Archive of Our Own

Nothing really changes between them, on the whole, other than Alex doesn't need to pine like some kind of ancient forest, and Greg can indulge his many and varied daydreams of taking Alex apart. It just becomes another scheduling thing in Alex's calendar. The only real rule, other than the obvious safe-sane-consensual, is no visible marks, which they both adhere to rigidly.

They usually end up at Greg's place because there's less variables. Alex likes to keep the bits of his life organised like a bento box. Greg's been to dinner a few times, as per usual.

Having sent the children to bed, enjoying the last of the bottle of rather nice white wine Greg's brought, Rachel makes a joke about tag-teaming Alex and Alex chokes mid-sip while Greg roars with laughter, and he thinks about it all the way home. He gets the sense that this isn't the only arrangement they have in place, but he doesn't mind and certainly doesn't ask.

Rachel always texts him when Alex has left the house, like she's transferring custody. It makes his heart feel quite full, in a strange sort of way. He does love Alex, he knows, and he's perfectly content with the arrangement. He's still too nervous to say it, just in case it crosses some kind of line he can't see. It's probably fine, though. Alex has love coming out his fucking ears: for Rachel, for the children, for Loky, for Tim, for Mark and all of their other weird friends, Ben and Joe and Will and the rest of the band, for the Andys, even. But saying it codifies it in a way that completely buffs off the patina of just mucking around. Even though he's made Alex come in very serious ways indeed.

Right now, Greg's got Alex stripped naked and pressed into his mattress. He's still wearing his flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his jeans, because Alex told him once, shyly, that the vulnerability really does it for him. Who's being vulnerable is sometimes not clear, and it's never the question, anyway.

Alex is properly thrashing around. Greg had asked him how'd he like it, and Alex said immediately, rather like he'd been thinking about it on the train for the last hour and a bit, pin me down and have your way with me, and Greg had watched the flush spread to the tips of his ears, and kissed him.

Alex tries to push back against Greg. Not very much effort expended. 'Greg, oh, Greg. Greg, please, please–'

Greg presses his weight down a bit further, and frowns down at Alex. 'I didn't ask you to beg, did I?' he growls, and Alex writhes.

He's too far gone, now, and he wants to be in trouble and oh God, he wants to come so badly already that it feels like his skin is filled with burrs. He's been desperate for Greg to throw him around all week, and it'd been a long week, so he was practically bursting at the seams by the time he'd got off the Tube and Greg had obliged him so immediately and so perfectly, so kindly. He's like a kind of weighted blanket that fucks back. It does something to Alex's brain. Makes it go all soft at the edges and hot, like warm sand, or rice pudding; like getting into a bath, but the bath gets into you.

'Please, please,' he hears himself whining, slightly far away. Greg watches him squirm for a moment longer, a kind of gravelly look in his eyes. Alex tries again to wriggle out from under him just for the delight of being held in place. He's achingly hard, of course, but Greg doesn't pay it any attention. Alex feels like he might go insane if he doesn't come soon. God, he's been itching for Greg's hands on him like this.

Without warning, Greg sits back and manhandles Alex so they're sat facing the mirrored door of Greg's wardrobe, one hand tight against Alex's scalp. His hair isn't really long enough for pulling, but Greg can grapple him anyway just by dint of being bigger.

'Look at yourself,' Greg says, coldly, and Alex moans, wriggling. Greg pulls his head straight, one hand huge on Alex's jaw. 'Desperate. Gagging for it. Slut.'

Alex moans loudly at that and just fucking comes, untouched on any of the relevant bits, and Greg thinks, Christ, he's completely mental and properly beautiful. Head thrown back, eyes scrunched shut, tooth gap jutting against the bitten pink of his lips. Sweating. Alex makes a whimpery kind of breathless noise, and his eyes are still shut tightly.

'Alex?' Greg asks, softly. Gets a non-committal hum in response.

Greg's still got one hand on Alex's head, the other resting on his collarbone. He's watching Alex in the mirror, waiting for him to get himself together again. Doesn't mind waiting, not at all, not when Alex is so lovely to look at. He'll come again before they're done, Greg knows by now, and he hates and loves him for it in equal measure, jealousy boiled right down to the bones.

Alex opens his eyes slowly and swallows thickly. He presses his head back into the curve of Greg's neck, where it fits so well, and gazes up at Greg with his soft blue eyes. Greg kisses his forehead, which isn't quite in keeping with the whole mise-en-scène, but it makes Alex do this crinkly little cellophane sigh every time, so he can never help himself.

Greg allows the tender moment to settle gently, then clears his throat. 'Right. Now that's out your system,' he says roughly, and not-quite throws Alex onto his back in the middle of the bed. 'Slag.' He picks up Alex's discarded t-shirt because it's within reach. Wipes the sweat from his own chest with it before cleaning Alex up a bit.

Alex moans, watching him drowsily.

'Oi,' Greg says sharply. 'Did I say you could make noise?'

Alex, wide eyed at that, shakes his head. Greg flicks one of Alex's pale thighs with the rolled up shirt, and watches in satisfaction as Alex visibly bites down whatever moan or groan or yelp jumps up.

'You've misbehaved enough tonight,' Greg says, flexing his stern voice because it makes Alex go wobbly. 'I had some nice plans. Thought, maybe, a bit of horseplay, a good fuck, and I'd've let you come without begging, but,' he makes a tch of disapproval, shrugs, and Alex's face burns with shame. 'Slag boy here can only think of himself.' Like he's talking to an audience, now, a fantasy that scratches such a horribly embarrassing itch in Alex's brain. Which, of course, Greg knows. 'Pathetic. Desperate. He'd spend all day rubbing himself off against my trouser leg like the hapless little dog he is, if I'd let him, wouldn't you?'

Alex can't breathe at that. Nods, because he's always desperate to be good, really. Especially when he's desperate to be bad.

'Slag. And you know it's not every night my boy cooperates,' Greg continues, tossing the t-shirt aside. Folding his arms. Looming, because it makes Alex practically drool. Alex whines. He can't help it.

'It's such fucking hard work, keeping you in line,' Greg says severely, after a pause where he lets his gaze bore into Alex's flushed face. 'Frankly amazed you're toilet trained, to be honest, the way you carry on sometimes.' Alex is bright red. He's also somehow clearly on the way to hard again, which makes Greg want to devour him bones and all. 'Knowing you, you'll be wanting more again, right now, hmm?'

Alex swallows, Adam's apple bobbing against the taut line of his neck. He's not even tied up, Greg marvels privately. God, he's an obscene puzzle box of a man.

'Answer me when I ask you a question,' Greg snaps.

'Yes,' Alex manages. 'Please, ple–'

'–Shut up,' Greg says, cutting him off. 'I didn't ask you to beg. Jesus Christ. You'll get exactly what I decide you can have, you little jezebel, and you'll be fucking grateful for it, won't you?

Alex nods furiously, eyes shiny.

'Answer me properly when I ask you a question,' Greg repeats. Steps forward and flicks Alex's dick sharply with his finger. Alex jumps, gasps.

'Yes, Greg. Thank you, Greg.'

'Finally, some fucking manners. With any luck you'll be house-broken soon. Your poor wife.'

Alex moans unbidden, claps a hand over his own mouth. Bringing Rachel into it makes him go absolutely weak at the knees, spine like jellied eel.

(They've talked, properly, actually, about inviting Greg in, but Alex is terrified that he'll think it's weird and he can't bear the thought of losing this – this...whatever it is they have. 'Friends with benefits', Tim had suggested, neck deep in a beer with too many pants, making full use of dramatic finger-quotes. But that doesn't quite work, properly. It's just what it is. Alex's never bothered too much with labels for anything other than 'sidekick' or 'Executive Producer' or 'Dad', and if this Untitled_document(3) of a human relationship is working, then it's working. Not much more to it.)

'Stay there,' Greg tells him, as though Alex would even want to be anywhere else.

He returns, naked, with a towel. 'Get this under you,' he says.

'Oh, well, why'd you have to wipe us down with my shirt, then?' Alex says, frowning.

'Because, insolent boy, as you well know,' Greg says, clambering on top of Alex once the towel is appropriately in situ, 'As you said, in our little tête à tête, working this out, it's about the dynamics. It's about blocking the scene so everyone knows you're a disgusting filthy needy little dog yipping at my heels.' Alex is breathing fast and shallow, hungry. 'Who gives a fuck about your shirt, anyway? Could lend you one of mine, that way everyone on the Tube'd know you were doing a walk of shame. Be a fucking dress on you, mate. Pathetic.'

Alex's breath catches slightly in his throat. Oh, God, oh God. Oh, fuck. Greg has an incredible ability to hammer buttons there's no way he could know are there, like some kind of blind savant audio engineer. Some of them are ones that Alex's not even quite sure he knew were there. Or at least, were actually plugged in like that. It's perfect, and it makes his hair stand on end.

'Was going to offer to wash it for you, obviously,' Greg says, sitting back and looking critically at his hands. 'But, maybe I won't. Maybe I won't even lend you one. What could broadcast that you're a minging little whore louder than you having to drag your sorry arse back to your country pile covered in your own disgusting day-old spunk? I'd tell Rachel not to pick you up from the station, either. Maybe I'll come on it in the morning, too, just so everyone knows who you belong to.'

Alex moans. It's awful, and lawful, and in the moment it's also feasible, and he doesn't want anything else. He fists his hands in the sheets. Greg watches him with a precision-honed slightly bored invigilator stare, hour two of a three hour exam.

'Now, shut up, or I'll gag you with the fucking thing, Alex.'

Alex swallows, hard, at that, like the glob of spit is being propulsed all the way down into his tailbone.

Oh, Greg thinks, we've found another one, and files it away for after they've had a chance to talk about it. He's never really been into this kind of thing, in this kind of way, with anyone else. Maybe he needs a spreadsheet. He watches Alex in silence.

Alex mumbles something into his arms, folded across his face.

'Hmm?' Greg says. Wrests Alex's arms from his face and puts one hand thick and firm on his sternum, pinning him down. Alex whines.

'What'd you say?' Alex blinks slowly. Thinking's so hard. He clears his throat. Greg arches an eyebrow and takes a pinchful of Alex's jaw. 'Spit it out.'

'You're not. Going to punish me?' Alex manages, slightly squeaky with what Greg is sure is mostly feigned embarrassment.

'Punish you?'

'I...you didn't tell me. To come,' Alex breathes. 'But I did.' A nervous breathy giggle.

Greg lets go of his chin and frowns down at him. Alex quails immediately.

'Sorry, Greg. I'm – I'm sorry. I thought h-how good. It would be, oh, to be.' Alex is beet red-pink right down his chest. Greg, still straddling his waist, tilts his head to one side, intent. Alex clears his throat. 'Ahem. Punished, you know. Erm.'

'Oh. I see. You think that you're the one in charge here, hmm? Think you can play the system?' Greg spreads his weight out, stretching so he's hovering inches from Alex's face. 'Interesting. I know you want it rough, you slag,' he says, dismissively, and Alex whines, high and fizzling and needy, and Greg shifts his weight so that he's really pressing Alex into the sheets like a flower between the pages of an Austen novel, 'But this arrangement has fuck all to do with that. I don't give a fuck what you want, do I? You'll get what I want, won't you?'

'Yes,' Alex moans, into the small hot space between them.

'And I'm going to take you apart like a fucking flat pack, mate,' Greg says. 'Don't you dare come until I say you can.' Alex groans. 'If I say you can, more like it. Pathetic. Right. Are you going to behave?'

Alex nods.

'Oh, there's my good boy,' Greg says, and Alex's eyelashes flutter at him. 'Not so hard, is it? Now, on your tummy, please.'

Alex nods again, and pauses, mid twist. 'Oh, I do apologise,' Greg says, getting off his legs.

He enjoys the way Alex stretches out beneath him, like a fox after a nap. Runs his hands down Alex's sides, because he's a bit ticklish, and Greg likes how soft he is around the edges. He kneads Alex's arse in his hands, even though there's not really that much meat to it. Gives him a good slap, not hard enough to really sting. Alex moans, muffled, into the pillow he's buried his face in.

'Right, then. As you know, I'm an old man,' Greg continues, enjoying the feeling of Alex, solid and warm and slightly sticky-shimmery beneath him. He's straddling Alex's calves, and presses himself forward so his belly's locked in the curve of Alex's back. 'Takes me a while to get going, as you know. So you'll have to sit pretty – well, lie pretty – and behave. You can do that, can't you?'

'Yes, Greg,' Alex says, blissfully obedient.

'Good boy.' Greg stretches up a bit further and kisses him, whiskery, high on his cheek, crowding him into the sheets again. Alex sighs and Greg can see his breath catch. He kisses him a few more times. 'You know how I want you,' he says, and rummages in his bedside table for the lube, because of course he forgot to put it within easy reach. He's out of gloves so makes do with a condom, which looks frankly ridiculous but he knows will work just fine.

Alex, in the meantime, has obligingly settled himself with his arse canted up, legs like pale runway beacons capped with a weird ten centimetres of sock not-quite-tan and a good dusting of hair.

'Presumptuous,' Greg says, raising an eyebrow.

'You said–'

'–Ah–bup-bup-bup-bup!' Greg says, cutting him off. 'I don't want to hear any more talking from you, boy. Be quiet and take what you're given.'

Alex nods, serious face slightly undermined by the way he has to bite at his lip to stop from smiling. Fucking hell, but it's endearing.

'Comfortable?' Greg asks him, and as Alex nods, he says, 'Not that I particularly care.' Which, fait accompli, is a lie.

He quite likes the noise Alex makes when they're getting started. It's all soft and keening like crickets at dusk.

Greg's taking his time, partially because he knows Alex is impatient, always, and it slightly flatters his ego to hear him beg. He's mostly always worried about hurting him. But there's also something quite delicious about making him wait. Alex doesn't seem to have a slow mode for the carnal pleasures. Inhales his meals, all of them; downs his drinks, even teas; wants to get off and get you off as quickly as possible so he can do it again, soon as possible. Like some kind of bacchanalian street dog. Greg watches him wriggle restlessly and wonders if he'd let him spoon-feed him a meal some time.

It's really, really easy to push Alex's buttons like this. Of course, he has so many. But he also makes the most darling array of noises, like a Geiger counter calibrated for attentions. When he wiggles his finger teasingly, Alex throws an arm over his face.

'More,' he says, exasperatedly.

'Please?' Greg says, bemused. Continues at exactly the same speed, until Alex makes a whiny noise and kicks his legs out, frustrated.

'Please,' Alex says. 'Please, please, please, please, please. Greg.'

'Oh, he has manners now!'

'Gre-eg,' Alex whines.

'Shut up,' Greg says, tenderly, enjoying the way Alex frowns with his whole face.

Alex tries to cant his hips up, because either way it forces Greg's hand, literally, or it will make him press Alex firmly into the bed like blu-tack. It's the latter. Delicious.

It makes him feel so small, which in turn makes him feel like he's being filled up head to toe with rosé, a lovely pink sparkling kind of feeling running up and down and over Alex's body. He's out of breath but keening, for what, fuck knows. It's all just Greg and whatever he's doing with his finger. Oh, thank God, fingers. He might start levitating.

Greg leans forward so the weight of him presses into the base of Alex's ribs, and he kisses him lazily. Alex huffs desperate short breaths, one hand splayed across Greg's back, the other fisted in the sheets. His fingers aren't quite enough for him to come, yet, but they're making him dizzy.

'Greg,' he moans. 'Please, please. Please.'

'Hmm.' Greg says, kissing Alex's neck and feeling Alex's dick twitch somewhere against his belly. 'Since you asked so nicely,' he says. Alex whimpers. He wants Greg to completely obliterate him, but he has the feeling that he's just going to keep being tender and gentle. Sweet torture.

He makes a desperate little noise at the loss of Greg's fingers and wiggles impatiently while Greg sorts out a new condom.

'Roll over, sweet cheeks,' Greg says, distractedly. Runs a spare hand down Alex's spine as he adjusts, and Alex moans. 'Shh, shh. Good boys take what they're given.'

Alex is firmly in that pudding basin place where he feels pliable and warm like bread dough left to rise. He wants to complain. He doesn't want to be a good boy. He wants Greg to fuck him until he walks funny in the morning. But he can barely even string the thought together, not when Greg is warm and solid behind him and –

'Oh, fuck,' Greg says, pushing in. 'Oh, you're perfect, Alex. Shit.'

Alex hangs his head between his forearms and moans.

Greg starts moving, agonisingly slow thrusts. It's torture, and it's incredible, and Alex knows without looking that he's dripping precome on the sheets. He just gives himself over to it. It's hard enough thinking.

Greg, the bastard, finds an angle that is breathtakingly so much and not enough at the same time. Alex shudders as the not-quite-orgasm builds. It feels like he might jump out of his skin.

'God, I could fuck you like this for hours,' Greg says gently, because he can see just how feverish Alex is getting, drool shiny on the corner of his mouth. 'Maybe I will. You don't mind, do you, baby boy?'

Alex makes a choked noise when the words click into place in his brain. He wants this to go on forever but he wants to come so badly he could kick and scream. More! His brain screams, but Greg just keeps going at his infuriating, teasing pace. 'No, Greg, please,' he sobs into the pillow. 'I need more, I need...please, please–'

'I didn't ask for your input. Don't you fucking dare come,' Greg says, leeringly, into Alex's ear, feels him shudder. 'Or we'll keep going until you come for a third time, Alex, I mean it, even if you're red fucking raw. Don't you dare come–'

Alex whines desperately, tears prickling at his eyes. 'No, Greg, please. Please! No, I can't. Greg, it's too much–'

'Colour?'

'Green,' Alex gasps. 'Green, green, gr–'

'Right.' Greg pinches the base of Alex's dick, hard, goes completely still, and Alex cries out, but doesn't come. At least, not fluidly. He shudders wretchedly, takes a few deep breaths, obviously trying to regain his composure.

Greg grins because he knows Alex won't see. Lets him shudder a few breaths, runs his hand lovingly along the soft planes of Alex's back.

Alex's knuckles are white where his hands are fisted into the sheets; he's sweaty and flushed and wound so tight his muscles are all tense like steel cables beneath Greg. There's even a wet patch in the pillow where he's drooling and crying. It's divine. Greg wants to commission someone to paint the scene on his ceiling.

'Can't fucking control yourself, can you,' Greg says, managing a fairly decent bored voice. 'You're lucky I'm here to do everything for you. Pathetic.'

Alex is sobbing breathlessly, sucking in desperate gulps of air.

'Roll over, slag boy.'

Alex obliges him instantly, doesn't even seem to acknowledge the wet patch, just gazes helplessly up at Greg with starry eyes. His dick bobs obscenely against the hairy trail below his bellybutton.

Greg leers down at him. 'Colour?'

'Green,' Alex cries.

'We continue, then,' Greg says. Alex hiccoughs softly as he cants his hips up and reseats himself, starts moving again, so slowly that there's no way it'll be enough. Agony. And then, suddenly, Greg freezes.

It's not the best moment to panic, but really, is there an opportune time for one of those nasty little twangs that hit like an unexpected static zap from a doorknob? Alex can be so fucking ridiculously pliable that, to Greg, it's entirely possible he's neck deep in the place where he wouldn't dare interrupt. Greg has no fucking way of knowing if that's a thing he has to worry about, really. How's he going to text Rachel to ask? Jesus. What,

It's a fear he's had before but it's suddenly so visceral that it almost chokes him. Never mind his fucking dick. Which is considering seceding from his body so it can come and go home.

'Say red,' he tells Alex, breathlessly.

Alex shakes his head. 'No,' he says. 'm' green.' He's getting clearer, like he's surfacing from beneath the surface of a pool.

'Oh,' Greg says, panic subsiding. Well, he's already broken the whole narrative of the scene, because Alex is sat up on his forearms, worrying at the inside of his lip, so Greg suddenly can't do anything but lean forward and kiss him. Alex chases his mouth for seconds.

'I said green,' he says, clear and bright and true. 'I wouldn't lie about that.'

'Good,' Greg says, more to himself than to Alex. 'Good.'

Alex kisses him again. 'Colour?' he says, quietly.

'Oh,' Greg says. 'Green, mate.' He settles back on his calves, runs his hands up and down over Alex's belly absent-mindedly. He's always been such a sucker for a properly hairy chest.

'You're sounding chartreuse, if anything. But fine, good. Good,' Alex echoes, reaching out and running his hand up and down Greg's forearm.

Greg snorts despite himself. It's absolutely fucking ludicrous to be having anything approaching this conversation while he's balls deep, but fuck it if anything with Alex isn't tinged with the absurd.

'Just. Had a momentary freak out.' Greg runs a hand over his face. 'I mean...I mean, fucking hell, I don't know. I don't fucking do this much, really, Alex–'

'We can stop. D'you want to stop?' Alex says, completely reasonably. Makes to work his way out from under Greg but–

'–No,' Greg says quickly. More quickly than he'd expected he would say. 'It's really getting me off.' He can feel his face getting hot. 'I just had a...a wobble. We can have a grown up chat about it when I'm done copping off.'

'Alright,' Alex says, grinning wonkily at him. 'You could always just be mean to me, if you want. Instead.'

'Oh, you'd fucking like that,' Greg says, yes and, 'But–'

'–It's not about what I want.' Alex says, eyes sparkling.

'Right. Good boy,' Greg says, and he suddenly has quite a lump in his throat. Alex smiles up at him. Greg kisses him again, takes a few minutes of necking to really get over the anxiety peak. He's still hard, which is slightly amazing, although he's slipped out, lube-slick against Alex's thighs.

Alex doesn't seem to mind. He has his arms wrapped around Greg's torso, and occasionally, he moans softly against Greg's lips.

'Open your mouth, darling,' Greg says, sweetly. Alex obliges, and Greg spits into it. He feels the full-body shudder that gets in response. Alex whines.

'Good boy,' Greg says. 'You take what you're given and you're polite about it, hmm?'

Alex nods.

'Sweet boy.' Greg says, and kisses him again.

'Please,' Alex says pleadingly, and Greg can feel his dick twitch against him. 'Greg.'

'You'll take what you're given,' Greg says, again, but he sits back on his calves and repositions himself. 'Hmm. Might have to work you open again.'

'No, I'm. Please,' Alex wails desperately, shaking his head. 'Please. I'm ready. Please–'

'Alright, alright,' Greg says. Alex makes a wanting kind of noise as he watches Greg add more lube, and then he pushes in, and it still stuns him a bit that Alex is so fucking pliable and open. There's something almost magical about the way he just lies there and takes it, jolting when Greg's tip brushes his prostate.

Sometimes this makes Greg want to tear Alex apart, fuck him until he's screaming and crying and begging, but other times, it just makes him want to be gentle and teasing. Either way, Alex normally ends up begging. Delicious.

Alex's dick makes a thlap noise against his belly with each thrust. He's got his face in his hands, panting.

'Hands off your face,' Greg says, 'Let me see you.'

Alex whimpers, obliging automatically.

'There's my good boy,' Greg says, softly. 'Oh, you want to come so badly, don't you?'

Alex nods desperately. 'Please,' he begs. There are frustrated tears in his eyes. The rush of getting Alex worked up to this point is some kind of previously undiscovered organic opioid analogue, and Greg's body aches electric with it.

'Oh, dear. Slag boy's so desperate. Pathetic little thing. Go on, beg for it,' he says, maintaining an agonisingly teasing tempo of thrusts. He can feel his own orgasm building, deliciously gentle and molten. 'Show me how much you want to come, and maybe I'll let you.'

'Please,' Alex says again. 'Please, I'm so close, please. I n-need to come, please. Please,' there are tears on his sweaty red face, 'Please let me come,' he begs. His eyes are a little glazed over and the words are slightly clunky, like they're being said underwater. God, Greg loves him. He wants to tear him apart.

'Hmm. Well, alright,' Greg says brusquely. 'Since you were so eloquent,' he says, sarcastically, and yanks Alex up so his arse is flush against Greg's thighs. He's all sweaty pale limbs and hair and blotchy flushes. His head falls back, and his dick is almost purple with desperation, dripping with precome in an embarrassingly wet way. 'Come on, then, sweetheart.' He's not expecting to say it, sweetheart, like a spotty teenager with his first sixth form girlfriend, but it kind of just falls out of his mouth and he can't re-inhale the words, because that's just not how it works.

Alex comes. It's like a triptych of divine ecstasy. He's agonisingly breathless, face screwed up tight, wordless cry echoing from his mouth, arms scrabbling at Greg's. It's splashy, obscenely erotic.

Greg feels when the peak starts to ebb, because Alex always goes a bit boneless and floppy, but he keeps fucking him through it, chasing his own, because nothing gets Alex off more than being used when he's spent. He groans, open-mouthed, into Alex's shoulder as he comes, a few jerky thrusts, and registers Alex making a squeaky noise.

True to form, Alex has gone limp and overstimulated, twitchy.

Greg pulls out, lays him down, gently. Admires him for a moment, the room heavy and still. Ties off the condom and bins it, wipes himself off with the disgusting stupid t-shirt. Climbs back onto the bed and draws Alex in so he's laid up tight in his arms. Wipes him down likewise, flings his shirt in the general direction of the laundry basket.

'Hey, hey,' he says, as Alex fusses. 'I've got you. Just keep still for a bit, that's it. You were exceptionally good.'

Alex always takes a while to surface properly. Greg just holds him firm, watches his breathing slow and even out.

'Alex?'

Alex opens his eyes. Still a bit glazed over. 'Yes?' he manages.

Greg cranes around and kisses the bearded bit of cheek he can reach. 'Back with us, or–?'

'Mmph,' Alex says.

Greg shifts, because his leg's going to sleep. He feels wonderfully satiated and warm. Rubs Alex's chest absent-mindedly, only half registering the disgusting organic mingled textures of drying fluid and body hair beneath his hand.

Alex makes to sit up, a bit awkwardly. Twists half around so he can look properly at Greg. Greg smiles at him. 'Wotcher,' he says. Alex smiles in the dopey way that means he's got love coming out of his fucking ears. 'What'd you need, baby boy?'

'Shower,' Alex says, making a slight face. 'Tea.'

'Now?'

Alex shakes his head. 'Still...wobbly.' he says, slow blinking. He's still rebooting. Safe mode, or some shit.

Greg's got his arms around him, and squeezes gently. 'You just say when,' he says.

'When,' Alex says, a few minutes later.

His legs are genuinely a bit wobbly, which is slightly flattering. Greg lathers him up with oatmeal body wash, bullies him into using a face scrub while he's still wonderfully pliant, and laughs when Alex complains about the grit getting in his beard. Alex wraps his arms around Greg and hugs him tight under the spray, burying his face in Greg's chest.

Alex borrows a pair of boxers while Greg's running a wash on his clothes. He watches the washing machine slosh with water and hugs himself.

Greg nudges his shoulder. 'Rinsed your shirt off first,' he says, ''Fore I chucked it in,' and he hands Alex one of his t-shirts. It's obviously been slept in, worn and soft and, Alex holds it to his face and breathes in, full of Greg's warm round slightly spiced smell. It swamps him, of course. Alex feels like he's sat in a sunbeam, perfectly satiated and warm and full.

'Can I make you a tea?' he asks Greg, and gets a nod. Alex is still swimming a bit in the pleasant soupy place his brain goes. He likes making a tea. Something about the little overlapping rituals sets him gently back on earth again.

Greg folds his arms and leans against the sink across from him. While the kettle's boiling, which always takes the full two and a half minutes because Alex insists on filling it with the cold tap every time, Alex insinuates himself back into Greg's arms. Greg buries his face into Alex's hair.

'Are you feeling alright?' Alex asks him, into the stifling warmth of Greg's chest.

'God, yeah,' Greg says. Alex loves feeling the words rumble into his skin as they rumble across the timpani of his ears. 'You?'

'Brilliant,' Alex mumbles. Squeezes Greg tightly, which makes him make a little 'oof' sound like a defective dog toy.

Although he's been thinking about it for gone twenty minutes now, Greg manages to blurt out, while Alex is being mother, 'Thanks for checking in on me,' a little awkwardly. 'Appreciate it, really. Even if it doesn't fit the, erm. Roles, or whatever. Y'know.'

Alex sets the kettle back on the base, holds his hand out, and Greg takes it automatically. 'I could see you were panicking a bit,' he says. Squeezes Greg's hand. Greg smiles at him, lopsided, dimples sparkling.

Fuck it, Greg thinks. 'I love you, you know,' he says, and it's such a simple sentence, but it feels like nuclear physics. Inevitable, but terrifying.

Alex beams at him. His whole face is crinkly and bright.

'Welcome to the game,' he says. 'A late third quarter entry for Greg.'

Like, oh, of course. Like Greg'd just reminded him that the kettle's boiled, or the sky is blue. It fills him with warmth, never mind the bloody mugs. It's also a very Alex response to a very Greg statement, so Greg just kisses the back of his hand again.

'Means that I–' Alex begins.

'I know what it means, you bellend,' he says, and Alex scrunches his face up and laughs. The washing machine warbles.