Work Text:
Rain-slicked pavement reflects the neon hum of Midtown, but Jim ignores the spray flicking off his tires as he pedals furiously toward the Plaza Hotel. He’s nearly twenty, working full shifts as a bike messenger just to survive the city, and every free minute belongs to Trey—the senator’s eighteen-year-old son currently wrapped in luxury upstairs.
A sharp, panicked yelp cuts through the ambient roar of Fifth Avenue traffic. Jim glances up toward the upper levels of the Plaza, squinting against the drizzle, and his breath hitches. Perched dangerously on a high stone ledge is Reinaldo, the pampered, micro-sized dog belonging to Trey's mother. Right behind the open window frame, two blonde girls scramble in panic. Jim zeroes in on the taller one and his stomach drops; she’s wearing nothing but a white terrycloth hotel robe, her hair tousled in that unmistakable, just-out-of-bed static.
The cardiac muscle inside Jim’s chest contracts into a tight, aching knot. Jealousy and betrayal hit him like a physical blow. How could you? the thought burns through his mind, toxic and sharp. How could you do this to me? I've got to be misunderstanding.
Desperate for answers, Jim lays on the pedals, tearing through the intersection without checking the light. A stretch silver limousine comes out of nowhere, horn blaring like a foghorn. Brakes screech. Headlights blind him. Instinct takes over—Jim tucks his shoulder, throwing his body clear of the frame, and rolls across the damp asphalt. He hits the curb with a bruised elbow and a scraped knee, but his bike isn't so lucky. The limo’s heavy radial tires crunch over the front wheel, crushing the frame into a useless V and obliterating his final delivery package into a cloud of soggy cardboard and paper.
The limo's heavy rear door pops open. A burly, heavyset white man in a sharp dark suit steps out into the rain, holding a cell phone to his ear and barking furiously into the receiver with a bizarre, hybrid Russian-Cantonese accent. Jim ignores the guy's spittle-laced tirade, shaking off the ringing in his ears as he scrambles to his feet.
That’s when the Plaza’s ornate glass doors burst open. Trey steps out into the cool air, bare-chested, low-rise jeans hanging off his hips, holding a shivering Reinaldo safely in the crook of one arm. Flanking him on either side are the two blonde girls, looking breathless and flushed. Jim doesn't think. He doesn't ask for an explanation. The raw, possessive agony surging through him takes total control. He lunges forward, closing the distance between them in three heavy strides, grabbing Trey by the back of the neck, and pulling him down into a fierce, bruising kiss. It’s not just a greeting; it’s an absolute claim, heavy with unspoken anger and desperate affection.
Trey stiffens in surprise for a fraction of a second before melting into the heat of it, his free hand instinctively coming up to grip Jim’s damp jacket, humming soft approval into his mouth. Beside them, the two girls gasp, exchange wide-eyed, disappointed looks, and pull back in shock. Jim doesn't give them a second glance. He keeps his mouth pressed to Trey’s, locking his boyfriend in place right there on the sidewalk, determined to mark what’s his.