...a story where the words "I love you" pass between the pairing.
"Aw, baby, you know I love you," Matches says, and it's
no more incongruous than -- any of this. All of it. The
rings on his fingers are a little cool against Dick's
cheek as he pats, and the jacket (red, with green
paisleys and yellow *checks*) is thick enough that Dick's
knees aren't getting wet. Yet.
There's some hope that the man won't want to put it on,
again, but really only some. Matches --
"No need to stand on ceremony, close as *we* are, right?"
Matches shifts, a roll that starts from the thick neck
and spreads down shoulders, torso, hips -- the creak of
those mahogany leatherette pants is more of a squeal of
protest.
Someone has to, Dick thinks, and holds on to his glare.
It's the most solid thing in this alley that *doesn't*
have Dick's hand wrapped around it.
"It's you and me, baby. *Forever*," and the pat turns
into a stroke, then into something rather more
threatening as Matches uses his knuckles, those
*rings* --
"I don't do forever," he says, and means it as much
as he can. As much -- Dick closes his eyes.
"No? Then how 'bout just right *now*, beautiful?"
Right now is the taste of salt, the feel of slick,
hard, *big* --
"Oh, yeah. That's -- that's real good. Real nice..."
Right now --
"Love you *best*, beautiful..."
Dick ignores the coil of feeling, the need, the --
everything. Dick is just -- right here, and right now,
opened up wide and trying for wider, for more than the
feel of his own hand against his lips, for more than
just -- this kind of love.
He knows it's all he's going to get.
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