Homestead

Summary: Alex returns home to find many things have changed, but the most important ones have stayed the same.

“It’s…so small.”

“Not every town can be Star City,” Alex shrugged as he stepped onto the platform at the station. Oliver appraised the tiny train station and shook his head.

“You can’t even call it a town. Smallville,” he muttered. “You can’t possibly intend to return here once we walk?” Graduation loomed around the corner, as menacing as it was exciting. Alex would be free, finally. But would he be vulnerable?

“I need to tie up loose ends. I won’t stay long. This town’s never really been home.” He wanted to admit to Olly that nowhere had ever been home after his mother was killed. Alex had no roots.

The world beckoned to him. Alex longed for Paris and Madrid. He craved open seas and open plains and lands where he barely knew the language, and where no one knew him at all.

“When do we eat? Tell me we can at least get decent food.”

“My father’s housekeeper’s decent. But,” he emphasized, holding up a finger to quell Olly’s protests, “we already have plans for supper tonight.” It was just past noon. The sun was still high in the sky, making both of them sweat in their day suits. Alex was grateful for his felt hat that protected his bare scalp from a likely burn.

The boy was now a man. As they strode through the station, several sets of eyes appraised them both, flickering with recognition as they spied Alex.

Lionel’s prodigal son had returned.

Perry stood waiting for them, more stooped and grizzled than Alex remembered. There was no love lost between them, but he straightened up where he leaned against the coach door.

“’Ere, now, let me get your trunks.” He nodded to their carpetbags. “Those’ll fit inside, on the second seat.” Alex nodded his approval.

“I don’t wish to be late in meeting my father. Take the short road home, Perry.” He motioned to Oliver’s belongings. “Don’t let anything happen to that.”

“That trunk’s probably worth more than your father pays him in a month,” Olly muttered under his breath as they climbed inside. Alex twisted his lips, giving him a sour look.

Then he relaxed. What did he hear what Perry heard or not?

Alex was a Luthor. With that name came certain privileges.

“It’s so dusty,” Oliver complained.

“Welcome to country life, my friend.”

“Tell me there’s a return ticket.” Alex chuckled and clouted him fondly. Oliver grinned.

The “short road” was still winding and rough with gravel that crunched beneath the coach’s wheels. Alex was drowsy from the trip and craved a nap. Oliver watched the passing scenery with curious dark eyes.

“Are those the mines?” He pointed to an outcropping of rock that overhung the cave’s entrance. Alex nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “This looks like valuable property.”

“My father bought the mines and the five acres of land surrounding it.”

“Ever been inside?” Alex opened his eyes and stared at him for a long, uneasy moment, then looked away.

“Yes. As a young boy. Before you and I met.”

“What was it like?”

“Dark. Cold.” Alex removed his hat and rubbed his eyes roughly, then slumped forward to stare at the coach floor.

“Alex? What’s wrong? Alex?”

They were alone. The cave’s walls were slick and damp.

Clark was calling out to him piteously.

Green rocks glowed in the gloom, mocking them with their brilliance.

“I want my pa!”

“You saw the stone,” Alex murmured. He set his hat down on the seat beside him and folded his hands. “The green one.”

“I remember now. Yes, I saw it.”

“We found it before my mother was killed. I wanted to give it to her, so she could make another necklace.” They rode past until the caves grew smaller behind them.

“What happened when you found it in the caves, Alex?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because you haven’t looked so pale since the day by the creek. C’mon.” He gave Alex a light shove. “Cheer up. We’re here in this godawful little home town of yours. Tell me there are pretty girls.”

“A few.” He was still shaken; anxiety clawed in his gut. Clark.

He needed to see him with his own eyes. He sighed as Oliver held his hand.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Oll, there’s an introduction I need to make once we get freshened up.”

His father’s house looked the same. The fence was newly white-washed, and his mother’s lace curtains still hung in the front window, lovingly maintained by Mrs. Perry. Alex felt dread and anticipation mingle in his gut. His feet took him from the coach, following that groove that he’d worn from entering that house countless times, trudging home to punishment for his perceived failures.

Alexander Luthor was a man now. But he was still a scared, helpless little boy inside, and he loathed himself for it.

He never broke his pace as his boots thudded over the porch’s wood planks. He turned the knob. The house was already unlocked.

He smelled the whiskey as soon as he crossed the threshold. Oliver hung back slightly, waiting for Perry to bring their trunks, but he looked uneasy at the scowl that darkened Alex’s features.

Lionel materialized in the doorway. His glass rested in his good hand, half-empty. He was impeccably groomed in his brown suit coat and black wool trousers, and his black satin cravat was perfectly knotted at his throat. Gray streaks invaded his dark brown hair, and fine lines webbed the corners of his eyes. Cruel eyes.

“You’ve come home, son.”

“Hello, Father.”

“And you’ve brought company.” Alex turned and waved Oliver forward with a flourish.

“Oliver Queen.” Oliver hesitated a moment, then strode up and offered him his hand. Lionel’s eyes narrowed at the pause, but he took that moment to collect himself and set down his glass. He tucked his mangled hand in his suit pocket and shook Olly’s with the other. Alex watched them expectantly.

“Of the Star City Queens.” Oliver looked surprised, then smiled.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’ve come from fine stock. Alex has told me a lot about you in his letters, when he thinks to send me any communication at all from that school. I assume you’ve learned better etiquette, son.”

“I hope I prove that I have, during my stay here, sir.”

“Ah. Your stay,” Lionel murmured thoughtfully. He assessed them both, and Alex felt disconcerted by the way his eyes lingered too long. Once again, he felt undressed. Lacking. “Alex informed me that you were accompanying him into town, but I wasn’t expecting you to reside with us here at the house.”

“Father, we have plenty of room,” Alex argued.

“We also have a fine boardinghouse three blocks from the store,” Lionel informed him crisply.

“Really, Alex, it’s no problem at all.”

“It’s no inconvenience for you to stay here.” Alex straightened, seeming to preen and strut with the gesture, waiting for Lionel to close his teeth over his nose. “Oliver can stay in my room.”

Lionel sighed, then shook his head.

“That’s fine. Alice can prepare the room for your stay, then. Perry,” Lionel beckoned. “Bring the chaise upstairs, to Alexander’s room. Young Mr. Queen will be staying with us tonight.”

Alex read his father’s mind as they continued to stare each other down. With a houseguest in his room, he wasn’t such easy prey.


*

“Here he comes.”

“Don’t look! He’ll see you.”

“You told me to look for him!” Chloe hissed impatiently. They watched from the end of the block as a tall, dark-haired boy ambled out from the Luthors’ mercantile, carrying a heavy bolt of blue fabric and a sack of groceries, seemingly without effort.

“Well, don’t look like we’re watching him,” Lana argued impatiently. She fiddled with the ruffled cuff of her dress and stopped herself from biting her fingernail.

“It’s just Clark,” Chloe reasoned. “Look, he’s turning around, just wave. C’mon, Lana!” She waved broadly, grinning at him. “Hello, Clark!” she sang. Lana turned beet red.

“Chloe!” she hissed. “Quit it!”

“Whitney’s not here. Go ahead and talk to him.” Chloe liked nothing better than to get her goat. Lana made it so easy.

“I can’t. What if he thinks I’m too forward?”

“All you’re going to do is ask him a simple question. ‘Clark, are you going to the Smallville dinner social on Saturday?’” Chloe pantomimed, successfully parroting Lana’s voice and inflections. Lana snorted.

“Stop it, Chloe.”

“Whitney wants to take you.”

“Whitney wants to meet me,” Lana corrected her. “I’m not spoken for, so it would be unseemly if I made it look that way.”

“He watches you every time you enter a room. He wants to sit with you and walk you to school. My guess is, he’s fond of you,” Chloe said softly.

“He’s nice,” Lana allowed.

“To you,” Chloe argued. “He snuck a cricket into my lunch pail once.” The sight had startled her so much that she leapt backward off the stump she was sitting on and landed in the dirt. Chloe bit her tongue as she landed and vowed silent vengeance on Whitney and his cronies.

Her chief weapon was her often venomous tongue.

“Make him wonder,” Chloe declared. “Clark actually IS nice. For a farm boy.”

“I know.”

“So why not talk to him?”

“Just…because.”

“Because why?” A familiar baritone, surprisingly deep for a boy not yet in his mid-teens made both girls freeze. Lana felt a hot rash of tingles spread over her skin as she whipped around to face Clark, now emptyhanded. His father was checking their horse, Biscuit’s shoe while his son ambled over for a quick hello.

“Oh! Hello, Clark.”

“Hello, Clarkie!” Chloe mocked, crossing her eyes at him and making a face. Making it even worse for Lana was watching Clark mimic the expression himself. She attempted to cover her face, pulling one of her carefully styled curls over her lips.

“Goose,” he accused, reaching out to pinch Chloe’s arm. She pinched back, and the two of them engaged in a slap-and-tag match around Lana until she scolded them to stop. Lana deplored having the attention taken away from her, even by her bosom friend.

Lana and Chloe were frequently inseparable, save for Whitney’s attentions that invariably drove Chloe away. As young girls, they were the bane of Clark and Pete’s existence, to be teased and avoided at all costs. They were inadequate baseball players. Their giggling and whispering was incessant and annoying. They played with dolls and carried around fancy name cards and skipped around holding hands.

That was then.

Play dresses with aprons and pinafores gave way to snug basques, corsets and sweeping skirts. Neither girl wore pigtails anymore. Chloe’s hair was now a darker honey blonde, and her freckles were less prominent. Lana’s hair was still a flowing, gleaming sable fall that her mother occasionally arranged into perfectly curled ropes down her back.

They bore all of the outer trappings of women, but they still giggled and whispered. With dignity, of course. Clark was a favored target.

“Candy?” Lana offered, reaching into her pocket and producing a tiny burlap bag. Chloe peered inside it and crowed.

“Horehound!”

“Too many sweets make you fat.” Chloe fixed him with a glare before selecting a piece of the brown sweets.

“Maybe you need one to keep you quiet.”

“Chloe!” His protest was cut off by her quick jab with the candy, shoving it in his mouth and garbling his speech. He made a face and plucked it back out of his mouth, scowling at her.

“I don’t even like horehound!”

“Too bad. You have to eat it now,” she sang as she treated herself to a fresh piece. Lana rolled her eyes.

“CLARK!” Jonathan waved him over impatiently. Clark glared again at Chloe as she sucked on the tidbit while she held it between finger and thumb.

“Gotta go,” he tossed over his shoulder. Chloe’s voice stopped him as he was midway across the street.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Helping Pa. And we’ve got company tonight. Lex is back!” His smile was rapt. Lana sighed gustily.

“Ugh.”

“Tell him we’re honored that he could find the time to grace us peasants with his presence.”

“I will!” Clark promised as he turned on his heel and left. He just seated himself beside his father before donning his felt hat and riding off in their wagon.

“What does he see in him as a friend?”

“Dunno,” Chloe shrugged as Lana dipped into the candy bag.

“Sure was excited.”

“You didn’t ask him.”

“It wasn’t the right time,” she sniffed. Chloe sighed.

Whitney’s arrival mere moments later seemed to confirm Chloe’s assumption. She made her excuses, then quickly made herself scarce.


*

“I wasn’t expecting this. It’s beautiful,” Oliver admitted as he accompanied Alex down the path toward the Kent farmhouse. Jonathan owned five acres of land, complete with a tidy paddock of cows, a tiny henhouse and a proud, large red barn that was Clark’s refuge from the rest of the world. Alex heard Biscuit nickering from the stable as they approached. Clark’s now geriatric dog, Shelby, wagged his russet tail and barked a greeting. She trotted up slowly, whining in her throat for attention. Alex knelt and beckoned to her.

“C’mere, girl.” He gave her a thorough rub, ruffling her floppy ears. She responded in kind by licking his nose. Oliver grinned as Alex sputtered and made a face.

“Still popular with the ladies.”

“Just this lady,” he corrected him. “I don’t even have to play her a song.” He rose and snapped his fingers. She followed him, eventually padding along by his side.

The air was still arid and warm, even though the sun was somewhat lower in the sky. Alex watched the shifting clouds with a hint of foreboding. Oliver felt it, too.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was gonna storm.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Oll.” Alex still loathed thunderstorms.

They made him feel weak. Insignificant.

“You love trouble.” His voice suggested intimacy and dark nights, hands held and whispered words. Their relationship was vaguer than ever.

Oliver was his best friend, and at times, his worst enemy. His frustration peaked and bloomed whenever Dinah Lance and her chatty friends showed up in the school’s study with their mothers or chaperones; he watched jealously as she flirted with Oliver under the guise of polite talk.

He knew his feelings for him were wrong, in some way. A man didn’t fall in love with a man that way.

A man fell in love with a woman like Clark’s ma, Martha. A woman who was warm and sweet and caring, with soft eyes and a gentle smile. Or a woman like his own mo-

No. He couldn’t think about his mother today. His eyes would give him away to Clark, that he was still broken.

He’d never quite given up the idea of Clark putting him on a pedestal, and he didn’t want him to stop. And that was that.

The thought made him straighten up proudly and made his strides more brisk.

“Look sharp.” They were mere yards from the door to the farmhouse when they heard a sharp whistle.

“Shelby! Here, girl,” Clark cried from the barn.

“Is that his father?”

“No,” Alex replied. The voice was wrong; same inflections as Jonathan’s, but a different pitch. Just as deep, but smooth and youthful.

Shelby wagged her tail and barked, breaking free from Alex’s side. Clark came barreling out of the barn, beaming as he brandished a ball. She was all over herself to jump and lick his face until he drew up short.

Alex. Joy filled him. Time seemed to stand still as they drank in the sight of each other across the field.

Alex felt his smile crack his face. In that moment, Oliver saw “Alex the boy” again, only far removed from the melancholy loner he’d been when they first met.

This wasn’t Clark. It couldn’t be.

He’d only seen him twice over those hard few years since he’d left. Alex expected rosy cheeks and knobby knees and the same unaffected way Clark tended to duck his head when he was embarrassed. He loved teasing him to elicit that look.

Clark strode toward him with purpose. “Alex,” he boomed as he chucked the ball aside. Shelby scrambled for it and scooped it up in her mouth, anxious to get his attention.

Clark had never been patient about anything. And definitely not now.

The long, even strides gave way to a run. Oliver tripped out of the way as he nearly collided with both men.

“CLARK! – OOOooof!!”

“Lex,” Clark whispered into his collar. “You came.”

Clark’s arms gripped him against his hard, broad frame so firmly that he grew dizzy. The world seemed to spin. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t experiencing this moment, because nothing in Alex’s life was ever real that could feel this good.

His hands weren’t clapping Clark’s back in greeting. That wasn’t the scent of Martha Kent’s homemade soap mingled with fresh air and sweat tickling his nostrils, or the warm fragrance of Clark’s dark hair. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t Clark, chuckling in a deep, resonant voice that gave him pleasant shivers.

“I need to breathe, Clark,” he reminded him hoarsely. His muscles held barely restrained power. Alex credited Clark’s time spent working on the farm…

His memory flashed back to the crunch of the coach’s metal frame and his mother’s screams.

Not a hair was harmed on Clark’s head.

“Clark,” he huffed, pushing himself from the embrace abruptly. Clark looked immediately contrite. He straightened up to his full height as he finally noticed Oliver, easily looking him in the eye. And he wasn’t even finished growing yet.

“You must be Olly,” he suggested, extending his long, broad hand. They were tanned but smooth; his blunt nails were slightly dirty, something he noticed belatedly, but there was no help for it. Oliver smirked as though, he, too, noticed.

“Oliver Queen,” he corrected him. His dark eyes were haughty and sharp.

Clark hated him immediately. His smile was less eager as he shook his hand, subtly loosening his grip.

He’d learned to watch his own strength. Pa instilled it in him early. Slow, steady and easy. No one can know, son. No one. He cried until his cheeks were red and chapped when he’d accidentally squeezed a chick to death while he helped Ma feed the hens.

This meeting felt just as tenuous. Some of Clark’s joy fled him as he realized that he’d still need a light touch, but for different reasons.

“Look at you. You’ve grown a mile.” It was the kind of thing an uncle or aunt would have told a little boy. Unwanted heat rose up in Clark’s cheeks. Alex was smiling at him, though, rubbing his bare nape. Blue gray eyes held mischief. “How’s Lana?”

“Still running around with Chloe,” he shrugged.

“You’re smitten with her. Admit it.”

“Uh-uh! Lex!” Indignance leapt jolted through him. Oliver threw back his blond head and laughed.

“A ladies’ man, eh?”

“Our Clark’s too humble to admit it,” Alex explained, clapping Clark on the back. “You promised me one of your mother’s fine dinners.”

“Beef stew.” He almost added “your favorite.”

“Oll, you haven’t lived,” Alex promised. The two of them walked slightly ahead of Clark, missing the hurt look in his eyes. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow, he’d been shut out.

Martha was just removing a pan of biscuits from the oven when Alex peered around the edge of the doorframe and murmured “Could we prevail upon your hospitality, Mrs. Kent?”

“Alexander!” Martha cried, nearly dropping the skillet. She set it down hastily, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried to tug him inside the kitchen. She hugged him no less effusively than Clark had, drawing back slightly to lay her palm against his cheek. “You’ve become quite the young man.” He glowed beneath her clucks of praise and her minute tug at the lap of his suit as she dusted off the fine wool.

“Hang up your coat, son. You must be roasting,” Jonathan boomed as he strode in through the back door. He nodded to Oliver. “Mind introducing us?”

“His name’s Oliver,” Clark told him. “Oliver Queen.”

“He’s my roommate at school.”

“I’ve put up with him for seven years, listening to him snore and talk in his sleep.” Oliver shook Jonathan’s hand. Clark’s father’s smile was level and smooth.

“Make yourselves at home. Clark, wash up.” Dismissed again. Clark fumed all the way to the basin.

Martha watched her guests occasionally through dinner as Alex regaled him of his months away from Smallville.

“…and then Oliver turned green the first time we had snails in Paris. Escargot,” he explained.

“Alex was merciless. Hasn’t let me live it down yet.”

“You won’t have to worry about that here, son. Martha didn’t include anything crawling in the food.”

Clark smiled weakly over his father’s joke. Martha watched him carefully.

His eyes followed Alex’s movements and riveted themselves on his face every time he spoke. Then he looked crestfallen whenever Oliver interjected anything or steered the talk toward himself. Odd…

She wanted to mark it up to the age difference. True, Clark was well out of his childhood, but not yet an independent young man.

He talked about Alex incessantly. Whenever they were together, she witnessed a bond between them that she could only call hero worship. Clark tagged along with him like a puppy.

Clark was already breaking hearts, in his own right, but strangely…

Martha uncomfortably excused herself from the table to bring them a pitcher of milk. As she returned, she mutely laid her hand on Clark’s shoulder and squeezed.

“How long do you plan to stay in town?”

“Four days, sir. We’ve exams when we get back.”

“Be prepared.”

“Yessir.”

“We still plan to lollygag a bit, while we’re here. Alex promised to show me the mines.” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth settled into a scowl.

“Alex found out the hard way that it isn’t a good idea to play and be careless in those mines.”

“We aren’t gonna play. I just want a tour.” Alex was disconcerted, toying with the last lump of potato on his plate.

“I want to go, too.”

“No, Clark.” Jonathan’s refusal was low but final. Clark fumed; the humiliation was fresh and sharp.

“I wanna do something with Alex and Olly!”

“Let them invite you, sweetheart,” Martha reminded him. “Be polite, Clark.” He gnawed the inner corner of his lip and exhaled a noisy sigh.

To Alex, he looked for a moment like the same beautiful, petulant child who talked him into riding a horse.

“Of course you’re invited, Clark.” His eyes and tone were soft.

“That’s all right, Alex. Clark can spend time with you somewhere else. Just not the mines.” Clark looked ready to storm off.

They took their leave. Clark removed himself and sulked in the stable with Biscuit. Alex felt unsettled at Clark’s terse goodbye, but Oliver encouraged him into the coach once they made their thanks to the Kents.

“I’m ready to fall into bed.”

“So am I.” Their ride home was charged and silent. Alex lost track of time at Martha’s table; it was well after dark.

When they entered the darkened house, Alex noticed the absence of whiskey fumes and gave silent thanks.

“Has your father gone to bed?”

“No. He’s gone out.” That was certainly his reason for staying sober long enough to leave. The knot in Alex’s stomach finally began to loosen. Oliver’s footsteps were close behind him as they ascended the stairs.

When they reached the guest suite, Oliver’s things were nowhere to be found.

“Damn you, Father,” Alex hissed.

“Please don’t tell me my best coat’s missing, Alex!” Olly’s tone was anxious. Alex stiffly led them down the hallway toward his father’s quarters. He peered inside.

It was dark. There was no recent scent of kerosene from a lantern to indicate he’d been there recently.

“Come on.”

Oliver was brimming with questions as they doubled back to the opposite end of the hallway, toward a second set of recessed stairs.

“My room.”

“Fair enough.” Oliver hoped it wasn’t cramped, and felt grateful that he wouldn’t have to room alone in the dark, imposing house.

Alex’s room felt like him. His wardrobe was neat as a pin. A solitary photograph of his mother peered out serenely from a silver frame on the cherry bureau. The bookcase was full of leather-bound texts from authors Oliver wasn’t entirely familiar with; Alex was a voracious reader.

Without preamble, Alex turned his back to Olly and began to take off his clothes. He laid his jacket over the chair with a sigh and hung his hat from a peg.

“Are you all right?” Olly murmured.

“I can’t explain it, Oll,” he told him, “but no. I’m not.”

“Interesting family,” Olly sniffed.

“They’re very dear to me.”

“Especially Clark,” he mused. Alex stiffened, then unfastened his trousers. His toes were already screaming in relief, free from the confines of his gleaming leather boots.

“He was my friend from the moment we met, whether I wanted him to be or not.”

“Sure,” he agreed easily. He watched Alex disrobe with hungry, dark eyes.

“There’s your bag, Oll. Grab your nightshirt.” Alex nodded to the once-missing satchel behind the door. Alex worked on the buttons of his shirt, one by one, stewing in his troubled thoughts. He stared down at his own hands, and was startled when he felt Oliver still them.

“Alex.”

His grip was warm, firm and familiar. “Look at me, Alex.”

“Olly…” His mouth went dry.

His body tingled and every nerve was alert and craving…something.

Oliver.

He wanted Oliver.

He felt him, barely inches between them. He pried Alex’s hands away from the shirt buttons, and Alex shivered as his hand edged inside his shirt, slowly sliding over his chest. His heart pounded beneath his fingers; Oliver was transfixed by the working of Alex’s throat, watching his Adam’s apple bounce. His breathing quickened, and he closed his eyes against the smoldering, pleading look on Oliver’s face.

“I don’t need it.”

“Olly.” Alex’s voice was ragged, even desperate. He didn’t shrink back as Oliver’s warm, thick palm skimmed over him in a rough caress. It wasn’t the awkward touch he remembered from the day at the creek. That had been sweet. Guileless and untried.

Oliver knew what he was doing to him. His eyes dilated and he felt his hot breathing steam out from his nostrils as he roamed over Alex’s taut chest. Alex shivered, but from heat, not any chill from the room, and he felt a tightening between his legs that was almost painful.

There had been other moments during other nights, but none of them felt so raw, or so primal. He couldn’t resist the siren call of Oliver’s touch or his low rumble of need as his lips feathered the corner of his mouth.

“Come to bed, Alex.”

“Let me fix you a space to sleep, or call Mrs. Per-“

“I want to lie down with you. In that bed. Don’t tell me no.” Alex’s hands were fisted at his sides, aching to grab him and crush him against his body.

“I don’t know if this is right.” The words burned in his mind. I want you. I need you, Oliver. Visions of his father’s face looming over him, eyes glazed and mocking, made him jerk from his reverie and away from his roommate.

“Alex!”

“Promise me,” Alex said. Pain etched itself across his features. He looked vulnerable and lost. “Promise me, Oll, if I tell you we have to stop…then we stop.”

“Alex, don’t be ridiculous, of course we-“

“I mean it. I mean it from the bottom of my soul, Olly. I’ve told you about what happened. Here, in this room. It’s…hard to…I don’t know how to tell you how this room…” Oliver watched the flood gates give way as every emotion from those nights washed over Alex. He turned his back on him and tugged his shirt around himself again. In the dim light from the oil lamp, Alex’s fair skin seemed to glow with a golden light; Oliver watched him transfixed. The smoothness of his bald head in that light made him appear to wear a halo. What he showed him of his profile from that angle as he looked back was troubled, but beautiful. That was Alex. A lifetime of hell behind him, but he still held so much grace that the angels watching over him must have sighed.

“I promise you,” Olly murmured, “that I will never, ever hurt you, Alex. I won’t touch you in any other way than how you wish to be touched. But I’ll want to hold you. I’ll want to lay with you. And I want you to touch me so badly, Alex. So badly.”

Their friendship walked that narrow, precarious line. This could bring them closer, or tear them apart.

“Olly.” Alex licked his lips. “I want to be with you.”

Oliver approached him and Alex felt his fingertips graze his back through the thin shirt. His face tensed and he closed his eyes, willing him to continue.

He felt the faint press of Olly’s chest against his shoulder blades, bumping him slightly as he reached for his wrist. He lifted it and worked open the small button on the cuff. He released him and selected the other; his fingers felt warm against Alex’s pulse. They grazed his skin as he gingerly tugged at his shirt, peeling it down his shoulders, baring him. He traced the sprinkle of freckles he had, and tingling sensations tumbled into Alex’s gut. His breath hitched, and he heard his shirt drop to the floor and felt Oliver’s breath mist over his skin. His arm was caressed from the crest of his shoulder to the knob of his elbow, painstakingly slow. Oliver gradually kneaded him, sculpting Alex’s muscles with his hands.

“Oll…I don’t know if I can do this right.”

“Neither do I.” His voice was sheepish. Humor gripped Alex, and he laughed. Oliver joined him on a low guffaw, and his hands crept around his waist. Alex felt him smile against his nape. Arousal replaced amusement as Oliver’s lips tasted him. His abdomen twitched beneath Olly’s hands, and his manhood enviously throbbed with want.

His hands drifted to Alex’s waist, gripping him as his tongue darted out to taste him; he lapped up his salty flavors at his throat, giving in to the almost pagan urge. He couldn’t have known it would excite Alex, but it gave Oliver much pleasure, being this intimate with him in the quiet bedroom.

Outside, a wind kicked up, whistling through the trees. Oliver’s prediction had some true. Alex smelled rain in the air, its fragrance blowing inside from the hall window that Mrs. Perry left slightly cracked.

The hesitant kisses grew firmer, hungrier against Alex’s flesh, and his pelvis bucked in response. Oliver’s shirt was open slightly; the buttons dug into his back. Alex turned by slow increments to face him, still doubting that what they were doing was real until he looked into Oliver’s eyes. Oliver’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to Alex’s cheek.

Alex nodded his permission, and Oliver leaned over and met him halfway. Alex’s lips were gently pursed for the kiss, but Oliver’s were slack and hot to better taste him. It was awkward until both of them grew more comfortable, more confident, bodies straining toward each other. Alex felt need more keenly, restless at the sensations coursing through him. Everywhere his roommate touched burned.

They paused, shucking pants and breeches, finally daring not to avert their eyes from each other’s nudity out of long habit.

“Don’t be shy, Alex.” Olly’s grin was lopsided as he tugged on Alex’s hand. Alex’s feet lurched him forward, afraid yet eager. He stumbled against him and groaned at the feel of Olly’s hot skin pressed fully against his. The momentum made them bump against the bed; Oliver let it carry them down, landing on the soft quilt.

They followed each other’s cues and low sounds of want, content at first to stroke each other. Alex tensed up and gasped in shock as Oliver reached down for him, barely enclosing his manhood in a loose fist. His arousal waned and he scrambled back up toward the pillow. His blue-gray eyes were frantic.

“Easy, Alex! I’m sorry…”

“I’m trying. I want…I want this, I just don’t…I don’t know how.” Oliver watched him patiently, but felt restless for more of his touch. He pacified himself by arranging a pillow more comfortably so he could prop himself up, staring down into Alex’s face. His features were still tight and closed. Olly sighed.

“Show me, then.”

“What?”

“Show me how you want it.” He palmed Alex’s cheek fondly, then poked him in the armpit. Alex yelped, scowling at him.

“Not like that…”

“Okay. Not like that,” he agreed, grinning at him until Alex began to smile back. “C’mon. Don’t just lay there. Do something.”

“Who’s going to just lie here?” There was a hint of challenge in his voice. Alex let his eyes roam over Oliver’s body and felt himself grow stiff. Oliver was in similar straits; his erection bobbed thick and a deep rosy pink. He watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed, and there was a nervous tick in his jaw under Alex’s careful scrutiny.

“Alex…”

“Do you think of me?” Alex brushed Oliver’s chest, exploring the texture of the sparse, sandy brown hair on his chest. Olly shivered. Slowly they shifted on the bed again, Oliver gently lying back and Alex hovering over him, relaxing against him as he gave him a probing kiss. His fingers roamed over him uncertainly but Oliver still felt excitement and anticipation twisting in his stomach. His skin and abdomen twitched and jumped as Alex found his nipple, flicking it with his fingertip. “Do you think of me when you…” His eyes flicked over him, and he nodded toward Oliver’s throbbing sex.

“Yeah. I do. Lots.”

Alex traced his fingers over Oliver’s muscles and gradually flattened his palm against him, kneading him and rubbing his thumb over the edge of dark hair below his belly. Nervous excitement raced through Oliver’s stomach at his furtive touch. His penis slowly jerked and bobbed toward Alex’s hand, stiffening and growing. His flesh was a deep pink and felt smooth and silky as Alex tentatively ran his hand over it. He pulled away a moment until Oliver took his hand.

“It’s all right.” He cleared his throat and Alex saw raw need in his face. “It feels good. Please do it again.” He guided him back to his throbbing sex and coaxed him to wrap his hand around the warm shaft. Their hands linked and moved together to stroke him until Olly released him. A low cry escaped him as Alex resumed the task himself, gently molding him, tugging on him. He hardened further within his grip, and Oliver’s breath sped up. Above him, Alex’s eyes were dark with wonder and concern.

“I want it to be right.” Alex was ever the perfectionist.

“Damn it, Alex, just don’t stop!” he hissed. Oliver threw his head back and his face was taut with strain as Alex continued to tug on him and pump him. Alex’s pupils dilated, nearly turning his gray-blue eyes black, and his face descended to claim Oliver’s mouth.

They shifted and rolled, melding their flesh as they groped and kneaded and stroked and lapped at each other. Alex made the inadvertent discovery as Oliver lay atop him that even the most gentle thrust of Olly’s hips brought them into tingling contact, pressing their stiffened flesh together and creating luscious friction. Oliver gazed down at him with the movement, then thrust back, belly to belly, cock to cock. Pressure built within Alex and he throbbed for Oliver, pulsing, rising, pushing against him, and it was oh, soooo goooooooood…

He came in spurts, draining his seed and painting Oliver’s belly. He arched and jerked, staring into Oliver’s wide eyes, beseeching him…either to explain what happened or to continue, Olly didn’t know.

“Alex…?” He clung to Oliver as his climax rose and swept through him, making his toes curl. Oliver rode the rocking sensation of Alex’s body as he gripped him.

“Olly? Olly!” He licked dry lips, and his voice was trembling. Oliver was absently stroking his fingers through the stickiness coating his stomach and huffed. A smile spread across his face that Alex didn’t expect.

“You look funny.” Alex was flummoxed.

“Olly!”

“It’s just…your face.” He playfully bumped Alex’s nose with his, ignoring his scowl. “You looked so surprised.”

He pushed himself against Alex again experimentally; Alex was still overstimulated and clutched his hips to make him stop.

“Too much! Too much.”

“I’m hurting, Alex. I feel like I’m about to burst…oh, God!” Alex rolled him off for a moment and reached down to sheathe Oliver in his fist.

Olly coaxed him once again and guided his hand, and his erection was back in full bloom, swollen and tender. Alex tightened his hold on him and pulled, milking him.

“I want it to be right,” Alex repeated once more as he jerked him off. Drops of pearly fluid leaked from the slit in the plump head of Oliver’s cock as he pumped him. He hated to fumble, and he knew his efforts were rough and untried.

“Faster,” Olly gasped. “Harder. Ah, God, Alex! Please!” His legs were sprawled and jerking as he clutched the covers. Alex was undoing him, and it felt so fierce and so good that he lost himself in it. Alex was thrown off his pace a few times, and his wrist grew limp, but he carried on. Oliver’s groans and cries of pleasure wouldn’t let him stop.

He erupted in a hot, sticky torrent over Alex’s fist. His climax hit him hard and long, tearing hoarse cries from his throat. Alex stared down at him with a hint of fear.

“Olly…?”

“Oh, God, Alex…oh, God. Oh, God, Alex.” Oliver gasped for breath, panting and euphoric.

“Don’t swear, Olly,” Alex huffed. Oliver’s eyes snapped open from their half-lidded state and he nearly choked. A crack of laughter escaped his mouth, and he swatted Alex upside the back of his bald head.

“Bastard.” Alex sighed, and his smile was thoughtful. He sprawled next to Oliver and felt keenly satisfied when he drew him close. Their feet twined together and stomachs bumped as they settled beneath the coverlet.


Downstairs, Lionel filled his cherry pipe with tobacco while he listened to the soft chatter between his son and guest.

“You forget yourself, Alexander,” he murmured into the darkness. The match’s flame illuminated his sardonic, weathered face as he lit the pipe and drew pungent clouds of smoke into his lungs.

Now, he had a bargaining chip.