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And for all the pretty mouths and pretty words that turned me out
I just end up at your house, 20,000 leagues beneath the ocean
-Walk The Moon
Eliza tells him no.
It’s the first time she’s said the word out loud, previously preferring to leave Alex guessing, never really flirting back yet not quite turning him down. But now, unequivocally, it is a no, and Alex accepts it with as much grace as he can.
He’s never been one to decry the so-called “friend zone,” considering he’d much rather be friends with someone than nothing at all, but he can’t deny that he’s wanted her, and badly at that. She has no love for him, but nor does she hate him, and her dark eyes still hold the hint of a smile when she looks at him. He’ll take what he can get.
Rejected but okay: this is the face Alex will present at work, and deep down, he does really feel that way. Still, the utter lack of a love life isn’t exactly his idea of a fulfilling existence, and so at home, he thinks he’ll drink a little extra and sleep a little longer and tell himself that loneliness is temporary. Because it is. He’s sure of it. It has to be.
Alex doodles on the edge of a typo-ridden first draft of a bill, then slumps back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly and remembering her scent when he’d called her in on her way out a few minutes ago to finally, properly ask her out. She’d smelled like flowers, like peonies, and he’d longed to put his face against her neck when she’d tossed her long hair across her shoulder. But then she’d smiled semi-apologetically at him, given him a firm though not unkind ‘no, thank you’ and bid him goodnight. Reluctantly, Alex lets go of her in his mind, convinces himself that she never would have been right for him anyway, and resigns himself to remaining her friend.
“Struck out before you ever even had the bat in your hands, didn’t you?”
Alex opens his eyes to find Thomas Jefferson leaning in his doorway, that arrogant half-smile of his turning up one corner of his mouth.
“Come to rub it in, I see.” Alex glares at him and pushes back in his chair, getting to his feet and stretching before starting to shove his things haphazardly into his bag. “Well, you can give it up now. I’m already over it.”
Thomas snorts out a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, right. Sure you are. Look, I’m not here to push your face in it. I came to commiserate and see if you wanted to grab a drink.”
“Commiserate? Not only am I not convinced you know the meaning of that word, I’m especially not convinced you want to commiserate with me.”
Thomas rolls his eyes. “I don’t have to like you to say that I know the feeling, do I? I’ve been turned down by Angelica so many times that now she and I both know I only ask so it feels like I’ve still got some kind of game. But if you don’t want a drink on me, I’ll go home.”
Alex opens his mouth to tell Jefferson he’d rather go directly to hell than take the long way by hanging out with him, but the words freeze in his throat. Despite the fact that Thomas isn’t his ideal company, he thinks that tonight, he doesn’t have to say ‘no’ just because the word is still ringing in his ears.
“Okay. A drink. On you. But just one.”
Another eyeroll. “Don’t worry, not feeling sorry enough for you to buy you two.”
#
Thomas buys him three.
Granted, three lousy drinks over two hours isn’t enough to get Alex drunk, but there’s a pleasant buzzing in his veins now and he and Thomas are suddenly the best of friends. At least for tonight. Tomorrow they’ll go back to barely civil conversation and not-so-secretly despising one another, but right now they’re sharing jokes about how pathetic a state they’re in when they’re at a bar, together , drinking and lamenting the Schuyler-shaped holes in their lives. This, Thomas tells him with a straight face, is what true bipartisanship looks like.
Thomas is only slightly more tipsy than Alex, but it’s enough for him to rest his head on Alex’s shoulder when he gets sleepy, without looking as though he’s being forced at gunpoint to be in close proximity with him. Alex leans into him, tries to pretend that all of this is normal, and wonders how he’s getting home tonight. He doesn’t trust himself to make his way to a train in this state and at this hour, not to mention that the idea the idea of walking to the nearest station in the rain makes the city seem like it spans the whole globe.
Taxi, then, he tells himself, and I could have bought ten drinks with what I’m gonna spend on this damn cab.
But out of nowhere, as if he’s reading Alex’s mind, Thomas proposes a different solution. “Let’s go back to my apartment,” he offers. “Better and cheaper booze there.”
The bartender gives him a nasty look, and Alex hiccups out a laugh and agrees. Thomas picks his head up and digs his wallet out before leaning across Alex to shove his credit card at the bartender who snatches it from him as if he can’t wait to see the back of them. Alex absently notes that Thomas doesn’t smell like peonies. As if he expected him to. As if it matters to him at all that Thomas should smell nice.
But he does smell nice, if truth be told. Like musky cologne and whiskey and sweat, nothing floral or light, nothing that smells like magic. Or maybe he does smell like magic. Like dark magic on a hot, Virginia summer night. Like a powerful kind of magic, like --
Like it doesn’t matter. Because of course it doesn’t. Because Alex is only restless and lightheaded and longing for what he can’t have and someone is in his space and sharing his body heat and the urge to touch is strong even if Thomas doesn’t possess the parts Alex would normally touch.
He pushes his muddled thoughts to the back of his mind and allows Thomas to pull him from his barstool toward the door, to lead him down the rainy avenue toward his apartment. From one street to the next, the neighborhood goes from vaguely seedy to vaguely upscale, as if Thomas specifically chose a place where he could take advantage of his wealth but also get up to a few dirty deeds on a Saturday night if he ever felt like it. Alex wonders how often he feels like it.
The power is out from the storm when they reach Thomas’s building, and so instead of taking the elevator, they climb too many stairs for Alex to count until they reach his apartment, breathless and wet and cold. Alex realizes that this is the first time he’s ever been here, and reminds himself again that he and Thomas are not actually friends, that on a night where Thomas is not feeling sorry for him (literally every other night) and buying drinks to ease a shared hurt, this would not be occurring.
Still, he steps inside as if he’s familiar with it, as if he’s ever likely to come back, as if he hangs out with Thomas here all the time instead of not at all. It’s less awkward that way, and Thomas seems oddly content to pretend the same. Thomas slips his jacket off and tosses it over the back of the couch before making his way to the kitchen, all the while tugging his tie loose and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.
Alex is dimly aware that something about all of this seems strange, aside from the obvious hanging-out-with-the-archenemy thing. No, there’s something else about this moment, standing in the dark of Thomas’s modest-yet-large apartment, with only the moonlight illuminating parts of the room, while Thomas practically undresses and digs through the cupboard for more booze… if he’s honest with himself, it feels like a date. Or a hookup.
It’s neither of those things of course, not least because they are both straight. Even if they weren’t, they are each other’s least likely partner. And yet, Thomas is allowing himself to be literally bare in front of Alex, and Alex is allowing himself to appreciate the sheer amount of muscle on Thomas. He seems to be nothing but abs, and it appeals to Alex in a way he’s never quite considered before. Something in his mind connects this feeling with his desire to have his face against Eliza’s neck. It’s the same flutter in his stomach, the same itch in his fingertips to touch.
He huffs softly, frowns, tries to logically evaluate the situation, tries to consider the implications of this sudden and swift attraction to something so outside his norm, tries to ask himself whether he’s feeling real desire or just craving what nobody else thus far has given him. But his head throbs a little and his brain rebels, unable or unwilling to do the mathematics of this just now, and without knowing how he gets there, Alex finds himself standing next to Thomas near the fridge.
Thomas jumps a little. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me,” he says, frowning at Alex, but Alex isn’t listening. With his body on autopilot, Alex is reaching for him instead, hooking his fingers under the waist of his pants and tugging him forward into a kiss.
It’s different kissing Thomas. Doesn’t quite feel right at first. Alex feels stubble against his chin and considers with some regret for the first time how people must feel kissing him. But then… then it knocks the air out of him. Then he’s hungry for it, as if all the alcohol making his belly feel full has evaporated and all that’s left is how badly he suddenly wants Thomas. Thomas. For his part, Thomas is kissing back, though for a moment, something in his stance makes it clear that he’s confused and possibly trying not to think about who he’s kissing. But then he comes alive, hands roaming across Alex’s shoulders and down his back, coming to rest at his hips.
At this, something in Alex’s brain slots into place with an almost audible clunk, the virtual pause button is slammed with some force, and Alex pulls away abruptly, eyes wide, gasping for breath and mumbling, “Oh fuck, sorry, I’m drunk.” He wracks his brain for other excuses but comes up with nothing, especially since he doesn’t think ‘I just wanted to’ will cut it. “I’m drunk,” he repeats, softer this time, but not even the walls are buying it.
“Bullshit,” Thomas says, and for a moment, Alex thinks he’s angry. That he’s a second away from being shouted at, told to get the fuck away, to get out. But then Thomas is backing him against the fridge, claiming his mouth again, wrenching his arms up from his sides and slamming his wrists against the freezer door. His fingers wriggle their way between Alex’s, his body pressing him hard into the fridge, and he kisses Alex like he’s never been kissed in his life. So much want, a clear desire to consume, and the timeout is lifted; Alex commits fully to being feasted upon.
Alex tries not to consider the state of his shirt when Thomas releases his hands and tears it open with little concern for the buttons. His fingertips roam down Alex’s chest, and Alex bites at Thomas’s lip, a moan coming from one of them, swallowed quickly by the other. Alex’s back arches away from the fridge, nipples stiffening under the harsh-but-gentle pinching of Thomas’s fingers. He tries to wrap his brain around it, to take in the sensation, never having felt much urge to touch them the way Thomas is now, and yet god, it’s good. Something about it sobers him.
Thomas makes a noise deep in his throat that sounds like an animal’s growl, and his voice is almost agony when he asks, “Why the hell do you suddenly look so good?” As if Alex has the answer to that. As if he has any control over his appeal to Thomas, as if he could explain Thomas’s unexpected attraction to him anymore than he could explain his own.
Still, he answers with an equally agonized, “I don’t know” that comes out as a desperate moan, something incredibly needy sounding and wholly embarrassing. He tells himself to get it together, that he’s evolved enough to accept this for what it is, that he can do what he wants with whoever he wants and fuck what it means. But it does mean something, that much is clear, and one way or the other, he’s going to have to deal with it. If not now, then later.
Thomas seems to come to the same conclusion in the same moment, and they both apparently decide on later, because he’s kissing Alex again, fast and furious, hands working open his belt and pants. He shoves a hand down the front of them, and Alex feels himself stiffen against the pressure of his palm, bucks his hips against Thomas’s hand.
“Fuck me, that’s hot,” Thomas whispers, and Alex wonders if perhaps it’s Thomas’s ego talking, unable to resist the idea of arousal caused by him, directed at him, no matter whose arousal it is. But whatever it is, Alex rocks against his hand again, wanting to be touched, wanting those long fingers wrapped around him. The thought is enough to make him whimper, and the word please comes out before he can keep it in.
Thomas pulls his hand free, yanks Alex’s pants down around his thighs, his boxers, and Alex exhales, irritated at the sight of himself half naked and hard, his stupid, traitorous body making all of these sudden decisions without bothering to consult him first. But he doesn’t stop Thomas from curling his fingers around his cock, doesn’t stop himself from sinking back against the refrigerator and bucking his hips like an eager schoolboy. He doesn’t stop any of it, though Lord knows he probably should.
“Are we really doing this?” he asks, and it’s a weird question to ask in the middle of a handjob, when Thomas is touching him like he’s never been touched before, by himself, by anyone.
“I can stop,” Thomas suggests, hand stuttering in the middle of long, sweetly exquisite strokes, and there’s something gritty in his voice, as if stopping would be painful.
Alex grips a fistful of Thomas’s undone shirt. “No,” he says, looking Thomas directly in the eyes. Just because he’s uncertain of why he wants this so much, it doesn’t mean he wants it to end. That’s the one clear thing in his brain right now: Don’t. Stop. “Just -- can’t believe --”
“Me either,” Thomas says, and he glances down between them, watches the way Alex responds to the warmth of his palm, to the swipe of his thumb under the head of his cock. “You like that?”
Thomas is genuinely asking, Alex knows, just as unsure as he is in all of this, and those words aren’t meant to be dirty talk, aren’t meant to be anything more than a simple, am-I-doing-this-right. But they make Alex’s knees weak and shaky, make his belly ache with anticipation. “Fuck yes,” Alex hisses, because he’s definitely doing it right and Alex definitely likes it.
He tips his head back against the fridge, lets his eyes fall shut and for a moment, he thinks of Eliza. He tries to picture this encounter with her in Thomas’s place, but he can’t. And it’s not for lack of imagination, as there have been fantasies that involved Miss Eliza Schuyler, oh yes. Plenty of those, and so he can conjure her up as quickly as anything. But this time, she fades just as fast, and Alex doesn’t think it’s because she said no and now there’s someone here whose every action, every bit of body language is screaming hell yes. Perhaps the real reason is that he’s been stupid, foolish, built her up as the perfect person to complement himself in his head for far too long without stopping to think that in reality, she might not fit so well. Perhaps someone else might fit better, someone Alex hadn’t considered because who would when they’ve spent a lifetime assuming they knew the full extent of their own sexuality? And fuck if that’s not a confusing thought.
Thomas brings him back to the present with his mouth along Alex’s neck, with his hips rocking into Alex’s thigh, and Alex can feel every inch of him. The thought of what Thomas could do to him makes him shudder.
Thomas’s mouth brushes over his ear and he quips, “I don’t usually do this.”
“No, I think I’d have remembered if you did,” Alex deadpans, because he can’t help being a smartass, even here, even in the middle of this.
Thomas laughs; Alex can feel him shaking with it. Then he pulls away, takes a step back to look Alex in the eye, and Alex immediately, desperately misses his touch. “I just mean I’ve never done this. Ever.” His voice is steady, even, sobering. “I don’t think I’ll need an instruction manual to figure it out or anything. It’s just that if I had ever imagined fucking a man, and I’m not saying I have, I don’t think I’d have imagined it being you.”
Alex breathes in deep, exhales, grins. “Better the devil you know, yeah? Anyway, you don’t have to justify anything to me. For whatever reason, I’m stupidly attracted to you right now and horny as fuck so it goes where it goes and it is what it is. Let it never again be said that Alexander Hamilton turns his nose up at trying new things.”
Thomas rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand again, this time to take one of Alex’s, and Alex lets himself be led down a dark hallway toward Thomas’s bedroom. Every part of his body is still buzzing, but it’s not the alcohol now. It’s all anticipation and trepidation, excitement and worry. After all, whatever this is, he and Thomas are changing their relationship permanently. Whatever this moment becomes, it will always exist between them. Friends or enemies, this will define some part of them, and it’s terrifying so God only knows why the thought is making Alex want it more.
Alex waits for no invitation when they reach the bedroom. He strips the rest of his clothes off, stretches out across Thomas’s bed, right in a patch of moonlight, arches his back and then relaxes into the soft sheets. Thomas makes a noise in his throat. “You,” he says, a little tremor in his voice, “should not look so fucking sexy.”
Alex grins in spite of himself and spreads his legs. “How ‘bout now?”
“Fuck you,” Thomas says with a chuckle, managing to get himself undressed without ever tearing his eyes away. Alex stares too as he climbs onto the bed, abruptly reconsiders half his life because hell would have frozen before he ever thought he’d want a cock down his throat, but the devil must be feeling chilly because damn if he isn’t licking his lips at the sight in front of him.
Thomas settles between Alex’s legs, running his hands up the insides of his thighs. Alex shivers, swallows the ghost of a laugh at the brush of his fingertips against sensitive skin. Thomas leans down over him, grabs one of Alex’s legs and hitches it up around his waist until Alex gets the hint and locks them both around him, drawing him in. The position is perfect; the second his cock slides slow and wet and hot against Alex’s, all bets are off.
“Fuck,” Alex whines, reflexively tightening his grip with his thighs, arching up his hips for more. It’s good, this slick friction, skin-on-skin, and Alex can feel the tension building in his belly already, in his spine, in his whole body. “Fuck, that’s good, Thomas…”
Thomas’s eyes close and then open again, looking at Alex dead on, and it’s almost too intimate. “Have you ever thought about it?” His tone is quiet, curious, and he’s asking for an admission, but Alex feels like his intentions are honest. Like he’s only asking so maybe he can admit that he’s thought about it too, the way most men do but won’t confess to.
With Thomas’s cock against his, it’s not like Alex can lie, and so he doesn’t. “Sure,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks go warm, grateful that it’s dark so Thomas can’t see him blushing pink. “Sure, I guess. Everyone does, don’t they?”
“But you never --” Thomas prompts, trailing off.
“No,” Alex says, shaking his head, keeping to himself that maybe once or twice as a teenager he may have gotten a little turned on by David Bowie’s tight pants in Labyrinth. But who hadn’t?
“So you’re sure you want this?” Thomas asks. “I mean, fuck, I’m not saying we should run out and throw ourselves a pride parade tomorrow, but if you’re down for trying this then so am I.”
Alex grinds his hips up against him, hard cock sliding against Thomas’s. “Is it not obvious I’m down for trying?” he laughs.
Thomas kisses him again, and his mouth on Alex’s is driving something in him now, making him eager. He can feel warm precome,Thomas’s, dribbling across the head of his dick, onto his belly, and Christ, if he thought anything about this could be this hot, then he would have already done it, years and years ago. But he’s glad it’s Thomas, glad because here they’re both vulnerable, glad because Thomas’s mouth is made of fucking magic. The way he bites Alex’s lower lip, sucks and nibbles until Alex is nearly tipsy again, just on the taste of his tongue… it’s almost too much. He nips at Alex’s jaw, licks against his throat, presses kisses along his collarbones, pinches one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger until it’s sore and then sucks there, too.
“God,” Alex gasps, fingers threading through Thomas’s curls, “please, please.” He says this in a hushed whisper, as if Thomas won’t know what he’s asking for, as if the asking itself is illicit. He doesn’t dare say the words, is scared of how they’ll sound. Too needy? Too desperate? Should he sound like he’s begging for it when he’s so new to this? Because that’s just it, there’s a plea right there on the tip of his tongue, and heaven help him if he asks, in plain language, for Thomas to fuck him. God forbid there be too much meaning in this.
Still, Thomas knows, and Alex is reminded again that they are in this inexperience together when Thomas digs through the nightstand drawer, comes up with a condom and an obnoxiously expensive looking bottle of lube. He looks at Alex sheepishly, almost as if to ask if these are okay, like Alex is really here to demand quality.
“I’m just gonna put my fingers in you first,” Thomas says. “Think maybe I oughta loosen you up.”
Alex makes an uncontrollable, shameless noise in his throat. Four hours ago at work, all of this would have seemed like the kind of dream one has and tells nobody about, the kind of absent minded thought a tired and lonely brain sparks up and flames out in quick succession. Four hours ago, if not for Thomas Jefferson, Alex might have clung to his heterosexuality, fired up Tinder, and searched for all the girls who looked like Eliza but who wanted him. It seems like a long time and only minutes ago, but Alex didn’t know then what it was like to lie naked in Thomas Jefferson’s bed, the words oughta loosen you up ringing in his ears. Now, mouth dry, he finds his lips parting to murmur only one quiet word of want: “Yes.”
Alex thinks maybe Thomas overcompensates a little with the lube, but it’s probably for the best. His fingers are slick, cold and wet when they find their way down, a tease of what’s to come that makes Alex tense up with anticipation. Relax, he reminds himself, trying to tell himself that this is really no stranger for him than it is for Thomas, except that he’s the one about to have someone else’s fingers up his ass for the first time, and Thomas seems all too pleased to do it.
There’s little preamble, no introduction. Alex wasn’t expecting trumpets and a royal decree, but maybe some sort of announcement? Instead, the moment he relaxes, Thomas slides one finger inside him, just to the first knuckle, and Alex can feel his mouth go comically round with surprise. A soft little gasp comes out and Thomas half-grins. “Like when you get a shot, right? Just supposed to do it.”
Alex huffs. “I think your fingers and your dick are both significantly bigger than a needle.”
Thomas snorts and Alex tries to stay relaxed. It doesn’t hurt, having one of Thomas’s long fingers inside of him, not really. It’s just unusual, a strangely full sort of feeling that isn’t altogether unpleasant. Admittedly, it’s not the best thing he’s ever felt in his life, but there’s better beyond this, he’s sure of that. Alex knows too many sexually satisfied queer men, his best friend among them, to think there isn’t something to this. He wonders how to go about getting tips for future experiences from Lafayette without having to hear about his boss’s prowess.
The notion that Washington might be better at this than he, and the startling idea that he’s already considering doing this again are in part what spurs Alex on. “You can keep going,” he tells Thomas, and so he does. Further in and then back out, over and over, then a second one until Alex is half reconsidering because there’s just no way Thomas’s dick is gonna fit inside him. But then Thomas thrusts his fingers in just right, crooks them forward like he wants to drag Alex into him, and catches on something that pulls such an unholy moan out of Alex’s chest that it steals the air right from his lungs.
“Never too young for a prostate exam,” Thomas chuckles, and his hand stays right where it is, fingertips teasing over that spot again and again until Alex wants to weep with how good it is.
“Don’t think,” he pants, “the doctor does it like this.”
“No? Pity. You look like you’re enjoying it.”
“Oh Jesus, yes ,” Alex whines, and through fluttering eyelids he sees the exhilaration on Thomas’s face, the same enlightenment he feels on the inside. This is good, his brain says, uncharted territory but so good. It goes on like this almost longer than Alex can stand; Thomas’s fingers insistent inside, the head of his own dick steadily pulsing precome against his belly, Alex crying out Thomas’s name with almost religious fervor.
And finally, finally he says the words. “Fuck me, please, need you to fuck me, Thomas.” He’s far too close to coming now, riding the edge of orgasm hard but still holding on, wanting more. Go big or go home, he thinks, but if he’s going home, it’s with a story to tell and hookup number two already scheduled.
Things get blurry. Alex has to close his eyes when Thomas pulls his fingers free of him and tears open the condom, pops open the little expensive bottle of fruity smelling lube. He can’t watch because it’ll be over too soon if he has to be a witness to the preparation for his own proverbial deflowering. He thinks of the first time he fucked a girl and feels regretful, wishes he were better, wishes he weren’t sixteen then and desperately horny and it hadn’t been over in five minutes. And maybe it’s no different from being 30 and desperately horny and too close without even fucking, but this feels different. Like he knows what he’s doing even though nothing could be further from the truth.
It’s Thomas who closes his eyes while Alex grips the bedsheets tight as Thomas pushes inside him, as slow and as gentle as possible. For Alex, everything feels sharp and hot and uncomfortable, but Thomas’s chest is heaving, his hands are gripping Alex's hips hard enough to bruise, and he’s trembling.
A bashful little laugh is on his lips, a few curse words, and Thomas’s voice is almost unrecognizable, a soft raspy drawl when he leans down and says against Alex’s neck, “God, you feel so good, you’re so fucking tight.”
Alex bites his lip, redoubles his grip on the bedsheets. “Keep talking like that and this is gonna be over before it begins,” he replies, shifting his hips, rocking them up so Thomas settles into him. The pain goes quick then as he tests the waters, moves his hips at a few different angles to see what feels good until abruptly, it all feels good.
Thomas is on a short leash. The second Alex tells him to move, his hips slam forward hard enough to hurt but it doesn’t hurt, not anymore; there’s just the exquisite, intoxicating euphoria of being full, the pleasure of Thomas’s mouth sucking kisses into his shoulder, the tension way deep down in Alex’s spine that threatens the intensity of orgasm with every second.
Thomas lets one hand roam between them, gives Alex’s cock a few quick tugs before Alex shoves his hand away, shakes his head. “You’re gonna make me come,” he warns, and Thomas lifts his head to look at him.
“Fuck, that’s so hot, say it again.”
Alex bucks his hips up so his cock slides against Thomas’s belly and Thomas makes a sinful sound. “Gonna make me come,” Alex repeats, a promise.
Thomas’s thrusts have already lost any rhythm they might have had; there’s only urgency in them as the weight of him pins Alex into the mattress and he fucks into him, harder, faster. “Guess we gotta be friends now,” he says, filthy little chuckle coming from somewhere way deep down. “‘Cause I wanna fuck you on every surface in this city and I feel like enemies just don’t do that.’
Alex nods, too eager, clenches tight around him. “Shit, yeah, we’re best goddamn friends, okay?”
“Come for me,” Thomas says, or demands, and there’s no more holding back. Alex is gone on a tidal wave of bliss, dimly aware of Thomas’s hand around his cock, come all the way up to his neck, and Thomas speaking words that could be curse words or praises or both. And then he’s gone, Alex can feel the sudden emptiness and hates it, but Thomas collapses against him, comes all over his thigh, clinging to Alex and the bed and anything that will make either of them steady again.
Alex tries to count his breaths as he comes down, count the minutes before one of them speaks but he loses count, mixes the numbers up. It feels like an age before Thomas finally murmurs against his shoulder, “Think you broke me.”
Alex makes a noise of assent, plays with Thomas’s curls, pulls one free and twists it around his finger, lets it spring back up. “No homo,” he kids, “but I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my fucking life.”
Thomas laughs, plays along. “That was easily the straightest I’ve ever been.”
But Alex can’t let the joke stand too long. “Listen, I don’t think we need to analyze this too hard right now. I can’t work through issues of identity so soon post-coitus. But if you really want to keep doing this --”
“I really want to keep doing this,” Thomas says, quick, unequivocal and firm in his answer. He lifts his head from Alex’s shoulder, puts one hand on Alex’s cheek, draws him in for a kiss so sweet that it makes Alex’s head spin. “But just because this is a thing now, doesn’t mean I’m gonna support any legislation you draft or not destroy you in a debate. I’m still going to do that. I’m just going to come home after and fuck you stupid.”
Alex can’t help but grin. “You do realize I won our last debate, right?” He shakes his head. “So we work all of this out along the way. Nothing people haven’t done before. Sound okay?”
And against all odds, Thomas tells him yes.