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James could smell the cheroot even before he turned the key, its heady scent a plume of accusation and apology. He pictured the clever fingers, which held it, elegant, anxious and angry; admitted they had every right to be.
Q only smoked them when James had done something foolhardy in the line of duty, cheated death and flirted with mortality, all the while knowing his young lover hung upon the other end of that earpiece, like stone, like steel, arguing with inevitability.
One day, any day, perhaps tomorrow, he will leave their sanctuary and step on the wrong crack, permanently, condemning Q to the half-life of mourner’s purgatory.
That thought strips him bare, puts urgency in his stride as he crosses the flat into a haze of humidity. His lover’s eyes flash cat-green, not angry anymore, but pensive.
Q taps the ash into a dish and sets the cheroot aside, instinct and relief propelling him to his feet. He’s all long limbs now, suddenly awkward and coltish, hesitant to welcome his lover home; his walking calamity.
James presses him back against the tiles, mouth and cock already hard and hungry. It’s so rough this rhythm of theirs, this trail towards guilt and need.
They don’t speak, neither wants to accuse, wants the apology. They set their pace, and remember to breathe.
