Work Text:
if you're down, let's get up
i'm down, let's get up
just say when
//
Christmas is a few days gone and Theo hasn't heard from Boris in a month when the other man appears on the doorstep of Hobart and Blackwell, just after closing time, and motions for Theo to let him in.
Theo does so with little thought. He's had to relearn Boris, they're far from the kids that they were in Las Vegas, but some things haven't changed. Like a moth to a flame, Boris returns again and again.
"Welcome back," he says simply.
"No party?" Boris grins his wolfish grin and claps Theo on the shoulder. "Have missed you, Potter."
Theo ignores Boris' admission. "You should have called."
"You missed me, too!" Boris crows. "You waited by phone for my call!"
"I meant before you showed up here!" Theo can feel his face burning at the implication that he did anything but give Boris a passing thought. "You can't just show up places!"
"Surely, I do not need a reservation to visit my friend."
"Fuck off."
"Ah! But I have such nice gift for you, Potter!" Boris' eyes are sparkling with mischief and something darker. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped package. "You should open it."
Theo stares at the package with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. "I don't have anything for you." It's not strictly true, since he has a present for Boris shoved deep under his bed, but he doesn't feel guilty for the lie. The watch had been exorbitantly expensive, and a large part of him wonders if Boris wouldn't laugh in his face for spending so much money.
"Potter," Boris says in a thick voice and Theo is surprised to see that his eyes are darkly serious. "Open the package."
Theo swallows thickly and takes the package from Boris' hands. It's incredibly light and wrapped in little more than tissue paper. His fingers rip easily through the paper to meet silky fabric underneath. Breathing raggedly, he tears the package in two to reveal it's contents. In his shock, he nearly drops the item to the floor. He's aware of Boris watching him closely, gauging his reaction, but the blood pounding in his ears prevents him from hearing anything that might be said. He's not even sure if he's still breathing, or if he ever will again.
Held between his fingers is a pair of black women's underwear.
As far as design goes, they're simple. Boris hadn't bought anything that could be considered lingerie. Still, there's something undeniably sexy about the material-- silky and smooth-- and how starkly the dark material contrasts with his pale skin.
For a long while, he contemplates the underwear. Dangerously, he can even begin to imagine slipping them on. It's a tantalizing thought-- made better by the fact that no one would know. Hobie, his clients, people passing by on the street-- they would look at him and see only expensive suits and well-shined shoes. They would never know that underneath--
"What the fuck, Boris?"
Boris startles at Theo's voice and gives him an almost apologetic look. "I could not help myself." He spreads his hands in a familiar, blameless gesture. "You do not have to keep them."
"Of course I'm not keeping them!" Theo's heart is pounding and his mouth is dry. "You're a fucking asshole, Boris."
"It was stupid gift, Potter." Boris' voice is halfway between placating and petulant. "I have already said that you do not have to keep."
Theo grits his teeth against an onslaught of confused words and emotions. He knows that he should be angry, and he is, but he's other things, as well. He clenches his fist around the underwear and contemplates throwing it in Boris' face. He contemplates throwing it in the dumpster.
And still, a part of him contemplates the feeling of that smooth silk against his skin.
God, no one would even know.
The thought sends a thrill up his spine and a spike of fear into his heart.
"You should leave," he says in a thick voice. He's glad that Boris doesn't try to argue, but simply slips through the door and into the night.
After a while, Theo finds himself in bed with the underwear tucked under his pillow. He dreams of Las Vegas and wakes to find himself hard.
//
They were young in Las Vegas. In many ways, they were the youngest that they had ever been. Underneath the hot, desert sun they had clung to one another like infants. They had nursed on vodka and pills.
In many ways, they were naive; in many more ways, they were incredibly wise.
Theo remembers Las Vegas in the same way that you remember your first kiss. It had been messy, often embarrassing, but had been the catalyst for an internal shift.
It had been an earthquake in the depths of his soul.
Lying awake a few nights after Boris had gifted him the underwear, Theo thinks of Las Vegas. He thinks of his father, of the pool, of the things that he and Boris had stolen. He even thinks of Kotku, although she's an afterthought. Slowly, almost methodically, he runs through his memories of Las Vegas. Each memory had a filmy quality to it, and many of them are filled with holes. Boris hadn't been lying when he said that Theo was a blackout drunk. There are many memories that begin in Theo's living room and end in a confused jumble or, worse, in total darkness.
As he categorizes these memories, inventories them and then sets them aside, he strokes the fabric of the underwear underneath his pillow. As perverse as it is, it's become a habit of his to run it between his fingers before falling to sleep at night. He's even run it across his cheek once or twice. The feeling of the cool fabric on his face had left him hard and aching in his pants.
To think that no one would know.
He imagined the fabric against his thighs, hugging the curve of his ass, brushing against his--
The memory slams into him with all the force of a freight train.
He and Boris drunk and high on the living room floor. They were watching some porno on TV and they had both been laughing at the actress's teased out hair and caked on makeup. Still, they had both been hard, and Boris had unabashedly reached into his pants to grab his dick. Theo had watched him.
The memory was fuzzy, like TV static, but Theo can remember Boris looking at him through heavily lidded eyes.
"You think Xandra has any like that?" He had gestured to the TV and the woman's slow removal of her lace panties. The camera had planned down to follow the trace of her legs before returning to her shaved vagina. Theo had blinked at the screen.
"I don't know." Unlike Boris, he wasn't in the habit of imagining Xandra's underwear.
The memory loses its grip, then, but Theo sure he knows how it ends.
Xandra had plenty of lace underwear, but Boris had selected a simple black silk pair from the drawer. He had handed it to Theo solemnly and, like an obedient child, Theo had stripped bare and pulled them on. His head was dumb from liquor and weed, but the action hadn't required any real thought. Boris had asked and, so, Theo had obeyed.
Theo is gripping himself before he even realizes what he's doing.
He comes quickly.
//
Boris' apartment is cleaner than usual but Theo doesn't bother to comment.
He's aware that Boris is biting back something. For Boris, this is no small feat. If Theo were in a generous mood, he might kiss him. As it were, he's not feeling particularly generous at all.
Jittering with energy, he removes his coat and hangs it up neatly by the door. There's nothing unusual in the way that he's dressed-- a simple sweater and slacks. Like all of his clothes, they fit him well. Still, in Boris' presence, he's overly aware of the way the sweater accentuates his collarbone. How the slacks cling to his legs and to his ass.
He's relieved when Boris breaks the silence. "Thought you would never forgive me, Potter. Thought maybe had crossed the line."
"I didn't know if I would." Theo's voice is shaking. He can't look Boris in the eye. "I've forgiven you for a lot of things, haven't I?"
"And I have loved you for it every time."
Theo laughs hollowly at Boris' seriousness. He knows that Boris believes that he loves him. Is that enough?
Theo had believed that he loved Kitsey, but a belief that is founded on a lie can only fester. A festering love is a love that is destined to die, he knows, and he doesn't want to die again. If he believes Boris, he runs that risk. He runs the risk of losing something more valuable than the painting-- which was only ever a false token of his mother's love.
Losing Boris would be akin to losing his mother again. It would be losing pure love.
"Potter?" Boris says softly. "Have you gotten lost in there?" Gently, he reaches out and places a finger in the center of Theo's forehead. For a moment, Theo imagines that the touch burns.
The feeling is gone in an instant.
Instead of answering, Theo reaches for the zipper of his slacks. "Don't speak," he says in a voice that trembles. "Please, don't say anything."
Boris nods in silent agreement almost breathes a sigh of relief. He takes a moment to pull his sweater over his head, dropping it to the floor, before he reaches his fingers under the waistband of his pants. He watches Boris as he pushes them down, down. He lets them fall to his ankles and leaves them forgotten on the floor. Already, he's hard and wanting. Already, he's accepted what is simply, inexplicably fate.
The underwear hugs his ass and strains against his hard dick. Boris had done well in picking the size, although Theo would have chosen a size larger had he bought them for himself. The fabric is smooth against his skin and him in an agony of desire.
God, he and Boris are the only two that know.
There's a weighted silence between them that draws on and on. It grows larger and larger until our fills Boris' small apartment. Theo knows that he, and he alone, has the power to break this silence. It's a new feeling: power. It sits uncomfortably heavy in his chest, but there's a pleasure to it, as well.
Maybe it's because he knows that this power can't be taken away.
It could be that Boris' love is a false idol. It could be that it will fester and kill them both. It could be that, later, he will regret this.
But, for now...
"Say something."
"Oh, Theo." Boris' voice is rapture and love. "Oh, Theo."
And Theo watches as he falls, slowly, to his knees.