Archive of Our Own

"...and I wanted to do it nice this time, I put on a tie and shined my shoes, but nobody wants to take orders from a kid. So let me tell you what happens to a 20 year old from the top of a hot .com..."
- Eduardo Saverin Sean Parker

/version i/

The dinner was brutal. Sean hadn't been expecting the extra, sullen company and maybe he'd overreacted a bit. Eduardo Saverin, Mr Future Business Leader of America, was drinking like a fish.

His girl has turned pinch-faced and disapproving, inefficiently dressed for the frigid air that's not sobering him up at a useful pace.

"Shit," Mark says, face cross as well. He looks distinctly unaccustomed to allowing the full weight of another human being to be slumped across his shoulder. Eduardo mumbles something into his neck and Mark's face grows crosser. "This is going to be inconvenient when we get to the stairs. There are a lot of stairs at Harvard. Tall dorms." He darts a hand out to prevent a face-plant. "You'd think there'd be a suicide problem, but I believe once you hit Ivy League that's considered gauche."

"The true benefit of an Ivy League education," Sean grins, and bemusement quirks the tense line of Mark's lips.

"And cute girls," Eduardo lifts his head to add. "If Mark would be nicer to them."

This, unsurprisingly, does not increase the collective level of patience.

"I think we'll take the next one," Sean says, taking pity on them, thinking to earn a bit of social currency. It won't hurt to have Mark owe him for more than the name, another small thing.

He curls an arm around their little charity case, who switches shoulders with only minimal complaint. The kid smells good at least -- like oranges, rum, and a surprisingly pleasant blend of his girl's vanilla perfume and his own warm, doubtlessly expensive cologne. There's a feather-light puff of air against Sean's throat as Eduardo resettles, previous animosity apparently forgotten in the face of human comfort, and noses his neck.

Mark doesn't need more than a push, a promise to send his buddy on home after he's sobered up a notch, and Sean waves them off cheerfully before leaning over to rest Eduardo against the restaurant wall.

"Maybe I should make you walk it off," Sean says, examining him critically, taking in the lay of the land. Eduardo laughs at him, eyes bright. Like it's making his night to give Sean a little trouble.

It's too public to smoke a joint so Sean checks his messages, leaving Eduardo to breathe deep and let the night air do its work.

Nothing urgent so he clicks the phone shut after running through them and leans back against a parking sign to watch his unwilling new business partner, admiring a little, because what else is there to do. It's a nice view, collar loosened and face flushed, tongue darting out every so often to wet the corner of his mouth, the edge of his lips.

"I am so fucking drunk," Eduardo confesses, and Sean tips his head in agreement, taking a couple well-timed steps forward to place his elbow against the wall right before Eduardo slides into it.

"That you are, my friend," he says, conversationally, as his hand becomes the new resting place for Eduardo's cheek and near-black eyes glitter up at him, spot-lit from light streaming in through the windows.

Sean could have seated him on the sidewalk and asked the greeter to call him a ride--still could. Sean could be halfway to the hotel room funded with the last of his cash (running on pure plastic now, a thought that kicks up his pulse). He stretches his jaw. Considers it. But the sharp panic-thoughts wind down at the sight and feel of the steady weight curled neatly into his arm, and Eduardo is docile, has retracted his claws for the moment, and reminds Sean of himself at that age – inexperienced and overconfident, too smart for his own good but not smart enough, starting something he won't realize he has no hopes of controlling, not until it's too fucking late. Maybe that reminder had made Sean a bit harder earlier, across the table, but now there's a strange tenderness too.

Eduardo swallows, eyelids fluttering shut, and Sean watches him breathe in and out for a while between eavesdropping on a fraught breakup scene in the alley and holding his phone back up to check the bars.

"I'm supposed to be mad at you," Eduardo says plaintively, with a couple dropped vowels and a delicate yawn. His eyelashes brush against the back of Sean's hand, lids lifting but then shuttering closed.

"Mmm," Sean says, "you definitely were," curling his body closer when he sees those shoulders hunch and try to tuck in to conserve warmth.

The view's even better from here, more--intimate. He's not such a sweet drunk himself (too anxious, too pushy, too talkative), but he likes it in others. Likes the simple wants, the languid movements, the slow measured proclamations, the careless burrowing into his back, his chest, his stomach.

"Hate you," persists Eduardo, sullenly, though with a distinct lack of interest in detaching his person.

Sean chuckles. "I refuse to believe that. I'm a likable guy."

Eduardo's head turns, product-stiff hair raking over Sean's wrist. It prickles. Wide, dark eyes rake over him, as if to verify that claim.

Something in them makes his breath catch audibly, when--he'd just meant to look. Honestly.

Eduardo blinks, just once, and runs a hand up over Sean's chest (skims a nipple and Sean feels them tighten, what the fuck, hisses). Cool fingers spider over the back of his neck and Eduardo draws him down with a light tug. Licks past his lips, liquid-smooth.

Sean hasn't done this much, maybe shouldn't, but Eduardo has a soft mouth flavored with cocktails and moans encouragingly when Sean sucks at his tongue. It isn't so different, except in the good ways he remembers: the strength in deceptively slight shoulders, the faint scratch of stubble, and the curve of muscle when Sean pushes a thumb up under Eduardo's tailored shirt.

Eduardo's deft tongue flicks against his, silky and hot, invoking sound-touch-smell images of it lapping at his cock that drop into Sean's brain like hot coals, sizzling down his spine.

A strangled sound twists out of his throat and Sean takes a sharp inhale, presses the heel of his palm against the front of his slacks. And running right behind it, the thought of how much better that would be if it were Eduardo's hand, if he just pulled the zipper down and slid a hand in, how it would be a little dry but good, wrapping those long fingers around Sean's cock to stroke, rub over the head, a little friction until Sean was leaking enough. Unless, because Eduardo could have Sean, like, suck on his fingers first, licking between them and then maybe across his palm, and then they'd be all slippery, pumping him as Sean whispers instructions -- how hard he likes it, how fast to go, how to hold it. Because, there's a thought, Eduardo's probably never held any cock but his own.

A shudder hits him, warmth pooling in his stomach. Sean's become fairly certain it's call a taxi or catch a charge for indecent exposure.

He pulls the hand back from his slacks to cup Eduardo's face (not not thinking of how maybe Eduardo could feel-smell the heat of him, where that hand had been) and murmurs, "Tell me you don't want to go back to the dorms," running the thumb over Eduardo's now swollen mouth.

A hint of acid threads through Eduardo's alcohol-stretched drawl. "I should make you say please."

"I can say please," Sean says and drops a kiss at the hinge of Eduardo's jaw, brushing lips over the peach fuzz of his earlobe.

And then Eduardo is tripping into the back of the cab, reaching out to grasp at the collar of Sean's jacket with both hands, pulling Sean over to him while he's still finishing the address. Eduardo's back arches against the cab door, head squeaking against the window, as Sean slides an arm over the top of the seat and pushes a knee along the seat-back to slot in on Eduardo's left side as he fits the other knee between Eduardo's parted legs, looming over him to capture his mouth.

The kiss breaks with a groan as Eduardo fumbles at Sean's fly, kneading sloppily and mouthing wetly at the hollow of Sean's throat, the other hand clutching at Sean's waist like an anchor against drowning. All eager inexperience and drunken recklessness, mumbling into Sean's collarbone. Still fresh and unpracticed at hedging his bets.

They catch their breaths in the lobby. There's minimal night staff, just a heavyset woman with a tired face and a grim supervisor-type who don't particularly care how far he's pushing the limits of respectability. Thankfully, maybe, because a glance back and god, the push/pull of Sean's hands and his greedy mouth have been stamped all over him, this tipsy, malleable college boy skating under the edge of 21 and lovely in a way that's almost unsettling (in a way that made him think that word, fuck).

It's more than a little obscene: the rumpled suit and glazed eyes, the mussed hair and the sight of those darkening bruises that Sean sucked along his collarbone right before arrival. That plush mouth rubbed red, set off like a warning sign against his tan (Beware: Hazardous Area.) Sean spares a moment to second-guess, taking in the excess of orange, slapdash decorations, and faded carpet-- the dozens of subtle signs indicating the lifestyle to which he's become accustomed.

Warning, warning, but it's tough to think of the weapons he's handing him when Eduardo's shooting him a conspiratorial look, a world away from that stern figure who suggested, "you," with such disdain.

It's impossible, frankly, to find either the courage or stupidity to send him away.

So when they reach the elevator Sean slides in first, backing up until he hits the thick glass and metal. He feels himself grin crookedly, tugging Eduardo along by his wrist and making a dramatized, "oof," as he hits Sean's chest, all bundled up with his arms tucked between them, fingers bunched into fists. Jacket skewed.

The threat of cameras keeps him from settling his hands lower than the small of Eduardo's back, though Sean delves down first for a cursory palm of his ass. He takes an almost masochistic pleasure from the sharp ache that rips through him as the touch seems to steal the air from Eduardo's lungs (eyelids drawn down and lips parting, as if every cell in his body has shifted its focus until Sean reaches the back of his thigh and retreats).

The elevator wall takes the brunt of their weight as Sean hooks his fingers together and Eduardo swallows, face shifting towards self-directed humor as he says, "What am I doing?"

"Well, you propositioned a stranger and now you're--"

"A stranger?" Eduardo squawks, and Sean has to laugh at the offense in his voice, bracketing those folded arms and fists with his own, just to watch him mock-struggle against it with his muddled coordination, all true anger bleed out on the street corner or in the cab. Or in this very instant, as something that might be a small stirring of genuine affection glints in his eyes.

"I have suffered through your life story over subs--" A valiant, losing battle is waged between an impeccable vocabulary and generous applications of alcohol, and the consequent, "bad fish," is Eduardo's vehement finish.

The clack of their teeth might be construed as a punishment for Sean's visible glee, Eduardo's kiss near vicious, but his bites at Sean's mouth are on the sweet side of rough, tugging at the constant not-quite-background arousal that's kept Sean's nerves alight and magnifying every small touch.

"And I know where you went to grade school," Eduardo adds then, because why not unsettle Sean in all kinds of ways.

It can be like a hobby.

He raises an eyebrow. "Now that's creepy."

"I'm thorough in my research," Eduardo says mildly, unrepentant, and with a nip at Sean's jaw that makes his cock twitch.

"You are a man who needs to live a little," Sean replies,"Trust me."

Their floor dings, doors creaking slowly open. But Eduardo makes no motion to leave, still settled tight enough against him to keep Sean uncomfortably hard and meeting his eyes with the kind of intent curiosity that only the inebriated can pull off. "Can I?"

Sean pushes an atypically foolish impulse aside and pulls his arms back, recapturing a wrist when Eduardo's slide down as well. He finds its pulse with his thumb.

"Trust no one," he says, wry but laced with unintended seriousness, and slaps the door button with his palm.

Jackets and shoes are the first things to go, then, as the hotel room door closes. They're kissing deep again, building back up to panting.

A closed fucking door means a hand back at the front of his pants, scrambling more purposely, Eduardo scratching at the outline of Sean's cock with his fingers, rubbing with the flat of his palm as Sean works on the buttons of their shirts, pausing every few seconds to thrust a hand out and feel his way as he walks them backwards towards the bedroom.

Smarter to just wait, probably (definitely), but that's the kind of sense that he is absolutely incapable of making with that mouth on him. Sean has both shirts rolled down past their shoulders and slacks half unzipped when he bangs his ankle against the standard oak table, winces, winces again when his stumble makes Eduardo bite his tongue, and it's still deliciously good.

A quick turn tests Eduardo's delayed reflexes, and his "Don't let me fall," is fierce enough that Sean almost considers it. Thinks of the look that would splash across his face, thinks of joining him on the floor and cajoling forgiveness with slow sucking kisses and wandering hands, but Sean seriously needs to come, he is so fucking ready.

So they make it another couple feet and Eduardo lands first on the bed, forehead creased with concentration as he shimmies the rest of the way out of his shirt. He peels Sean's down his arms as Sean straddles his lap, pushing him back once all hands are freed.

They've been keyed up long enough that it doesn't take much work.

Their open slacks are easy to shift downward, just enough to line their cocks up--the solid warm press of it punching air from Sean's lungs and he arches his shoulders, pelvis snapping forward. Eduardo's head digs back hard against the mattress, fingers tangling with the sheets.

Sean's fingers are--not trembling, because that would be. He's just tired, stretched thin and kind of insanely hot for it, any small piece of this. In a way might be shocking to think of, later. If he lets himself.

So he does it quick and dirty, sticking a hand between them to tuck the waistbands of their boxers down and spitting in it, jerking both of their cocks with it. Mostly brand new, this trick, but Eduardo's cock feels thick and addictive-smooth in his grip, its damp satin skin shifting against his. He twists his wrist, finds the rhythm that their twitching hips can match, and that's even better.

For given values of better that are like: hey, think we can improve on shit that was already throwing off sparks in my brain?

He bends his head to worry at Eduardo's flexing chest with his teeth. Bites too sharp, accidental, when Eduardo's hands fist in his hair, breathing, "god oh god," and then, "Sean," appreciative and shuddery. But Eduardo comes anyway, body seizing with mixed signals, and something in his frenetic wordless noises makes Sean's balls tighten, makes Sean follow him and spill over his stomach.

It appears to take an extreme feat of strength for Eduardo to snap his waistband up and shuffle his pants off into a ball at his feet, eyes half open and sleepy-content. Without the constant influx of adrenaline the night is catching up with him.

Though he still makes a friendly, soft sound when Sean half-heartedly swipes down his chest with a sheet edge and shoves him on his side so Sean can rub his sweating face against, admittedly, equally sweaty shoulder blades. Sean cannot be held accountable for plans made when he's this peacefully wrung out, senses still buzzing.

"Goodnight," mutters Eduardo, which should not be endearing, except for the stubborn determination in it, since the mere act of speaking seems to be an incredible strain.

Sean squirms out of his own pants and enjoys his relaxation. Politeness is so last--whenever.

"You're better like this," is muttered into Eduardo's pillow a few minutes later, but Sean's dangling on the cusp on sleep, so. He can't be certain.

*

Sunshine is cutting a bright triangle across the bed when Sean opens his eyes.

He's plastered across Eduardo's back, Eduardo's spine curved into his chest. It's muggy under the sheets and he itches a little, boxers gone slightly tacky. The air has that familiar hotel heaviness: recycled and a tad stale. He runs a hand over the still form in front of him (testing, 1, 2) and Eduardo's breathing picks up. Awake then.

In the cold light of day his guest hasn't grown any less appealing or emotionally conflicting-- they're still contradictory and equally senseless, these seesawing urges in Sean to damage and protect.

The wild snarl of Eduardo's hair has softened overnight, gel and whatever else sanded off from pillows and grasping fingers. It tickles Sean's cheek as he moves his head to inspect the faint marks he'd left behind on otherwise flawless honey skin.

Mostly flawless. Sean spots an old scar on the curve of his bicep and doesn't resist the impulse to bite at it.

He stretches groggily over the indignant yelp, gets up to take a leak, and sees that Eduardo must have risen earlier. There's an open water bottle on the counter. He'd gotten up, maybe checked his wallet or phone, and came back to finish what he'd started.

Sean appreciates that in a person.

There's some definite approval as well for the mental slideshow that's kickstarted by the sight of Eduardo resting there, all pliant and well-used, just as he left him. Like there's no action he could imagine taking except waiting to see what else he might want Sean to do to him.

'See,' he thinks of saying, 'here's where you don't wanna take your chips down', but--no. Sean's having some very specific ideas of how he'd like this is proceed and has no intention of heading himself off at the pass. Life does not help those who cockblock themselves.

"Morning," Sean says instead, sliding back under the sheets and into his former position.

He tugs their bodies a little tighter together to jump start the engines, savoring the flush he feels creeping down to his neck and over his chest, the liquid heat stirring his cock to half-hard and spreading out like syrup through his veins.

Eduardo tips his head back against Sean's shoulder and ventures, "Hi," sleep-rough and newly shy. He's growing flushed as well, lips falling slightly open.

"Bet the hangover's a bitch," Sean says knowingly.

Eduardo laughs, and then curses the existence of margaritas, windows, and "my fucking head, god".

Moans piteously.

This should probably not flicker hot at the base of Sean's spine and bleed into his gut, twisting it with want. But enough with the personal psychological evaluations already, because very primary sources say that Eduardo's skin tastes like sweetened water, and salt, and that electric summer-storm humidity.

And, well.

As Sean runs hands along his sides, dragging slow with anticipation, Eduardo's inhales get choppier.

As Sean halts his hands on Eduardo's hips to fit them together even tighter, to feel the give in Eduardo's body as he presses his aching cock firmly into it, well.

Then Eduardo wriggles back against it, experimental-like, and makes a low startled sound, like, maybe he didn’t expect it to feel like that-- the solid ridge of Sean's cock rubbing over his ass, separated only by a very thin layer of cloth that smells of last night's sex. Maybe didn't expect it to feel good, or feel right, or maybe he’s scared a little at the length and thickness of it, the thought of it moving inside him, or maybe he wants it, real bad.

Sean almost bites into his still sore tongue at the thought, head pounding. It's like being suddenly very wide awake and yet dropped down into a soft-focus haze.

He tucks his face into long sweat-glossed neck and slides a hand down Eduardo's hip and into the Y-front to find him stiff as well and wet at the tip. The slick weight of it and what it could, absolutely does, mean makes the hardness between Sean's tensing thighs throb, blood-hot, and demand some action be taken right fucking now.

He gives Eduardo's freed cock two light strokes and then just keeps his hand there, cupping it against that flat warm stomach and stained waistband with his palm, feeling Eduardo's heartbeat.

It is fucking beautiful, sometimes. Inevitability.

When he makes one long grind of his hips he can feel the tremor ripple down Eduardo's body and says, forced casual, "So, I wanna try something."

I want to fuck you before the world does, Sean thinks as he kisses the place where Eduardo's throat meets the right shoulder, smooth as silk. He mouths it a little as he kicks the sheet the rest of the way down with his feet. It tangles a bit and he has to pull off, tosses the mess of covers to the floor, then he gently presses Eduardo forward onto his stomach. Follows him, heart in his fucking throat.

An almost panicked eagerness is thrumming through Sean as he props himself up with his left hand and shoves his boxers messily down his hips with his right, rocking forward, nudging against the slight cotton barrier still covering Eduardo's ass.

Bites his earlobe, real delicate. Coaxingly.

Says, "yeah?"

Eduardo gasps but doesn't object, just tugs his arms up and hides his face in the crook of the right, lets Sean grip his waistband and peel the fabric down to his thighs, lets Sean drag his cock deliberately downward from the small of his back to the cleft of his ass.

More than lets, really. Yields, in this graceful, tantalizing way that makes Sean's mouth go dry.

He's swallowing thickly as he spreads the firm cheeks with his cock, rocking softer now with nothing but sweat and skin.

He has to lick his lips, press his forehead into Eduardo's neck when he feels those lithe thighs start to tremble, lightly--harder the slower he moves.

It's better than the best fucking hit, that surge of pointed need paired with the restless silver sting of confidence.

Yeah, he likes that, Sean thinks, running proprietary fingers along the inside of the right thigh, urging Eduardo's hips up so Sean can cup his balls, rolling them gently as he rubs his cock a little more insistently, purposeful. Presses the head against that tight entrance, no plans to work it in, just teasing himself with it, nudging a little harder when those golden shoulders shudder.

"You'd let me, wouldn't you," Sean murmurs into his ear, bites sharp this time.

He's gone so fucking hard at the thought, though he won't, of course, but still (feels the hot base of Eduardo's cock bumping silkily against his knuckles, gone as achingly hard as his own).

Sean pulls his hand back to pump his own cock once, like a promise, and watches himself move the head in little circles over that hole, painting it with precome. A deeper shudder runs through the full length of Eduardo's body and his thighs strain against the boxers that Sean now shoves down past their feet, his own swiftly following them.

There's an unopened pack of condoms on the side table and his jerk off lube that he's used only twice for this before.

He'd liked it, though. And they weren't nearly as pretty, didn't make his head swim and his blood run faster just from the knowledge of accessibility, that they were touchable. Didn't have this way of turning into Sean's hands and his cock at every slight graze, invitingly.

The lube smears over his fingers easy as he kneels between Eduardo's legs and curls two of those fingers, swiping the back of them over Eduardo's entrance and letting the knuckles drag.

It wrenches a shiver and a curious-interested noise from Eduardo's mouth and leaves the tight skin there glistening. Eduardo's thighs part like water when Sean runs wet fingers along them. He slides a finger in and has to grip his cock, hard and quick, at the thought of pushing it next into that hot, welcoming silk. And again at the choked whimper forced from Eduardo's open mouth, now panting shallowly as Sean makes slow pushes, unstudied but determined, crooking the finger and then adding another.

He has three stroking slickly in and easily back before he murmurs, "Mm, can't wait," into Eduardo's neck, and gathers him onto elbows and knees.

Eduardo concedes, but rises up to pull him into a quick open mouthed kiss. And then presses their foreheads together for a steadying breath that Sean finds himself breathing with him, something in the unexpected gesture causing his eyes to fall shut as his palms run up and down Eduardo's arms for a moment, raising goosebumps.

The near silence (just the muffled noises of outside traffic and skin on skin) is broken with a long sigh that slips from Eduardo's throat, laced with something both apprehensive and keenly expectant.

He makes another after returning to rest on his forearms, as Sean strokes up the back of one thigh.

Both their exhales go uneven as Sean's thumb runs up the bottom swell of his ass to gently separate the cheeks, as Sean inches closer, balancing on his heels, and takes himself in hand.

"Holy shit", Eduardo wheezes, head bowed, as Sean moves forward, curling his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he watches Eduardo's body swallow the head of his cock.

Sean sucks in his lips as he reaches down to feel where the opening stretches around him, adding a dab of slick and running the pad of his thumb along the place where his cock is spreading the sensitive skin.

The sight of it, just--it's a nice sight. There's something about feeling it and then seeing it, Sean pushing up inside of him. He knows it's only going to feel better when he gets the rest in, but this, this is nice. Something in that kindling feverish in his chest and the muscles of his legs -- the visual proof of how good Eduardo's opening up for him, real sweet.

"You're doing so good," Sean tells him and then shifts his hand to sweep soothingly over the curve of smooth back as Eduardo shakes a little.

He curls his tongue tighter, sucking in air, the smell of sheets and musk, as he rolls his hips, letting that clinging heat massage just the tip of him as Eduardo eases into the new sensations. Nudging incrementally deeper whenever he receives an encouraging noise.

More than half-in and his nails are biting into Eduardo's waist, palms unsteady and slippery with sweat.

"You--", he hears gasped out beneath him, "Sean--Sean you feel--" and his hips are jabbing quick quick quick before his mind can catch up to them.

It's like fucking on autopilot: skimming along behind the hungry strokes of his body and being seared with the aftereffects, crashing over him all velvet molten.

It's half-mindless, leaning forward to tangle a hand in Eduardo's hair to tilt his head back and swallow the raw, hurt sounds with his mouth until they tamper off into something richer, slide into shallow, eager panting.

The rapid breaths puff across Sean's tongue and he instinctively pumps his hips to match them, fingers releasing only when his brain reminds him, hey, you don't happen to recall that handy thing called oxygen?

There's a little moan of complaint from Eduardo as Sean coaxes his shoulders back to the bed and he laps his tongue between the shoulder-blades, apologetic. Thinks, 'I know, baby, I miss your mouth too,' face rushing hot when he hears his voice speak it aloud, ragged and sincere.

He pushes past it and earns a pleased whine as his cock slides in to the hilt, balls deep, and Eduardo's back arches as Sean circles his hips a little.

He hums approvingly in the back of his throat as Eduardo starts to rock back into Sean's short, focused thrusts. Adamant and needy, tilting into it like he's figured out exactly what he wants and Sean absolutely has it. Is giving it to him.

Sean slaps his right hand up to grip Eduardo's shoulder, to--help him out a little. Pull him back tighter, deeper onto Sean's thrusts, because fuck sliding knees and smooth sheets, and, okay, Eduardo seriously loves that.

Eduardo's fighting to balance on one forearm and strip his cock with the other, gasping impatiently.

Which is not the most efficient solution to problem that is, truthfully, the very opposite of a problem. Knowing that it's been the fierce rub of Sean hard and slick and prodding inside him that's made Eduardo crazy for it, this urgent to get a hand on himself-- just Sean prying his way in and sliding back and forth, making some room and the right kind of friction in the right places, that's, that's just a life-affirming situation.

It means Sean has a goddamn responsibility here before those dizzying facts short circuit his system.

It takes some extra attention and Sean fumbles a stroke or two before he gets the hang of it, but soon he's replaced Eduardo's hand with his own. Sean's jerking him a little faster, a little choppier than the movement of his hips, but that is totally working out for them.

There are these incredible contractions when Eduardo comes, squeezing his cock and then melting the body beneath him into a soft sprawl of limbs that Sean bucks into hurriedly, muttering faint compliments and bitten off questions

("can I--"

"mmm, there we--"

"that's it, that's, could you--")

until he's tearing into his bottom lip with his teeth as he comes trampling-hard and sudden.

The mattress springs give one last strained bounce as Eduardo flops over sluggishly to blink at the ceiling, a momentary grimace washed away by afterglow.

Sean crawls across the bed to dump the condom in the wastebasket. Deciding not to care that he missed, he slumps across Eduardo's torso mid return-trip with a contented grunt.

There's an unconvincingly mild shove at his side and then an arm settles over his waist, another drawing a sloping, absent-minded line along and across his spine.

"So, that happened," Eduardo says ruefully.

"I need to turn asshole during dinner more often," says Sean with satisfaction.

Eduardo whacks at him with the back of his hand, but lazily. Seeing as they're both goddamn exhausted and it's hard to argue with results.

There are rabbits and clouds and freaking tractors up there in the swirls of textured paint, so Sean doesn't take offense to the direction of Eduardo's gaze. He steals a look over his shoulder and then rests his head, looking towards the window as the chest beneath him rises and falls.

He wonders where some of the cars streaming past them are headed today. Wonders if Mark Zuckerberg is still going to call him.

Probably.

Definitely.

He thinks there are maybe few ways the night could have gone down that would have stopped that call. That's just the way the world works.

The part of Eduardo that doesn't know that, he thinks, that's what brought Eduardo back with him, let him open himself and his body because he just--felt like it.

Inevitability. Sometimes it's--

Sean flips over to rest his side across Eduardo's chest and inspect curve of his jaw, the elegant but unassuming lines of his face. He walks fingers up to the hollow of his throat to brush the fragile dip of skin there.

He continues up to toy with the damp hair at the back of Eduardo's neck and thinks about all the soft secret places the world hasn't gotten to yet. Wonders, for an uncommonly wistful moment, the kind he grew out of, if it has to. Wonders what he would have liked someone to tell him at 20. If there was anything anyone could have done. If he would have wanted them to.

"I'm gonna tell you a story," he finds himself saying.

Eduardo's eyes leave the patterns in the ceiling, expression growing amusingly dubious.

"No, you'll like this one. It's absolutely, 100% true."

/version ii/

Eduardo paused for him the night before the Thiel reincorporation finalized, laying a hand lightly on Sean's forearm as he spoke. Just a small touch, and a little tentative -- like he'd considered taking it back more than once before his fingers made contact.

It wasn't a surprise, exactly, because Sean had greeted Eduardo at the door earlier that evening.

He'd been bone dry this time, except for a slight dampness at his temples and the gap in his collar. Sleek and streamlined, even with a couple thick straps digging into his shoulder and tilting it crooked.

His eyes didn't widen when Sean motioned him in, didn't shutter-- merely held his gaze, quiet and mild.

When Sean offered him a beer, Eduardo had followed him into the kitchen and propped his suede travel case onto a stool, tanned fingers smoothing across it and releasing to fiddle with a stack of take-out menus.

His head popped up when Sean swung the fridge shut, the pad of one thumb running down the sharp edges. Like Sean was some snake in the grass, to be kept an eye on at all times.

It wasn't that the guy was never perceptive. In certain situations.

People who can take stretched silence just don't have enough past trying to fill it. So Sean had propped himself up against the counter with his elbows, easing back with this best nonchalance, and said, "Half a million".

Because there's nothing wrong with hiding as long as you win. And he likes to pick at scabs -- always has.

Eduardo scratched at the beer before drinking it, a weird dull scrape. "It's a good number."

"A we're in the ballgame number."

"An expensive number," Eduardo had said, not quite idly, because he doesn't believe in hiding. Not yet.

Sean had to laugh, though he kept it light.

"Is this where you talk about ads?"

Eduardo swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "This would be where I talk about having a plan."

A casual swipe of pink tongue over his bottom lip made it come out more noncommittal than attack and Sean found himself mirroring the relaxed line of Eduardo's back, fake-poise becoming something like real. Which is not the sort of thing Sean particularly aspires to, so he smirked over friendly-like and said,

"I plan to take great enjoyment in our good fortune. And polish off the bottle of Stoli that Dustin's had on his dresser for a week now."

Eduardo had hissed through his teeth, then, and inhaled loudly with patience that seemed well practiced, made for somebody else. "We can skip the talk," he said, "In the spirit of our new camaraderie."

"Marching into battle," Sean had said, tipping his bottle in acknowledgment.

And then Eduardo had tipped his bottle in return and disappeared down the hall, leaving his bag but taking the Corona.

And when he made an appearance at their little shin-dig -- set off tall and luminous against the crowd bunched across cluttered carpet, like a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in a rack of J&B and Seagram's -- well, he didn't turn his back when Sean made his way over from across the room. Not a big deal, really.

The smile was forced but not entirely false, and then Eduardo said something about opportunities and making an effort together, a warm tinge of self-deprecation in his voice.

Sean can't remember, exactly, because he'd mixed a few shots.

Because it's a celebration, so he's celebrating. It's the culmination of some hard fucking work, and he deserves it. It's the moment he'd started to make months before, brain working busily as he looked at the site on that thin, road warrior laptop. He'd felt it cranking under his palms, and they'd felt baked and ready but just a little unsteady, much like they do now.

So Sean, he does some good work on that bottle--keeping his promises. He shows the newest intern how to make a kamikaze without the sweet & sour mix, chugging a few down himself and smacking his lips. Then there's the Poli-Sci major who comes around for movie nights and she has something almost gooey-thick and sharply alcoholic in her cup. He gives it a try.

He runs into Dustin's legs and helps him roll two joints in exchange for a few tokes (he's done more with shakier fingers, practice makes perfect.)

"When you get practice, more practice, you'll be real good at this," he informs Eduardo when he finds him in backyard, out by the pool. "Real good."

"That right?" Eduardo says without turning his head, humoring him.

"It sucks the first time," Sean confesses, watching lights in the water, the little ripples.

Eduardo makes agreeing sounds, probably to shut him the fuck up.

He doesn't look half as pretty in the dim porch-light as Sean knows he is. The shadows are set across his cheekbones all wrong and he has his jacket bundled up too high, hiding that long throat. The perpetual scowl is doing its usual work, skewing the soft curve of his mouth -- Dustin always describes Eduardo, the four of them, as so happy, but Sean can't really picture it, has no frame of reference -- and there's that flash of irritation careening through Sean's chest again.

"It's an expensive number," Eduardo says, finally, after they've watched a spider surf by on a leaf and moved on to the absent stars in California sky. As if it's something he worries about, just a small twinge in empty moments like this, and somehow, inexplicably, he feels Sean might worry too, see what he's seeing out there in the black.

"As long as it's expensive to somebody else," Sean says, sliding a bit over his words, and sees Eduardo shoot him a glance out of the corner of his eye.

"Just to someone not you," Eduardo says with resigned emphasis, as if he's already made his sacrifices.

The twinge above Sean's ribs flickers again, an unwelcome distraction from the comfortable dullness that's been blooming under his skin.

"Do you ever stop trying to protect him?"

"I don't know, how long you planning to stick around?"

"oh, nice."

"I thought so," Eduardo says, not unpleasantly. An inkling of a smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

The last tall shot's started hitting him, stirring up and winding down his blood, mixing with the pot to make his head rush, so Sean can't keep track of what comes next, but there's something about Pets.com, loss leaders, and Adobe's lock on document exchange. He asks about the courses Eduardo has left. He misses the answer when the porch (or Eduardo, probably Eduardo) shifts and light floods that stark profile -- hair a dark glossy smear and cheeks stained almost rust-red from the night breeze, his own drinks, the orange in the bulb.

Thoughts are coming out slippery and tangled, forcing a few back-tracks. But they're a bit like that in his head, so maybe not much is lost in translation.

He's rambling and rambling, pushing a little for something. He feels his lips form, "Bet you're excited to sign tomorrow," and they're twisted up a little, not like a snarl but maybe something equally stupid.

Because some things can't be remade, and he's fucking stupid, and stubborn, and loud (which only bothers him later), and touchy as hell when he gets like this. He knows better than to mix that shit. This is why a line or two is better, with maybe just a beer.

("You need to take it down a notch," Jaime always said, and then Jaime didn't get to say anything because Sean was fired or whatever. Fuck him.)

He doesn't know what he's doing, hasn't gotten drunk like this in-- a while. Not since he had somewhere to be in the morning. The hangover won't be fun, but he'll push through it.

That's what Sean does: he pushes through things.

("Don't be like that," Jamie had said, when Sean had shrugged him off, when Sean asked, had wanted to know how he could--)

He must have been tottering a little on his feet, near the edge, because when an arm thuds into his chest the world starts moving slower. This is one thing I probably cannot push through, Sean thinks, studying the arm with scientific interest until Eduardo pulls it back and asks,

"Will you be alright?"

"I am," says Sean with careful enunciation and absolute conviction, "always fine," and punctuates it with a stab of his finger.

Eduardo studies his face for a strange moment. Maybe too much of that was still too slurred for Eduardo to believe him. Though he should. It's true.

Eduardo's brow is creased lightly and his lips are quirked with attentive bewilderment. There's slight sheen to them, sweat or saliva. Maybe remnants of cheap vodka buried under the sweet-sour of cranberry, but they've been out there for awhile. Sean can see a cup resting on a ratty beach chair someone stuffed at the edge of the lawn, so that could be source.

This preoccupies him for a moment, seems terribly important, and he doesn't catch Eduardo's approach, whatever moments he took to be close enough to Sean's side that he can feel the edge of Eduardo's jacket drag against his thigh.

He rests a hand on Sean's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before stepping away. "I'm going to go find Mark."

"You should stay with me," he hears himself saying like through a vacuum, wrapping his hand around Eduardo's wrist. It feels cool and almost delicate under his booze-sloppy fingers. "You should let me. I dunno."

He doesn't know what he's doing, he still doesn't. "You should, there's a draft in my room. You could look at it."

"Are you asking me to look at your etchings?' Eduardo says, laughter in his eyes but a dawning seriousness creeping over them.

They're intent and more open than Sean's probably are, when even standing upright takes effort.

He can picture it now: Eduardo at ease and lazy, stretched out on a dorm room bed. Catching a beer can and notebook that Dustin tosses over, grinning carelessly when they miss. Eduardo toeing the back of Mark's chair to get his attention.

("Don't pretend that you wouldn't do the same in my place," Jamie had said, flat and utterly unconnected, unconvincing, bored with it, bored with him and his--just bored already. "Don't forget that I know you.")

Sean tugs hard on his wrist, and it's unexpected enough that Eduardo comes tumbling forward. Closer still, close enough to press mouths, so he goes for a taste (just because he feels like it, because it might blot out the thinking, because he can, because that's what he does).

Eduardo's mouth gives softly under his, parting instinctively with a barely audible breath that Sean can feel against his lips as he pulls back. A lingering stickiness makes it cling slightly, resisting the separation, and so it cannot possibly be Sean's fault that he's drawn back.

His pulse skitters as he brushes their lips together, which is probably unhealthy. But Eduardo's mouth is slightly chapped in this addictive added-texture way that makes heat prickle down the back of his neck and up to the rim of his ears. Sean hums a bit against it.

He gets the taste he wanted (sugary-tart gloss over metallic salt and skin) and three or four uncalculated moments. Sean's mind fizzles, tucked safely away under the interest in sensation. Just where he likes it. And then he has the bottom lip lightly between his teeth and Eduardo's yanking back with spooked-wide eyes.

There's a stuttered, "I--I don't think," that Sean hushes.

He silences two more wavering, half-thought protests with a thumb, another rough brush of mouths. Banished to the sticking place with his own questions, overcomplicated and unwanted. (Sean knows unwanted, he--is doing something right now.)

Eduardo startles when Sean fits a palm over the side of his throat but his eyelids lower as Sean strokes his thumb, mirroring its slow downward drag. They stay closed as Sean leans back in, nuzzling his head into a slight tip to the side. A quick lick at the corner of his mouth, just a flick with the tip of Sean's tongue, coaxes Eduardo into opening it, into meeting Sean's tongue in a tentative stroke and circle.

The kiss is eager and clumsy-good. Unbalanced and uncoordinated limbs or no, Sean wants in in in, and he gets it, Eduardo releasing any number of very fine and hopelessly boring things to squeeze up tight against him. It's blood-boiling provocative, the lush wet softness of Eduardo's mouth and the thin sweet skin behind his ear that flushes when Sean sucks and bites at it.

Fingers are scratching into his sides, sweetly pestering.

Unhealthy (check). Unsettling (check). Exciting (check). Always a winning combination.

He's sort of missing the steady comfort of breathing, but then what did breathing ever do for him, really, when you think about it. (Not that Sean's thinking much more than yes good good oh.) It definitely did not make the sound Eduardo makes when Sean works past a jarring knock of their teeth to lick at his tongue, as Sean tugs Eduardo's arms up to wind around his neck and bump their hips together.

Except then the earth is rushing up to meet them, except they don't meet it, which is crazy, because Sean knows everyone.

He figures out that the sharp, blinding slap across his side was water when it flows into his mouth, choking him and slicing beneath his rips to perforate his lungs. This is because even when almost terminally intoxicated, Sean's a fucking survivor.

This is also supported by the fact that he grips onto every piece of Eduardo he can find when hands scramble across his waist, dragging him up and pounding at his back.

"I thought you were going to drown. Or crush your head or something." Eduardo sounds flatteringly alarmed at the idea.

"Now we're going to my room," Sean says sensibly and only a little mush-mouthed, taking in their general water-logged and teeth chattering state. Though as clutching the pool edge with the near-numb pads of his fingers is taking a significant amount of energy at the moment, he decides they might delay that journey an hour. Or two.

The shiver that trickles down Eduardo's body, seizing his muscles, is audible. "Don't try to tell me that was on purpose."

"No," Sean admits, and tugs on the pocket-marked cement, trying to leverage himself up. It doesn't go very well.

He lays his head down on the rounded edge. It's puddled from their splash and cutting through the swimming haze in his brain like a scalpel.

He cracks an eye open to see Eduardo's hazy silhouette propped beside him, eyes locked on Sean with careless focus over the barrier of their splayed arms.

"I'm trying to picture you marching into battle," Eduardo says, voice humor-warm, in response to the wordless query of Sean's raised eyebrow.

Naturally.

"I would be very fearsome," Sean asserts.

"Not in that t-shirt."

"This is a great fucking shirt," Sean says, squirming backwards to peer down at it.

He makes it half-way before Eduardo slides a hand between his shoulder blades and relieves him of the burden. "It says UC Davis Women's Track. And I could see your nipples."

"mm, saucy," Sean observes.

"You're impossible," Eduardo whispers, though they're the only ones out there.

A hand runs over his hair, as if trying to smooth his headache away. It's damp but less chilled than his own skin.

"I could just kiss you here," Eduardo suggests. There's a wondering, slightly hysterical edge to it, as if he can't entirely believe what he's doing. Sean knows exactly how he feels.

He turns into the hand now ghosting over his cheek, feels a slight tremor in the fingers that might be from the cold, maybe, and says, "There's something I need to show you first."

/version iii/

Chris placed the call three weeks ago. It was a good choice, because Sean always tends to be more receptive when it's Chris making the request. With Mark, there's--history. Which maybe makes that a bad choice, for Sean, since he would have rather not made an appearance.

Sean's been at the hotel bar for 45 minutes before Eduardo walks in. It's not a complete surprise, since the depositions are being held next door. Sean would need a drink too. Sean's having some drinks.

Sean spent 45 minutes in a hotel bar with no one but the bartender, well before noon. This is how much Sean does not want to be doing exactly what Eduardo is gearing up to do.

"He helped me out of tight spot once," Sean volunteers when Eduardo catches sight of him and freezes, rabbit-stricken and still, heart pumping. "In his Harvard educated mind, that means I owe him one."

He watches as a grimace twists over Eduardo's face, a dry swallow contracting his throat, and how it spreads deliberately down the length of his body, loosening it. There's maybe ten seconds before Sean receives a cold nod and that lean frame (Armani now, doubtlessly) gestures for the bartender, unwilling to be driven off course.

So he's learned. That's good.

It comes out casual, almost off-hand, when Eduardo glances in his direction. "In my Harvard educated mind, I think you owe me a lot more than that."

"He asked first," Sean says wryly and is pleased to see he's startled Eduardo into a slightly thawed smirk.

No reason this has to get ugly.

A guest hustles in demanding directions to the gym that's supposed to be around the corner, which is faintly hilarious because Sean saw three signs on the way in here and knows it's two floors up. It's a little darkly funny when he's bored and comfortably buzzed, this fucking big shot and his theoretically impeccable sense of direction, so he listens idly as he watches Eduardo sip deep at his bourbon, mouth wet and hair all carved up stiff, like some sort of metaphor for his heart. (Sean knows the feeling, but seriously, you can make broken look good. Look better, even, once the scars form.)

Eduardo's still standing, one arm hooked over the bar, long fingers purposely, overly loose around his glass. He betrays the image of disinterest with a couple subtle, curious glances, so Sean offers, "They don't even know if they'll have me do a testimonial. But that dick partner - you'll know the one - he wanted to cover all the bases and they're paying for expenses, including these fine beverages."

"And you still have--"

"7 percent," Sean admits, shrugging. "Which won't change, no matter what goes down this week." He finishes off his shot, pausing after the burn, and pats the seat beside him. "So sit, I'll buy you a few on Mark Zuckerberg's dime."

There's no giveaway recoil like there once would have been, Eduardo's torso jerking slightly back. Just Eduardo tapping the side of his glass with a thumbnail and stating, coolly,

"I'm not sure an avalanche of nostalgic glow could engineer heartwarming drunken reminiscing out of the time you undermined me over sushi, the time you took over my job after moving into the house I paid for, and that especially memorable occasion when you mocked my pain at being horribly betrayed."

"Yeah," Sean says, tongue running over his teeth. "Cocaine's a hell of a drug."

Eduardo looks at him with those wide, glossy eyes and stern mouth. He's either trying very hard not to laugh or struggling not to slam Sean's head down into counter. Likely both, but he settles on sighing, "At no point will I say ‘no hard feelings.' There are definitely hard feelings."

There's no weakness in it -- moving forward, wanting to be convinced when it's to your fucking benefit, so there's no triumph in Sean's answering nod, not even a stab of private smugness.

They do small talk, the basic industry gossip, some actual investment advice that sounds promising enough for Sean to scribble down a company name on his napkin.

The buzz has unfolded, rich and electric. It's seeped into Sean's muscles, loosening them and the already slack rein he has over his thoughts. When Mr Bigshot pops in again, location acquired but now with complaints about available equipment and demands for recreation alternatives, Sean turns an image over in his head: Eduardo at the gym, maybe on a treadmill, maybe gulping water, letting a bit drizzle down his neck. Stripped down to a worn white undershirt that sticks to his chest and sweat shorts hanging low on his hips. He probably goes to one near the office or his clean, minimalist apartment.

The image is miles away from one before him: High knotted tie and sweating instead in layers of designer fabric, hiding the definition in his arms, his still slender waist. He wears it comfortably, like a second skin that Sean can't help but think of peeling back to taste what's underneath.

He's only human. And those thought-reigns -- as fresh vodka hits his blood stream, they're dissolving at an exponential rate.

Sean rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, thoughtfully, and says, "Corporate crime’s a funny thing."

"Not that first adjective that comes to mind," returns Eduardo mildly, smoothing a hand down his tie.

"I'm thinking--odd. Different from the standard or norm. The additional connotation adopted in, I'd say, early 1800's." Sean drums self-satisfied fingers over the stained wood. "Funny peculiar."

"I think we established that I went to Harvard."

"Yeah, it definitely requires a $90,000 education to crack open a dictionary. You’re very elitist, you know that?"

"I’ve been working on it," Eduardo says dryly. His eyes pan over to the square clockface hung over the entry way but return to Sean with a lazy tolerance. "Fine, why’s it funny?"

"Legal, illegal, the laws are drawn and redrawn all the time. There are a thousand things the majority of America would consider scandalously immoral that no corporate officer will ever be prosecuted for. At least not successfully."

"Astonishing, and so contrary to my personal experience," Eduardo deadpans.

"I assume you’re familiar with Patricia Dunn."

"HP chairwoman."

"That good old Ivy League education."

"The Wall Street Journal," Eduardo corrects.

"If it was CNET, you might know where I’m going with this."

"Where are you going with this?"

They've angled further and further away from the bar as conversation proceeds. By now they're almost fully facing each other, balancing against the counter on their sides rather than their stomachs.

"2006." Sean spreads his hands, introductory-like, into the space between them and gets that little kick of electricity when Eduardo doesn't lean away. "HP's a icon in the technology sector. They've amassed divisions controlling software, financial services, asset management, data storage. Served maybe a billion customers. Net revenue is up 7%. The stage is set." He tips his glass up to catch the last dregs, wet his tongue. "Now, Patricia, she’s a woman after your own heart. Very concerned with long term strategy."

"I like her already."

"Just wait," Sean says, risking a broad wink, to see what he gets. Eduardo’s mouth purses but the lines of his body shift closer, knees falling just slightly more open. "She’s a no-nonsense woman and there’s been some nonsense. Someone on the board has leaked key strategic information to a journalist. Naturally, she’d like to know who that person is and plug the leak."

"Naturally," Eduardo agrees, interest creeping into his gaze. Engaged despite himself.

"You understand, this kind of information, it has to be a leak from the board."

Eduardo nods.

"So she goes to General Counsel--"

"What complicated loyalties they weave," Eduardo says, with dark bemusement.

"-- who has a team of so-called security experts contract some so-called private investigators."

"Who do some private investigating."

"Who do some private investigating," Sean concedes, grin widening. "In the form of tracking down individuals, impersonating useful parties, fraudulently obtaining phone records, call logs, you know--the good stuff."

"I bet that went over well."

"It's uncertain whether any laptops were hurt in the making of this scandal," Sean says, chuckling as Eduardo's nose wrinkles. "But the House Committee on Energy and Commerce was certainly unamused. The California Attorney General brought Dunn and the chief ethics officer up on," he pops the fingers, "four felony charges. Of course, in the end all charges were dismissed." He shrugs, delivering an aimless wave. "Congress passed a law, Records and Privacy something."

He turns to catch the bartender's eye, sliding just slightly between Eduardo's legs, the brush of their knees sparking something hot up his thigh. Sean clears his throat before placing his order and swiveling back into place.

"So what’s the moral of our story?"

Eduardo gives the question all due cynical consideration, thumb twisting a thick masculine ring around his finger. "Most corporate malfeasance towards employees only becomes a crime after the fact, or not at all."

"Maybe, if that’s the sort of thing you lose sleep over at night." Sean’s tone leaves no ambiguity about his opinion on dedicating any amount of time to those worries. "But I’d say," he leans forward (knee running up up up) and takes Eduardo’s glass from between his fingers. Raises it for a sip. "It means I’m not nearly as paranoid as you think I am."

It’s the first time he’s managed to say anything that truly delighted Eduardo. Sean had been expecting another tight smirk, an acknowledging lilt to his head, but instead--Eduardo's eyes gleam. He wears it across his whole face, hunkers his shoulders down into it as he clasps his hands in his lap, and then finishes his drink with relish.

"I’ll give it due consideration," he says, laughter in his voice, and tells a story about the worst places he interviewed at after graduating (the kind where you feel a gritty film slathered over you as the meetings progress, an invisible stink that you can't but want to shower off).

They get into the work Sean's doing now. It's mostly consulting, big picture analysis without having to wait around for execution. He doesn't have to explain the appeal-- getting out while the getting's good, before anyone could even imagine you gone.

They actually talk about Chris, and then more about Dustin, because Sean is honestly curious. He feels a vague slice of ownership. There's a strange brand of affection for those guys who had just as little interest in him when he was useful as when he suddenly, stunningly, wasn't.

Until Eduardo's right elbow slides closer and he asks, idly, "What was your tight spot?", flushing hotly when Sean replies with, "Eduardo Saverin, is that a come on?" and curls his tongue to pull a small ice cube out of his glass to suck on and cool his throat.

"No, I." Eduardo's almost--touchable when disconcerted. It's tempting, on an instinctual level, though Sean's not sure he still likes to see deeper cracks in that armor. Makes him worry about his own.

"Why you're here," Eduardo clarifies.

Sean pries another ice cube out with his fingers and draws a few squiggles on the bar with the condensation. Shifts his shoulders. "Sometimes I just jump into shit, then..." He lets it trail off. It's not like either of them are unfamiliar with his--excesses. In all their various forms. "I felt a little weird, a little fucked up about something I did. So then I went a little overboard on not being fucked up about it, ran into some trouble. Our up and coming CEO and his newborn legal team made it go away."

He laughs at himself, easy to do at a distance and greased with tequila and lime. "It's your fault, really."

"My fault?"

"For existing."

"Oh, well then," says Eduardo sourly, "sorry for the inconvenience."

"Apology accepted," Sean says magnanimously, grinning inwardly when Eduardo huffs and orders a beer.

The beer goes down quick and Sean watches Eduardo's throat work, recalls the strong lines of his back as he'd turned to the door, that last snap in his eyes, three years gone now. Recalls his own shuddering heartbeat, the sudden split-second slice of true fear.

Sean shoots a look at the bartender (turned towards the register) and makes a decision.

He licks his lips, slides his hand onto Eduardo's knee. Sweat pricks across his shoulder blades as he watches that pink mouth part, air rushing in with a hiss. It slides back out as Eduardo says his name, wobbly, bites off a, "what?" when Sean slides the hand up further to smooth a thumb along the inside of Eduardo's thigh, hidden by shadows and the wooden overhang of the bar.

Sean slips his hand higher to rub his thumb lightly over the zipper, murmurs, "Let me blow you in the men's room." He slides his palm over to cup Eduardo's hardening cock and elicit a gasp, squeezes gently to see Eduardo bite his lip deep enough to leave a mark that Sean fully intends to lay his teeth over. "I am absolutely not joking."

"I'm late," Eduardo says shakily, hips making an involuntary hitch. It looks impossibly decadent on him: dropping defenses for greater gain, letting himself split open because he likes the feel of Sean seeping in.

"Good," Sean says, running his tongue slickly over the shell of Eduardo's ear. Receives a shiver. "Make him wait."

He leaves an extra twenty on the counter and lets Eduardo lead their way out to the thin corridor, then a few steps to the right.

The bathroom is as strikingly empty as the bar, emphasizing the hour. Too soon for tourists, too far past seven for the business class. Only a couple smudges mar the wide mirror and the fixtures are polished to a metallic shine. Their shoes click over the tile, Eduardo's skidding and squeaking as Sean reels him into a stall with hands laid tight over his hips.

The door bangs shut behind them, arcing out again from the force of their entry and creaking slowly back. Sean removes a hand to fasten the latch without taking his eyes from Eduardo's face (where they've been since Sean set him firmly up against the black matte wall). Eduardo watches back avidly, pupils adjusting to the light and the suggestive close quarters.

There's a chemical forest-green smell to the air as he runs his palms over Eduardo's thin leather belt and the tops of his hipbones, feeling the fall and rise of his stomach as Sean licks his lips again and this time Eduardo follows the movement, takes an unsteady breath. Loosens his tie a notch.

Then that scent is overlaid with aftershave and the crisp linen of Eduardo's freshly pressed suit as Sean leans in to suck lightly on his earlobe, earning a shudder.

He almost shudders back as Eduardo breathes against his neck and shifts against his body. Sean's still morning drowsy but hungry for the touch of bare skin, arousal continuing its steady wind through him that had started on the bar stool.

He turns his head to nuzzle against Eduardo's cheek (clean-shaven soft), shooting for a slow ramp up. Nice and slow, bringing him up to boiling, since there’s that pesky little fact that Sean hasn’t actually sucked dick before. Not completely from lack of interest, dependent on the situation, but the stars never aligned, and it just so happens that he hasn’t. And then sitting there and looking and thinking that, yeah, he’d like some of that, he really would, and knowing how he might get it: those are not the type of opportunities he walks away from.

So, it’s not that Sean has no faith in his ability to improvise. But he thinks it would be best if Eduardo needs it, sort of desperately achingly bad, before Sean gets his mouth on him. Always nice to have a backup plan.

Locked away in their little metal box, Sean skims his lips across Eduardo's cheekbone and noses him into an open mouthed kiss. An arm curls over his shoulder, the other skimming down to the small of his back, and the solid press of Eduardo's erection rubs along his thigh, nagging sweetly as Eduardo fits himself tighter between Sean's legs and licks into his mouth.

Sean can taste the last bourbon on his tongue, hints of molasses smoke. Eduardo flicks it over the roof of Sean's mouth, nipping at Sean's upper lip when he flinches back at the tickle. It's strangely cute and hot, the unexpected edge of playful to him. Pleased to be there, hard and wanting, and knowing Sean will take care of it -- is taking care of it: nudging Eduardo's chin up to suck wet red marks into his neck that make Eduardo's hips twitch; slithering his belt through the buckle; thumbing open the top button of his slacks and petting the flat shivering skin above it to hear Eduardo gasp and swallow noisily.

The hash sound reverberates across the open space, working with the eager clutch of Eduardo's fingers to send Sean's blood southward at a dizzying pace.

He peels those tailored slacks down Eduardo's hips and lets them plummet to their feet. The clink when the belt hits the floor sends a slight shiver through the stomach muscles under Sean's hand and Eduardo's mouth turns rougher against his, restless and expectant.

When Sean dips the hand lower to stroke the backs of his fingers over the bulge in Eduardo's briefs, hot and solid, Eduardo pushes into it. The inevitable frustrated moan at how little the circling of his hips can increase the friction (Sean's fingers gliding testingly, tauntingly light) does welcome things to Sean's blood pressure.

Everything is just slightly off perfect. There's the thought, of course: how much better it would be without clothes on. If they were somewhere with a firm mattress that Eduardo could lay back on and look up at Sean poised over him. Or Eduardo could climb into his lap, tawny and smooth skinned, panting into his neck as Sean follows the crisp line of hair down his belly to stroke teasingly at his flexing thighs and cock.

But instead Sean has nebulous privacy and standing room only. Which, admittedly, which has its own sort of lizard brain appeal.

So he pulls back to drop a kiss at the corner of Eduardo's jaw and says, fake-innocent, "You want something?"

Eduardo laughs loud enough to echo and like he's a little surprised that he can still be surprised at how many ways Sean can find to be a dick.

"Yeah," he says, voice melting from bemusement into something that Sean would call sultry, except he doesn't call guys sultry, that just doesn't seem like it should fit. Except Eduardo circles his hips again and repeats it, smoothing it over his tongue, and that's what this is: all lurid, jazz-club fantasy, undulating bodies, glinting invitation.

That's--Sean approves of that voice. There is certainly something to it. That and the sleek confidence in the hand that tucks under Sean's chin to pull him back into a kiss, in the fingers folding over his, sliding them up and under Eduardo's waistband.

So, Eduardo's been a little busy. Not crying himself to fucking sleep every night, even if there's a thing or two he wants that he can't have. Only the functional kind of permanent damage.

Because (Sean knows) what you do is: just teach yourself to want new things.

And then take them.

Sean circles his tongue around Eduardo's and sucks lightly, encouragingly, as Eduardo fits their hands over the silken heat of his cock and pumps it. It feels welcoming and fascinatingly warm in his grip (somehow hotter and stiffer than his own cock has ever been felt to the touch, and more--focused than the other times he's dabbled in the past.)

There's something just sincerely fucking sexy about Eduardo's hand wrapped over his, guiding his movements, greedy and insistent.

Sean will even cop to sultry again (and whatever other pinup girl adjective Eduardo feels like embodying), because it's hard not to be generous with Eduardo squirming and jacking himself with Sean's hand and making raw, about-to-get-fucked noises.

"Let’s get you out then," Sean says.

Again, generous.

He reclaims his hand to push the briefs down to pool on the floor with the pants. Eduardo's cock springs out flushed and damp, and Sean runs his palm over it in a friendly pass before tilting his head to mouth at Eduardo's throat as he crowds them back against the stall, coaxing Eduardo’s cock up under his shirt to rub against his stomach. The contact pulls an almost frantic broken noise from them both and Sean threads their hands together and presses them against the cool wall on either side of Eduardo's head as a liquid simmer cooks up under his skin.

He feels the wet, sticky glide of the head of Eduardo’s cock over his abs and he thinks about the weight of it in his mouth, pressing down his tongue as it slides deeper, and that sounds strangely good, it makes his mouth water a little, this phantom ache in his jaw that makes him lick at Eduardo’s tongue a little desperately and clutch their fingers together a little tighter. Like some white-knuckle bone grinding might ease him back a few steps from the edge.

But the flicker of pain makes Eduardo go pliant in his grip, aggression draining out like fine sand through a sieve, still rocking into Sean with achingly slow slides but mouth softened, arms lax, and fingers limp. Which does not reverse the tide of blood pulsing through Sean. Or the maddening rub of his own hard cock against stretched cotton and the inside of his slacks.

He clutches too-tight again, because it feels good (Eduardo’s cock twitching against his skin, that plush mouth tipping sweetly up to his) and Sean likes to feel good. It's as simple as that. It's like rolling a 30 year single malt over your tongue before letting it slide down your throat. Eduardo looks, feels, smells like that: something to be relished, something luxurious and prohibitively expensive that you've purchased anyway, because suddenly you could, because you deserve the very best.

He wonders, with a rush of delicious arrogance, if Eduardo is thinking the same. It's certainly a sentiment he would understand.

He drops to his knees then, letting them land just a little hard, so Eduardo can hear it. Nothing wrong with a bit of stagecraft.

It's hard to remember intent and theatrics, though, when Sean laps at the crease of Eduardo's thigh (taking in the scent of early morning shower on his skin, the sensation of muscles tense and shuddering under his tongue). He turns his head to press his mouth against the hot base of Eduardo's cock, a quick brush, and hears a vicious, "fuck", feels the full-body jolt.

Fingers spindle over his shoulders, digging in with close trimmed nails as Sean traces the underside with short licks of his tongue, no-hands sloppy. When he finally drags it over the cock head, flicking the slit, the hands on his shoulders turn insistent. One curves over the back of his neck, thumb brushing up and down.

"you really have to--" Eduardo breathes, low and rough, and it trickles down like something Sean inhales, like oxygen, spreading out through his lungs and making his head swim.

The hand urges him forward and Sean goes, opens his mouth and slowly slowly inches it over the blunt heat of what suddenly seems like impossibly hard cock. It feels solid and very wide running back over his tongue, and sort of delicate, actually. Hot and thin skinned-- skin that responds to every minute flutter of his tongue, every bit of it that he manages to open deep enough to hold.

But there's this point where the tip bumps against the back of this throat and he swallows, gasps around it, and Eduardo's hips shuffle forward like they can't help it, his fingers scratching at Sean's burning, sweating neck. And that's--hot, so hot, god, the feel of Eduardo like that, the almost growl he makes. But it's too much, Sean can't.

Sean has to pull back to gulp in air and fend off Eduardo's stroking, soothing attempts to haul him up, has to suck hard enough at the head to make him forget and start muttering, "you're so" and "please" again. So he just wraps a hand around the part he can't reach, tries to pump the base at near the same rhythm his mouth makes.

He twists his head and sucks, free hand cupping himself through his pants and digging down hard, harder with the heel of his palm at the quiver in Eduardo's strong legs. And when Eduardo bites out, "I want to make you come next," it's too late, it's been too long, and he is.

Sean comes hard against his palm, whole body shaking with it. The hand he had around Eduardo's cock peels off to clutch blindly at his thigh and Sean's mouth stops working, stills and just shudders around the soft flesh. Eduardo's cock jerks anyway (maybe from the sight of Sean getting off around it, maybe picturing now-defunct plans) and floods Sean's mouth, warm and bitter.

It's easier to swallow than dragging himself back to find somewhere to spit it out, so that's what Sean does. He swallows it down and breathes, removes the hand from Eduardo's thigh so he can rest his cheek there for a minute. Everything's a bit foggy, but he likes the feel of fingers carding through his hair.

"You shouldn't show," Sean says finally, voice muffled from the position. "Don't even call."

"Easy to say with 7%," Eduardo says, but without anger. More rueful, fingers still light and affectionate.

"He's going to settle regardless. Because he has to." Sean leans back and uses Eduardo's now slippery hips as leverage to return to his feet. The corner of his mouth curves into a wicked smile. "Because Patricia Dunn resigned her post 5 months ago."

He straightens the line of his shirt and then reaches over for Eduardo's skewed collar and tie as Eduardo yanks his pants up and refastens his belt.

Something about how Eduardo moves thoughtlessly into his adjustments, simply and without comment, pulls Sean forward like a magnet, pulls him closer instead of moving back so they can regain personal space. "You won't get anything else from him," he says, seriously. Deal closing serious, spoken slow and deliberate. "Not what you're looking for."

"You don't know what I'm looking for," Eduardo says, which is such a blatant lie than Sean ignores it completely to run both hands over Eduardo's arms and lead them up over Sean's shoulders.

He presses a kiss to the corner of Eduardo's mouth and says, lightly, "I think you should come to my place and let me fuck you just how I like it. Then maybe we can see how you like it the second time."

Eduardo studies him intently, fiddling with the seam running around the back of Sean's neck, and then adopts his own over-light tone. "And why would I do that?"

"Cause he wouldn't expect it from you," Sean says, then pauses to kiss him full on the mouth. "Because I fucked a grad student last year who reminded me of you and it was pretty good." This time he pauses longer, adding a push of tongue and cataloging Eduardo's faint gasp. "Because I just gave you fantastic head. Because I can talk you into ditching tomorrow and you've given him enough."

"That's a convincing argument."

"It should be," Sean says. "I've been working on it since you started talking about hard feelings. It gives a man ideas." When Eduardo bites his lip slicing-hard, he probably deserves it.

They stand in silence, Sean shifting a little uncomfortably in his boxers, until Eduardo brushes his mouth over the maimed lip in apology and says, reluctantly,

"I have to at least notify my lawyers."

"Call them from the car. I rented a car."

"Just to send them the bill," Eduardo says, shaking his head.

Sean smirks and swings Eduardo's hands down from his neck, linking their fingers. "It's ridiculous, I'm scared to even drive it."

"Show me this car," Eduardo sighs, lugging him out of the stall to inspect their hopelessly jumbled appearances in the mirror.

The certain dignity that Eduardo retains (insurmountable, maybe, hidden somewhere in the proud arch of his cheeks, the straight line of his spine) is marred by the sizable wet spot in Sean's pants. A speedy retreat seems advisable.

"This way," Sean throws back carelessly over his shoulder, followed by a heavy plastic set of rental keys, and strides out the bathroom door and past a janitor who appears entertainingly scandalized.

And Eduardo, he makes the catch and lets the keys jiggle in his hand.

Leaves his phone in his pocket and follows.