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After two weeks of near-constant rainfall, the noonday sun felt like a benediction. Two weeks indoors in Sanctuary, eating canned food and huddling by the fireplaces, marking the passage of time in Rad-X doses. The ground, still partially frozen after a long, hard winter, could not absorb the rainfall, and the excess water pooled and flooded and spilled over the thresholds and into the houses. It saturated books and blankets and wicked up the walls, leaving dark mildew stains on the salvaged sheet rock.
Deacon sat cross-legged on a picnic table in the general's muddy backyard, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He'd removed his shirt and rolled his pants to the knees to better catch the sunlight on his bare skin. Utterly content, he paged through one of the books he'd rescued from the floodwaters, tapping ash into a cracked willow-patterned saucer overflowing with butts and ash. Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. Heat bit his knuckles; he stubbed his cigarette out and lit another, unthinking.
"Hey Deacon." He glanced up, marking his page with a finger. Sturges was leaning up against the fence. He and Preston had spent the entire morning mopping up stagnant water and setting things out in the sun to dry. Deacon had pitched in for a few hours, then made his excuses. Life was too short to waste a sunny day indoors.
"Hey yourself," said Deacon, stretching. "What's the good news?"
Sturges' eyes lingered on Deacon's chest for a moment, then flicked back to his face. "Been a hell of a mornin'," he drawled. "We missed you on the clean-up crews."
"I was there," Deacon said. He took a long drag on his cigarette, let the smoke trickle out of his mouth and nose. "I was wearing a big hat, though. You probably didn't recognize me."
Sturges chuckled. "Maybe." The screen door banged; both men looked up. Preston emerged from the house, dressed plainly in an oversized t-shirt and worn flannel pajama pants, a starched towel thrown casually over his shoulder.
He nodded at Deacon and kissed Sturges on the cheek, looping an arm around his waist. "Afternoon, Deacon," he said brightly. "What are you reading?"
"Just an old book I found," Deacon said. "What're you two up to?"
"We're goin' to head on down to the creek and wash up," said Sturges airily.
Deacon tapped ash off his cigarette and looked from Sturges to Preston and back again, noting Sturges' too-casual posture and Preston's bashful, enigmatic half-smile. Mouth suddenly dry, Deacon put his cigarette out. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," said Preston. "There's a good spot for bathing, downstream a ways. It's nice and private." He smiled, and Deacon's heart skipped a beat.
"So if anyone comes looking for us," said Sturges meaningfully. "You know where we'll be." He stopped just short of throwing a wink and a nudge.
"I think I take your meaning," said Deacon.
"I think you do." Sturges kissed Preston on the cheek, and they turned and left the yard, picking their way through the mud and weeds, towards the creek. Deacon marked his page with a leaf and set the book aside, next to the saucer and his half-empty pack of cigarettes. He climbed down off the table, stretched, and followed Preston and Sturges on cats' feet, following their voices and their boot prints down to the stream.
Sturges had dammed the creek a quarter-mile upstream from Sanctuary. The resultant pool was deep and cool, even higher with the run-off from the recent rain. Deacon found a comfortable spot sheltered by a boulder and screened by a cluster of reeds. Leaning on the boulder, he dropped into a kneeling position and settled in to watch Preston and Sturges.
The other men stood on the muddy bank, peeling their shirts off and talking in low voices. Sturges was a vision straight from the pages of an Old-World skin mag: sculpted torso and washboard abs, toned arms and shoulders. Preston was equally fit, but built on a smaller scale. Trim waist, solid arms, chest and biceps crisscrossed with burn scars. Sturges kissed Preston's neck; he shivered, eyes fluttering shut.
Deacon swallowed. He stepped on a twig, snapping it audibly to announce his presence. Sturges and Preston glanced up, scanning the bank. Their eyes fell on the cluster of reeds and their faces broke into lazy smiles; Sturges kissed Preston showily, his broad hands sliding across Preston's chest. He smiled and leaned back into Sturges' embrace, craning his neck to return the kiss.
They dropped their shirts onto a nearby boulder, safely away from the mud and muck. Sturges' hands roved over Preston's body, cupping and caressing and nudging his pants down his hips. Inch by inch, he bared Preston's body--angular hips, trail of dark curls leading down from his navel, uncut cock hanging sweetly between his muscular thighs. Sturges fit his hand around Preston's dick and he moaned, head tipped back.
They made a lovely sight: Sturges' broad, pale hands against Preston's dark, ruddy skin. Deacon watched as Preston shivered under Sturges' touch, his cock swelling as the other man ran his fingers along the underside of his shaft. He pulled Preston's foreskin back and dragged his thumb across his slit, slathering pre-come along his dick.
Shuddering, Deacon opened his trousers. His cock, already half-hard, slid into his rough palms; he bit back a moan. Preston slipped out of Sturges' hold, twisting around in his arms to kiss him full on the lips. His arms went around Sturges' neck, hauling him down for a rough, possessive kiss. Sturges ran his hands down Preston's back to cup his ass, fingernails digging into his flesh. Preston arched into the touch. His moan rose over the sound of running water and rustling reeds, and the sound went straight to Deacon's cock.
"Fuck."
Preston undid Sturges' belt, yanked his pants down his thighs. They kicked their trousers off and dropped them on the boulder alongside their discarded shirts. Sturges backed Preston into the rock, kissing him hard, his hands rough and possessive on his body. He stooped and bit at Preston's throat, and the Minutemen threw his head back, his cries muffled against his fist as Sturges jerked him off.
Sturges laughed, lips brushing Preston's throat. He whispered something, too soft for Deacon to hear over the babbling creek. Preston nodded, smiling lazily, and let his hand fall away from his mouth. He moaned audibly, rocking forward into Sturges' hand. His eyes, glazed with pleasure, settled on Deacon's hiding spot again, and he smiled.
Deacon whimpered, cock jerking in his hand. Preston's smile was unfairly beautiful, genuine and warm and lopsided and utterly perfect for his face.
Sturges relented for a moment, and they resettled themselves with Preston's belly pressed against the rock and Sturges behind him. The boulder obscured Deacon's view of their lovely cocks, but he'd seen enough to know that Sturges was fucking into Preston's thighs, one hand on the other man's dick. Preston shivered and thrust back into Sturges, mouth open, moaning theatrically for Deacon's benefit.
Biting his lip, Deacon squeezed the base of his cock with his right hand, masturbating with his left. It would be pretty fucking churlish to finish too early when Preston and Sturges had issued such a generous invitation. He pumped himself, twisting his wrist on the down stroke, dragging his thumb over the swollen head of his cock.
Down by the stream, Preston gasped, eyes screwed shut. He stood braced against the boulder, muscles standing out in his arms, while Sturges' hand worked furiously below his waist, jerking him off while he brought himself off between Preston's thighs. Sturges kissed Preston's neck and shoulders, whispering inaudible praise while Preston chased his orgasm, shivering and shuddering and spilling into Sturges' hand.
Grinning, Sturges fucked him through it. Deacon closed his eyes and imagined Sturges' cock twitching between Preston's legs, painting his dark thighs with come. He came with a strangled cry, semen spilling through his fingers.
Preston and Sturges glanced up at his shout. He came, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Preston's neck. They were beautiful together, the contrast between Sturges' large, pale body and Preston's small, dark one. Sturges stroked Preston's back, lips brushing his vertebrae with gentle reverence.
Deacon wiped his hand clean and tucked his dick away. He turned and crept away, feet silent on the well-worn muddy path to Sanctuary. He rinsed his hands in an overfull rain barrel and returned to his perch on the picnic table, easily finding his place before Sturges and Preston returned. They waved at him over the fence, secret smiles in the corners of their mouths.
"Hey Deacon," Sturges called. "We miss anything while we were out?"
"Nah," said Deacon. "Some really exciting reading. The dog did a cute thing. MacCready fell on his ass in the mud."
Preston laughed. "Sorry to have missed it," he said. "Say--you got dinner plans?"
Deacon's hands stuttered on the brittle pages of his book. "I uh. Uh." It was one thing to watch two gentlemen fuck in a stream, another to join them for dinner. He wasn't ready for that level of commitment. "I've got an exciting date planned with a psychology textbook and a bottle of sauvignon. I'm a busy man, you understand. Good stuff"
"Sounds exciting," said Sturges, in a tone that indicated it wasn't. "If you change your mind, we'd love to have you." He dropped his voice an octave. "Could spend the night, too."
Deacon swallowed, grateful for his sunglasses hiding his eyes. "That's real generous, Sturges. Rain check?"
"We'll hold you to that," said Preston, softly. "You're welcome any time." Another warm smile, a wave, and he disappeared into the house with Sturges. Left alone, Deacon let out a slow, shuddering breath, and returned to his book, and lit another cigarette. He squinted down at the page, his attention wandering to the deep pool in the slow-moving stream.