photo. Deacon’s name is bold next to hers, printed first in neat and even lettering, then signed in a messy combination of curls.

“Signed by the judge and everything.” Deacon’s breath rushes over Rocker’s ear and down his neck, forcing goosebumps to rise in its wake. The warmth of the (very toned, very muscular) body behind him settles deep in his marrow, along with a spark of… something. (Certainly not hope.) He feels the tip of Deacon’s nose brush the curve of his ear, tracing the cartilage. “Do you need to know anything else to settle your concerns about my marriage status or do I get my ‘good morning’ kiss now, Donovan?”

“I—” Rocker clears his throat, still studying Deacon’s signature. He isn’t married. He isn’t hiding. He traces the lines spelling out Deacon Kay on the page.

(It shouldn’t matter to him, but it might. Maybe.)

Deacon’s hand is back at Rocker’s face, forcing his attention from the legal papers in his lap up to the older man. One eyebrow, flecked with gray (and, fuck, isn’t that just stupidly attractive?), lifts and a soft smile tugs at those beard-framed lips. (Rocker isn’t certain what his expression is right now, but it makes Deacon’s eyes go soft, too.) “I’ll take my kiss first,” murmurs Deacon, “then I’ll make you breakfast, and we can have an adult conversation.” He presses his forehead to Rocker’s, their noses brushing. “Or I can take you home, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Their combined morning breath really is atrocious, but it doesn’t stop Rocker from leaning in and granting Deacon his ‘good morning’ morning-after kiss.

(Maybe nothing will come of this—of this seemingly honest and earnest man’s word, of the intent in his dark eyes, of Rocker’s resurfacing idiot hope—but the thought of never seeing this man again makes his stomach turn.)

“Breakfast and conversation,” Deacon repeats against his lips. “We’ll go from there.”

We’ll go from there.

“You wanna fuck, Johnny?”

Johnny nearly chokes on his scotch, surprised. “What?”

Donghyuck shrugs, looking unfazed at his reaction. “You don’t have to, you know. I won’t be offended, I mean, I get it. I’m just offering.”

“Um-” Johnny casts wildly around for the semblance of a thought but all he can summon is, “Why?”

Donghyuck smiles. “Because you’re sad, and I’m sad and I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective and life today, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to do something different for once - I want to really live, like I’ve never done before - and fucking a sad stranger in the bathroom of a bar seems like the right thing to do right now. In this moment. And I’m not going to question it.”

When Marie asks Gus “Where exactly did we go wrong?”

It doesn’t turn into a blame game. There’s no tragic “We just didn’t love each other.” Hell there’s barely even a conversation just Marie musing that she used to blame Gus at times but she’s realized that wasn’t right.

It’s obvious these two still care about each other but it’s equally obvious that they are not IN LOVE anymore (if they ever were).

It’s just refreshing to see a divorced couple where the divorce isn’t a cause for drama.

His smile is what catches Deacon’s eye—beautiful, crooked, a bit mischievous, and aimed directly at Deacon.

“Definitely cute,” comes Luca’s unwanted input from the seat beside Deacon. His periphery shows Luca nodding toward the object of Deacon’s attention. “Different from Annie.”

The reminder of his ex-wife elicits a wince. Fuck, but she… He wishes things could have been different for them, but what’s the old adage? Wish in one hand… “I think you might’ve missed the entire reason for our divorce, Luca,” Deacon finally drawls, beer to his lips, “if you think ‘different’ is a deterrent.”

(The team has been great since Deacon’s acceptance of his sexuality—since he’d broken Annie’s heart, ripped it to shreds by telling her he could no longer love her the way a husband should love his wife and burned them to ash by asking for the divorce—and he couldn’t be more grateful to them.)

Luca laughs, boisterous and loud. Deacon lets out an oof when Luca claps him on the back, the gesture familiar and easy, and leans in to give him a friendly shake. “I’d tell you to go for it, man,” he begins, amusement clear in his (only slightly) hazy eyes, “but it looks like the kid’s quicker on the draw.” The big man smacks an obnoxious kiss to the side of Deacon’s head before spinning him on his seat—

—and there he is, somehow both shy and confident as he shuffles in place for one moment… two…

“I’m Rocker,” the younger man introduces himself. He offers his right hand to Deacon, grinning widely when Deacon takes it, squeezing the warm and slightly sweaty palm a second longer than would be considered socially acceptable anywhere but a nightclub. (He just knows Luca will be smug about dragging him out tonight, if something comes of… whatever this is.) Rocker lets his fingers linger before they part, flashing a wink at Deacon. “Donovan, if you’re feeling dirty.”

Something blooms in Deacon’s chest, warm and light, and he chuckles. “My friends call me Deacon.”

Rocker’s eyebrows rise; his lips quirk. He leans in to speak directly into Deacon’s ear. “Is that what you want me to call you?”

Pulse rabbiting, nostrils flaring, Deacon licks his lips and takes the plunge, his voice low and full of promise. “We’ll discuss that when we get to my place, Donovan.”

Donovan’s blue eyes are nearly black when he rocks back on his heels, lips parting on a shaky inhale.

For a second, Deacon considers rescinding the offer (had he been too forward? Should he have offered to go to Rocker’s home instead? Was it threatening or presumptuous to tell him they were going back to Deacon’s place? Fuck, he was glad he’d not had to worry about these things with Annie, but it’s exhausting trying to learn dating etiquette in his forties), but then Rocker laughs, relieved and breathless.

“And here I thought you might play ‘Hard to Get’ with me.” He offers his hand once more—palm up.

Placing his unfinished beer next to Luca’s meaty paw, Deacon checks in (“Have fun, man. Street’ll give me a ride.”) before turning back and sliding his hand into Donovan’s, chuckling again when the younger man manipulates his grip until their fingers intertwine.