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Tim supposed he ought to be grateful for the rather sterile conditions in the private room he stood in, but there was something about the combination of plain white walls, oddly pristine white ceiling tiles, white sofa and white coffee table that made his leg itch. He would have gone and scratched at it – no Horne in here to tell him off, like having eczema was a choice or something – but both hands were already occupied with his primary mission for the day.
His left hand held aloft a nondescript DVD case – plain white, with black Arial lettering, naturally – while his right was shoved down the front of his FatFace elasticised denim joggers, testing the waters. In spite of the fairly inspiring film title – Elastic Assholes vol. 9 – the weird white room was giving him a fairly severe case of the willies. Just not the useful kind that would make this whole degrading process go by any faster.
Fuck it.
Tim popped the disc into the player underneath the telly and watched as a man, much younger than him, wandered, shirtless, down a scenic mountain path. The guy was weirdly hairy for the time period he’d have pinned on EA9, and not too hench. Filmed before they all got waxed and buff and samey, Tim figured.
Wearing nothing much more than a yellow baseball cap and little denim shorts that fit rather too well on those nicely toned thighs, the man plodded down the gravel, performing a half-hearted squint at a comically large map – yes, yes I’m quite lost, watch me turn this gigantic bit of paper over three times and tilt my head like a labrador. What a twerp. A bloody handsome twerp.
Tim blinked twice at the screen, then side-eyed the boxes of ‘materials’ on the table by the door. Nope. He’d definitely fished this one out of the correct basket, each of them helpfully labelled with the general areas of interest. Not that the other basket was necessarily ‘wrong’, of course not, needs must and all that. But girls were generally the go, weren’t they? For him. But then, Ol’ Lovely Legs was looking quite sweaty now. He plonked himself down with a decisive huff.
The FatFace jeans slid easily down his thighs, and it was a matter of moments to get his dick in his fist just in time for Mr Tiny Shorts to find an isolated mountain chalet, in which to shelter from the summer sun.
Somewhere on the coffee table his iPhone buzzed. Tim groaned at the WhatsApp preview, and with a grunt, used his non-dick hand to flip the the phone over. Al could wait. He nudged the collection receptacle a little closer. Stared at the guy on the screen.
The man’s hairy shoulders and chest, furry belly and svelte figure really did look familiar. His eyes flicked back towards the phone, where it sat innocently out of the firing line, at the far end of the coffee table.
The exceptionally hospitable hostess of the mountain chalet was certainly nothing to sneeze at, but Tim’s focus kept slipping, much in sync with his lubed fist over his rapidly hardening cock. The shifting movement of the actor’s slim, well defined arms; the determined and cheerful way he went down on the lady of the house, as all good house guests should...
In another time, Tim would’ve looked down to see that cheeky gap-toothed grin aimed up at him instead. On one of those steaming hot London days, never so common as they seemed now, trapped in that godforsaken one bed flat, just him and Horne, laid out by the single wobbly fan in the living room and sweating their bollocks off. Younger, simpler men than either of them could ever conceive of being nowadays.
It took no time at all to get properly hard, his eyes glazed over, listening absently to the sex noise from the telly, but watching an entirely different show. A memory not often revisited, but enough that he knew each beat of it, from the moment he’d rolled over to slide his hand up Alex’s vest, curious just to touch the ticklish soft skin of his sides. How Alex had squeaked at a particularly sensitive spot, and wrenched himself back over Tim, returning the attack with gusto. How he’d paused, then flushed bright red at the feeling of Tim’s stupidly interested dick, and, without another word, had lowered himself slowly down.
Tim moaned softly, the sound still far too loud in the white box. He clawed at the leather sofa, its squeaky clean feel a poor substitute for how Alex’s sweaty hair had felt in his hand. He remembered the exploratory pressure, the heat of a mouth around his cock. Just a bit more and he’d–
Tim lurched toward the plastic cup.
Somehow, he barely made a mess, managing to shove his cock into the opening just in time to get the majority of his sad little spend. He squinted at it after, once the yellow cap was tightly fastened, and couldn’t help but wonder if the treatments last time had left him well, worse off, in a sense. Wondered if maybe he should’ve just turned down the precautionary deposit this time. Didn’t really bear thinking about though, did it? More godchildren than he could keep track of these days.
His gaze wondered back in the direction of Miss Chalet and Mr Hot and Sweaty, now truly in the midst of earning the film’s creative title. Champion level hostess, that – Tim saluted her dedication to the kind of craft EA9 demanded.
He was absentmindedly shoving the sample pot into the little biohazard baggie when his phone started buzzing along obnoxiously to the symphony of sex. Tim sneered at it. Horne. Of course. Sick of being ignored, the self-important prat.
“What is so bloody important it can’t wait, Horne? I’m busy with a shoot.” He mentally slapped himself for the double entendre.
“No, you’re not, I called your agent to check your calendar.” Alex shot back, unaware.
“The fuck are you calling my agent for?”
“I already said.”
“…the hell is he playing at, telling you my calendar?”
“What’s that sound? Are you watching something Timmy?” He could hear the prat’s eyebrows from here. Perhaps not entirely unaware.
Tim scrabbled at the remote, switching the telly off just as Miss Open and Obliging started up a frenzy of ‘fuck me’s and ‘yes, god’s.
“Yeah, film.”
“Ah, Mert is it?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He sounded a little mulish, pouty even, at the call back unacknowledged. Tim grinned.
“Out with it, Al.”
“Come over.”
“Please.”
“Sorry, yes – come over, please.”
Already did, Tim thought. “Why?”
“You don’t have anything else on,” Horne persisted. “Should swing by, see the new place, see Rach and your godson.”
“How is ol’ Josiah anyway?”
“Mm. Not dealing well with that name change, but you’d know if you called in now and then.”
“Busy.”
“Yeah,” Alex sighed. “But not right now. Message when you’re near the station, I’ll pick you up.”
Before Tim could fire back another rejoinder, the call ended.
It wasn’t Horne that picked him up from the tube station, a few scant hours later. Or, at least, not one of the Alex variety.
Rachel collided with him hard enough that he almost toppled, hip still not quite as solid as he’d like. Still, he was hardly going to complain, not when he had an armful of one of his favourite people in the world.
“What took you so long?” She stared up at him, beaming.
Wish I knew. “Social calls are tough when you’re a successful movie star,” Tim said. “Would hate to be drawing undue attention to you and the fam – you know how it is.”
Rachel shook her head, exasperated, but shuffled him off into the car without too much more interrogation. At least, not until they were on the road proper.
“Sorry Alex couldn’t come get you – he forgot he was meant to take the eldest to a party in Amersham.”
“Right.” Tim paused for a moment. “Well, hang on, wasn’t I meant to be saying hello to that one?”
“Glad to see you’re still up to date with godfather duties, Timothy,” Rachel laughed. “No, really, he did try to wriggle out of it but, well… he needed to have one of those proper talks with his son, you know?” She wiggled her eyebrows, then laughed at Tim's horrified expression.
“Ah, glad I was late then.” Tim shuddered. There were definitely benefits to avoiding the parental slog.
Quiet descended between them for a moment as Rachel concentrated on navigating a series of roundabouts, before heading toward new, unfamiliar roads.
“We’ve been missing you, love.”
“Likewise,” Tim replied. He meant it.
“Alex has been missing you.”
“Yeah, never stops messaging lately, the needy c–” Rachel took advantage of a red light to really stare him down for a long second. “…erm. I mean, we’ve been chatting.” It came out more defensive than he wanted.
Rachel just rolled her eyes and set her focus back on the road, but the other, unspoken questions – the ones he had no good bloody answers to – hung heavy between them, even when he grasped her hand over the gearstick.
Tim was halfway through the second nicest cuppa he’d ever had – Rachel’s were good, but never quite as good, somehow, as her husband’s – when Alex finally returned. The grinning idiot spotted him as soon as he fell through the front door, only pausing in his rush to get down the hall to smile, like a soft-headed prat, at Tim’s blue LA cap, thrown atop his battered yellow one.
Alex entered the kitchen in a downright flutter, first into Rachel’s arms for a kiss and cuddle, then, with barely a breath between, straight over to Tim, to smack a mad wet kiss right onto his cheek.
“Timmy! I thought you weren’t going to come, if I’m honest.”
“Didn’t exactly give me a choice.” He put on his best sneer, and wiped at the wet spot on his cheek with faux annoyance. If it covered the simmering red blush creeping up his face for a moment, that’d be a bonus. He took a sec to side-eye Alex, currently in some sort of psychic couple’s conversation with Rachel. When both of them turned to look at Tim, he fought the impulse to quail in his seat. Never a good sign, that.
“Big place,” Tim said, reaching for something to distract them.
“I’ve already given him the main tour,” Rachel explained, rubbing Alex’s shoulder meaningfully. “There’s just –”
“You should come out to the garden, see the shed,” Alex concluded, a suspiciously soft expression spreading across his features. The kind that got his stupid shiny eyes involved.
Tim winced at the old phrase. “Don’t need to see your damn shed, Al.”
Alex was immediately all kicked puppy and big eyes. Rachel looked downright stormy. “Go see the ‘damn shed’, Timmy.” Her tone brooked no argument.
The conniving couple exchanged another, more determined look.
An awful lot of promising images traipsed through Tim’s mind. Ones borne of years of making that stupid tube journey out here; the kind that he’d been sure, after a point in everyone’s increasingly busy lives, wouldn’t be getting a look in again, other than with a nostalgic sigh on a particularly slow afternoon.
Alex tipped his head to one side in askance. “You… don’t want to?” A hand moved to nervously scratch at his cheek, and Tim had the good sense to let things hang a bit. Wouldn’t do to seem too desperate, would it?
Fuck it. He scrabbled up from the island bench seat and immediately started craning his neck around for the likeliest exit.
“Didn’t say that, did I? Show us the fucking shed, mansion boy–”
“Language.” Rachel and Alex chimed as one.
“Did you seriously call me over here to take me ‘down the shed’? What’s wrong with you?”
Alex shrugged, unlocking a big, friendly red door to something that looked rather suspiciously more like a large barn to Tim’s discerning eye. “Shed’s much nicer now. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
The barn conversion was the very image of rich boy decadence, but he could hardly fault Horne for actually using some of that well earned cash on something so tasteful. Restored, exposed oak beam supports, a reclaimed wood bar that no doubt would’ve cost ten times more than a new one. A burgeoning collection of prints, memorabilia and knick knacks that yelled ‘Alex’ a lot more than it did ‘Rachel’, but retained their shared sentiment for the busy, the colourful, the symbolic.
Red kite feathers gathered on golf trips, all arranged in a halo on the wall. A plate filled with painted rocks. Caps and scarves from New York, Chicago, Philly. A weird little framed sculpture of Alex and… Tim turned away.
The photo wall called Tim like a moth to flame – already he could spy so many images of some other version of himself. He stood close to the collage and pored over each photograph greedily. So much younger. Arms wrapped around old friends. There was one of the three of them, wearing Hawaiian shirts and dancing to some forgotten song – Horne looking about three seconds away from letting himself down, while Tim and Rachel were hugged in close, mouths open, clearly singing along to the old fave. Afterwards, the trio would’ve plod home late, holding each other up, or pulling each other over in turn, before falling properly into bed, one pile of too many limbs, beer sweat and bad breath. Too hot entirely.
Tim blinked as a hand dropped onto his shoulder, pulling him from yet another excursion into the past.
“Would you like that one? I’ve been saving them when I can, I can print another,” Alex offered.
“…Yeah.”
He leaned in close and reached for it over Tim’s shoulder, pinning him in for a moment as his arms went either side to unclip the photo. It was a wild impulse, to turn and lay a bristly kiss to Alex’s forearm, but he was prone to those, wasn’t he? When it came to Alex.
Alex snorted, twitching his arm away in surprise, but his body moved in even closer – the heat of him so magnetic Tim almost gave into the pull to lean back into it. Almost.
“Here.” Alex carefully opened Tim’s jacket from behind, sliding the small photograph into the inner chest pocket. A not quite embrace. Near enough though, for Tim to feel the distinct warmth of it, of Alex patting his chest once the jacket fell back into place.
“If you’re quite done copping a feel…”
“Not nearly.”
Tim’s scoff turned to a huff of surprise as Alex turned them both toward a squashy sofa. He played up at being winded as he was shoved down into the cushions, but Alex didn’t remotely hesitate to pull Tim’s trousers down and get onto his knees with shocking efficiency. Tim praised the elastic waist for the second time that day, pants and all sliding down his thighs far too easily, to pool at his ankles.
“These’re nice,” Alex managed, half muffled, his face pressed happily into Tim’s thigh.
“Real smooth, Horne – do this for all the boys that come round?”
He could feel, rather than see, the furrow of Al’s brow against his leg.
“Shut up.”
Ironic perhaps, that Alex was the one with his mouth busy for the long minutes that followed. Tim knew he’d have to release him from the loser’s game eventually, but it was rather nice to have his soft cock all safe and warm and wet in there. He leant back into the sofa, but kept his eyes trained on the thinning patch on the top of Alex’s head, let his hand wander to it, let his fingers card back and forth. Less hair now, but still so wonderfully soft.
Alex hummed, more than a little pleased with the contact.
“Always were way too good at this, fuck.”
A moan. He liked that too. Tim couldn’t help but pet at Alex’s proud little face, and scritch at his beardy jaw as it worked uselessly away over his cock. Alex’s free hand – the one that wasn’t doing wonderful things with his balls, fucking hell – scrabbled upward from his knee, to move back and forth over Tim’s furry thigh, almost anxiously stroking at the hair there. The long fingers carded up higher, higher still, until they found the new addition. A single, long, lightly raised scar on his hip. Not quite so red and angry anymore, but still new enough to niggle. Alex’s fingers stayed, almost reverent, tracing the line over and over until Tim’s hand dropped, and tightened on his shoulder in warning.
Alex pulled off with a soft pop, and finally moved his hand away, reading the message loud and clear. “What’s wrong, Timmy?”
“…Came already, didn’t I?”
“Ah. Came before you came. New heights for premature –”
“Fuck off Horne, and get off your fucking knees before they get stuck like that.”
“Mm.”
Tim dragged Alex upwards, spreading him out on the long sofa so he could slot his body between those lanky legs. He didn’t bother with any preamble, just tugged impatiently at Al’s jeans until they were low enough to get his cock free.
“My turn anyway.”
“Like you’ve been keeping track?” Alex scoffed.
Tim just grunted, refusing to dwell on the perfect clarity with which he could remember the last time. The old, tiny shed, Alex dead tired after putting three boys down for the night, half asleep but sucking Tim down desperately anyway. No one else sucked him off like that. Was a wonder why he’d ever bothered to try it on with anyone else, but he banished those thoughts as soon as they arrived. Dangerous road to walk down, that.
It was a challenge not to do the same, now that he had Al’s lovely dick in hand, after far, far, too long. He settled for working his way up to it, gratified by Alex’s squirming gasps, his gentle hands on the back of Tim’s head. Gradually, he sunk into it, the meditative back and forth of stroke, squeeze, suck, tongue.
“Missed you, Tim.” A finger traced the sensitive shell of his ear, and Tim shook his head, irritated to be pulled from his mission to suck the prat’s heart right out.
“Hush.”
Alex obliged for a moment, back to panting and thrusting gently up into Tim’s palate. He wished Al would go harder. He could cop it, probably.
“Is it like that then?” Alex asked with a huff, responding to Tim’s clawing fingers in his arse, trying to egg him on. They shifted, and Tim slid down to the floor, accepting the painful pressure on his knees to better line himself up.
“S’nice,” Alex murmured as Tim took him back down to the root, throat remembering how to do this, to be as open and hospitable as the girl in the film. Spit spilled over his stretched lips, dripped into his beard. He probably wasn’t so good to look at as all that – dilapidated, old, beyond restoration – and his fucking hip ached. But it didn’t matter, not when Alex thrust roughly into his mouth, when that nonsensical praise fell from his lips, when those hands gripped at Tim’s face so damn possessively.
He didn’t bother to warn Tim – knew him all too well for that – just came down his throat with a shocked gasp.
Still got it.
It took a combination of comically creaking limbs and groans, but they eventually managed to collapse on the sofa together. He let Al kiss him a bit – he always liked that sort of thing post-climax– and even tolerated the fondling at his soft prick some more.
Alex broke the silence just as Tim was about to give him a telling off – his fingers curled around Tim’s cock gently, cupping the lot absent mindedly, like he would his own. May as well be his at this point, Tim considered. Not that he’d say as much.
“You didn’t call, this time. I’d have come, you know?” Alex said to the barn ceiling above.
“Precedented events don’t call for so much drama.” Tim shrugged.
“I wanted to be there.”
“Had a lot going on.” It wasn’t a lie. Film premieres, endless interviews and red carpets and writing his little 'concerts'.
“I wanted–” Tim interrupted the useless statement, pushing at Alex’s hand, annoyed. The prat still managed to give his dick one last soft pat farewell before sliding his hand away obediently.
“Should probably get moving soon. Tube doesn’t run late here.” He tucked himself away and cast about for the jacket he’d lost during all the action.
“Really? Stick and bindle thing again?” Alex asked wryly.
“Thought you’d be pleased I’m out there, looking for a place to hang my hat,” Tim replied. “Weren’t you all for me settling down?”
Alex wriggled in place, pulling his own clothes into some sort of order, looking increasingly sour as he did.
“I’ll get you a car.”
“Fine. Least you could do after all that, anyway.” Tim turned, and let himself hug onto Al’s side, just for a minute. Didn’t count if he was extra annoying about it, probably. Silence fell between them again.
Alex’s arm came up around him and pulled in tight. “…In the morning.”
“Al –”
“Alex.”
“Prick.”
Alex ignored him. Took a deep breath. The kind that never boded well.
“It might not… be what you’d envisioned –”
“Careful, don’t hurt yourself now.”
Alex flicked Tim’s ear, hard. “ – but there’s something. Here. For you.”
Tim swallowed, and turned further in so he wouldn’t have to watch Horne suffer through the earnestness. It certainly wasn't to hide his own face.
“You can come home… whenever you’re ready.”
“Right.” Tim sniffed. Wiped his stinging eyes and gross mouth across Alex’s shirt to a groan of dismay that only slightly made him smile.
“…And send me your next appointment details, please?” Alex added, insistent, his hand shifting to card through Tim's hair.
“Yeah, alright jizzhound.”
Alex grumbled at the state of his shirt, but his hand stayed firm and sure on Tim’s head for hours, cradling him close, even as Rachel tiptoed in later to call them both up to bed.