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Francis is not the type to invite problems into his bed, prefers to have lovers who can’t think of anyone but him, lovers who remember nothing but his mouth on their skin, their nails running ragged down his back. He likes easy sex, easy love found in dim lighting and laughter pressed into sheet creases. Love as easy as falling into bed, love that doesn’t need anything else but a little nurture and warmth.
Francis likes things as they last.
And he likes lovers to agree with him.
But he makes an exception for some.
Flicking the last of the foam off his razor, Francis frowns, rubbing the smooth curve of his cheek to the line of his jaw. Still frowning, he wipes down the area, absently fussing over the lack of hair, still curious as to why Arthur can’t grow any facial hair at his age.
Maybe it all migrates to that mop he calls a hairstyle or to those monstrosities he calls eyebrows.
Francis shudders, leaning close to the mirror, looking ages younger, and sighs. Bare-chested and still warm from the shower, he wonders if Matthew will even appreciate it this time. If he appreciates that Francis uses generic soap for him, that he buys a mild aftershave—soft vanilla and harder leather, tobacco underneath—just for Matthew, just so its easier for him to imagine Arthur between his legs, on top of him, pressing him down—
He pats his cheeks, neck, and frowns darkly. Hands on his neck, he admits that the smell is for his pleasure as much as it is Matthew’s. He touches the dip of his neck, thinks of Matthew’s lips there, leaving open-mouthed kisses with that begging mouth of his. His breath quickens. He imagines the way Matthew will press closer, drawn in by an aftershave Arthur will never wear but will always suit him better than it suits Francis.
Francis tears off his towel and goes back to his room to change.
—
Matthew tumbles in, chased by wind. Francis pulls him in by the hand, kisses his ruddy-cheeks and smoothes down his windswept curls.
Briefly, Matthew stills against him, his nose pressed against Francis’s temple, before he melts into his hold, greets Francis sweetly.
“You look handsome.” Francis winks at him and takes his coat. Matthew looks pleased, almost preens, but it slides away when Francis suggests he come set the table.
“I’m not very hungry.” Matthew says, shrugging. “I ate with Alfred.”
“Burgers?”
“Pizza.”
Francis rolls his eyes.
But there is cake in the fridge for later. Francis plans well.
—
Matthew doesn’t savor his wine, just sips and sips until he’s done with two glasses, while Francis languidly finishes one.
He doesn’t look at Francis, at least not for long. Sometimes he glances over, from underneath his eyelashes, like he’s waiting for a signal. Shoulders tense, Matthew looks like he wants to uncoil from his corner of the sofa, slip into Francis’s lap, and get the evening started.
Francis, perhaps a bit jealously, thinks that Matthew could have kept a few of the lessons Francis did manage to impart. He’d open dusty bottles from fine years, if he knew Matthew would savor the wine, let it linger, before leaning over and kissing him. The boy has no idea of romance, no idea of timing, and he trembles like a storm when Francis does take him to bed.
But, Francis concedes, if Matthew knew anything about romance, he would have had Arthur in his bed ten times over without doing more than smiling and raising a hand.
(He wonders what Matthew would think if he admitted that it was Matthew’s flitting hands—hands that asked for more than Matthew could articulate—that convinced him that day long ago when Matthew came to him with damp cheeks and pleading kisses. Because Francis is too old to say no, because Francis can’t live another lifetime like the one he lived when he handed Matthew over. Because he’s old and bitter and wants Matthew to look at him again, like he hung the moon and every star, like he moved an ocean for him, like the way he looks at Arthur.)
—
It began with Matthew wanting him. Eager and flushed after wine, Matthew had crawled into his lap, held his face, and kissed him. Laughter reckless as Francis carried him to bed, Matthew had dragged him down for more careless kisses, sly fingers slipping under shirts.
Francis had pinned him down, chased the red down Matthew’s skin with his mouth, and, with his fingers around Matthew’s wrists to keep the wriggling boy still, he heard Matthew call out, low and tremulous.
He called out for Arthur.
He had spread his legs for Francis and called out for Arthur.
(Silent mortification breaking over his face had made Francis sit back on his heels. Matthew crying and apologizing had brought him back, had made him say it’s okay it’s okay. And it had been okay, at that point. Until it wasn’t. But Francis didn’t stop.)
—
He finishes his wine and holds out an arm. Matthew slots perfectly against him, his hand on Francis’s thigh sliding just inward and pausing.
Francis, then, looks at him. And he smiles. “Come to bed, darling.” He murmurs. His voice is soft enough, accent bitten down, and Matthew’s cheeks light up.
—
It might be pathetic, but one-on-one, faced with the reminder of his failure, of a time of weakness, Francis is weak. He’s a little selfish. And he covets this time with Matthew, even though most of the time Matthew is tangled in some other fantasy, thinking of someone else’s palms down his sides, someone else kissing down his spine.
He turns his mouth to kiss Francis, arches willingly into him, and lets Francis roll them over, his ankles hooking just over Francis’s tailbone. He and Arthur are the same height, so Francis thinks the other differences can be overlooked.
He cradles Matthew’s cheek and kisses his mouth, kisses his cheeks, and chin.
Francis indulges him, continues this farce because he loves Matthew and, somewhere, he believes that Matthew loves him a little, too.
(There was no harm in the beginning. Francis knew about unrequited love. He knew about heartbreak. He pitied Matthew, pitied how he pitied himself, having thrown Arthur’s affection in his face in a fit of feverish rage in a few weeks where he lost all control of himself. Francis blamed himself. Came to Matthew and dug in when he should have stepped away. But he just wanted a little piece before it was too late.)
Sometimes Matthew murmurs papa and Francis pretends that’s him, steals that little word and holds it tightly because Matthew will never say it outside the bed, away from Francis’s pillows where his moans fall.
Matthew arches into his kisses, fingers tangled in Francis’s hair, and he kisses back, eagerly, desperately. Tone filthy, Matthew asks for more, and Francis gives.
(Maybe at first it was penance, for taking advantage, a little bit of that old Catholic guilt bubbling up when Francis lost everything and just who’s fault was that? It became more too quickly.)
—
Matthew’s cell phone rings, and Matthew blinks, coming back to the room, and getting up on his elbows. Francis is getting lubricant from the bathroom and Matthew rolls off the bed and finds his cell phone in the tangle of their clothes.
He answers and Francis goes back to bed, sprawls out, and waits.
When Matthew gives him a guilty look, Francis just waves his hand and closes his eyes. Arthur always spoke too loud anyway.
“No, I’m awake.” Matthew says softly, wonderfully nude and lit by moonlight. He’s by the balcony, messing with the curtains, shoulder leaning against the frame. He cuts an attractive figure, tall and lean, hair a raucous mess of curls. Francis can admire him, from the slope of his neck to the curve of his rear, his cock still half-erect, and the swell of his calves. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m…” He casts a look at Francis. “…busy.”
Francis thinks he would like that devotion, definitely. The sort of devotion that has a boy answering his phone in the middle of sex with another man.
“I’m with Francis.” Matthew says, boldly, something defensive in the way he shifts on his heel and presses more against the window frame. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Good night.”
He hangs up and sets the cell phone on the desk. When he looks back at Francis, he looks sheepish. Francis holds out his arm and Matthew comes to him because, of course he does, of course he would.
“You are too polite, my love.” Francis murmurs and Matthew hovers over him, settling on his lap, idly taking Francis’s prick in hand, stroking softly, balls to the tip. “You should go to him.”
Matthew bites his lip and shakes his head. He knows what he says when Francis is fucking him. He knows whom he thinks about. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.” He says quietly, achingly, like something in him might be breaking. It reads on his face. “I have to…” He frowns then, focuses more on Francis, strokes smooth, steady. He looks at Francis, honest and open, smile nothing less than sweet. “Kiss me?”
“Too polite.” Francis sighs, curls his hand against Matthew’s nape and pulls him down for a kiss, coaxes Matthew to part his lips, and he deepens it, curling his tongue behind Matthew’s teeth and dragging out a soft moan when he pulls away.
Matthew doesn’t respond, just sighs, content, and starts to press a trail of kisses down Francis’s cheek, down his neck. He slides down, his cock pressing against Francis’s and, he moans again, fainter, rocking slightly. Breath warm against Francis’s skin, he kisses down, cheek resting on the pale hair on Francis’s chest for a moment.
When his mouth moves over Francis’s nipple, Francis stops him, cock twitching against Matthew’s belly, tipping his chin up. He’s a little strained when he says, “This is not for me, darling. It’s for you.”
Matthew just blinks at him. And he frowns slightly. “But—“
“I want to come in you.” Francis says quietly. “Will you get on your knees for me, Matthew?”
Matthew blushes, dark and pretty, and slides off him. Docile and eager to please, Matthew asks, “Like this?” as though the sight of him on Francis’s dark sheets, all pale skin, open and willing, is anything but what Francis wants.
“Yes, darling. Like that.” He breathes out, settles behind Matthew, presses his fingertips into Matthew’s side and drags down. He reaches for the lubricant, slicks his fingers, his cock, and spreads Matthew further.
Francis’s voice kicks when he says, “I want to do so many things for you, to you.”
Matthew shivers, dropping onto his elbows, his hair covering his face.
And Francis thinks, if Matthew could bear it, he’d keep Matthew the night, open him up with his tongue and fingers, drag every moan and whimpers from his flush mouth. He wants to say that Matthew need only ask, that Francis could do things that Arthur would do, more than what Arthur could do, if only Matthew would let him, wouldn’t shy away.
He’d work Matthew open, pull him apart, kindly, sweetly, and then put him back. He’d pull out that deep ache behind Matthew’s heart, the one that must rend when he follows at Arthur’s heels. He’d ease it away.
He’d even do the final step and just bring Arthur, throw him into the room and point at Matthew and shout just look at him because if Arthur ever looked, ever honestly looked, he’d see that Matthew isn’t that same little boy who could never say no.
(But, Francis knows, that if Arthur ever actually looks, then he will never be able to have Matthew back, not even for a moment, not even for a fleeting press of skin.)
“Please, Francis, please.” Matthew asks, breath catching.
Francis works in one finger, then two, and then three.
Matthew moans, hiccups his breaths, and sounds so pleased, that Francis can’t hold back. He leaves biting red kisses along Matthew’s lower back, the meat of his thighs. They threaten to bruise, but he only sucks harder, bites harder. He twists and curls his fingers, waits for Matthew’s whimpers and just presses in deeper.
And Matthew, wrecked and begging, just pulls up a leg and rocks back on Francis’s fingers, his own tangled in the sheets.
When Francis presses in, slow and breathing out, his heart thumping and belly twisting, Matthew’s breath stops and he moans, low and soft.
Somewhere in that sound, is Arthur’s name.
Francis presses against Matthew’s back, kisses his shoulder blade, and fucks him.
—
Francis doesn’t waste his cruelty, just rations it out for when he needs it or when Arthur needs to be knocked down a notch.
So he doesn’t ask Matthew if Arthur could fuck him like this, to fuck him this deep, this hard. If Arthur could touch him like this, make him beg and sob like this.
(Matthew sobs, almost weeps, as Francis fucks him. He’s not rough, he’s not achingly gentle, but he can’t do anything to stop the way Matthew inevitably cries, lost in his thoughts, in a fantasy, eyes closed and barely anchored by the almost familiar smell of Francis’s aftershave, his smooth cheek on his shoulder.)
Sometimes Francis thinks he does more harm than good, catering to Matthew’s whims, unsaid wants. He tells himself he’s in love, that he only wants Matthew to be happy. But even he can’t believe Matthew is happy when he’s splotchy and pale with still-wet eyes.
Francis can’t send him away though.
He just wipes away his tears and offers him cake.
(Francis knows about heartbreak.)