Bespoke

by Megan McFerren

  "Did you think of me?" Vance asks, smirking at the little sounds Ethan makes as he resists answering. "Did you imagine this? You're making a mess of your own suit, Ethan, as you make a mess of me."

  "Good."

  Vance laughs again, eyes dipping down to look as his hand makes quick work of the zipper and slides past the waistband of Ethan's briefs to wrap a hand around his cock. Ethan's length curves towards his belly and Vance follows the sweep of it with a turn of wrist. His fingers curl tight around the head; he thumbs the slit. Ethan's fingers stretch and spasm clenched against Vance's suit, tugging it free in every way he can.

  It will hold up to the rough treatment. Ethan made sure of that.

  "While I was making it," Ethan whispers, his confession writing pleasure in the lines beside his eyes. "Thinking of how it would sit on you, how you would be radiant in it." His eyes drift lower as another stroke bends his hips from the couch and provokes a helpless whimper. "How you would thank me for it, just like this."

  Vance hums, warm and delighted, and ducks his head to press another wet kiss against Ethan's neck.

  "Thank you," he says, rocking his hips down as he strokes, pulling a shudder through Ethan's body.

  With increasing fervor, Ethan continues to bare him, fingers slipping against buttons, leaving marks with his blunt nails where they touch skin. He pushes the perfectly fitted trousers down. There's an instant where he can see his cock, thick and heavy, swollen head peeking from the delicate foreskin stretched tight around it. Ethan's lips part and then his jaw drops when Vance takes them both in hand, instead.

  "No," Ethan says, biting his lip and releasing it with a laugh. "Thank you."

  Vance's shirt is half-on, around his arms, the vest shoved down with it, baring his softly-contoured strength. Ethan hooks a leg around his, rocking into the tight tunnel of Vance's fist. Each hot brush of friction along taut cocks pulls a little sound from him, panting past open lips. The old couch creaks beneath as their thrusts speed together.

  "You are lovely," Vance tells him.

  Ethan snorts. "You're still an asshole."

  "We've established that," Vance whispers, parting his lips as he twists his wrist against them both and ducks his head to press their foreheads together, moaning softly in pleasure. "I'm afraid you'll need to learn to deal with it. You will see me here more and more frequently as––as my convention goes on and my suits run low."

  "Oh, fuck," groans Ethan, the movement of his hips growing jerky and erratic with every gasping breath. "Already, I thought of them––I hoped you'd let me, please let me."

  Vance's smile curves wide as he twines their lips together, and draws his nose against Ethan's own. "I can't go back to wearing another."

  "You'll take what I give you."

  "Yes."

  "You'll love them."

  "Yes, Ethan."

  "Let me––" Ethan can't finish his thought, not when lightning strikes and sparks burst behind his eyes. His body erupts from the couch with a long moan loud enough it resonates in the little shop. Pearlescent come streaks in ribbons across his belly, darkening his shirt in stripes. He clings to Vance, arms around his neck, as if he's the only thing keeping him moored to the earth, whimpering. "My muse."

  Vance makes a sound, helpless and low, and closes his eyes, tucking himself against Ethan's neck as he follows him over, trembling and sweaty and filthy.

  With a low hum, another deliberate nuzzle against Ethan, Vance pulls back just far enough to kiss him again, lazy and slow, sharing air as their lips brush together, as they turn their heads to rub their noses together next.

  "I suppose I am."

  Ethan curls against him, with little regard for the mess that can surely be cleaned from even those beautiful textiles. Arms snug around his neck, a leg wrapped around one of Vance's, they shuffle to their sides and as Ethan tucks his head beneath Vance's chin, he prays to whatever God will listen that no one walks into the shop. Or looks in the window, for that matter.

  "Rust orange," Ethan murmurs, "for autumn. Accents in harvest gold and ivory. Something heavier for winter, Prussian blue perhaps, with red check." He fans his fingers against Vance's throat and frames his cheek with his palm. Uncertainty curls his grasp a little tighter; comfort pulls him close. "You'll bankrupt me, and I'll never even get to see you in them."

  Vance makes a low sound, deep and displeased. Ethan draws breath to take the words back, but before he can speak, Vance says, "I'm paying for the suit. I will have to come back for more; I can't be seen in the same four suits by the same people, it would be humiliating. Should Heathrow airport ever deem it necessary to sort out their unacceptable mishap of losing my luggage and return it to me, I may allow you reprieve to complete your pending commissions." Vance shifts a little closer, drawing his clean hand through Ethan's hair. "However, after that, I will need more of your deliberately obtuse color choices and fabric selection."

  "You don't know what's good for you," Ethan murmurs, unable to hide his smile despite the words. "That's why you pay me to tell you."

  "Prideful."

  "Smug."

  "Presumptuous."

  "Vain."

  "Talented," Vance murmurs against Ethan's hair. "Extraordinary."

  Ethan draws a deep breath, and holds for as long as he can the sweetness of Vance's warmth and the richness of woolen suiting. "Beautiful," he answers, lifting his eyes. "And mine."

  several months later

  When it rains in New York, it pours, unexpectedly dragging thunder through the city and flooding drains entirely unprepared for such uncommon weather. Ethan hardly cares for it, but he hardly cared for the snow either, which only a month before was turning to muddy sludge on the sidewalks.

  He adjusts his position, curling one foot beneath himself on his spinning stool, to continue working an intricate design into the lapel of a dark winter coat. It is heavy wool, thick, waxed on the outside to withstand the snow, though it wouldn't stand a chance against the flood outside.

  Ethan flexes his fingers and works another stitch of gold against the royal blue already there. Embroidery is hardly his forte, nor a service he offers, but this customer is exacting. Keeping him happy is well in Ethan's favor.

  The little bell chimes and Ethan sighs.

  "I'll be right with you."

  "Take your time," a familiar voice calls. "I'm merely taking shelter from the storm until it passes."

  Ethan hums his displeasure, setting aside the coat and stabbing the needle into a wall-mounted pincushion before removing his glasses to let them clatter to the desk. He draws a hand through his hair and tugs it, making his way to the main studio.

  "This isn't a bus stop," Ethan points out. "I'm afraid you need to either be here for a fitting or to collect a suit already finished for you."

  The man shakes out his umbrella carefully over the mat and sets it to lean against the wall by the door before turning.

  "You'll excuse me if I have come for neither reason."

  "Then out into the rain you go," Ethan tells him, suppressing his smile only by force of will. Vance's eyes draw up in the corners, fanning wrinkles of pleasure. "I'm not interested in someone who's going to waste my time, especially someone who's just shown up out of nowhere with no forewarning."

  "Return to work, then," Vance suggests, removing his black leather gloves a finger at a time. "What manner of garishness is it today, red and green? Yellow and blue?"

  "Marigold and cobalt," says Ethan, folding his arms. A brow lifts as his gaze lowers, eyes widening with every inch of the seal brown suit he takes in, cut in trim, modern lines with little embellishment but precision detail. "What in God's name are you wearing?"

  Vance raises an eyebrow and removes his coat to hang over his arm. "This?"

  "Yes. That."

  "I will have you know that this is an authentic Ethan Adler," Vance replies, tone prim, smile wider now. "One of a kind."

  "It's atrocious," Ethan remarks, eyes sliding up to regard
Vance properly, his smile, his damp hair, his dark eyes. The parcel he holds in the same hand that supports his heavy coat. "That man should be shot."

  "You're being very rude," Vance says, stepping closer, draping his coat over the back of one of the couches, setting the parcel down as well. "I will not abide such lies spoken about my partner."

  Ethan's arms loosen and his hands span along Vance's arms, over firm muscle and thick fabric. He follows the expanse of his shoulders, up his throat to cup his cheeks, leaning into him enough that Vance must rebalance so as not to step backwards.

  "Poor son-of-a-bitch," Ethan grins. "What's he going to say when you start up with a much better clothier than the one who made that? What is this suit, ten months old?"

  "Nearly so."

  "Fucking shameful," Ethan murmurs against Vance's lips, closing to a kiss. "I can make you something far better."

  "Can you?"

  Ethan's eyes narrow in pleasure, and he steps back again, slapping his palm softly against Vance's chest. "Off. I cannot have you standing in something so drab in my studio."

  "It would hardly be proper," Vance remarks, smiling as Ethan steps around him to lock the door and flip the little sign to 'closed' before pulling the curtain over it.

  "Proper never made beautiful clothes."

  "Nor mixed marigold and cobalt," Vance says, and grins as Ethan returns to him to kiss him quiet.

  "Strip," he orders, "and let's see what I can do for you."

  Fin

  VAL PROZOROVA

  Val: Mentally living in one time zone and working in another, Val tries to make the best of tiny island living. When not working on collaborative pieces, Val enjoys negotiating keyboard rights with her cat and trying to learn how to whistle. Val can be found on Twitter @inscripturience, on her Tumblr website under the same name, and on Facebook under her author name. Val has stories published by Transmundane, Torquere Press, Less Than Three Press, Polychrome Ink, TQ Review and Lit Select.

  MEGAN MCFERREN

  Megan McFerren enjoys exploring queer history through erotic romance, and illuminating the love that once dared not speak its name. After studying Victorian and Ancient Germanic literature at university, she moved from West Texas to New York City – quite a change for a country girl!

  In those rare hours not spent at work or writing, she enjoys photographing pigeons, good whiskey, and working her way through everything by Evelyn Waugh and Cormac McCarthy. She’s presently at work on a number of collaborative efforts with her partner-in-crime Val Prozorova, as well as wrangling several novellas into shape spanning from boarding schools to Victorian rent boys to the frontier west.

  Her adventures in word-shuffling can be followed on Twitter @inarcadiamegan. She has shared stories in anthologies from Cleis, Torquere Press, Transmundane, Liz McMullen, Love Slave, and Insatiable Press.