City Mouse

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Bollocks?” Malcolm gritted, pushing the bar up again, irritated.

  “Yeah, you heard me. You don’t train for a week? For one bloke? Damn, I thought we could at least be honest with each other.”

  Well, it was sort of true, wasn’t it? No one at Malcolm’s office knew where he spent his weekends.

  “Honest?” Malcolm lowered the bar, and then, biceps, triceps, pecs, and delts all screaming in cacophony, shoved it back up. “Since when is sex and love honest?”

  Josh practically shoved the bar back in the cradle with a shocked gasp.

  “What?” Malcolm demanded. “That was one bloody rep. Give me back the fucking—”

  “What did you just say?” Josh asked. Malcolm squinted at him because he didn’t wear his glasses to work out, and the expression on Josh’s face was not one he could remember having seen before.

  “I don’t know. What did I just say? You stopped in the middle of the workout, Josh. What in the bloody hell am I paying you for?”

  “I know a really good therapist for that.”

  “For what?”

  “You said the L-word.” The tone was the same as informing him that the changing rooms had been closed due to a rat infestation.

  “Lesbians?” Malcolm tried.

  Josh made a weird sound. “The other L-word. Is it drugs, Malcolm? I’m starting to get really worried now. There’s some exotic shit out on the streets at the moment.”

  “I quit drugs—a few times. And, no. I found a guy I’m actually interested in.” And he’s interested in me. “Can we go back to lifting now?”

  “Interested? Interested? Interesting is three cocks on a trapeze, Malcolm. Fucking hell. Interested is not what you call what you found—where the hell did you find this wanker, anyway?”

  “A bar,” Malcolm said with dignity. That sounded sleazy enough, right?

  “A bar?” Josh’s eyes narrowed. “Who is he? What’s he do? Where’s he from? Where’s he live?”

  “Don’t we have to work my bloody triceps?” Malcolm protested. “They’re spaghetti, my thighs are like pillows, and I’m fat as a bloody moo-cow! I know we have something better to do than discuss some Yank—”

  Josh sat down on the weight bench, and Malcolm let out a strangled, mouse-like sound of his own. “A Yank? You met a Yank in a bar and . . . and what?”

  “Well, he was supposed to move on to France at the end of his weekend,” Malcolm admitted, sighing and sitting down next to Josh. “You realize that you’re going to have to go overtime to finish my damned workout, right?”

  “Fuck you. You’ll get your money’s worth. Supposed to go to France? What’s that mean?”

  “Well, Mum, I guess that means he decided to stay here and give his work visa a try.”

  “So where’s he staying in the meantime?” Josh’s voice was deadly quiet now.

  Malcolm fidgeted. “Well, he couldn’t afford the hotel for long. He was staying with a friend.”

  Josh nodded. “Right. So, I spent years making you a perfect specimen. Could give up the bloody carbs now and then, but still. And what do you do? You blow it all on some freeloading Yank on holiday? No. You’d better not fucking blow me off again, or I’m calling it quits.”

  Malcolm scowled. “Calling it quits? For missing one bloody appointment?”

  “No. For fucking up your life when you know better. Last week it’s cause you’re happy, next week it’s cause you’re sad. You know what I liked about you, Malcolm? The thing that kept you on my roster when seriously, any bloke who refuses to wax should be a total loss?”

  “I look like a naked chicken without hair.” Malcolm lay back down and took the weight off the cradle. Josh would surely find his composure if Malcolm just pretended none of this had happened.

  Josh hovered nearby, but let him finish this set, and Malcolm hoped he wouldn’t just walk out on him and tell reception that he had a slot free from now on. Josh could afford to pick and choose. He dropped the weight in the cradle again. “I’ll keep the appointments. Maybe I’ll even bring him along.” That would be fun. Owen would possibly know how to take Josh and deflate all that bluster. The thought made him grin.

  “Just remember—a boyfriend can leave, the six-pack stays forever.” Josh patted his own. “Priorities, Malcolm, priorities.”

  Okay, seemed he wasn’t going to freak out even more or walk out on him. That was good. For all his sadistic glee, he’d really miss Josh. “Just don’t let this shit here squash me, okay?”

  “As if.” Josh snorted. “Bloody irresponsible, that is.”

  Malcolm grunted and went back to the weight bench, and then found that his mouth wasn’t going to fucking leave him alone.

  “Some boyfriends stay,” he muttered, waiting for Josh to help him get the bar out of the cradle.

  “What was that?” Josh wasn’t helping him, so Malcolm stubbornly waited.

  “Some boyfriends stay. You see them all the time. Big bloody bears, sixty years old and sagging. Little queens, swishing around with scarves on their necks. Saw a couple at the theatre the other night, crying over Freddy bloody Mercury. Wasn’t the six-pack for them, Josh. Just bloody wasn’t.”

  Malcolm couldn’t have said where that burst of sentiment came from—or he could have, but he didn’t want to say so. He just shoved at the barbell until the damned thing disengaged from the cradle itself, and hoped that Josh had enough professional pride to spot him, even though he was disgusted in the extreme.

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” Josh grunted, finally steadying the weight when it threatened to overbalance. “And don’t expect me to pick up the bloody pieces.”

  An hour ago, Malcolm would have ranked Josh as a friend. Now, he realized that the one guy he knew who would pick up the pieces was the guy who’d destroy him in the first place. Not really comforting, that, but it did make Owen’s demand easier to deal with. Malcolm was definitely ranking Owen first in his list of people to please.

  So, Malcolm thought a little sourly, there he was, making a big life change for Owen. That should put to rest some of those fears about “staples,” right?

  * * * * *

  The girl was sweet, but God, Owen wished she’d put her tits away.

  “So your boyfriend,” she asked leadingly.

  “Malcolm,” Owen grunted. “Wendy, could you move a little, honey, you’re in my light.”

  “Oh right. Sure, yeah. Here.” And suddenly the light opened up and Owen gave a sigh of relief. All of these fixed towers were irritatingly close to their power supplies, and while it was fairly easy to turn the computer off at the breaker, the actual plug was hidden somewhere only a lot of gymnastics and a miniature forklift could get him, so working on the tower as it rested on the floor was the best option. But first, Wendy had to stop squashing her tits up into his light.

  “You were saying?” he asked, looking carefully for the motherboard and blessing the uniformity of hardware everywhere.

  “Oooh, yeah, Malcolm.” Owen had been listening to the accents carefully, and he was really starting to admire how the British “Oh yeah” differed from the American “Oh yeah.” The British one, for instance, could carry an amazing amount of either censure or glee. In Wendy’s case, it seemed to be censure.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s sort of a wanker, in’nt he?”

  Owen grimaced. “Yeah, Wendy, he’s a real asshole. Why?”

  “Well, what makes you stay with a guy like that?” She stood straighter and tucked her tits back into her robin’s egg blue sundress, then brushed off the full skirt with unnecessary force. “It’s not like you don’t have options, innit?”

  “Yes, Wendy. Owen has options. Owen liked the option of staying in England with Malcolm instead of going home.”

  Wendy’s sigh practically rattled the little office room, and he hurriedly detached the motherboard and started to reattach the jimmied motherboard he’d spent the morning cobbling together in order to make this monstros
ity go.

  “I . . . I mean, the gay thing. I’m all for the rights and the pride and all that, but it’s not . . . you know, irrevocable, is it?”

  Owen wanted to chuckle, but couldn’t. God. No, for him, the gay thing wasn’t irrevocable, not at all. But that wasn’t the point. Yes, Malcolm could be a real asshole sometimes. Owen was perfectly aware he’d regarded this workplace, this business, with a whole trucking fuckload of disdain, when Owen himself thought the place was one of the many things humanity had to be proud of. But still, he’d visited, he’d managed to keep his loathing to himself, and then he’d taken Owen out to play.

  And that hadn’t even been the best part.

  The best part had been the lack of pretense, of artifice, that had surrounded Malcolm as he’d come apart in Owen’s arms. That had been the best part. That had been the thing worth staying for. But you didn’t want to talk about that when the girl you were talking to kept pushing her tits in your face. It was none of her business, either.

  It was no one’s business but his and Mal’s.

  “It’s not the gay thing,” he said to Wendy’s question. “It’s the Malcolm thing. Love him or hate him, Malcolm’s pretty fucking irrevocable.”

  “Well,” Wendy sighed, obviously disappointed. “You just let me know if that all doesn’t work out, okay?” She grinned and flashed her teeth while she cracked her gum. “You can absolutely take me back at any time.”

  Owen had to laugh. In spite of the constant come-ons, Wendy was good company. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t been rude to her yet. He could tell her no anytime, but he couldn’t always find a friend when he needed one.

  Besides, he preferred for people to arrive at the important realizations out of their own volition. Dragging them there very often only led to even more hurt feelings, and that was something he really didn’t want to do during his probationary period. He didn’t want her to mess with that—he liked the job a lot and would really like to stay. If only Malcolm would just try a little harder so that people wouldn’t spend five minutes with him and think he was an irredeemable douchemonkey.

  On the desk, his phone buzzed. He contorted to try to get to it without taking both hands off the tower, and found Wendy dangling the phone in his face but then handing it over.

  “Yeah?”

  “Malcolm here. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, just reinstalling some parts. How are you doing?”

  “I’m just leaving the gym—should I bring anything? Or do you want to go out?”

  Owen frowned. He loved exploring new places, but he was leery of falling into the tourist trap. But then, Malcolm had said there were places he hadn’t seen yet either.

  “You still up for a drive to Cambridge? How far away is that? Is it pretty? My phone is charged so I can take pictures. Do we need a car? A cab? What?”

  Malcolm made that sound—that surprised laughing sound—that told Owen he had been naive again, but Owen didn’t care. He’d never cared. He was excited: new place, new life, and this new, incredibly fascinating person to share it with. Trip to the country? Best. Thing. Ever.

  “We’ll take the train and then the bus, or a cab. The center can be walked. And I’m good for walking. Josh hasn’t massacred my legs, I’ll be fine. Should I pick you up, or when are you coming home?”

  Home. One word could make him all squishy and fuzzy. At the same time.

  But Owen still had an hour at least to go. “Catch a rest,” he said regretfully. “Come get me in an hour. I should be ready then.”

  “Okay, just text me when you see a light at the end of the tunnel that’s not a train. Miss you.” And he ended the call before Owen could reply.

  It took an hour and a half, and Owen called before he was done so they didn’t lose any more daylight. He walked down the stairs of the old building, listening to the squeaks and grunts of the wooden floor and the gargling and creaking of the antiquated heating system as he did. There was no central A/C here, and he’d needed to weigh all the extra files down and turn the fan on, or the computer would have overheated, so when he met Malcolm at the front door, his T-shirt was sopped through with sweat. Wendy had left an hour before; the only reason she’d been there at all was to let Owen in the building, so when Malcolm handed over the spare shirt he’d requested, Owen hung back in the vestibule and stripped right there.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Wiping off,” Owen said, grimacing and using his original T-shirt to sponge some of the sweat away. “It’s sweltering in there. I’m surprised all their equipment works at all.”

  Malcolm cast an uncharitable glance in the vague direction from where Owen had come, and moved to shield him a little. From whom or what, Owen wasn’t quite clear, never mind that British guys lost their shirts once the sun announced more than two rays, but it was small gestures like that that proved that Malcolm wasn’t always selfish and grumpy.

  At least until Malcolm glared up the stairs again, and then the lightbulb went on.

  “She’s not there,” Owen said drily.

  “Who?”

  “Wendy.”

  “Wendy?”

  “Big teeth? Bigger tits? The receptionist?”

  “Yeah. Right. I might remember her.”

  Owen laughed, because Malcolm was fooling no one, and pulled his newer, cleaner shirt over his head. Malcolm was still trying to look unconcerned when Owen grabbed him by the hips and dragged him closer, until their groins were touching through the jeans they both wore.

  “I told her you were irrevocable, Malcolm. Don’t worry. She’s not going to touch your stuff.”

  “I bloody well hope not,” Malcolm groused. “I know some people who are happy to do unspeakable things to anybody for a pint and a tenner.”

  And as lightly as that was said, it also rang completely true.

  “So, you? Two weeks ago?” Owen asked, and Malcolm’s lashes feathered across his cheeks as he lowered his eyes and tried very hard to avoid Owen’s gaze.

  “Twenty quid, at least,” Malcolm admitted reluctantly, and Owen laughed, lowering his head until Malcolm had to look at him.

  “And you were a nice guy for once in your life, and now I’ll let you do them for free.”

  Malcolm’s spine straightened up and he glowered. “They paid me, you git. Are you ready to go yet?”

  “Yeah, but first . . .” Owen lowered his head and tasted, more than gratified by the way Malcolm rose up, lunged against him, and took over the kiss with power and verve. Owen allowed himself to be backed up against the receptionist’s stand and ravaged, Malcolm’s tongue plunging in and out of his mouth with a sort of desperation that said they’d been separated for years instead of a morning. Malcolm pulled back for a moment, placing nipping little kisses along Owen’s jaw, when suddenly his chuckle tickled Owen’s jawline.

  Owen grunted and thrust up against Malcolm’s hip because he was erect and aroused and not really amused. “What?” he growled, and Malcolm nipped his chin.

  “You didn’t shave this morning.”

  Owen squinted at him, still bucking his hips. “It’s Saturday.”

  Malcolm’s smile up at him was almost childlike in its glee. “Yeah, but if I didn’t shave, I’d have a full beard. You didn’t shave, and it’s a little bit of stubble. It’s cute.”

  “Cute?” Oh, of all the . . . Owen straightened up and tried to deny that Malcolm’s little nibbles along his neck were doing anything for him. “There goes your semi-public blowjob,” he muttered.

  “For giving you a compliment? Come on, that’s not fair.” Malcolm’s busy hands rucked up Owen’s T-shirt and rubbed across his tummy and chest. “I like you all smooth, like a twink . . . lets me know which one of us is in charge.”

  Owen rolled his eyes, tried to ignore the little sparks of electricity trailing in the wake of Malcolm’s fingers. “As long as we’re in public, I guess,” he breathed in Malcolm’s ear. “Tell yourself that.”

  Malcolm twitched against him,
giving away that the tease had hit bull’s-eye. “Right. If we’re not stopping now, I’ll have you over that desk there.” A lifted eyebrow indicated exactly which one. It was so crowded with stuff that a romp on there would likely dislocate five cubic meters of paper. Hard to explain on Monday, that.

  “Mmm, no. If we’re not stopping now, I’m taking you behind the counter and getting on my knees.”

  “Nngh . . .” Malcolm ground up against his thigh and glared at him, and Owen smiled wickedly back. Yup. Nothing else put the man on his knees in charge quite like a good old-fashioned blowjob, and Mal knew it.

  With a growl, Owen buried his face in the hollow of Malcolm’s neck and ground up against him. They’d gotten their negative test results by text this morning, and he was feeling reckless and horny, and he wanted Mal right then, right there, with no regrets.

  “Right,” Malcolm grunted. “You’re on. We’re not stopping now.”

  “Yes, we are,” he muttered with reluctance. He put Malcolm away from him and backed up. “I like this job.”

  Malcolm perked up. “Right, you would get canned if, say, I fucked you over that desk right there, wouldn’t you?”

  Owen glanced at the desk, overflowing with files and detritus, and all of it left in perfect order by a beleaguered pet shelter employee who’d grabbed this office space because it was cheap. Someone would know—that desk would be leveled by whatever Mal had in mind.

  “Like it,” he said through gritted teeth, and then he humped up against Malcolm again, grinding hard enough to bruise. He pulled back then, every nerve screaming for Malcolm, skin on skin.

  “Really?” Malcolm asked, one of those dark eyebrows rising quizzically. “That’s it? That’s how much I mean to you? I just threw over my trainer for you—”

  “Really?”

  Malcolm grunted. “No, but let’s say you won the priority game. But you won’t even risk a little bit of public sex for me?”

  Owen shivered, aroused and tingling—but most of his urgency had been spent with the quiet joy of ranking first to Josh. “I think,” he said, considering, “that you’re going to walk me down the street and take me sightseeing. And the whole time, you’re going to know that I’m hard, and I want you, and that all it’s going to take when we get home is a touch, a whisper of a touch, your lips on the small of my back, and I’m going to be ready to hump the furniture.”