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Cold. Wet. Dripping shirt. Supple skin. The garage smells like marijuana. The tall, weeping man in Lester's arms smells like cigarettes and rain.
Lester shudders as Fitts smooths his hands up his back, leaving cool smears of rainwater rolling down his skin. Fitts rubs his fingers deep into Lester's flesh as if savoring the pliant texture of it. Rainwater beads up on the tip of Fitts' nose as he raises his head to look at Lester directly.
Fitts' gaze shortly wanders to his lips. Lester chooses to simply look into his eyes. Deep, watery, vulnerable baby blues. Quite vulnerable. Unusually so. But if anything, Lester's discovered that everything is beautifully unusual in this small, idiotic world. Though unsure, he smiles at the man standing inches from his face. It's so strangely brilliant, everything, ultimately.
Fitts kisses him on the mouth. Then it becomes colder. Wetter. Odd. Odd how Lester takes Fitts' shoulders and pushes them softly — deliberately soft, so Fitts doesn't quite pull away. Odd how Lester lets the kiss linger past the moment it melts into something soft and still and warm.
His daughter's friend is a nymph made of gentle curves and velvet rose petals. She graces Lester's most beautiful dreams and taunts him when he's awake. The very qualities that draw him to her make her perfect body seem, to Lester's conscience, like some sweet forbidden fruit.
Plucking the scarlet apple, did Eve look upon her herself and question her own morality? Did she doubt the serpent? Did she falter?
One thing is for certain: when she partook in temptation, she immediately came to regret it.
Lester slides his palm to Fitts' icy face, tenderly smoothing his thumb over the rings beneath his eyes. Fitts kisses like a virgin: slow, gentle, trembling in fear. For as libidinous as Lester is, his lips are hesitant too. Hesitation is the opposite of fun, the enemy of action — so he simply chooses to damn it.
Burying his hand in Fitts' short hair, Lester drinks in the responding moan and cherishes the soft, grateful shudder beneath his palm as he pulls the man tight against his chest. He opens his mouth and falls victim to Fitts' inexpert, unsure tongue, pausing only when Fitts' breath hitches.
Lester slowly pulls back and looks into his troubled eyes. "Relax," he whispers. "It's alright. It's safe." He runs a hand up and down Fitts' cold, rain-slick neck. He nods his head slowly, deliberately, until Fitts nods back. "I'm going to go find you something dry to wear. Is that alright?"
"Yes," Fitts murmurs. He looks flushed, stunned, wiping the water off of his face. "Go."
Lester breathes a chuckle and backs away with his hands up, palms facing Fitts to soothe his unease. He picks up the garage remote and clicks it off, shutting out the night and its furious, wicked rain. He crosses the garage and digs through an old plastic storage bin of clothes, choosing a pair of cloth pants and an old sweatshirt from university. Turning around, he lifts them up.
"Mind these?"
Fitts, looking miserable with his arms around himself, dripping rainwater on the ground, shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
Closing the box and walking over to him, Lester grins unbidden. Really, genuinely, nothing matters. Not the world, not the rain, not his wife's fucktoy, not these clothes, not a single fucking thing.
"Doesn't matter," he says to no one at all. He puts the clothes in Fitts' arms, then smiles into his miserable, lost face. "Isn't that fucking beautiful?"
Fitts' eyes rove over Lester's bare chest, still hot with sweat and damp with rain from when Lester let him weep in his arms. Lester watches him take a shuddering breath, observing the turmoil that passes through his eyes.
"I don't know," Fitts murmurs, fresh tears beading up on his lashes. He makes a noise like he's swallowing a sob. "I don't know if it's beautiful or if it's..."
"Okay, okay, okay, hey..." Taking the clothes from Fitts' hands, Lester tuts soothingly, placing them on the chair behind him. He places his hands on Fitts' arms and rubs gentle circles into his skin, moving closer. "You don't have to know right now. That's perfectly fine. Breathe for a minute."
Fitts closes his eyes under Lester's touch, breaths turning slower, deeper, calmer. Lester gauges his comfort by the pace of his breaths, ghosting his fingers along his cold, slick skin and feeling it erupt in goosebumps in his wake. He reaches the hem of Fitts' white shirt. The rain-soaked fabric drips into his hand.
"Just tell me what you need."
Fitts opens his eyes. His deep breaths struggle into his lungs, trembling like Lester's never heard. "I just need—I just need to know."
Lester crooks a brow, looking into his eyes and finding answers he knows too little to interpret. "Know what?" he asks gently. He stills his hands on Fitts' shirt, stopping where his fingers had begun to lift the hem and expose goosebumped skin saturated with rain. "I don't think I understand—"
Fitts touches his face, leaving a cold, wet trail down his cheek. His eyes linger not on Lester's eyes but on his skin — on his own hand touching, smoothing, sliding down his neck to his chest and lower, lower, until his fingertips reach the end of the trail of fuzz that leads beneath Lester's belt.
"Oh," Lester says on a breath-chuckle, slow on the uptake because Fitts' eyes are ringed and raw and Lester's brain is still clouded by weed and the thought of his hand sliding lower. He can't recall ever fucking a man. He also can't recall the last time he fucked anything other than his own hand. Every morning in the shower, he slides his fist over his cock and shudders as warm water pelts the tip not unlike the raindrop that slides down the crook of Fitts' neck.
Watching it rush along the dip of Fitts' collarbone, Lester finds his tongue is suddenly dry; finds that he's stood in silence far too long just imagining how it might taste. He wonders for a moment why Fitts hasn't just asked for what he wants; wonders why he isn't just taking it from Lester, forcing him to his knees and filling his mouth with cock. Wonders why a Marine Colonel with a terrified wife and a strange, sullen kid is in his garage aching to feel him.
Then he wonders why he's wondering at all.
Lester feels around for the joint he left on his stool, still lit, burning and fragrant. Looking into Fitts' eyes with a soft, blasé smile, he takes a long drag of it and blows it out of the corner of his mouth.
"Of course. Yeah, of course you can fuck me," Lester finally says. He isn't versed on how men fuck, really, apart from one or two pornos he's seen over the years, but fuck if nothing sounds better than the thought of his tongue on Fitts' cock. It would be slow. Unsure, wet, heavy.
Setting the joint back down, he feels a slow shudder take him over as the marijuana hits his nerves and turns him softer. He has absolutely nothing to lose. The world feels both boundless and perfectly empty, happy-numb for so many non-reasons at once. "So why don't you push me down and shove your cock in my mouth, and I'll do everything I can to make you forget."