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Peter laces his fingers through Alistair’s and presses their palms to the flat plane of his belly.
“Would you?” he pleads softly.
*
It’s early evening and the weak light of the setting sun streams through the window, pooling on the floor. They’ve just finished dinner and have relocated to the couch; Peter’s head on Alistair’s lap.
Alistair’s narration of the Hound of the Baskervilles is the only sound that breaks the stillness of the room. He cards his fingers through Peter’s hair along with the rhythm of the words.
Peter will never say that he secretly delights in listening to the soft cadences of Alistair’s voice, his Scottish accent giving a foreign yet familiar slant to everyday words. But it’s understood.
It’s one of the many things that they will never mention but are intrinsically known.
*
“Yes,” Alistair says and puts down the well thumbed novel on the side table.
Peter turns to lean on the further armrest of the couch.
*
When they first started being together, Alistair had said: “You can have almost anything you want, from me.”
Peter had never felt so overwhelmed in his life.
People always wanted something from him. Both Tony and Gordon wanted his loyalty and spin doctoring skills. Alastair wanted his body.
No one had offered to give him something before.
*
There are some things that Alistair can’t give. Like his body. And a few of his secrets.
But these aren’t really that important in comparison because he gives everything else.
*
When Alistair comes back from the bedroom to retrieve the lube, he finds Peter waiting expectantly, naked from the waist down, grey track pants a puddle on the floor. He settles down on the couch and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Peter’s smile.
A lubed finger slides through the tight ring of muscle while Peter exhales and closes his eyes. He adds another and leans forward, the other arm slipping behind to cup the back of Peter’s head.
Another kiss, this time while swiping his fingers insistently against Peter’s prostrate. They’ve done this many times before but Alistair has yet to lose his embarrassment over it.
Peter pants softly and whimpers as he comes, Alistair stroking him through the aftershocks. He pulls out with a slightly indecent pop that is oddly loud in the still air of the room. Peter buries his head in Alistair’s chest with a sigh.
“Thank you,” he whispers sleepily, eyelids fluttering close.
*
Later, Alistair brings a towel from the washroom and cleans both of them up. He leads Peter to their bedroom with a palm at the small of his back. It fits perfectly, like it was meant to be there.
And when they curl into each other in preparation to fall asleep, Peter slips a hand under the back of Alistair’s sweatshirt and palms the curve of his spine. Though he isn’t a tactile person, Alistair finds that he doesn’t mind.
He unfolds a well worn afghan and pulls it over both of them.
They’ve never been happier.