As Sure As The Sun

by Elle Keaton

  Buck took a deep breath and wavered a little. This time Miguel made him sit down on a little bench and put his head between his knees. Then, because sometimes when Buck was in a state he needed touch, Miguel wrapped himself around the larger man. Miguel figured Buck had been starved for any kind of touch as a kid, and now his body (and psyche) needed it sometimes the way a diabetic needed insulin. And, frankly, it wasn’t any hardship to touch all that muscle. Miguel benefitted from this too; he missed the feeling of touching a strong man, even though what he felt for Buck wasn’t sexual.

  A few more deep breaths and Buck had himself back under control.

  “I’m going to ask Joey to marry me.”

  Something inside Miguel swelled; pride, he suspected. Buck had come so far since they’d met, especially in the past few months. Once excessively shy and unsure of himself, Buck was now part of a healthy and loving relationship, spreading his wings. A stupid metaphor, but it had been a little like witnessing the birth of a butterfly—not that Miguel had personally witnessed anything of the sort. Where he grew up, the kids were more likely to pull the wings off of them.

  No longer did Buck shrink from random physical contact, hide in his office for days, or spending the weekends with the cars he was refurbishing. He hadn’t been a complete hermit, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to interact with anyone but Miguel until Joey burst into his life.

  “You know he’s going to say yes, right? The man adores you; as far as he’s concerned you get up extra early every morning in order to make sure the sun is coming up for him.”

  “Will you be my best man?”

  Sound ceased. Miguel’s heart stopped beating for a moment. He returned to the living and blinked. “What did you say?”

  “I want you to be my best man.”

  Sagging against the back of the bench, Miguel contemplated his life choices. It was Buck’s turn to peer at him.

  Buck reached over and brushed something from Miguel’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”

  Miguel’s heart squeezed so hard it physically hurt. He looked away from Buck’s questioning gaze. The long moment’s quiet faded, and now everything was loud. Miguel was raw and exposed under the overly warm June sunshine.

  When he could speak without fear of breaking down, he managed to get the words out. “Why me? I’m nobody.”

  Buck looked angry. “I’m asking you because you’re my best friend and I want you, and no one else, to stand with me.”

  Damn. When he put it like that. “Who is standing with Joey?”

  “Why, you have a preference? What’s wrong with you?” Buck was still scowling.

  “I’m not good enough,” Miguel forced out, trying to make his friend understand. “I’m a no-good drifter you took in out of pity. I’m pretty good with cars…” The look on Buck’s face said he didn’t believe him. Refused to understand.

  Passersby would probably have thought the two of them were lovers, the way Buck took Miguel’s face between his large warm palms, looking him in the eye. “If I wanted someone else to be my best man I would have asked someone else. But I don’t. So I didn’t. Am I making myself clear?” Miguel nodded. “Let’s try this again; Miguel, will you please be my best man?” Miguel found himself nodding again. Buck dropped his hands, and Miguel missed their warmth.

  “I still want to know who you think Joey’s going to ask.”

  Buck rolled his eyes, “I have no idea. But Kon will be the ring bearer.” Miguel smiled because that kid was cute. Miguel felt a sense of comradeship with him, even though the Russian foster child had no idea that Miguel had grown up in the system as well—although Miguel had been nowhere near as lucky as Kon. Not even close.

  Of course Joey said yes.

  Pandemonium reigned at the engagement barbeque. Joey leapt into Buck’s arms, accidentally letting go of Xena’s leash. Kon panicked at the sight of his beloved dog dashing off and heading directly to the closest table laden with chips, salads, burger buns, and assorted snacks.

  Racing after the dog in a desperate attempt to catch the end of Xena’s leash, Kon tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face. Sterling Bailey tried to help him, but Kon wouldn’t be comforted until Ira, from the Booking Room, came over and started consoling him in Russian. Letting go of Joey after a passionate kiss, Buck stood and went to the boy. Kneeling next to him, he quietly asked Kon if he would be willing to carry the rings for them. Everyone started crying then.

  Meanwhile, the dog, obeying an unheard command, dropped and sat, still as a statue, waiting next to the cake Maureen James had placed on the table. Written on the top in beautiful curlicue writing was “Buck and Joey, Together Forever.” Gah, it was so sweet Miguel’s teeth hurt.

  If he was going to be honest with himself, and Miguel prided himself on honesty, most especially self-honesty, he was jealous of the men around him finding happiness. If he were happy, the sweetness wouldn’t bother him.

  Leaning against a picnic table, he watched the interactions of the partygoers, feeling extremely single. Joey and Buck of course were holding hands, tearfully accepting congratulations. Sterling was being fed potato chips by the hot young FBI agent, laughing when Weir leaned in and whispered a secret in his ear. Even Adam Klay, who Miguel knew slightly, was smiling and leaning against his boyfriend.

  He couldn’t shake the oppressive feeling of loneliness and was glad Sara was in Seattle. If she had been at Ed’s party they would have ended up in bed again. Miguel did love Sara and, obviously, found her attractive, but it wasn’t right. They weren’t right together, and they both knew it. Sighing, Miguel dug up a happy face for his friends before rejoining the celebration.

  The Following Spring

  Miguel eyed himself in the mirror. A stranger stared warily back at him. Joey and Buck had, thankfully, gone for fairly casual when it came to wedding attire, but since Miguel mostly wore coveralls from the shop or one of a few pairs of worn jeans and a couple T-shirts he’d had for years, he felt out of place. He’d never had a need to dress up. When he did go out—which hadn’t happened for a while—he would end up undressed anyway.

  The khaki shorts and white linen shirt looked good, but he felt like a stranger. He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and half-heartedly tucked the shirttails into his shorts. Dressing up only changed the outside. No matter how much he loved Joey and Buck, nice clothes couldn’t change who he was or wasn’t.

  At the window he stared down into Maureen James’s backyard. It was huge. From their guest list it appeared the grooms had invited the entire town to witness the blessed event. After spending the entire spring making the yard into an oasis for their guests, the big day was finally here, and so was everyone Miguel knew and many he didn’t. Joey was the youngest of six kids, and his brother’s and sisters’ families alone were taking up half the guest space. Sisters’, anyway; Miguel had seen no sign of family for the older brother. Mark, he thought.

  A knock on the door startled him, and Buck stuck his head in before Miguel answered. “You okay? You’ve been up here for a while.”

  They’d talked more since Buck asked him to stand with him when he married Joey, but Miguel still felt unworthy. He literally was no one, a broken man, though he hid it well. Everything he had in his life, he owed to Buck. He would be nothing if Buck hadn’t taken pity on him over three years ago; he’d probably be dead.

  All the belongings he’d had left had been crammed in an old army-surplus duffel. He was soaked from the near-constant drizzle and hungry because he was quite literally penniless. Miguel had spotted Swanfeldt’s Auto Body and Repair and decided to try one last time. He would cross the street, ask for the owner or manager, and hope they needed someone. If not, he would be forced to contact his ex. He almost preferred death from exposure to asking Justin for help.

  His lifeline had come in the form of Buck, who didn’t hesitate. He’d tugged Miguel inside the shop, handed him a spare pair of coveralls, showed him where the tools were, and said, “Show me what you
can do.” Miguel had, and three years later he was still there.

  “I’m seriously nervous.”

  “I’m the one getting married; what have you got to be nervous about?” Buck was teasing. He knew Miguel was two seconds away from running screaming out the front door. “Come on, let’s get this over with so I can make an honest man out of Joey.”

  Miguel snorted. “I think it’s far too late for that.” Buck crossed to where he was looking out the window, fixed Miguel’s collar, and tucked the shirt in a little more. “Knock it off. I’ve been dressing myself for years.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s part of the problem.” What did Buck mean by that? Before Miguel could ask, Buck dropped his hand from Miguel’s collar and turned to head back downstairs. “Come on, we’re on in ten minutes.”

  Twenty minutes later, standing under the implausibly perfect June sunshine while his best friend got married, his gaze traveled across the crowd. It was a crowd; every seat was full. There were even people standing at the back. Buck had managed to rein Joey in, and they had gone for a simple theme. The decorations consisted of two white arches covered in flowers and tulle. Fairy lights had been strung along the back porch and around the fruit trees along the fence line. As it got dark they would begin to light up. Someone, Miguel wasn’t sure who, had made a song list that would start as the grooms walked together from the ceremony.

  Insects were humming and buzzing in the shimmering heat, and a trickle of sweat snuck down his spine. He twitched, trying to stay focused on the ceremony. A movement caught his eye. At the back of the crowd, set aside from most of the back-row stragglers, was someone he had never seen before. Miguel knew he hadn’t, because there was no way he would ever have forgotten.

  Inappropriately, Miguel felt a stir of attraction for the stranger that distracted him from the heat of the afternoon. From his viewpoint the man looked taller than average; he had short dark hair with bangs that fell adorably across his forehead into his left eye. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he was trying to hide or felt out of place.

  “Psst. Dude.” Miguel snapped back to attention, embarrassed to have been caught staring. He refocused on Joey’s vows. The rest of the ceremony dragged by; no offense to Buck and Joey, but if Miguel ever tied the knot he was eloping on a beach after a five-minute service. When he looked back out into the audience, the stranger had disappeared. Damn.

  Finally Miguel was watching the newlyweds walk down the center aisle hand in hand with Kon leading the way. The audience stood, clapping and throwing rose petals along their path. Once they had started the receiving line (a tradition that had to be explained to him), Miguel headed straight for the liquor. He needed a head start.

  Deciding to forgo the punch bowl, Miguel instead went straight for the bar and proceeded to get quietly and thoroughly drunk. All the time chatting with people who, if they really knew him, wouldn’t stop to scrape him off the street. There were FBI agents, professors from the university, and a bunch of Joey’s family, all of whom seemed to be doctors or lawyers. And him. Car mechanic. Foster kid. Whitewashed Mexican. Maybe Mexican. Didn’t really know.

  He tried to keep his eye out for the man at the back of the crowd, but between chatting and drinking he didn’t see him. Too bad; considering the kind of wedding this was, there was a high chance that the man was gay. Or bi, like him, although many people seemed oddly unwilling to admit to being bi these days. Like it was cheating or something. Well, fuck that.

  Oh, and fuck that. Miguel saw a tall figure slide sideways through the French doors leading to Maureen’s kitchen. The stranger caught Miguel’s gaze before disappearing.

  “Excuse me, restroom.” Miguel gestured with his champagne glass. When had he started on champagne? At this point he couldn’t bring himself to care about the consequences—of the champagne or anonymous sex. Putting the glass down on one of the many decorated tables dotting the yard, he headed inside.

  The older guests were seated in the living room out of the heat, and there was no sign of his quarry. Miguel hazarded a wave and continued on his quest. His plan, such as is was, entailed pretending he didn’t know someone was in the bathroom and going from there. The bathroom off the kitchen had a line, so he passed it by. There was another down the hallway near Kon’s room and a third up the first flight of stairs. Upstairs it was.

  The crystal knob turned easily under his hand.

  “Oh, hey, I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

  Startled amber eyes were the first thing Miguel saw. Champagne, sweet white wine, and several shots of tequila kept him moving forward. The stranger was tall and elegantly formed. Even his eyebrows were elegant slashes drawn above those incredible eyes. Miguel stared for a dangerously long time into their depths.

  “Uh, what are you doing in here?”

  “Following you.” Miguel moved closer, catching the waistband of the other man’s shorts. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Can I kiss you?”

  Miguel’s drunken mind translated the sputtering that followed to Please, yes. So he did. A quiet instinct warned him to take care. He stood on his toes, using his other hand to pull the man’s face closer to his own, lightly rubbing his nose under his earlobe. God, he smelled good. Miguel breathed in the scent along the man’s face and back toward his ear before lightly dragging his lips along the man’s cheek as he returned to his mouth.

  There was no further protest from… “What’s your name?” His question startled the man, but he answered without pulling away. “Owen.”

  “Owen, I’m going to kiss you and then fuck you.” Owen’s long body shivered against his, generating a visceral reaction from Miguel. Jesus. If it was like this when they didn’t know each other, hadn’t done more than touch for thirty seconds, what was sex going to be like? He couldn’t wait to find out.

  Strong hands, warm and solid, dropped to his shoulders before skimming down his back to land on Miguel’s ass, pulling him close enough to feel a hefty erection pressing against his hip. Miguel had no problem showing affection with his body. He loved the feel of skin against his own, of heat and breath, the wet of tongues and slide of precome from cocks. He loved it all. Owen shuddered against him again, and Miguel almost lost it right there.

  “Come on.” Grabbing Owen’s hand, he opened the bathroom door. The hallway was clear; none of the other wedding guests had ventured upstairs. The faint sound of music floated up from the backyard where Buck and Joey were probably having a first dance. Praying that they wouldn’t be missed, he dragged Owen up to the third floor, to Joey’s room, where he’d changed earlier. He would ask forgiveness later.

  Miguel pushed Owen through the door and shut it firmly behind them. The air in the small room was stifling, the covers on Joey’s bed rumpled, and Miguel nearly tripped over a discarded dress shoe. Desperate for more touch, Miguel pressed his lips against Owen’s again, bringing their chests together. Owen moaned, nearly snapping Miguel’s resolve to last longer than three minutes. It had been a dry spell since Sara.

  Miguel licked at Owen’s mouth, drawing a succulent lower lip into his own mouth, nipping it, chasing his tongue. Miguel tried unbuttoning Owen’s shorts, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Their panting filled the small room. Miguel tasted coffee and liquor on Owen’s tongue. Owen pushed Miguel’s hands away impatiently, unbuttoning and pushing his shorts down over his hips, dragging his underwear along with them. Miguel was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of Owen’s cock, erect, slick from precome. His mouth watered.

  Lips crashed down on his, demanding entrance. This wasn’t lazy kissing any longer; this was crass, hard, passionate. Spit coated their lips. Miguel was going to have beard burn, he thought; wondered if he cared. Whatever Miguel was feeling, Owen felt it too. Everything was a haze of touch, feel, press, lick, nose pressed into the crook of Owen’s neck while Owen licked the shell of his ear. They were both slick with sweat from the heat of the attic room. His spine buzzed with sexual awareness, the promise
of orgasm, of dizzying completion.

  Miguel fell backward onto the bed, and Owen followed, his hard, rough, taut body creating a havoc in Miguel he hadn’t felt in too long. Sex was one of Miguel’s favorite things—okay, the favorite thing. Skin against skin, soft touch or rough, the scent of arousal—which in this moment was heady; he was drunk on it. Sounds too, like the ones they were both making as they rubbed frantically against each other. His balls tightened. Miguel fought it; he wanted this to last.

  “I don’t, I can’t—” Owen whispered into the ear he was mauling. “Wha-what do you want?”

  “I want you to fuck me.” Miguel rolled onto his stomach and realized he was still mostly dressed. Struggling to sit up, he pulled off the damp linen shirt, probably losing a few buttons in the process. Owen grabbed his hips from behind, pressing himself against Miguel. His fingers failed him again. Owen pulled Miguel against his bare chest and stuck his free hand down the front of the offending shorts to grab his cock. Miguel’s entire self shorted out; he thrust mindlessly into Owen’s grip, loving the slick of his precome as Owen held him, pumping him.

  He was helpless against the onslaught. When Owen slid his fingers behind Miguel’s balls, the world exploded. Miguel came, ribbons of come shooting across his chest and Owen’s fist, the bed. His body shuddered, cresting, then came to rest. He felt like he’d been in a car wreck. But a good one. Or he was a piece of driftwood adrift in a storm, then washed ashore and…

  “Can I, still?” Owen’s deep voice filtered through the haze of the best orgasm he’d had, maybe ever.

  “Yeah, fuck me.” He would be sensitive, it could hurt, but he wanted it anyway.

  Owen pulled his shorts down around his knees. Miguel leaned forward, barely able to support himself on his elbows, ass in the air, forehead pressed against Joey’s comforter cover. Joey was going to kill him if he ever found out.

  A soft whisper from behind him. “I don’t, uh, have any protection.”

  “Bedside table.” There was no way Joey didn’t have stuff, three floors up from his mother and Kon forbidden from the upstairs. Shutting his eyes against reality, he heard the drawer open, a quiet rustle, and then the wrinkling sound of a condom wrapper being opened. Thank fuck.