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Hamilton has been abroad, that much he knows. He’s managed to keep his texting plan on the whole time he was away, though, and used the capacity in increasingly inappropriate ways. Suggestions, lewd ones. Pictures. Things they’d done, and things Hamilton wanted him to do. To have done to him.
The toll road slips by. It's been a few months since he ditched Lee, with the excuse that he was simply out of practice. If he'd been honest, it's not like he'd ever had much of an opportunity. Men like him didn't do relationships"I'm an old dog," he said, over Old Fashioneds at the bar, "and you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks." A trick, he'd told himself. That's all he'd ever needed or wanted in the past. It had sustained him well enough: college, ROTC, the service. studiously ignoring his date, instead carefully scrutinizing the wall of bourbon bottles that reached almost to the ceiling. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.
Lee seemed like the sort of New Gay who'd bought in to the whole package. A public proposal, a wedding announcement in the Post. HRC galas, a private box at the Kennedy Center. The house would have to be sold, of course, and he'd have to live in the city in some godforsaken condominium complex with amenities he didn't want and no privacy at all. New construction, walls so thin your neighbors could tell when you were taking a shit, rubbing one out.
Easier to end it. He'd preferred being alone, in all honesty. A short celibate stint, some work travel. A few mindless hookups enabled by the usual kinds of establishments. Solo dinners eaten at the bar rather than taking up a booth for one. And all it ever took was a quick text message to bring him back into Washington's life. Don't think, just do, and not ten seconds later he'd say —
what's up old man? you want to meet up?
So it — whatever it is — is on, again. They're here once more, circling one another from around the perimeter. Who will be the one to lunge first?
When he picks him up from the JetBlue terminal at Dulles, he’s wearing a pair of semi-translucent aviator sunglasses, sporting pinkened cheeks and what appears to be an epic hangover. The smell of stale rum wafts up from his armpits when he throws his duffel bag into the back seat. From outside the driver’s side window, a ground transit controller blows a whistle at them. Washington ignores her until Hamilton is safely strapped into the passenger seat, with his head resting against the headrest. He turns to face the interior of the car, closes his eyes with their long dark lashes, and sighs. His breath smells sour in the cool air of the interior.
“How was it?” he asks, and signals for a left-hand turn.
“Ugh,” is all Hamilton can manage. His forehead furrows with a wince. “Please can we not talk? Or you, specifically.”
Washington lowers his voice so it won’t cause Hamilton undue pain. “That bad?” he asks, darting a glance over at his passenger.
“Yes. No. Look I don’t know. I feel like shit, okay?” He licks his lips, and swallows. They come to a sudden stop as a red taxi veers in front of them. Washington forces his eyes back to the road. Cars weave in and out of his lane, erratic as always. He scrutinizes Hamilton once more, noting the fresh touch of sunburn across his nose and cheeks, the way his lips are peeling as well. “You need some water, you’re probably just dehydrated.”
“Oh fuck you,” says his passenger, scowling into the headrest. “What are you, my dad?”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. He’s more than half inclined to leave the brat at a rest stop, but if he does that, there’s no chance to follow through on all those nasty texts. Hamilton knows where to get him, how to goad him into reacting. Even all the way from the islands, it’s like he’s reached through the phone and grabbed Washington by the balls.
“Fine,” he answers, curtly. He can always refuse later. He can say no to Hamilton. “Feel like shit, then.”
“I feel sick.” Hamilton leans against the headrest and breathes in and out through his nose. Washington glances over from the road with concern, presses his lips together as if to say something. “Sick how?” he finally says, after they’ve merged onto the toll road heading east. “Hospital sick? IV needing sick? Zika virus sick?”
Hamilton coughs and shakes his head. “I’ve been drinking. I'll live.”
Washington leaves it at that, signals as they approach Tyson’s. “I thought we’d get takeout,” he says, slowing into the exit lane that is rapidly approaching. "There's plenty to choose from up ahead."
"Whatever," comes Hamilton's reply. "I don't know jack about what you have out here in the suburbs. Just pick something, anything's good."
Given such wide leeway, he decides to do not entirely what he wants, which is to stop by Sweetgreen, and not what he assumes Hamilton wants, which is to inhale garbage without so much as stopping to taste it. Splits the difference and gets them Korean, too much food for two people, packed into four separate double-lined carrier bags. By the time he returns, Hamilton has fallen sound asleep. A little light construction that he knows to avoid; ten minutes, and they're pulling into his garage.
He turns the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to a stop, leaving only stillness, the shallow sound as Hamilton's breath rattles in his chest. A gentle shake wakes him with a start, and he yawns deeply, rubs the sleep from his eyes, pushing the sunglasses up to his forehead as he does so. "We here?" he asks, and sniffs the air, cautiously.
The duffel bag is dropped unceremoniously on his kitchen floor and Hamilton goes straight for the guest bathroom without asking permission. A few minutes later he emerges, the filth of air travel rinsed away, wrapped in a towel. He lands on the couch and curls himself into a ball there, like a bug. “Eat,” Washington instructs, and sets a full plate on his coffee table. Hamilton glares at his spicy pork and rice, four kinds of pickles, egg custard, vegetable pancake. “I’m going to see if I have any Excedrin upstairs.”
When he comes back only a moment later, the plate is emptied and Hamilton's eyes are once again, closed. He sets the Excedrin down on the table, along with a William and Mary t-shirt, boxer shorts.
“Let's get you set up in the guest room," he says, and waits for a response. After a second he asks, "You do want a bed, don't you?"
“Can I stay here?” he asks, and indicates the couch. “I really don’t want to be alone.”
Washington’s brow crumples without his permission, but he nods. “Sure,” he says, sitting down on the couch and reaching over for the remote.
Hamilton dresses quickly, then yawns as he leans his head against Washington’s thigh. “You can watch whatever,” he says, voice heavy with sleep. “I can sleep through anything.”
Washington glances at the television, the preliminary rounds of the PGA. “Golf isn’t exactly known for being racuous,” he says, which makes Hamilton’s mouth curve up at the corners. “Sure isn’t,” he says from behind closed eyes, and yawns again until his body vibrates against Washington’s leg.
He is asleep in a matter of moments. With both hands on his knees, he attempts to stay focused on the tournament, but he finds his hands drifting, of his own accord, to Hamilton’s damp hair. He cards through the strands, winding them around his fingers, for so long that they are mostly fully dry by the time he stirs again, however many hours later. The golf has been replaced by golf highlights, which play softly in the background as Hamilton scoots up the couch. They kiss.
Growing up when he did, how he did, Washington never really experienced making out, the way teenagers and college kids got to do it. A kiss was a luxury for straight people, with beds and privacy, who might explore that pleasure in public places, if they so chose, nightclubs, or the movie theater, or the intimacy of a too-small restaurant booth. And Hamilton has a beautiful mouth, with lips that warm as he kisses them until they go pink and shining.
He stands. Hamilton slides to the floor, whimpers against his leg. The spot he’s leaning against grows damp, hot through the fabric with his sticky breath. Washington rakes his hand through Hamilton’s loose hair, catches the smell of the guest shampoo as it wafts up.
He twines his hand in the slick strands, pulls Hamilton’s head back until his throat is stretched out long. “What do you want?” he asks, as the other man blinks at him, slowly, from his position on the floor. His eyes open, close, open again. Washington’s other hand fondles the soft line of Hamilton’s cheek.
“Can you?” he whispers against the fabric, burying his head as best he can. Washington repays him with another tug.
“Use your words, son,” Washington says, and when Hamilton fails to respond, he barks his name. “Hamilton, you with me?” He cups his jaw and forces his face upwards. Jesus, the kid looks pathetic already.
“Can you?” he repeats, stupid, insensate. Washington’s fingers relax; his palm covers Hamilton’s mouth. The other man kisses it, looks back up with wet, pleading eyes, kneading at the meat of Washington’s thighs through the thick fabric of his khakis. Gently, he strokes Hamilton’s face, and then he flips his palm so that the backs of his fingers rest there, in the notch of his cheek. The slap is light, barely a tickle, but it registers. Hamilton’s hands clutch more tightly at his legs.
It is messy, unsystematic. He’s never gone in for ritual; even in his short-lived club days, you’d never catch him playing with hanky code. Find a guy, find a place. Nameless, transient.
Better that way, except.
You fuck a guy but once —in a dark corner of a nightclub, the private room at the bathhouse, a hotel where you pay in increments of a quarter of an hour, cash only —yeah, you can come, and come hard, but it’s only ever going to be that. A physical reaction, a hot throbbing pulse, the desire to be long gone immediately after. There’s something to be said for learning another man’s body, who he is, what he likes, and using that intel to fucking take him apart. To dismantle him so thoroughly that he forgets his own name.
Hamilton’s hair hangs loose around his face; it clings in a sweaty tangle to his forehead. His cheek, when he rests his open palm there, is hot. The other is cooler, but a few well-directed swats heat it to roughly the same temperature.
With some reluctance he directs Hamilton to look up at him once more. “Better?” he asks. By way of answer a hungry noise comes from the other man’s throat, and he sucks Washington’s entire thumb into his mouth.
“Jesus,” he says, with his wide fingers splayed across the side of Hamilton’s red-hot cheek. With his other hand he opens up his fly and quickly shoves everything down.
A step back, another, until they are close to the wall nearest the couch. The television plays silently in the background; the flickering green shots of the golf course reflected in Hamilton’s dark eyes.
“Open up, baby,” he says, cock held loose in his grasp, barely aware of the pet name. Hamilton arches an eyebrow at the intimacy, and as if to dismiss it out of hand, nudges at Washington’s index finger with his nose. He takes the motion for what it is, an admonition to play nice later on, when they’ve both had a chance to settle.
So he growls instead, and the pleasure rolls off Hamilton in waves. It’s fucking intoxicating, like he can smell it. Heat, and pheromones, and desperation, and want, written all over, plain as fucking day. Washington wants to destroy him. “Open your fucking mouth,” he barks and Hamilton complies, willing and greedy. “Okay,” Washington says, and sticks a couple of fingers in there, nails scraping over the ridged roof of his mouth, then further, past the back of his tongue, where his uvula dangles in his throat. There he stops and waits for Hamilton to convulse around him.
The little fucker has trained his gag reflex right out, though. He whines around Washington’s fingers, breathes heavy and labored through his nose, but his throat stays wide open. His hand comes away after a few moments, dry. Four fingers go in this time, shoved right to the back of his throat, and Washington wriggles them until he hears the tempo of Hamilton’s breathing grow erratic, and he chokes.
Spit comes away, thick from deep inside Hamilton’s chest, and he paints his cock with the stuff, a nice, easy overhanded stroke that has his partner salivating. A few more times slicks him up nicely, and gets Hamilton in the right frame of mind. “Shit," he breathes, pulls up the hem of his black polo so it won’t get in the way. Say what you want about Hamilton’s mouth but the kid is a fucking artist.
“Get to it,” he says, and Hamilton falls upon his dick eagerly, plush lips sliding down easily until his breath tickles Washington’s bare stomach. “Good,” he instructs, "take that fat fucking dick." He gives a testing bounce of his hips. Hamilton rides with it, the last inch or so of his cock appearing and then disappearing into that wet heat so quick it barely registers.
They stay like this, Washington’s hands cradling the back of Hamilton’s head to protect it from the wall, gently, easily fucking his hot mouth for as long as it takes to break him. As far as Washington’s concerned, there’s no reason to rush things.
“God, you look good,” he says to the top of Hamilton’s bobbing head. A happy little moan dances down his cock, followed by a tongue flick against the meat of his shaft. “Nice, that’s nice, yes.” Hamilton takes the bulk of his cock but then works his head, side to side, and then in circles, right down at the base. It looks even better than it feels. “Nasty, aren’t you?” Hamilton hums an assent, then grunts as Washington takes the lead, thrusts. The gag is slight but evident. Exertion has winded him, but he steels himself to push past it.
“Relax, baby, relax,” he says to the top of Hamilton’s dark head, and when he’s glared at once again, he growls, “fine, you little shit.”
He duck-walks a couple of steps back, hauling Hamilton with him, one hand encircling his wrist and the other in his hair. “Open,” he says, “keep it open,” and Hamilton gargles, swallows, and then simply gives up on trying to contain the spit that’s running down his chin and onto his borrowed t-shirt. There are wet patches, dark against the light fabric.
Washington’s balls slap against the unkempt stubble that graces Hamilton’s chin; it chafes, but soon blurs into pleasure. He cradles both hands behind Hamilton’s head and fucks into that loose, soft mouth. Almost coming, almost there, his eyes blinking closed against the sight, the hot squelch of spit and cock as he claims Hamilton’s mouth, over and over again.
“You’re good,” he says, as Hamilton’s hand finds his own and places it, deliberately, atop his windpipe, then presses encouragingly against his fingers. “You’re good,” Washington repeats, for his own sake as well, and then, almost as an experiment, he squeezes.
His cock is lodged so deep in Hamilton’s throat that noise cannot travel outwards. Instead there is a long, satisfied hum that reverberates up the length of his dick. A sharp inhale through his nose is all that keeps him breathing. Once or twice his lips gape open at the sides, in a desperate attempt to swallow some extra air, but all that really does is drip more saliva out the corners of his mouth.
With reluctance, he lets Hamilton go so he can catch his breath. His face is deeply flushed, tears streaming from his eyes. As if that would stop him from lunging at George again, this time grabbing his wet cock in one hand and slapping it wetly against the side of his face. “Jesus,” Washington says, watching him debase himself like that for a while, his enjoyment obvious in the little moans, the smirk of pleasure, the damp tenting in his blue windowpane boxers. “Balls are getting cold, son,” he directs, and groans as Hamilton wastes no time in lavishing those with attention as well.
With impatience now he squats down low, pulls on his shaft, growls, “Up, up at me,” and Hamilton tips his face up, expectantly, and takes his load on it like it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. His jizz is sticky and thick at first, but as he continues to shoot it grows thinner, clearer. His thumb rests beneath Hamilton’s sticky cheekbone, and he strokes, heedless of the mess, as his breathing returns to normal. Another slap. His hand comes away wet, but it hardly matters. Only this, only this matters.
He hauls Hamilton to his feet, lays a wide-open palm over where he’s hard, leaking through his boxers. “Like this,” he says, and grabs his skinny ass with his other hand, directing him to hump against the flat of his palm. His head falls forward, and Washington takes a cautious step back; he’d prefer to keep his shirt clean. Hamilton’s thrusts grow erratic, and then with a long, pathetic whine, he is spilling into his boxers, as Washington pushes against him, murmurs encouragement, calls him a dirty little whore and everything else that makes his mouth fall open.
The back of Hamilton's head nestles comfortably in his hand as they stay still for a long, sticky moment, his fingers clutching at Washington's chest. He holds him steady as they walk back, in tandem and supporting one another, to the couch. Carefully he lowers Hamilton onto the sectional, joining him as comfortably as his bulk allows. Paper napkins remain on the coffee table, along with the scrapings of their meal. Golf has turned to baseball as the television hums in the background. He could stay like this, he thinks, and kisses Hamilton's head almost before he realizes he tenderness. Shit.