Chapter Text
There have been others, of course. Over the endless years, there have been other men, other boys, even, but few with quite the same spark, that lit-from-within brightness that makes Jones so uniquely, infuriatingly attractive. Ezekiel, Jenkins thinks, the name curling and winding its way through his mind, almost as frustrating and elusive as its owner.
Jenkins is in his private bathroom, pajamas pushed halfway down his thighs, the door securely locked. He has one hand braced on the cool, tiled wall, and the other on his heated cock. In his younger days, he sometimes wondered if age would eventually calm such urges, but, somewhat irritatingly, the need remains as strong as ever. Time has not in any way dimmed or blunted his desires, and so he deals with them as necessary.
His hand moves more quickly, fist twisting as it slides up and down, thumb circling over the head of his cock on every forward stroke, the pressure building like a wave inside him. He hisses, eyes closed tight, letting out a low moan of pleasure as the feeling peaks, wet warmth shooting out onto his palm.
He exhales a long breath and picks up the washcloth he's laid out ready to clean himself.
"Impressive," someone says from behind him, out of nowhere, and Jenkins has to consciously still himself, very deliberately control every last muscle in his body in order not to visibly react.
"What are you doing in here?" he says, his voice smoothly neutral, not looking up, continuing to wipe himself off even as he's internally seething, the humiliation of it bitter and sour in his mouth.
"I heard noises," Ezekiel replies lightly. "I thought you might have like, broken your hip or something."
"My hip?" Jenkins tosses the cloth in the sink and pulls up his pajamas, turning to face Ezekiel, who shrugs.
"I don't know," he says. "Isn't that what old people do?"
Jenkins is well aware he shouldn't be insulted, that Ezekiel is just toying with him, doing what Ezekiel does, but it still stings. Barely, but he feels it. "Yes," he agrees, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. "We break our hips, poor fragile creatures that we are, toothless and unsteady with our ancient bones. It's really terribly tragic."
"Ancient bones?" Ezekiel grins. "More like ancient boners, dude, with what I just saw." He takes a few steps closer and playfully punches Jenkins' upper arm. "Not too old to still be wanking it, anyway."
Jenkins holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Guilty as charged." He's about ready to kick Ezekiel out, having no desire to continue this conversation, but even now, he's loath to forego the boy's company. Pathetic, he thinks to himself, but he doesn't say anything.
Ezekiel looks at him, thoughtful. "Interesting technique, though." He frowns for a second, and then he's suddenly unfastening his jeans, pushing them and his underwear down out of the way, like it's a totally normal thing to do, and Jenkins is desperately stifling a small, shocked gasp.
Because Ezekiel's hard, he's very hard, and while in this moment Jenkins is far too preoccupied by the sight to even think of it, later he'll realize what that means, that Ezekiel has been watching him, Jenkins, jerk off, and he's hard.
But right now, all he can do is stare helplessly at Ezekiel's cock. It's not so long, but it's good and thick, and Ezekiel takes it in hand matter of factly, sliding his fist up and down, shifting his grip experimentally.
"Show me," he says, turning to face Jenkins.
"What?" Jenkins asks, hopelessly lost.
"That thing you did, with that move, that little twist thing," Ezekiel says. "Show me." He gestures at himself, as if what he's asking is nothing out of the ordinary, something he'd ask of anyone.
But he's asking Jenkins.
And Jenkins knows he should turn away, tell Ezekiel to stop playing, because this is a very, very bad idea, but he can barely remember the last time allowed himself to feel anything, let alone something like this, and Ezekiel's standing in front of him, waiting, and there's no one else here.
No one to see, no one to judge, so Jenkins cautiously holds out his hand, giving Ezekiel a searching, questioning look, but all he gets in reply is an impatient nod. He's almost certain that as soon as he touches Ezekiel, the boy will jump back, laughing, telling Jenkins he can't believe he fell for it, that he's a creepy old pervert or something similarly shaming, but when Jenkins' fingertips faintly, finally, brush over the head of his cock, what happens instead is that Ezekiel lets out the tiniest, most high-pitched of whines.
It might be the very hottest thing that Jenkins has ever heard, and Jenkins has been alive long enough that he's heard a lot. But nothing like this, these desperate, yearning whimpers as Jenkins' fingers curl loosely around Ezekiel's shaft, and it's been so many years since he jerked someone else off that at first he has to concentrate, recall the precise knack of doing this from the opposing angle. His grip is tentative, movements unsure, but it's apparently enough, as Ezekiel soon closes his eyes, head falling back.
Jenkins has to stop himself from leaning over, biting at the solidly muscled line of Ezekiel's throat, but he keeps control. He takes a deep breath, grabbing the lotion he's used earlier on himself, pausing for just a moment to squirt some into his palm.
"Don't stop," Ezekiel mutters, opening his eyes to look up at Jenkins, who holds his gaze as his now-oiled hand slides down tight over the length of Ezekiel's cock. "Fuck," he says, fervent, eyelids again fluttering closed.
He sways just a little, losing his balance for a second, and reaches out blindly to take hold of Jenkins' hip, grasping firmly. Jenkins swallows hard, increasing his rhythm, the pressure of his strokes, watching, barely even daring to blink.
Ezekiel's mouth is slightly open, tongue licking wet over his lips as he audibly breathes in and out, inhalations speeding and deepening until he cries out: a sharp, harsh sound. Come spatters hot onto Jenkins' leg, soaking through his pajamas.
"Shit," Ezekiel says breathlessly, taking a step away, "you're good at that."
Jenkins shrugs in a cursory attempt to not appear as smugly satisfied he feels, but modesty doesn't suit him, he knows. "Well," he says, "I've had a lot of practice."
"Guess so." Ezekiel smiles, lazy and wide. "Thanks, Jenkins," he says, pulling up his jeans, zipping them.
"You're welcome," Jenkins replies, folding his arms, leaning back against the sink. "And if next time you could, you know, knock, that would be much appreciated."
"I'm Ezekiel Jones," Ezekiel scoffs, incredulous. "Ezekiel Jones doesn't knock."
It's the same old banter, their usual pattern, and Jenkins can only assume that this has just been some random, passing diversion for Ezekiel, some aberrant moment that stands no chance of being repeated. He doesn't know what else he would have expected, but hope springs eternal, he supposes. No fool like a very, very old fool, and he turns, looking at himself in the mirror, seeing gray hair, the lines around his eyes.
But Ezekiel is still here, and all at once he's closer. "Why?" he asks, peering over Jenkins' shoulder, meeting his reflection's stare. "Would you make it worth my while if I did knock?"
And it's almost embarrassing, the way Jenkins' pulse immediately races, the hot weight of anticipation that suddenly pools low in his body. "Maybe," he says, careful not to show any hint of eagerness. "I might."
Ezekiel grins, slapping Jenkins' ass hard enough that he flinches. "Challenge accepted, my friend," he says, backing out of the room, practically bouncing with glee.
What have I done? Jenkins thinks helplessly, but he can feel himself smiling.