Work Text:
Blair leaned over the pool table to line up another shot. He felt the
warmth in his stomach spreading through his limbs, keeping his hands
steady when they wanted to shake with anger. The alcohol could almost
make him forget why he was angry, why there were bruises on his right
wrist and down his ribs, wipe away the taste of semen in his mouth.
He took his shot, sinking the last solid but leaving himself in an impossible shape for the eight-ball. As he moved away to assess the table, he felt the shaking start again, and gritted his teeth. He was going to kill Jim. What right--what FUCKING right--did Jim have to be an asshole?
It had started rather well. A simple wrestling match for the remote, a friendly tussle--and then Jim, pressed against him, had gotten hard. Very hard. They'd frozen there, on the floor, and finally Jim had said "I'll give you the remote if you blow me."
So Blair had blown him--worked at it, fuck it all, worked hard to bring Jim off, curling his tongue and relaxing his throat so that Jim slid deeply inside, feeling those large hands in his hair, holding his head. Jim, fucking his mouth like there was no tomorrow.
And then, afterwards, Blair had taken the remote and slumped, flushed, on the couch, watching Jim pull himself back together and join him. "So," he said, after finding the Sonics game, "are you gay?"
And that, Blair thought bitterly, as he tried for the eight-ball, is what got me fucking grabbed by the wrist and slammed against a wall and thrown the fuck out of my own home by my asshole roommate. My asshole roommate who, apparently, doesn't mind getting sucked off by men but damned if he's going to treat them with any fucking respect afterwards.
He'd been too startled to fight back at the time. Jim's face had drained of color, and then he had moved, almost inhumanly fast, and Blair had found himself curled around bruised ribs in the emergency stairwell of their building almost before he'd finished saying "What the fuck--".
His opponent missed his next shot, and Blair sank the eight-ball. "Two out of three?" the guy offered, but Blair shook his head.
"Getting a bit too wasted. Sorry."
The guy grinned at him, and Blair grinned back. What the hell. This bar had a mixed clientele, so he wouldn't get his ass kicked for asking, which was more than he could guarantee if he went home just now. "You wanna fuck?"
---
The brick wall dug into Blair's hands as he braced himself against it, feeling the cock slide into him and out again, feeling the ragged breathing of the other man against the back of his neck. He was hard and being fucked hard in the alleyway behind the bar, and the smell of urine and alcohol and sex was strong, rising from the pavement like a living thing.
The man behind him, whose name he hadn't asked, slid one hand down to Blair's cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, and Blair gasped and came, hard, semen splattering his stomach and the other man's hand and the brick wall, adding to the smells of the alleyway. The nameless and nearly faceless man behind him shuddered and bit down on the side of Blair's neck, body trembling in orgasm and then quickly pulling away.
Silently, Blair handed him some paper napkins he'd swiped from the bar, and they cleaned themselves jerkily, breathing still ragged. Blair touched the bite mark on his neck and the man said, softly, "Sorry about that."
"No problem," Blair answered. "Thanks for the fuck."
"Yeah." The man zipped his jeans and grinned. "You too."
"My pleasure," Blair answered, tossing the semen-covered napkins in the dumpster next to the bar's service entrance. Then he turned and walked away, a little unsteady from alcohol and sex, but no longer murderously angry. No longer willing to kill Jim with his bare hands.
No longer willing to stay away from home.
---
The loft was dark when he arrived, but the door was unlocked. Jim had thrown him out without his keys, but apparently hadn't crossed the line into complete assholedom by locking him out as well. "That would have been adding insult to injury," Blair muttered. "Not that I wasn't already insulted." He knew Jim could hear him, was probably awake listening for him. "I didn't think my cocksucking technique was that fucking rusty. It's not like I bit you or anything."
He knew he smelled of smoke and cheap liquor and latex and semen--he could smell all that on himself, was sure Jim could smell it from whereever he was in the loft. He walked to his room and undressed and slipped under the covers, not bothering to shower. Let Jim live with it--he didn't want to wash off just yet, didn't want to let go of the feeling of being well-fucked, wasting the endorphins and the alcohol that was keeping the pain of his bruised ribs away.
He dropped off to sleep quickly.
When he woke up in the morning, he could hear Jim in the kitchen, moving around, rattling silverware. He considered his options for a minute, then sighed. Damned if he was going to let Jim-the-asshole ruin his life and make him slink around like a whipped dog. He got out of bed and stretched, wincing as his ribs protested, then headed for the bathroom. "You better have left me some hot water," he said, aware of Jim watching him warily from the kitchen. "I'm already ready to kick your ass, so you had better have fucking left me some hot water."
Jim didn't answer.
Blair turned on the shower and stepped in. Jim had, indeed, left him hot water. Good. Jim would be allowed to live. He finished his shower quickly and stepped out, humming to himself.
Dressed and damp and clean, he headed into the kitchen for some breakfast.
"Um," said Jim, as Blair rummaged in the fridge for the ingredients to an algae shake. Blair ignored him.
"Um," Jim said, again.
Blair turned on the blender.
"Um," Jim said, once the noise subsided.
"Are you trying to tell me that you, a man with a college degree, can only communicate in monosyllables? Given your behavior last night, I shouldn't be surprised."
"Look, Chief, I--"
"You know," Blair continued, as if Jim hadn't spoken, "all that was missing was me fucking paying you to suck your goddamn cock."
"What?" asked Jim.
"There's a word for that, you know. Military types who pick up spending cash by fucking other men, or by letting men suck them off. You know what they're called, Jim?"
Jim blinked at him.
"Rough trade, Jim. Rough. Trade." He slammed the blender pitcher into the sink, hard enough to crack the glass. "I'm not into trade of any kind, let alone the kind you want."
"Chief--"
"Shut the fuck up, Jim. I don't need to listen to any lameass apologies or explanations from you. Yes, I suck cock. Yes, I take it up the ass. I'm not any less male for it. And you're not any less gay for not wanting to admit what you are."
The muscle in Jim's jaw jumped as he snarled "I'm not gay, Sandburg."
"Oh, I guess you didn't ask me to blow you last night?"
"Look, Sandburg, it's a fucking mouth, OK? I'm not going to turn down a fucking blow job--"
"It wasn't a matter of turning it down, first of all--you asked. Second of all, you asked your best friend, who happens to be your fucking roommate: are you fucking repressed, or what?"
"I'm not gay, you cocksucking little--"
Blair felt himself lose his grip on sanity. This was really the last fucking straw; too fucking much to handle at this hour of the morning. He shoved Jim back against the kitchen island, causing the larger man to stumble and catch himself on the refrigerator, knees bent, braced halfway between sitting and standing.
Blair moved to stand in front of his roommate, and Jim looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Sandburg--"
"Shut up."
Jim shut up.
Blair unzipped his jeans and pushed them and his boxers down to mid-thigh. "Open your mouth," he said, softly. Jim stared up at him. "I said, open your mouth."
Jim opened his mouth.
I, thought Blair, am about to do something supremely stupid. He looked down at Jim. Jim looked frightened, but he didn't look like he was going to do anything particularly violent, like bite. "Suck me," Blair said, his voice still soft.
"No," Jim said.
Blair touched Jim's head, ran his fingers through the short fine hair. He could tell Jim was terrified: his breathing ragged and shallow, his nails trying to dig into the surface of the refrigerator. Terrified and waiting, poised between fight and surrender. Blair let Jim's hair sift through his fingers, over and over, until Jim closed his eyes and shivered and leaned forward, mouth open, to nuzzle at Blair's erection.
"This isn't me," Jim whispered, mouth warm against the skin of Blair's cock.
"You'll take it, but won't give?" Blair asked. "Not you. That's not you. I know you too well."
"Shut up," Jim said, leaning back and sliding down the fridge. "Please."
"All right," said Blair, pulling up his boxers and his jeans, looking at his roommate, slumped on the floor of the kitchen. "But don't think this is over."
He grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter and picked up his backpack. "I'll see you at the station at two, Jim."
"Yeah," Jim said, staring at the floor. "I'll see you."
---
The End