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The door to the motel room clicked shut, closing the space off from the blustery night breeze and acrid, cold smell of the desert after dark. Arcade dropped his shoulders and posture along with any pretense of dignity, his hand barely hovering over the knob of the door. His belongings were in the bag held in his other hand, which too would be dropped soon enough.
An exhausted sigh fell from his lips in tandem with his shoulders, his chest emptying as he took in the stained floor and walls with an appreciation that could only be granted by weeks on the road without suitable shelter or privacy. A quiet second passed as he took in the stagnant air; it held the odors of tar and stale piss, the sound of a radio playing next door; the afterburn of some chemical used for cleaning. Or so he hoped.
It was still easily better than the smell of fresh dead and the sound of gunshots. Likely no Mojave creatures were hiding within, tucked under piles of rubble. There was a place to bathe. He began his customary check of the room, tossing his bag next to the console table sidling the wall a few feet from the door.
Nothing sinister or disgusting lurked under the moth-chewn, cigarette burnt duvet when he flipped it up. The sheets, though stained, were in operable order as well. The space under the bed held no monsters. His knees ached, hard against the floor, and he grunted softly as he stood back up, his cornsilk hair falling out of place. It tickled his forehead, greasy; a reminder of how badly he needed a shower. Grime and flecks of dried blood clung to his entire body; one of the tolls of the long week he’d spent traveling with Michael.
They’d been hounded by a party of legion dogs-and their poorly trained masters, camping just far enough out of reach to avoid tasting their bullets and teeth, still wet and salty from freshly torn meat. He and Michael had held cover until the fourth day, when a poorly chosen roadway led them to a dead end, the raiding party hot at their necks.
Held up in what might’ve passed for a bus centuries ago, they waited, air like lead in their chests. Barely surviving the ensuing gunfight, an agonizing four hours, they managed to drag themselves back to civilization, Michael’s left forearm ripped up by a likely half-rabid mutt. They were both tired, dinged up, and in poor spirits by the time they reached Novac, Michael far worse for wear.
He’d shuffled behind the unattended reception counter when they arrived at the motel, in his typical wordless fashion, fished around in the drawers and tossed Arcade a room key, a rusty brass thing affixed to a green plastic dinosaur. The gesture held no humor, and he followed Michael up the rickety staircase to both of their rooms in silence.
Arcade shrugged off his lab coat, kicked off his boots. Once he’d bathed and changed into something clean he would have the chance to wash his clothes. He folded the garment halfheartedly, setting it on the console table.
Despite all of the blood and grime, Arcade found he didn’t mind the time spent with the courier--or ex-’courier’, as it currently stood. Whatever the man’s state of profession, travel with him was never short of adventure; or humor, or knowledge, or hundreds of other things Arcade had half-forgotten inside the walls of the Mormon Fort.
Normally, when he was not in tatters--in regards to matters of both his tolerance and physical state--Michael was a man of good intentions, well timed and softly spoken jokes, dimpled smiles; all rare things to find in a man, especially all together, in a place like the Mojave. The thing was, he could still hold his own, even with his soft looking form and puppy eyes and the way he pieced his sentences together, like he’d been given a marquee sign with half of the letters missing. Michael threw punches like a boxer; his movements and form were efficient and well practiced in a way that was, to understate, truly incredible.
Images and flashes of half recalled memory flitted through Arcade’s mind as he continued through the motions of settling into the space. The fluid, effortless motion of his fist connecting with the jaw of a fellow bar patron. The fallout of that exchange had left little room for appreciation; in hindsight, though, Arcade savored the mechanics of the way Michael had moved. How he held his plasma rifle, steady and unwavering with the strength and control he had in his arms. The way his trademark lilac striped dress shirts hugged his figure, almost too tight around his biceps and chest.
Arcade bit his tongue hard, figuratively speaking. Shame flooded his mouth the way blood might. His thoughts had gotten away from him. He stood half dressed in the center of the room, fingers hovering over the middle buttons of his shirt. The air was faintly cool against his chest.
He inhaled and exhaled, steady, measured; the way he’d done his entire life, and tried to chase off the blush that heated his cheeks and neck. He would not… indulge his own incautious fantasies, and he would not pay Michael that disrespect. He deserved better than to be reduced to the object of Arcade’s desperate whims, and Arcade ought to know better than to tempt such thoughts in the first place.
He detested the loops his ever-healing heart ran him through, though the futility of his loathing was not lost on him. He would do his best to keep professional distance, both in practice and theory, but the inevitable outcome hung on the wall of his mind, nearly as paralyzing as the photo of his father hung not far away from it. He would fall for Michael, just like he fell for every fairly attractive man who treated him with decency--or the illusion of it.
He wouldn’t act on anything, of course; he refused to take advantage like that.
Still, the thoughts would hound him, his own hidden affections sinking into his chest like barbs, until the day came that they would be torn out, either by tragedy or rejection or his own foolishness. He’d be left bleeding into the sand, clutching his ribs with crimson palms. He broke easily, years of damage leaving him fragile. The sting he now felt was as familiar as it was fleeting.
Arcade made his way to the bathroom, his unbuttoned shirt the only piece of clothing left on him. He nudged the door with his foot, hinges squealing to a nearly shut position.
A mirror hung on the wall over the sink, dirty but mostly intact. He caught his reflection’s eyes and was stuck studying his own face. Cheeks smeared with grit and dust. His hair was shades darker than its true color, tacky and greasy. Fatigue had left ditches in the shape of his skull under his eyes in bruised shades of purple and red. His eyes held very little luster, looking glazed over even as he regarded himself, perfectly lucid. In simple terms, he looked like hell.
With another well deserved sigh, Arcade shrugged off his shirt. He flipped on the shower, giving it a short moment to sputter to life and clear the grime from the pipes. With any luck, he could wash off some of this self pity. He stepped into the shower.
The spray that hit him was icy at first, running down his bare, pale skin in frigid rivulets. It flowed down the drain a rusty color, carrying blood and dirt. The water ran progressively warmer as he clawed his way through the grime in his hair, fingers tangled in the lightening silk-blond waves. It soothed the goosebumps that rose at the initial bite of cold water, a shock that usually bothered him more. Instead, the water heated luxuriously quickly, pinkening his sun-scarred shoulders with its kiss and filling the room with steam.
It warmed him to his very core, in a pleasant way, not at all like the midday sun. It was a steady warmth in his chest and bones, the hot, clean near-sting of fresh water. He knew it was wasteful but the misery of the prior week left him blissfully uncaring for once. The warmth fogged his normally glass-edge sharp thoughts, leaving his mind more like the bathroom mirror. Arcade’s thoughts drifted easily as he washed the grime off himself. The gentle smell of soap cut the air.
He quickly shooed off questions of ‘when was the last time he’d taken a hot shower like this…?’ for knowledge of where those lines of thought would lead. He wouldn’t sour this luxury with a mire of glassy eyed despondency. The quiet bleed of radio music through the wall afforded him an appealing alternative, undressing considerations he’d previously denied himself. The steam that clouded his mind had loosened his convictions.
Michael, sitting at the small diner table in his room. Quite literally on the other side of the wall. The man felt oceans away. The light from the table lamp illuminated the softly raised planes of his face. Settled on his lips, soft lips, like a layer of gold. He leaned back in his chair, feet on the other across the table from him. Lilac striped shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. Collar undone three buttons, betraying his soft throat and the gold cross that rested against his chest.
Light from the display on his pieced together radio caught his eyes, the color rich and carmelly brown, like melting dates. Arcade’s eyes had fallen half shut. His own hands ran down his body, gently calloused palms against delicate, sun-spared skin. Soap skated down his outer thighs and he chased it away, slowly, deliberately.
‘How did Michael’s hands feel?’ he wondered, deft fingers gliding their way back over his hips. They would be warm. Calloused, too, he’d wager. Worn rough from the grip of his rifle and a hard life under the Mojave sun.
Arcade’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his eyes still closed. Michael’s touch would be gentle, indisputably so--warmth pooled in his stomach, so very distinct from the scalding kiss of the water--but merciless in its exploration, fingers deliciously rough against sensitive skin.
A hand drifted down over Arcade’s hips again, imagined to be broader, rougher than it was. Scarred and flecked from a life of scraped together survival, knuckles pronounced and well acquainted with the weak spots of the human body. The hot water did the rest. One line of thought bled eagerly into the next.
Fingertips ghosted over his lower belly, dragging blunted nails over the fragile skin. Curly golden hair was bogged down by water, steam curling in the space between their breaths. Questioning eyes met his, half lidded, the color of whiskey in a bottle. Soft lips parted, words were not spoken but felt. A voice like sweet cream and brown sugar, tentative. Arcade wanted so badly to catch those lips with his own; it’d been years since he’d tasted something so rich.
A breath tumbled from his chest at the thought, the hand not relenting in its roaming touch. Warm, rough fingers traced the length of the growing heat that rose to his stomach. For how light the touch was, it didn’t fail to draw a quiet groan from his chest. The contact was electric. Slow, reserved. Deliberate. The want for more ached deliciously.
He shuddered as the hand that barely glided along his cock, touch light enough so as to only provide the proof of its presence, took him up fully. The warmth of Michael’s skin against his own, lips burning the fragile skin of his throat and chest. He’d not touched himself like this in a while. The gentle squeeze of a deft and skilled hand sent sparks skittering down the length of his spine.
He stroked himself, torturously slowly, savoring the roughness of his palm. He half-fought the cant of his own hips as music from the radio next door bled through the wall, cutting through the hiss of the shower. It was a very real reminder of Michael’s proximity. The man’s smell filled his head, and though he knew it was desperate, Arcade let himself get drunk on it. Under the smell of ozone and sweat was the bite of whiskey and the aching familiarity of dusty wooden rafters and clean linen, the sweetness of flowers set out on the table for dinner.
Even with his eyes closed, Arcade could see him; see the water beading on his shoulders and the vibrant tattoo of the mojave desert that spanned the splay of his back. Michael’s muscles shifted under fat, moving with Arcade. His skin was slick, pinkened by the warmth of the shower and the blush that crept down from his ears, hardly hidden by the fine, curly hair that crossed his chest.
Arcade tipped his head back, synapses frying. The heat under his skin was deliciously unbearable. His own breaths, stilted and broken, were met by quiet hums of encouragement. Arcade felt them in his chest, and shuddered at every noise, warm and all encompassing. The hand on his cock didn’t slow, somehow burning hotter than the water that splattered molten down his back. If anything, it teased a faster pace. Each unexpected lurch in speed dragged a hitched breath or half-stifled moan out of him, and dragged him closer to the edge.
He felt like he’d been drinking, foggy and hot. Sounds he vaguely recognized himself to be making were loud and stark in the tiled stall. So quickly, he was achingly hard. The strokes still felt torturously slow; the warmth and gentle pressure, hand steady on his cock, was drowning.
It wasn’t enough.
Arcade whined, a sound he would never admit to making. What was the point of dragging this out? Sparks chased down the length of his spine again. His endurance had waned. With it, his self-control. The hand wrapped around his length, guided by indulgence, relented.
Gradually but quickly, the pace increased; he gave himself everything he wanted; needed. Burning hot lips pressed to his throat, licked dizzying stripes and mouthed over his collarbones and chest. His free hand roamed across his body. Faintly, he could still hear the radio over the hiss of the shower and the roaring in his ears.
Michael’s name was on his lips, but stayed there, held in place by an open-mouthed gasp. God, it was good. The heat that was building under his skin became electric, buzzing like static. The warmth pooling in his pelvis was molten.
Desperation dripped from his mouth, as thoughts of Michael dragged him over the edge.
It was electric; his legs shuddered and a stuttered sound of pleasure fell easily from his mouth. His eyes fluttered as he spilled over, his release as bright and blinding as the desert sun.
He sagged against the wall of the shower, his gratified need sinking into him and dragging him towards the floor. Contentment dissolved under his tongue. His head swam, thoughts still foggy, but he came back to his senses quickly enough.Water pattered against the opposite wall of the shower, growing cold. The spray cleared his mind, and once his focus shifted downwards, to his flagging erection, his contentment was shattered.
He had gone and done it. Shame flooded Arcade. Just what he’d resolved to avoid; feeding into his desperation, breaking boundaries and shattering professionalism. He’d thrown that resolve out the window.
He shut the water off as quickly as he could, the hiss from the leaky showerhead boring through his skull. He wasn’t going to let this consume him. He refused to let himself dwell, slashing the ties of every feeling that clung to him.
Guilt, disappointment. Shreds of contentment. He let the shame drip off of him, joining the now clean water as it slithered down the drain.
Arcade stepped out of the shower, skin seared. His footsteps were careful on the wet floor. Steam hugged the corners of the ceiling. He wrapped a towel around himself. He had to put his face back on.
He plucked his dirty shirt from the floor, squinting without his glasses and nudged the bathroom door open. While the self-disgust was not enduring, it never failed to unsettle something behind his ribs. The motel carpet was stiff and dusty under his bare feet. Arcade tried to swallow his feelings down and went to dress himself.