Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1.

By the time Jeff is six-years-old, he has apathy down to a fine art. 

But really, expecting him to not react in this situation is too much. This, this right here, is one of the many (so, so many) reasons that his powers are easily the worst thing to ever happen to him. 

Due to his powers, Jeff has had his fair share of headaches. His visions often leave him feeling a little like his skull got cracked open with lead pipe. Sometimes, when he’d had to have them over and over and over, it had felt like his brain was being scooped out with a spoon (with sharp edges, coated in acid), chunk by tiny chunk. 

Still, Jeff doesn’t think he’s ever experienced a headache quite like Alan. 

Ever since he, like the incredible brother he is, started working at this godforsaken garage, Alan has been making his life… Well, ‘a living hell’ was too strong a phrase, since Jeff was intimately familiar with what seemingly-never-ending-torment felt like. But still, it’s close. 

But this is the Final Straw. 

Jeff blames himself for taking an interest, for even deigning to note the man’s frustration as he lifted the car's hood and clacked the lamp onto its hook dramatically. His movements practically screamed I’m Grumpy And I Want You to Know.  

Alan is honestly so easy to read that being around him feels slightly exhausting. Like a constant onslaught of emotions. Jeff is far too used to having to seek out secret, whispered feelings in small movements and shifts of expression that Alan’s open existence feels like being barrier at a heavy metal show. 

“What are you doing?” Jeff asks as he steps out from the kitchen area, ramen in hand. Just because Alan is annoyed, doesn’t mean he should be messing with the engine that Jeff spent all day tuning to perfection. 

“Hey, Noo.” 

And there it is again, that annoyingly-cutesy little pronoun. Little Mouse. As if Jeff couldn’t easily pin Alan in five seconds flat. The man might have muscles, but Jeff has his own. And, unlike Alan, he was actually trained in how to best use them. 

“In the past, I overhauled this machine myself, you know?” 

Jeff doesn’t sigh. He’s not the kind of person that sighs. 

He huffs, shaking his head slightly as he says, “If you’re feeling stressed, find something else to do.” Jeff has always found value in getting straight to the point. “Don’t come do my job.” 

Alan looks instantly sheepish. He’s like a mournful puppy, shifting his weight when he asks, “You can tell?” 

Jeff doesn’t answer, lifting another forkful of noodles to his mouth and waiting for Alan's inevitable explanation. 

“I should find some time to meet with big investors,” he begins. “To get some money to back up our team. Then our racers wouldn’t have to stress like this.” 

Our team. Jeff tries hard not to think about that word and his association with it. 

Jeff’s reply comes quickly. As aforementioned, he’s to the point. 

“If you do that, won’t it inhibit you and the team’s freedom?” he reasons. “You’ll have to be more restrained about showing off and have to advertise things, likely not even relating to racing.” 

“I really can’t stand that,” Alan admitted, still unconvinced. “But maybe it would benefit them all in the long run. If the team had someone behind them who was willing to give their all to support them, it would be better.” He hesitates for a moment, before adding, “Like Babe if he goes back to live with his family.” 

Jeff does his best not to sound too bitter when he says, “Family is not everyone’s safe zone.” 

Alan looks a little crestfallen at that. Jeff envies him his ignorance, just a little. He guesses that Alan has or had loving parents, ones that hugged him and told him stories at bedtime, that kissed his forehead and excitedly took pictures of him on his first day at school. 

Jeff figures they should get back to the point at hand. 

“If what you were doing wasn’t good enough–” The ‘if you weren’t good enough’ goes unsaid. “–No racer would stay with you until now.”

If it looks like Jeff is avoiding eye-contact as he speaks, then it’s entirely unintentional. He looks into his ramen as he swirls his fork, lifting his next mouthful before he glances up in time to catch a small, soft smile glint to life on Alan’s face like the first sputtering spark of a firework. 

Alan steps forward and oh no, oh fuck, not again–

“You’re good at consoling others, Noo,” Alan says, chuckling. His hand raises to pat the back of Jeff’s head and he leans out of the way as far as he can without looking too dramatic about it. 

Shaking off the touch, he argues, “What consolation?” Then, as a distraction, he complains, “And how many times have I told you that my name is Jeff, not Noo.” 

“Aow,” Alan says, voice pitched a little low and the tone is almost flirtatious. Jeff wonders if Alan even knows that he’s doing it. 

There’s a beat. During which Alan looks him up and down appraisingly. Jeff wants to crawl into a hole and die. He wishes he never came over here in the first place. But since he wasn't instead blessed with the power of time travel, he decides that leaving now is the next best thing. 

Unfortunately, since the universe hates him, Alan takes that moment to reach out and grip Jeff’s arm and Jeff, stupidly, moronically, borderline insanely, looks up on instinct and makes eye-contact with the man. 

He freezes. 

Sometimes, they’re just a flash, a blur of colour and movement that takes time to properly interpret. Other times, like this, they’re more… detailed. 

The scene in front of him melts away, but Alan’s face remains. 

His lips are no longer slightly pursed with amusement, however. Instead they are parted, small, gasping breaths escaping them as he tilts his head back. His cheeks are flushed with red and his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Oh, oh fuck– Jeff, just– Please, ” he babbles, that final word coming out all strained and whiny and oh god, Jeff is going to actually die.

Alan’s back is pressed against the wall, his left arm outstretched, hand grasping the edge of the rollable workstation beside him and holding on for, what sure seemed like, dear life. 

Against Jeff’s palm, there’s a throbbing heat. His fingers slide over slicked skin as his hand moves in rhythmic motions that have Alan making these desperate, almost sob-like, little whimpering noises. 

There’s no bared skin, just overalls pushed hastily out of the way. Immediate access. 

Alan’s hair is messy, all on end. And there, on the sensitive skin of his neck, is a deep, red mouth-shaped mark. It’s bracketed by the indentations of teeth. 

Jeff thinks mate. He thinks mine.  

Then, it’s over. He’s back and his heart is hammering in his chest. 

Alan’s voice is muffled and faraway when he next speaks. Jeff barely hears it over the thud of his pulse. 

Fuck.  

2.

The second time it happens is So Much Worse. 

For which, Jeff only has himself to blame. 

He should know by now, that trying to avoid his premonitions never turns out well.  

Still, he tries. 

Handily for him, during his vision, he caught sight of the glow of the digital clock on the wall to their right. It had read: 21:09. 

For the next two weeks, Jeff makes sure to leave the garage before nine rolls around. He also avoids Alan even harder than he was before, keeping as much distance between them as he possibly can. 

Unfortunately, his renewed efforts to hold Alan at arm’s length have only motivated the man further in his attempts to close that distance. 

As Dean leaves the garage, Alan turns back to Jeff and catches him staring. 

“What are you looking at?” he accuses lightheartedly. 

Jeff startles slightly, before looking back to the laptop before him. 

Chuckling softly and shaking his head, Alan walks back over to Jeff’s side. He slumps forward, resting his forearms on the roof of the car and pouting up a storm. It’s funny how quickly he can go from the caring, fatherly Lhong that the other team members know to something more resembling a bedraggled, sopping wet cat that’s been left out in the rain. 

One half of Jeff’s brain says: cute. The other screams: shut up.  

Alan’s scent is mottled with worry, slightly smoggy and soured. Still, it’s sweet too. He smells like a sunburst. Slightly like tangerine peels, citrusy and warm. There’s a hint of something woodsy, a fire that’s long burnt out. It’s mellow and easy and soft, perfect for a peacekeeper like him. 

Jeff’s grateful for its smoothness amongst the fog of strong alpha scents that usually fill the garage, even North’s omega one is slightly oppressive. He tells himself, unsuccessfully, that his appreciation ends there. 

“You seem confident,” Jeff can’t help saying, tone neutral. “Considering you still haven’t figured out a solution to your capital problem.”

“Is it that easy to fix?” Alan complains. Jeff refuses to turn his head, but he can hear the deep pout gracing Alan’s lips. His voice verges on a whine.

Jeff resolutely refuses to think about what Alan sounds like when he’s whining.  

Humming in assent, Jeff answers firmly, “It’s easy.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the laptop in front of him as he speaks. “If you can’t fight with them in terms of money, then find someone with the same amount to fight them for you.” Clicking his mousepad conclusively, he quotes a familiar adage. “The enemy of my enemy is always my friend.” 

In response, Alan repeats the words under his breath, slowly, like a child learning how to speak. 

“The enemy of my enemy…” Then, as if a lightbulb just lit up above his head, he says, “That’s right!” 

Great. Now Alan can leave him alone and maybe he’ll finally stop moping around the garage and bothering Jeff all the– 

Oranges swarm Jeff’s senses. There’s an arm around his neck, hooking him in, catching him. Lips press to the side of his head, against his hair. Soft, so soft. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

“You’re really the best, Noo,” Alan praises, sounding grateful and energised and infectiously happy. “Thank you.” 

Damnit, he’s so genuine. 

Despite all his better instincts, Jeff turns to look at Alan in shock as the older man pulls away. Unfortunately, his hand still lingers on Jeff’s shoulder when their eyes meet. It’s just for a second. But it’s enough. 

He can’t see Alan’s face this time. 

The man is bent over, one hand stretched above him, scratching helplessly for purchase on the smooth surface of the car roof. His other arm is twisted behind his back, Jeff’s own holding it there. Pinning him. 

Something electric surges through Jeff at the feeling of Alan going lax in his grip, at the rough sensation of Alan’s hips shifting back against him. 

The alpha’s submission makes Jeff feel like he’s burning up from the inside, like he’ll actually ignite if he’s not careful. His blood bubbles with want, with need, with that familiar near-burning heat. More intense than he’s ever felt it before. His skin is sticky with sweat and slick. 

In the air around, their scents have mingled to create a thick haze. Alan’s soft, citronella smell twists through Jeff’s sharp one and smoothes its edges. Unlike many omegas, Jeff has never smelled sweet. His pheromones were all bitter, espresso and fresh cacao, slightly spiced. 

Alongside Alan’s light scent, Jeff’s own feels suddenly more full, more complete, much less harsh. 

This time, Alan’s back is bare, his shirt thrown away. His skin is smooth and unmarred. Jeff yearns to leave it scratched with red and sink his teeth deep into the swell of his shoulder blade. He wonders how hard he would have to press for blood to blossom to the surface, to leave Alan permanently marked. 

His muscles ripple as he shifts. Alan twists his head, attempts to push away from the car, perhaps wanting to turn so they are face to face. Jeff holds him still. It makes him so hard, how easy it is to control Alan’s body. Just one little push and press and Alan’s strength seems to melt away. 

He wants this, wants Jeff holding him down, the fan of Jeff’s heavy breaths against the back of his neck. Jeff can tell. Jeff wants it too. 

“J-Jeff, please, I can’t–” he begs. “Touch me.” 

It’s a tone so unlike Alan’s usual tender, affectionate, easy-going one. The whining, sulky little one he uses when he complains is closer, but still different. Now, he sounds rough and there’s an aching lack of clarity to his syllables, his tongue loose and lips clumsy. The pitch is low, like the crunch of gravel underfoot. 

Jeff growls. There’s something distinctly feral in it. 

“Wait,” he says, in a voice he himself doesn’t recognise ever using before. He dips forward to press his lips to the nape of Alan’s neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the length of his spine, releasing Alan’s arm in order to allow him full access. 

Alan makes a pained noise. 

Settling on his knees, Jeff says, “Keep still,” and the words seem to work just as efficiently as Jeff’s hold. 

When Jeff first drags his tongue over Alan’s hole, a full-body shudder rolls through him with the strength of an earthquake. 

“Still,” Jeff reminds.

“Yes, yeah, I’m– Ngh! Fuck, oh my– Yes, I promise, I’ll– ah, ah…” His voice peters out, replaced by heavy pants as Jeff’s first spit-slicked finger presses into him. 

He’s so tight. Obviously. Unlike Jeff, he wasn’t ‘born for this’, or however else the alphas in Jeff’s childhood dorm had called it. 

Still, he takes it. He moans. Something about that makes the fire burning through Jeff flare hotter than ever before. 

An alpha. His alpha. Letting him in. Begging for it. 

The scene shatters, shards of it bursting out to pierce Jeff’s eyes. Everything stings. His head is pounding and his vision blurs slightly as he blinks the images away. 

Snapping the laptop closed, he practically flees the scene, banging his hip against one of the workstations on his way and almost landing face first on the floor. 

A week later, his hip is still bruised and Jeff can’t sleep without hearing Alan’s hoarse, breathless please and smelling sickly sweet bursts of bergamot. 

3.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asks, arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe to their shared kitchen. He’s wearing a denim jacket, acid-washed jeans and an expensive-looking, bamboo t-shirt, must be on his way out to meet Babe. 

Jeff doesn’t answer. He’s not in the mood for whatever conversation Charlie hopes to have with him. He just wants to be left alone to suffer. Is that too much to ask? 

Clearly, as Charlie continues, “You don’t have to work at the garage today?”

“Isn’t Babe waiting for you?” Jeff counters. 

Briefly, Charlie wavers. Jeff knows from experience that Babe can be pretty impatient. 

“Don’t change the subject,” his brother says, holding up a hand to point at Jeff accusingly and narrowing his eyes. “Spill.” 

Again, Jeff doesn’t sigh. 

“Visions,” he eventually admits. 

Just that one word makes Charlie’s arm drop and his eyebrows furrow. His tone is serious, “Bad ones?” All hands on deck. Big brother-mode activated. 

Jeff pauses. He considers lying, but that never works with Charlie. 

“Not…” He bites his lip, feeling frustrated. “Not exactly bad.” 

That lights a spark of intrigue in Charlie’s eyes, concern quickly snuffing out. “Someone at the garage?” he asks, eager for information. “Come on,” he insists. “I want details.” 

Groaning, Jeff turns back to the rice cooker, wishing desperately that it would hurry up and ding. 

“Go fuck your stupid racer and leave me alone,” he insists. 

Charlie pouts. “Jeff~” he whines. 

Jeff is saved from having to respond when the phone in his back pocket starts to ring loudly. He’s never answered a call so quickly in his life. 

Charlie mouths, ‘we’ll talk about this later’, before he turns to leave. 

Feeling grateful, Jeff presses the phone to his ear and greets, “Khrap?” 

However, when a warm voice floats through his speaker and asks, “Hey, are you able to do some overtime today?” Jeff regrets not taking the time to check the caller ID first. 

‧₊˚🍊༉‧₊˚.

It’s just him and Alan at the garage that evening. 

The alarm bells started ringing the moment Jeff arrived and they haven’t stopped since. 

It’s late, the sky long dark and touched at the edges with the coppery glow of the city’s light pollution. Inside the garage, several boxes sit in haphazard stacks, some open, some closed. Packing materials litter the floor. 

A shipment of replacement parts arrived in the afternoon and Alan had already dismissed the rest of the team to go and celebrate Babe’s recent win. So, he’d called Jeff. 

And here they are, unpacking the boxes and finding the appropriate places for the objects within. Alone. Together. 

Jeff wants to slam his head against the wall. 

“Not busy today?” Alan asks after a long period of silence between the two of them. “It’s a Saturday, after all,” he clarifies, chuckling slightly. The laugh is on the edge of being nervous and Jeff chooses not to ponder why. 

“No,” Jeff confirms. “No plans.” 

Alan walks past him, lugging a replacement radiator in his arms as he goes. It’s heavy. His biceps roll as he shifts the weight from one hand to another. He’s so strong. As he hoists the hunk of metal up onto one of the large metal shelves that line the garage’s back wall, he lets out a huff of exertion. It’s close enough to the groans that Jeff hears in his dreams that he gets an instant headache. 

“Aow,” Alan says, surprised and curious. “Why not? Surely young people like you should have more exciting weekend plans than helping out old folks with their chores.” 

“Aren’t you going to pay me for today?” Jeff deadpans. 

Alan laughs. 

Then, despite his better judgement, Jeff keeps the conversation going. “Also, you are thirty-five. You’re not old.” 

As he attempts to open the next box, Alan’s fingers fumble. His head snaps up and he gapes at Jeff, jaw dropped. Jeff isn’t sure what about his words could earn such an expression. He’s just stating facts. 

“Besides,” he continues. “I’m sure you’ve partied a lot more than me, Phi. I don’t drink and I find clubs boring.” 

It’s only after he’s spoken (and once he’s seen the excited stars bursting in Alan’s caramelised eyes) that he realises that this might be the first time he’s optionally volunteered information about himself to the man. Damnit. 

“What do you like to do, then?” Alan asks, clearly trying not to sound too excited that Jeff seems to be actually opening up. 

And because Jeff is weak, he answers. 

“Read.” 

He intends to only respond with that single word and leave it at that, but Alan has scented blood in the water. 

“Come on,” the team leader coaxes. “You gotta give me a little more than that, Noo. What do you like to read?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Jeff says on impulse, ignoring the warmth that kindles inside of him at the word. His next words escape him without permission. “Non-fiction mostly, I like learning. Sci-fi can be interesting.” 

He looks over to Alan, cautiously. The man is smiling so brightly that it puts the very sun to shame. 

“And poetry,” Jeff blurts, just to prevent himself saying something dumb like ‘please stop smiling at me, I’m going to throw up’. “I like poetry.”

Alan’s smile somehow grows even wider. 

“Really?” Moving around the (still-unopened) box to perch himself on its edge, Alan makes a motion with his hand, prompting Jeff to also sit. “I took a poetry module at university, but I didn’t like it much. What do you like about it?” 

Jeff refuses to sit, continuing to unpack his box. Instead, he busies himself with laying out the smaller pieces inside into piles on the workstation pulled up to his side. His gaze stays focused on the metal in his hands as he speaks. 

“It’s cathartic.” He thinks for a moment, trying to come up with a satisfactory answer that doesn’t reveal too much of himself for comfort. “I like the way that people can use a few words to express something so… inexpressible.” 

Jeff glances briefly to the side, seeing Alan tilt his head to one side. It makes him look momentarily indistinguishable from a confused puppy. 

“What’s inexpressible?” 

“Life,” says Jeff, twisting a ring terminal in circles around his pinky finger. “Living.” 

Silence. 

“That’s deep,” Alan says eventually, sounding a little impressed. 

Jeff just shrugs. 

“What–?” He cuts himself off, swallowing. He should stop the conversation here, take advantage of the opportunity for an out, but since the first word has already slipped free… “What about you, Phi? What would you be doing if you weren’t here?” 

Laughing, Alan stands up and returns to his previous task. “I’m always here,” he jokes self-deprecatingly. 

The answer is unsurprising. In the months since joining the team, Jeff has noticed the way Alan seems to work himself into the ground, dark, purpled circles smudged beneath both his eyes. 

Jeff makes an unsatisfied little hum. If Jeff isn’t allowed to dodge these questions, then neither is Alan. 

Obediently, Alan tacks on, “Probably out with the boys, trying to keep them out of trouble.” 

This thread leads to Alan regaling Jeff with story after story of the other team members' drunken antics over the years. 

By the time he’s finished, the boxes have all been emptied and he and Jeff are folding down the cardboard into shapes that will more easily fit into their recycling. 

Once they're done, Alan wraps an arm around Jeff’s shoulder and Jeff keeps his eyes pointed resolutely at the floor. 

“Have a drink with me before you go?” 

Jeff tries to argue, “I don’t–” 

“Just a soft one,” Alan insists. “Rest a little before you head back. It’s late and you must be tired from the work.” 

“I’m not tired.” It’s a lie. Pain radiates from his joints and there’s a definite pinch in his ankles from standing for so long. 

Alan must be able to tell since he just walks the two of them over to the sofas in lieu of responding. 

Jeff submits himself to this torturous evening continuing a little longer. He can do this. He can be brave. 

From the fridge, Alan grabs a beer (for himself) and a coke (for Jeff). 

It’s quiet but for the hum of the filaments in the lights above. Beneath him, the sofa is soft, cradling his aching back and allowing his muscles to begin relaxing. Alan’s breathing is soft, his footsteps soft clicks against the concrete. Woodsy and orange, the air soothes Jeff’s sinuses, easing the pounding of his head. 

For once, he allows his hyper-vigilance to drop and lets his eyes close, head falling back to rest on the sofa’s edge. 

Two taps sound out. Alan places the drinks down on the table. 

Sweat cooling on his skin, Jeff enjoys the stillness between them. It’s open, but it doesn’t gape. There’s no emptiness to it. Just opportunity. 

“I’m curious,” Alan says eventually, because of course he does. “Why would a germaphobe want to be an engineer in the first place? It’s not exactly clean work.” He laughs, as if that makes the question any less invasive. 

Jeff hates that he doesn’t even mind it. He hates that he likes that Alan wants to get to know him. 

Taking a moment to consider the best way to respond. He doesn’t want to lie, but the full truth is… too much. So he lands halfway and says, “It’s only people. Other dirt is fine.” 

Opening his eyes, he sees Alan nod slowly at that. There’s something complex in his expression, something Jeff can’t read. It disconcerts him. 

Rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t holding his beer, Alan averts his eyes. 

“Um,” he starts, sounding unsure. “Sorry if I…” Pausing, he bites his lip. “Sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable, Noo.” 

And Jeff must be losing both his mind and every ounce of his rigid self-control since he bursts out with a firm, “No–” His mouth closes too late, the word already out. 

Fuck. That had been the perfect out. What is wrong with him?  

Alan’s lips are slightly parted, eyes wide.

Sitting up to grab the coke bottle and take a gulp, Jeff uses the action to fill the space left by his silence. He settles back and keeps the drink in hand. 

Oh well, too late now. 

“No,” he repeats, knowing he’s lost. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” 

Alan’s answering smile rivals any other that Jeff has seen on him. The action tightens the skin around his jaw, making the edge of it stand out sharp whilst his eyes screw up slightly, wrinkling at the corners. It makes him look so fucking handsome it’s almost physically painful to look at. 

Heat blooms under Jeff’s skin. 

It’s only as a result of a lifetime of tamping down his instincts that Jeff is able to keep his pheromones from kicking out and filling the air with acrid, chocolatey desire. Desperately, he hangs on to his coldest memories. Grips them tight. 

They hurt. The hurt makes him strong. It’s good. The hurt is good. 

It makes him numb.

A sting of copper spikes through the soft blend of smells between them. Jeff opens his hand, distantly feeling wet beginning to pool in his palm. 

He closes his hand again in attempts to cover the scent. 

It’s hopeless, of course. Alan’s nose twitches. 

Calmly, Jeff takes a swig of coke so large he almost finishes the bottle. It burns on the way down. He almost chokes. 

He places the bottle down and says, looking towards the door, “I better get back. Thank you for the drink, Phi.” 

The next movements are a blur. Jeff’s brain struggles to break them down into easy-to-understand chunks. 

1. He stands up. 
2. Alan does too. 
3. Alan says something that might be ‘Wait’ or ‘Jeff’ or both words babbled together, causing them to blend. 
4. Jeff takes a step. 
5. Alan’s hand grips his forearm. 
6. Jeff pulls. 
7. Alan holds on.
8. Jeff’s toe catches on the table leg. 
9. They fall. 

Landing hard on his back, pain kicks through Jeff’s nervous system. His ankle shouts its displeasure, Jeff having twisted it on his way down. 

From above, warmth radiates out into him. Breath tickles his face. 

His eyes open and meet Alan’s. 

Nothing happens. No change, no piercing pressure against his skull, no spinning or melting or shattering. 

It’s still. 

The contact is so full, legs entangled like the roots of a tree, chests pressed together, noses inches apart. Alan’s hand is pressed to the concrete beside, elbow locked, catching him so that he and Jeff’s faces don’t slam together on their descent. 

A knife slices through pith and peel, bitter and sweet, coffee and caramel. Simple, white flowers and intricate blooms with crimson sepals framed by heart-shaped petals spring up in clusters around them. 

Alan’s cheeks are like a sunset, smeared with crumbled crayola, pinks and reds. 

It would be cliché to say that Jeff can’t tell who leans in first. It would also be a lie. He knows. 

Jeff has kissed exactly one person before. It sucked. 

This… doesn’t. 

He wants to call it soft, tentative, gentle. Another lie. 

Jeff kisses Alan roughly. His hand, the one free of blood, thankfully, buries itself in the hair at the back of Alan’s head and prevents the man from pulling back in shock. At first, the older mechanic’s lips are still and stitched together. Jeff swipes at them with his tongue, catches Alan’s lower lip between his teeth and pulls.  

At that, his mouth opens. 

Their tongues slide against one another and Jeff wishes he had enough room to roll them. He wants Alan on the ground beneath him, wants to hold him down and trace the echo of himself over every inch. He wants to make it so that if Alan ever kisses anyone else, they will taste the parts of Jeff still stuck between his teeth. 

It’s a struggle, but he manages to push himself up, lips still connected. His other hand, leaving a trail of red in its wake, slides up from Alan’s lower back, staining his shirt. Balling the fabric into his fist, Jeff’s nails scrape against Alan’s skin slightly. 

“Mmph, ngh–” Alan groans into the space created between them when their mouths open in sync. 

There’s an ebb and flow to their contact. Pushing and pulling. Jeff is more push. Alan seems hesitant to do either. His hands rest on Jeff’s shoulders, afraid to even tighten his grip. Trembling, it seems like he’s on a precipice, scared to fall. 

Below them, the oceans are calm and welcoming. It’s the height of summer and the waves glitter like crushed diamonds. With the help of Jeff’s palm pressed between Alan’s shoulder blades, they crash into it together. 

At the first shift of Jeff’s hips, Alan practically falls to pieces. His heavy breaths morph into a series of ‘unh, unh, unh’s, little moans that Jeff wants to box and keep forever as precious souvenirs. 

It’s the prompt he needed. His nails dig into Jeff’s shoulders, their kiss becoming uncoordinated and clumsy as Alan follows his movements. Grinding down into his lap, Alan slides one hand up to cradle Jeff’s jaw, fingers slipping into his hair. 

Charcoal cracks. Oranges blossom. Alan’s pheromones kick up in intensity. 

Against him, Jeff can feel the pressure of Alan’s cock hardening. They rub together and the friction, even through the layers of clothing, is enough to have Jeff’s brain going liquid and gooey between his ears. 

He can feel himself practically dripping, slick soaking into his boxers. It’s an unpleasant feeling. Jeff wants nothing more than to get out of his clothes, to swipe his fingers through the wetness and use it to lubricate the slide of his hand against Alan’s dick. He moans at the thought of it. 

Getting naked whilst kissing is complicated, perhaps impossibly actually. Jeff mourns the loss.

Submitting to the practicality of the action, he uses the hand buried in Alan’s short hair to wrench him back, breaking their kiss. 

Prettily, eyelashes all fluttery and slightly wet, Alan’s eyes blink open. He looks dazed, neck arched, mouth slightly open and his lips red and slightly swollen. A little wrecked. 

Jeff thinks he could look a whole lot more. 

It’s at that very moment that his stupid fucking power decides to finally spark to life and everything goes squishy. The colours around him start to blur and blend, the edges of objects smearing. It’s as if someone has rubbed their hand over the wet paint of the world around him. 

His head fizzes. 

Then, there’s bare skin beneath his cheek and arms wrapped around him. The room is warm and soft, yellowed lighting fills the space with a homely glow. 

A kiss is pressed to the top of his head. 

From his place resting on Alan’s chest, laying in his embrace, Jeff laughs. Beneath him, Alan’s chest pulses along with the rhythm of his own chuckles. 

Outside, there is the distant patter of rain. 

“Shower?” Alan prompts, voice a little hoarse. 

Humming softly, Jeff considers it. The sheets around them are damp and sticky, so is his skin. Still, he’s comfortable and Alan is so warm. 

“Later,” he mumbles, squishing his cheek into Alan for emphasis, as if to insist ‘no moving right now’.  

“Okay, love.” 

Any other time, Jeff would have frowned performatively at the use of the pet name. Right now, however, when they’re like this, he just allows the pleasant, affectionate surge to roll through him, right to the tips of fingers. 

His mouth opens, something terrifyingly sincere gathering on his tongue, before–

“Jeff?”

Alan’s eyes are clearer now, sharp with concern. He’s shaking Jeff slightly, as if trying to wake him from a dream. 

“Jeff, are you–?” 

Scrambling back, Jeff pushes Alan out of his lap. 

Screaming in protest, his ankle nearly buckles as he tries to stand. He ignores the pain. Inside his chest, his heart punches against his ribcage so hard that he fears his bones might shatter. There’s a rushing in his ears and fuck, he can’t breathe, he can’t…

“Hey,” Alan says, placating and cautious. He stands quickly and raises his hands in surrender, like a man approaching a feral animal. “It’s okay, Noo,” he soothes, stepping towards Jeff. “Don’t–” 

“It’s late, Phi,” Jeff says. Thanks to years of practise and necessity, his voice doesn’t shake. Panic rattles through his haemoglobin, bubbling through his arteries, but he keeps his shoulders set and his back straight. “Goodnight.” 

Alan is nowhere near as good at hiding his own. He takes another step, practically pleading, “I’m sorry if I did something wrong, but just–”

Unable to hear the rest, unsure if his resolve will last through it, Jeff just turns on his heel and rushes to the door. He slides it open and escapes out into the fresh, unscented air. 

The open door remains empty as he straddles his bike. No one stops him from triggering the ignition, from curling his hand around the throttle and pushing forward, pushing away. 

Alan doesn’t follow him. 

Jeff tells himself that he’s glad. And, by the time he’s back in his and Charlie’s apartment, he almost believes it.