Work Text:
Look, it's not something he puts on his actual resume, okay?
If it was, then that would mean Whizzer would have to start putting every odd, one-off job that he's done for just a few extra bucks here there—like lawnmower or sign-spinner or I sucked this guy off at a bar once because I had wanted to but afterwards he like gave me five dollars and a coupon for a free Frosty at Wendy's and I was so shocked and kinda broke that I didn't give it back to him and I feel weirdly guilty and dirty about it now, so does that make me a prostitute? Charlotte, I know it's three in the morning, but please pick up the phone—DOES THAT MAKE ME A PROSTITUTE?
Or, as in this instance, swimming pool service technician.
"So, like a pool boy?" Cordelia responds, smirking and cocking an eyebrow, "Wow, I didn't know those things actually existed outside of pornos."
Whizzer snorts, keeping his gaze trained on the flyer, "I know. They must be so loaded. I've never even met someone who has their own pool—much less can hire someone else to clean it."
"Maybe it's a front for a sex thing," Cordelia says thoughtfully, still unwilling to let her point go, "Like a porno."
"For ten bucks an hour?" Whizzer says, "I mean, I don't like to use the word never, but I'm not that poor and slutty." He thinks about it, "Like, maybe for twenty, there could be something arranged, but ten? I'm not a prostitute."
Cordelia levels him a look.
"That was one time and I did not do it for the money and the free Frosty, Cordelia!"
"But you did use that coupon like literally the next day, didn't you?"
Whizzer quickly changes the subject, remarking, "I mean, it won't do any harm to give it a call, right? And cleaning a pool? How hard could that be?"
"Super hard," Cordelia teases lowly, injecting an obnoxious amount of pornographic moans into her words, "So, so, so hard..."
:: - ::
Locking himself in the bathroom so Cordelia won't blow this (no pun intended; stop it) for him, Whizzer dials the number on the flyer.
"Hello?" After a few rings, a woman's voice answers, "Who is this?"
Whizzer puts on his most charming tone, "Hi, my name is Whizzer Brown. I saw your flyer for the swimming pool service technician position? I was wondering if that was still available?"
"Oh yes, it is!" She says, "I've scheduled an interview for all the applicants this Sunday, if that's—"
"Interview?" Whizzer repeats dumbly, furrowing his brow, "You need to interview me to be your po—swimming pool service technician?"
"Well, yes," The woman says, a little bemused at his perplexity, "Don't take this the wrong way—I'm sure you're an upstanding pillar of the community, Mr. Brown, but I have a lot of valuables and a small son, and you can't be too careful with people these days."
"Yeah, I guess." Whizzer didn't even think that this would be any different than to just walk up and do it, "I completely understand. Sunday sounds incredible. What time would be best?"
:: - ::
"They're interviewing you?" Cordelia repeats as he leaves the bathroom, having obviously been listening in, "To be their pool boy?"
"Swimming pool service technician," Whizzer corrects, like that's any better, "And yeah, apparently. Wants me to bring a resume, too."
"What were you doing on the rich side of town anyway to see this?" Cordelia asks, grabbing the flyer from him.
Whizzer rolls his eyes, "What do you think?" He makes a lewd hand gesture.
She crinkles her nose, "Are rich guys your type now?"
Whizzer thinks about pointing out that he doesn't really have a type, but given that that's already pretty much universal knowledge at this point, he just responds, "Their sheets are always so soft."
"They're usually stuck-up, posh assholes though."
"So? You and I are stuck-up assholes, too—we're just poor."
Cordelia shrugs, "Fair enough."
"I don't have any experience that could qualify me for the position though," Whizzer says with a sigh, "My only hope is that the wife thinks I'm hot and she'll be able to brag about it to her friends."
"Or the husband's queer." She offers.
Whizzer raises an eyebrow, deciding, "That would be better."
:: - ::
The house (yes, a house—not a shitty, four room apartment but a two-floored, sleek, balconied house) is more or less what Whizzer was expecting from this sort of neighborhood, but it still makes his eyes widen all the same.
As he's walking up to the front door, Whizzer passes another man heading out, and he is immediately intimidated by the overwhelming blue-collared hard worker demeanor that the older man has. Whizzer dares a glance at the man's calloused hands and chipped, split fingernails and looks down at his own soft, manicured ones, noticing the acute differences.
Yeah, his only hope may just as well be his pretty face.
Whizzer checks his hair in the reflection of one of the window panes and fixes his collar before pressing the doorbell.
A few moments later, a woman—frazzled haired, make-up slightly smudged, and early onset crows feet due to stress already starting to line her eyes—opens the door, "You must be Whizzer, is that right?"
Whizzer puts on his most flirtatious grin, "And you must be the beautiful woman I spoke to on the phone."
The compliment makes her smile a little, but she's more or less unaffected.
Evidently, it's not looking too well for him.
"Come in," She ushers, politely not smirking at the way Whizzer stares wondrously into the home as he steps forward, "My husband is waiting for us in the dining room."
As Whizzer follows the woman ("Please, call me Trina"), he can't help but pick up on the underlying hollowness of the home. The house is filled with decor items and expensive conversation pieces, but there's no trinkets or well-worn mementos—no indicator that this is a home rather than just a set piece on display.
On the wall, Whizzer only sees one personal picture—a family portrait of Trina (looking haunted), a handsome man that Whizzer supposes is Trina's husband (looking pained), and the small son that Trina had referred to earlier (looking miserable).
They're the perfect cliché—a family of strangers with too much materials and not enough sustenance.
It's something that Whizzer may be able to work to his advantage, given the opportunity.
Finally, they reach the dining room where Whizzer spies a bored-looking man sitting at the table with his head tipped back, eyes drilling into the ceiling and looking distinctly like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.
Idly, Whizzer wonders if that's just because of the interviews or if he always feels like that.
"Marvin, this is Whizzer," Trina says with a pointed clearing of her throat, looking more resigned to her husband's apathy rather than annoyed, "He's another one of the applicants."
Marvin sighs and tilts his head down to get a look of him, the boredom briefly slipping from his face.
At the sight of Whizzer's broad shoulders and trim waistline, Marvin very subtly straightens in his seat, and there's not a single heterosexual excuse to explain away the flicker of interest in his face before it settles back to stone.
Whizzer has to fight to keep the smirk off his face. Jackpot.
Trina hardly even blinks at her husband's sudden attentiveness—either because she doesn't notice the implication or she's electing to ignore it, it's too soon to tell.
To test out the waters, Whizzer licks his lips and smiles at Marvin, "Nice to meet you."
Marvin's expression doesn't change, but his eyes drop to Whizzer's mouth automatically before he seems to remember himself, gaze shooting back up to his eyes again, "Let's just get this thing over with."
Whizzer takes the seat across the table of Marvin while Trina sits by her husband, the formality of it almost reigniting Whizzer's nerves.
"So," Trina says, flicking through the very light resume that he'd handed to her, "I see that you have no prior electrical or plumbing experience."
"Nope."
"And you are not employed at all right now? Not even part time?"
"Well, I do a series of odd jobs like this to pay the rent," Whizzer elaborates, "I haven't really found anywhere that's worth steady employment."
"This wouldn't be so steady," Trina informs him, "We'd only need you about once a week to check on the filters and clean the water."
"And I'll always be available to do that." Whizzer says, flickering his gaze briefly to Marvin, "Really, I'll be available any time." He's laying in on thick, partly out of curiosity and partly out of the desire to get this easy, fair-paying job.
Marvin holds his gaze for a split second, seemingly stunned and curious at Whizzer's bluntness, before he looks away.
"Have you worked anywhere that would assure us you'd know what you're doing?" Trina asks, "Have you ever been in contact with filters or equipment repair?"
"No, but I'm a quick learner," Whizzer offers and says very innocently, "And I am very good with my hands." He keeps his gaze locked on Trina, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see Marvin's gaze flicker down to the aforementioned hands, the Adam's apple of his throat jumping a bit.
With closet cases like this, it's too easy.
"Any criminal history?" Marvin asks this time, adding firmly, "And don't lie. We can easily check and we will."
"I've always been clean. Never a thief." Whizzer says, looking over at Marvin, "One of you could even always be there to watch me, too. I wouldn't mind."
Marvin doesn't look away, pinning him with a stare, "You wouldn't, huh?"
And it's just like that cheesy dialogue in those low-budget pornos that it makes Whizzer want to both snort and cringe. In his mind, Cordelia is howling with laughter.
"No, Sir," Whizzer says, playing his role as slutty hired help, "Not at all."
It's only flirting, and by the way that the rest of the interview goes (as in they find out that he doesn't even know what a pool filter does or looks like), Whizzer doesn't honestly think that he'll get the job, even if the husband wants to screw him hard into the wall.
Which is why he's surprised when Trina calls him the next day.
"Can you come over tomorrow afternoon?" Trina says, and she doesn't sound too happy about his sudden employment, "Apparently Marvin will be able to show you how to clean the pool and maintain the filters himself."
"Really?" Whizzer says, trying to both hide his surprise and keep his shitty ramen noodles on his fork, "That's—That's great. Thank you. I can't wait." They exchange more information before Whizzer is able to hang up.
"Was that the pool lady?" Charlotte asks, mouth stuffed with the noodles.
"Yeah," Whizzer says bemusedly, adding thoughtfully, "I think I was just hired to fuck her husband."
Cordelia snorts, "For more Wendy's coupons?"
"Cordelia, I swear to God..."
:: - ::
To Whizzer's complete and utter surprise, he doesn't get to fuck Marvin that day.
Instead, Marvin honest-to-God teaches him how to clean the large underground pool, which equipment to use and how to check and unclog the filters. It's jarring and a little disappointing (because let's be real here: Marvin—with his perpetually mussed hair and angular face and muscular arms—is a wet dream walking) and makes Whizzer think that maybe they'd just decided to give him a real chance.
But that's naive to think because all the while condescendingly explaining how to clean water, Marvin's interest in him is still palpable—each time that he stutters when Whizzer's shirt rides up or his breathing stills when Whizzer looms close to him while feigning interest in the pool filter or his eyes wander down to grope his ass when he thinks Whizzer isn't paying attention.
Maybe he was just hired as eye candy for Marvin rather than an active participant, Whizzer supposes.
Which is fine. For now.
"Do you think you understand?" Marvin asks patronizingly, and the most frustrating part is that Whizzer doesn't even think Marvin is doing it on purpose—that's just how he talks.
Whizzer shoots him a bright, obviously fake smile, "I'll see if I can manage."
Under Marvin's alert, critical gaze, Whizzer goes through the motions that he'd been half-paying attention to, checking the filters and cleaning the equipment and sweeping the stone floor surrounding the pool. When it's time to clean the water, Whizzer shamelessly kicks off his shoes and strips off his shirt. Whizzer isn't facing him, but he hears Marvin make an audible noise in the back of his throat.
"What are you doing?" Marvin demands, voice carefully clipped but still a little strangled.
Whizzer turns around to face him (letting Marvin get the full look), pointing out innocently, "How else am I going to clean the pool? It's huge, Marv."
Marvin's eyes narrow at the shortened version of his name, but he only comments, "That's why we have extension rods for the sweeper. It'll reach the entire width of the pool. You don't have to—to do that." His gaze keeps wandering downward to the tanned, firm planes of Whizzer's torso before he hurriedly corrects himself.
"It'd be easier and quicker to just get in and sweep it all up. Less maneuvering for me." Whizzer points out, and though he himself doesn't think that's necessarily true, it's plausible enough to not ask too many questions. He shrugs, pushing his luck by adding, "Plus, I've never swam in a private pool before. I thought I'd make the job more enjoyable." For both of us, he thinks about adding, given the way that Marvin looks hungrily at him through darting glances.
Marvin's jaw is locked and there's a vein sticking out of his neck and he's sweating a little bit—enough that Whizzer supposes he could blame it on the heat and not the nearly naked man in front of him (whose swim shorts are short and skimpy and leaves almost nothing to the imagination).
"Whatever." Marvin says curtly, seemingly fascinated by the pool shed and unwilling to take his trained gaze off of it, "Just get to work." Even though he's stayed outside with him throughout the whole exchange thus far, Marvin abruptly leaves after that, closing the glass door firmly shut behind him and barricading himself in the hollow house.
Rolling his eyes, Whizzer picks up the sweeper and gets to work filtering out all the dead bugs and leaves. When he's halfway finished and chest-deep in the water, he hears the glass door slide quietly open again. Whizzer keeps his attention on the task at hand, not sparing the man a single glance. He hears one of the chairs scrape against the stone and the pointed ruffling of a newspaper.
When it becomes too much to bear, Whizzer flickers an offhanded glance over at him, seeing how the man has plopped down in one of the pool chairs with a newspaper raised to cover his face. But Whizzer can see Marvin's eyes cutting above the newspaper, gaze aimed directly at him. When they make eye contact, Marvin looks down and raises the newspaper higher, using it as a shield. Smirking, Whizzer takes his sweet time cleaning the rest of the pool, acutely aware of the man's starved eyes locked on him.
When he's finished, it's been over two hours when Whizzer could've easily done the job in one. But Marvin doesn't accuse him of stalling and just hands over the twenty dollars as Whizzer towels off.
Because maybe Marvin also likes when Whizzer stalls and spends as much time hardly clothed as possible. Go figure.
:: - ::
It's not the only job that Whizzer has, but it is certainly the easiest and most enjoyable. After all, all Whizzer has to do is half-heartedly clean and take his clothes off and swim in a pool all by himself. As far as jobs go, this one fucking rocks.
Through the first month of working there, Whizzer discovers that Marvin is usually the only one home on early Wednesday afternoons. Unlike the first time, however, he doesn't join Whizzer outside. He typically stays barricaded in a room that looks to be an office, and Whizzer knows this because that particular room has a giant pan window, overlooking the pool.
Whizzer can always look over and see Marvin through the glass, either with a phone pressed to his ear or working hard at his desk or watching him.
Yeah, usually—actually, almost always watching him.
As if the glass provides a barrier from all consequences, Marvin doesn't play around with subtlety. Always, he stands or sits in perfect view of the pool, blatantly staring at the half-naked, wet boy in his pool. Sometimes, when Whizzer feels cheeky and wants to test him, he makes it so their eyes meet, so that Marvin knows that Whizzer knows.
Sometimes, Marvin keeps his gaze and even smiles—a filthy, secret, leery smile.
The whole ordeal is immature and transparent and almost laughable.
...And kinda hot—come on, like, just a little bit.
But nothing ever comes of it for a long time. The month passes with this routine—Whizzer cleaning and Marvin watching and Marvin paying and Whizzer leaving. They hardly talk to one another other than to exchange pleasantries every once in awhile as Marvin leafs through his wallet.
And it's a great system, Whizzer supposes. He's not opposed to being stared at, to being wanted.
And Whizzer can't say that he hasn't stared at Marvin through the window—at the way the tendons in his arms jump when he's having a heated phone call, or the way he bites his lip when he's concentrating on writing something, or the way he sometimes turns around and gives Whizzer a full look at his ass.
Yeah, Whizzer thinks to himself, grinning at the way the flush rises to Marvin's face when he had glanced over at Whizzer and seen that the man was already staring at him, it's a pretty fucking great system.
:: - ::
After awhile, two months after that very first day, Marvin decides to get chatty.
"I don't know anything about you." He points out, refusing to hand over Whizzer's (somewhat) earned twenty dollars.
"You don't need to know anything about me." Whizzer points out.
"So you don't have any direction in life? No purpose?" Marvin demands suddenly, strangely intent on wheedling personal information out from him, "Your dream was to clean pools?"
"Look, I'm a photographer, alright?" Whizzer gives in with a sigh, trying to get the interaction over as quickly as possible, "Obviously, that doesn't pay the bills."
"And there aren't jobs like that?" Marvin asks, "Can't you go to one of those family portrait businesses and get hired?"
"Those are mostly just one-man kind of businesses," Whizzer says, "If anything, I'd need to rent out my own place, set up a studio. Can I get my money now?"
Marvin hands over the cash from his stuffed wallet, not making a show of it but not necessarily hiding it either. It occurs to Whizzer that he doesn't really know much about Marvin.
"What's your job?" Whizzer asks impulsively.
"I work on Wall Street." Marvin answers, "Managing others' personal investments."
"You're one of those vampires, huh?"
Marvin narrows his eyes at him, "It's not our fault you're not good at managing money and we are." It's such a Marvin thing to say that it makes Whizzer roll his eyes even harder.
"See you next week, Marvin." Whizzer says boredly, abruptly cutting the conversation short and not failing to notice the way that Marvin's face drops a little.
As he's walking away, though. Marvin blurts out suddenly, "I didn't always want to be a vampire, you know. I wanted to be an actor." The confession is hurried and sputtered, as if he didn't want to make it but he also didn't want Whizzer to leave. Taking pity on him, Whizzer decides to throw him a bone.
"An actor?" Whizzer repeats with vague intrigue, throwing a look over his shoulder and smirking at him, "You do have the pretty face for it."
Marvin swallows hard, face a little flushed and voice a little stilted, "You should photograph it sometime then."
"Maybe I will," Whizzer allows, bargaining, "You should join me outside and talk to me more."
Marvin hesitates a little before saying, "Maybe I will."
After that, Marvin sits by the pool and does his work, looking up frequently and watching Whizzer and obviously loving when Whizzer watches him back.
In porn, this all happened so immediate. It follows a formula: Hot swimming pool service technician, hot homeowner, sexual tension, cheesy dialogue, very graphic and often exaggerated sex.
It's a formula that Marvin and Whizzer have been following—save for the actual sex part.
And it's killing Whizzer.
:: - ::
Summer has started to sway and dissipate into a chilled autumn.
They talk more now—about trivial things. Whizzer tells Marvin all the celebrity gossip that he'd read in magazines and Marvin would try to pretend that he knows who he's talking about; Marvin tells him useless trivia facts and corny jokes that make Whizzer roll his eyes and occasionally have to hide a smile and snort; they talk about about their personal lives some, just enough that Marvin occasionally asks how Cordelia and Charlotte are doing despite never having met them and Whizzer asks about his job and whether he'll ever get into regional theater just for the fun of it.
They don't talk about Marvin's wife and child.
"More leaves are getting into the pool." Marvin says suddenly as he pays Whizzer after a long day, "It's getting disgusting. You should come by twice a week now."
"When?" Whizzer asks, knowing that it's important to both of them that they be alone.
"Sunday," Marvin says, "Trina usually takes Jason to see her parents then. That way they won't be a—distraction."
Whizzer wants to kiss him, but he doesn't. Not yet. He just nods and accepts his payment and leaves the hollow man in his hollow house.
:: - ::
"Come on, Marv," Whizzer pleads, propping himself up by the edge of the pool and smiling coyly up at him, "It's the last day for a warm swim. It's gonna turn cold as balls after today."
Marvin doesn't look up from his spreadsheet, "No."
"I even got it clean," Whizzer says, gesturing to the crystal clear waters, "Don't let it go to waste."
Marvin looks up long enough to eye a leaf floating at the edge of the other side, "You missed a spot."
"Marvin."
Marvin shakes his head again.
Whizzer sighs, deciding to play his trump card, "I guess I'll leave then."
"What?" Marvin demands, looking vaguely put out at the notion, "You haven't even been here an hour."
"I'm finished." Whizzer points out, shrugging, "Might as well leave."
"Whizzer, don't be a brat." Marvin says, apparently deciding that he gets to talk to him like that, "Just because I don't want to swim doesn't mean you have to go."
But Whizzer is already getting out of the pool, walking over to Marvin and saying, "Give me that towel, would you?"
Marvin seems distracted by the water droplets on Whizzer's skin.
"Marvin." He says impatiently, a reminder.
Snapping out of it, Marvin clears his throat and throws him the towel that Whizzer had draped over his chair.
A ploy locked in his mind, Whizzer half-heartedly starts to towel himself before he sighs, putting on a pitiful voice, "Jeez, I'm tired." He looks over at Marvin, who's straightened in his seat and is avidly watching him, "Would you care to towel me off?" He uses the same line that that one brunette dude did in some pool boy porno that Cordelia had given him to watch, snidely telling him to take notes.
According to the porno, Marvin is supposed to say, "Of course," and give him a handjob under the guise of wiping him off.
But to Whizzer's sincere disappointment, Marvin just blinks, as if sure he heard him wrong, "Would I—what?"
Whizzer plays coy, sighing and saying, "Never mind then."
"No, no, no. I mean—" Marvin says hurriedly, abruptly standing up and walking over to him, "Yeah, sure. I can—yeah." He sounds like he's trying very clearly not to have a stroke—and failing miserably.
It's strangely endearing.
Whizzer hands the wide-eyed man the towel and turns around, feeling the soft brush of the fabric scrape tentatively across his wet shoulders first and then lower down to his back and then lower—
All the while, Whizzer is enjoying the sensation and absently noticing that Marvin has barely been breathing up to this point.
When Whizzer turns around for the front to be done, Marvin is quicker in his motions, Whizzer's pointed gaze on him motivating him to speed along the process on his upper chest and arms. When Marvin gets to his stomach, Whizzer makes him pause, making him drop the towel and interlocking their hands.
"Whizzer." Marvin says roughly, refusing to meet his gaze. It's neither a warning nor a plea but a mere calling of his name, a pointed reminder of just who he is and who Marvin is and the implication and consequences of what would happen if they slipped into each other's separate worlds.
Whizzer leans down and takes a step back, making Marvin dazedly follow him. Marvin looks up then, meeting his gaze and just now realizing how dangerously close Whizzer has made their mouths.
Whizzer leans even closer, breathing into Marvin's parted lips, "Hold your breath."
Marvin blinks, briefly torn out of the seduction, "Wait, what—" But Whizzer is already lurching backwards, holding Marvin to him and dragging both of them into the pool.
The shock of the water submerging them is breath-taking, and when Whizzer and Marvin both pop up only a second after the impact, they're panting.
"You're such an asshole!" Marvin exclaims, pushing at the other man.
Whizzer just keeps laughing breathlessly, grabbing ahold of Marvin's hips and pressing them close together. Marvin struggles only briefly before stopping, both men knowing that he could break out of Whizzer's grasp if he tried.
But he doesn't try.
Marvin doesn't say anything, but his eyes are wide and he's biting his lip and he's trembling a little in Whizzer's arms.
Whizzer looks at him—his wet hair, his bright eyes, his flushed cheeks—and wants.
"What are you so afraid of?" Whizzer demands quietly, brow furrowed. He's really asking, Why do you always only want to just keep watching?
Marvin lets out a shaky breath and lies stubbornly, "Nothing."
Whizzer kisses him, chastely at first—letting Marvin get over the shock of it happening. Marvin is the one who opens his mouth first, letting Whizzer sigh and prod his tongue into his mouth experimentally. Whizzer threads his arms around Marvin's neck and breaks the kiss, allowing themselves to catch their breath and bumping their noses together. Marvin hasn't stopped shuddering, but he doesn't seem scared or angry anymore.
He seems hungry.
Marvin runs his hands over Whizzer's chest, up to his shoulders, down his back, grabs his ass. All the while, Whizzer bites his lip and sighs and moans and clutches onto Marvin's hips, unwilling to let him move a single inch away from him.
Marvin kisses him desperately, devastatingly. Like he needs it. He explores Whizzer's mouth as much as he explores his body, his hands and tongue never stopping even as Whizzer is shaking and trying to catch his breath again.
"Fuck, Marvin," Whizzer whispers, breaking the kiss and letting Marvin press desperate kisses to his collarbone, "Been waiting for this for so long. Don't stop—"
From inside the house, they both hear Trina's muffled voice, "Marv, we're home!"
Marvin and Whizzer scramble apart, putting as much distance between them as they can before Trina and Marvin's son pop open the glass door and find them.
"Marvin?" Trina says incredulously, looking at her wet, flushed, fully clothed husband, "What are you doing?"
Marvin opens his mouth but no words come out.
"He fell into the pool." Whizzer says quickly, noticing how hoarse his voice had become and clearing his throat.
"I'm fine." Marvin says tersely, not even sparing Whizzer a single glance as he awkwardly swims over and crawls out of the pool, "I just slipped. It was nothing."
Trina blinks at him, "Uh—Okay. Are you sure you're—"
"I said I'm fine." Marvin snaps, looking down at his sopping wet clothes in disgust, "Just pay the pool boy while I go change."
Trina and Marvin's son share incredulous looks as Marvin essentially stomps back into the house.
Whizzer has to stiffen an eye roll and exasperated sigh, silently bemoaning the fact that the hot homeowner's family never comes home and interrupts them during the porno.