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Alex’s wife had called Greg.
She usually texts—they check in, every now and then, mostly about Alex. Earlier that day, Greg was on the Tube home when his phone started to vibrate in the pocket of his jeans, and he’d answered immediately, a brief, irrational spike of panic flaring at what it might be. She’d sounded genuinely worried, explained how there was a family trip to Ireland they’d planned months ago that couldn’t be postponed, and now Alex was too ill to come along. Pneumonia.
She’d asked if Greg would be a sweetheart and pop in on him, make sure he was taking care of himself, keep him company while he was being stubborn. Greg had agreed without much thought, because what else was he supposed to do? Say no to looking after his... whatever Alex is to him these days?
Now Alex is bundled up beside him in a pair of ridiculous Snoopy pyjamas that do very little to suggest a man in his forties, and Greg’s got his arm slung along the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing lightly against Alex’s shoulder. It’s nauseatingly domestic.
Top Gear is on the telly, an old rerun that Greg turned to without asking. Alex didn't complain, just said, “sure, whatever you fancy," because that’s Alex all over, isn’t it—eager to please, even when he's half-functioning.
Greg’s always had a soft spot for cars, the way owning one feels like having a small sanctuary of your own, just one that’s on wheels. When he got his first, he spent an embarrassing amount of time sitting in it alone, rolling the windows up and down just because he could. Alex, on the other hand—a Ford SUV driver because he’s practical—watches with that vague, polite interest he reserves for things that aren't quite his cup of tea.
"That's the M5, mate. Zero to sixty in under four seconds."
"Mmm," Alex mumbles, staring at the screen without really taking in anything that’s happening. "S'fast. Cars are... fast.”
Greg glances sideways at him, an eyebrow raised, watching as Alex reaches for the bottle of cough syrup on the side table. It's the third time in the last half-hour, maybe the fourth—Greg hasn't been counting precisely, but it's becoming enough to notice. Enough to be concerned. Alex unscrews the sticky cap with shaky fingers, tips it back, and takes a generous swig.
He coughs again, a deep, wet and ugly hacking that makes Greg wince, and he draws him closer out of some protective compulsion, his hand finding Alex's knee under the blanket. "Easy there," he warns, giving him a light squeeze. “That’s got codeine.”
Alex startles at the touch like it’s lit him up. They turn to each other and Greg sees his eyes: wide and a bit unfocused. He’s pretty sure the label said one spoonful every four hours, not four spoonfuls every hour.
“Maybe that’s enough of that, yeah?" Greg says firmly, because his wife did ask him to take care of him. He snatches the bottle, sets it just out of Alex’s reach.
“Greg, I’m fine.”
Yeah… he's not sure about that. “You're getting loopy, mate.” He jabs at one of the small, dancing dogs stitched on Alex’s flannel bottoms. “Any more and you'll be seeing Snoopy for real."
Alex makes a grab for it anyway, the slick bastard. He leans across Greg's lap, stretching like a cat, and that's when Greg decides—okay, enough of this. In a single swift motion, he hooks an arm around Alex's waist, pulling him in towards him and arranging him so he sits right on his lap. Alex lets out a little grunt of surprise, clearly caught off guard, his hands flailing frantically before finding Greg's shoulders to steady himself.
"Greg—" Alex starts, a weak protest, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he settles into him, and Greg knows he’s too tired to fight it. They’re chest to chest, and he can feel the heat from Alex as it radiates off him in waves.
"Shh, behave," Greg soothes him mockingly, resting a hand on Alex's lower back. It's mostly meant to stop him from toppling over, but there's something about the way Alex fits there in his arms—small and warm and not objecting at all—that sends a familiar rush through him. So it’s like that, then.
He tries to ignore it. “There you go. Not so bad, is it?”
Alex’s breath catches, and he starts to shift against Greg slightly, as if testing the waters of whatever this is. Greg tightens his grip in response, keeping him held in place. They’re not doing this when he’s sick.
He redirects his attention back to the telly. The BMW's gone now, replaced by some segment where they're testing an Audi RS on a track in the rain.
"See that?" he says to Alex, nodding at the screen. "It's got quattro all-wheel drive. Sends power to whichever wheels need it most. That's why it doesn't just spin out in the wet like a rear-wheel-drive car would. Clever bit of engineering, really.”
But Alex isn’t listening. He’s still adjusting little by little on Greg’s lap in small, subtle movements that Greg notices anyway. Something’s getting Alex riled up. Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s the position, maybe it’s that bloody syrup. It’s definitely not the sports car, he knows that much.
They watch in silence for a bit longer. Greg's hand slips between them and rests flat on Alex's stomach, smoothing over the soft fabric of his top, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. It’s steady at first, but it quickens the more Greg touches him, until it turns into shallow, uneven puffs of hot air against Greg’s neck, where Alex’s head has tucked itself without Greg even having to guide it there.
“What’s going on with you?” Greg finally asks, trying to crane his head back to look at Alex, who just mutters something incoherent into him in response.
Okay then. Greg reaches for the remote on the coffee table, turning the volume up a couple bars. "We're watching the rest of this," he tells him, leaning back into the cushions and pulling Alex with him. Alex’s legs drape awkwardly over Greg's thighs.
And now Greg can feel it for sure—the hardness that’s pressing into him, the way Alex's hips twitch every so often like he's trying not to move but can't quite help it. The poor thing's probably aching, his fever making everything worse, the closeness of Greg's hold turning a simple cuddle into something more depraved.
Greg lets it build for another minute or two, pretending to be absorbed in the show while his thumb traces idle circles on Alex's bare hip. He doesn’t even know what model of car they’re talking about anymore.
"Do you need to touch yourself?" Greg asks against his ear, when it’s obvious they’re not making it to the end of the episode.
Alex doesn’t say anything. He just makes a needy sound against Greg’s skin as his fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, and Greg finds himself taking pity on him.
“Go on, then,” he says, urging him gently. “You’ve been good. You can ask.”
He feels Alex tense. “Greg—” he groans, already coming undone. He’s always easy like that—it never takes much. “I—can I—please—”
And now Greg can feel it too, his own arousal growing despite himself. “Yeah, alright. Touch yourself. Show me.”
Alex lets out a whimper that is absolutely pathetic, and he shifts just enough to slide a hand down into his pyjamas and wrap it around himself. He starts slow, his strokes clumsy and uncoordinated, his hips rocking up to meet them in small, unconscious movements. It’s laughable, really, how sloppy it is, and Greg’s not sure if he’s ever seen Alex this helpless before, come to think of it.
Of course it does something to him. Because that’s just who Greg is. Because there’s nothing in the world that gets to him quite like Alex when he’s weak like this, and Greg has his own messed up brain to thank for that.
“Good,” he hums, praising him in a way that comes all too naturally to him. “Such a good little—”
He stops himself abruptly, the word abandoned somewhere inside him, because that feels… too far, in their current predicament, with Alex folded in his lap like this. But Alex still twitches visibly, a filthy whine escaping him as he bucks forward without control, hand faltering once again.
Greg can see Alex is trying—God, he’s trying so hard, Greg knows—but his grip is loose, pace erratic and inconsistent as his fingers slip and his hand tires easily. He makes a frustrated noise, grinding uselessly against Greg’s leg as if begging for friction he can’t quite give himself.
And Greg—he can’t just keep watching this. It’s too much. “Christ, Alex, you’re a mess,” he sighs fondly, and his free hand moves down, covering Alex’s who gasps at the mere touch.
“Let me help,” says Greg. He tightens his hold around him, tries to establish a better rhythm. It’s slow at first, his larger hand him as he guides him, but it builds quickly. Alex’s fingers go slack under his, letting Greg take over.
For a while, it’s just that. Alex clinging to him, trying to stifle his desperate sounds as Greg works him. He can feel him getting closer, and eventually, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, Alex whimpers, “Greg—please—d—”
Whatever Alex was going to say, he physically can’t—it comes out as a choked sob instead—and Greg’s suddenly afraid he knows exactly what it might’ve been, with the way Alex is squeezing his eyes shut and his face is flushing with embarrassment. There’s only one thing it could be, really, one thing that Greg knows makes him this uncomfortable. They’ve verged near it before, both on and off screen, but they’ve never—they haven’t actually—
Greg can feel his stomach dropping, because he’s not into that, is he? He should just wrap this up, let Alex finish now and then laugh it off if it ever comes up again. He knows Alex isn’t thinking straight. He knows it would be better to move on, pretend he didn’t notice it. But… with Alex trembling in his lap, utterly desperate and completely gone, Greg finds himself suffering from a classic case of morbid curiosity.
“Say it,” Greg commands against his temple, almost sick with the fascination. “If you need it that much, say it.”
Alex makes a strangled sound, almost like he’s on the brink of genuinely crying. “I—I can’t—”
“You can,” Greg insists, pushing like he always does, because he never knows how to stop, and that might very well be his fatal flaw. “You were about to. I know you were. So, go on—or I won’t let you come at all.”
It seems for Alex the permission to speak is almost worse than the denial. He shakes his head, fighting it for a few seconds longer, but ultimately he relents.
“Daddy—”
His voice is small and wrecked, completely mortified. Alex immediately hides his face against Greg’s shoulder, like that will make any difference.
Greg freezes. He didn’t expect the word to hit him the way it does—inappropriate and absurd, yet still going straight to his cock. He hadn’t thought—hadn’t ever thought—but hearing it from Alex, slurring and needy and so utterly ashamed of himself—it stirs something inside of him that he wasn’t even aware of.
“Jesus,” Greg mutters under his breath, starting to lose himself in it properly now. He slides a hand to the back of Alex’s neck and rests it there possessively. “Fuck, Alex.”
He can feel Alex waiting, holding his breath, like he’s terrified Greg’s going to laugh or push him off the sofa or call him something awful.
He doesn’t, but word is still ricocheting—fucking Daddy—and it’s ridiculous, it’s appalling, it’s nothing he’s ever wanted to hear, not something that they do, but right now, he wants nothing more than for Alex to say it again.
“Alright,” Greg says like he’s conceding to something he resents deeply, which—it’s not inaccurate, but he’s aching himself now, almost unbearably. “It’s alright, you silly little—”
He cuts himself off again, jaw clenched. He’s not saying it. He’s not. But his hand fumbles at his own belt, messy and urgent, the friction of Alex grinding against him simply becoming too much. He unzips and shoves his jeans open just enough to free himself.
He strokes them both, movements frenzied, no longer pacing himself. It doesn’t take long for either of them.
“Greg—” Alex chokes out, voice cracking. “Please—I’m—”
“Yeah,” Greg breathes, mouth going slack, and he hates how quickly this whole thing feels like it’s spiralling out of his control. “Go on. Come for me. Come for—“
Before he can even say it, Alex’s body is shuddering, pulsing hot and wet all over his pyjamas, on Greg’s shirt, on their fingers, and the sound he makes alone is enough to tip Greg over as well. He comes immediately after Alex with a curse, spilling over his fist.
Shit. It takes a while for Greg to return to himself. They remain like that, just their ragged breathing, the telly still droning on about horsepower and lap times in the background.
“Fucking hell,” Greg says eventually. He doesn’t know what else to say. He just sits there, one arm still around Alex’s waist, the other resting awkwardly on his own thigh, both of them spent in their own mess.
Alex’s voice, when it comes, sounds ruined. “Sorry. That was—“
“Don’t. Don’t do that.” He wants to tell him not to apologize for coming in his lap, not to apologize for saying that word, not to apologize for any of it—it was so good, weirdly enough—but it feels too much, too complicated, and Alex is still trembling, feverish and fragile in his arms.
They can talk about it later.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Greg lifts Alex easily, and he’s weightless and clinging to him as Greg carries him upstairs.
Alex’s bed is still unmade from when he’d tried to nap and failed, and Greg lowers him onto the rumbled duvet with more gentleness than he thought he was capable of. He disappears to the bathroom and returns a few moments later with a damp cloth and a glass of water.
Alex tracks him as he moves around the room. He’s pulled a blanket up to his chin, hiding his ruined pyjamas, looking small and embarrassed and totally drained. Greg sits on the edge of the bed and wipes him down as best he can without making it worse. Alex stays quiet, flinching only when the cool cloth touches his overheated skin.
“There,” Greg tries to smile, tossing the towel toward the laundry basket. It misses.
”Nice shot.”
”Shut up, you prick.” Greg passes him the water. “Drink.”
Alex obeys, taking small sips, some of it dripping down his chin, and Greg has to resist the urge to catch it with his thumb. When Alex is done, he takes the glass and sets it on the nightstand.
He rummages through one of Alex’s drawers until he finds a plain white tee and a fresh pair of pants, then he helps him dress. It takes effort—Alex’s wife was right when she said he’s stubborn when he’s sick—but they get there in the end. Once Alex is changed, Greg looks down at him, allowing himself a moment to admire the way he’s splayed out.
“Move over, then.”
Alex blinks up at him, then scoots to the far side of the bed. Greg shrugs out of his clothes—sticky and uncomfortable now—and crawls in beside Alex, opening his arms in a silent invitation. Alex hesitates before he curls in closer, his head resting carefully on Greg’s chest.
“I’ll stay with you,” Greg says quietly, staring at the ceiling. “You’re still ill. Someone should keep an eye on you.”
Alex makes a soft sound that Greg assumes is relief as he nods against him. It doesn’t take long for the fever and exhaustion to pull him under.
Greg lies awake for a little while longer, listening to Alex’s soft snoring. Then he presses a gentle kiss to the back of his neck and falls asleep as well.