Work Text:
1.
Akram paused in the doorway.
“You should oil the floor,” he said.
Carl didn’t look up from his phone.
“I should also win the lottery.”
“It’s drying out.”
“So am I,” Carl said. “It’s called ageing.”
Akram hummed, thoughtful.
2.
Carl caught him barefoot, toes tracing the floorboards.
“Checking for woodworm now?”
“No,” Akram said. “I’m imagining.”
Carl sighed. “I don’t want to know.”
“I am imagining kissing you here.”
Carl laughed, sharp. “We’re too old for that sort of thing.”
Akram tilted his head. “For kissing?”
“For… spontaneous floor-related nonsense.”
Akram smiled. “I disagree.”
3.
“Did you know,” Akram said, conversationally, “that wooden floors hold warmth?”
“It’s January. In Edinburgh.”
“Yes. That’s why it’s interesting.”
Carl exhaled sharply.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
Akram smiled.
4.
They came back late, damp with rain, coats half-off.
Akram stopped in the hall.
“Now would be good.”
Carl stared at the floor. Then at Akram.
“I have a bed,” he said.
Akram stepped closer. “I know.”
Carl swore under his breath and dropped his keys.
5.
The floor creaked in complaint.
So did Carl.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, even as he leaned into it, even as Akram’s hands were warm and sure and familiar.
“You’re smiling,” Akram said.
“Don’t start.”
+1.
Carl didn’t say anything as he folded back the rug.
Akram watched him do it, still and attentive. Carl toed off his shoes and tugged Akram closer by the front of his shirt. Harder than necessary.
"You win," Carl said quietly.
Akram's breath hitched — barely — but his hands were already there. Carl kissed him like he'd been thinking about it all week; heat and frustration and relief all tangling together.
Akram guided him down, steady pressure, nothing rushed. The floor was cool against Carl’s palms, then his back, Akram’s weight following, deliberate, certain. Carl grabbed at him, frustrated, breath already going.
“Still too old?” Akram murmured, close enough that Carl felt it more than heard it.
“Shut up,” Carl said, tipping his head back as Akram kissed along his throat, unhurried, claiming ground. The floor creaked again, sharp, insistent, answering the rhythm Akram set and kept.
Later, Akram lay over him, solid and warm, breath finally even.
“You were right,” Carl said, staring at the ceiling.
Akram smiled. “About what?”
“We’re not too old.”