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It was the first night out at the pub for a while. Schweinfurt-Regensburg’d been rough on everyone, and sure, they all drank and socialized at the O-Club, but it was amongst the insulated comfort of their fellows. For a little while, their emotional wounds were too raw to risk the abrasiveness—purposeful or not—of outsiders.
But here they were, all feeling a little tender, crammed into a table at the Four Horseshoes on the busiest night Charlie’d seen yet. Soon, everyone was tipsy and shouting over the noise, a very involved poker game DeMarco surely started to his left, Hambone stacking everyone’s empty glasses as high as he could across the table, and Bucky had his arm around Croz’s neck out on the straw-strewn floor, in what seemed to be an attempt at strangling him into joining a drinking song he obviously didn’t know. Charlie didn’t feel up to joining any of it.
He rested his chin in his hand, playing absently with the cold sweat on his pint glass as he looked around the room. Some of the guys were starting to zero in on their targets for the night, trying to slowly usher their off-duty barmaids and shopgirls to the open floor, or to a dark, warm corner, or even out the door. Charlie had luck before with a couple of them—had to work a little for it, but got there nonetheless. They fucked like girls from home. No better, no worse, just familiar. There was an odd sense of comfort to it. If he closed his eyes, listened for the owls calling, tuned out of their accents and into their breathing, it could be the dead of summer in Everett.
But Charlie wasn’t sure it was worth the effort tonight. The risk of failing, going back to his bunk alone… he waved the thought off like a fly in the air and sipped at his lager, content to gaze dully around. He followed the paths of the gas lamps hung from the low beams across the room until—his eyes met the young tradesman’s, Martin, he thought, who was looking straight at him over his drink.
Charlie stared back, thinking he’d just been staring off into space and would look away like anyone else. Martin kept looking, and instead, lowered his chin a hair. Charlie’s entire spine shivered. He watched the man’s gaze slide down from his eyes, to his mouth, further down, before returning to meet his own. Sizing him up. Eyeing him like a fat pheasant in the butcher’s window.
He knew the girls here were the same, but the guys—Charlie didn’t have more than a handful of dalliances to pull from, but this was the same kind of dance they played down in Boston. He weighed his choices in a split second. Martin didn’t have a reputation that he knew of. Nobody looked at him askance, but then again, that could just mean he was discrete. Choosy. And God, it felt good to be chosen. Felt good not to have to chase sweating after a maybe-fuck.
He let his gaze fall to Martin’s mouth. He remembered his moustache having been a little unkempt, a little oddly shaped, the first time Charlie saw him. But as he looked, it was neat. All of him was a little neater than usual, a little cleaner than usual. He let his gaze fall down, down, to find—his hand under the table, barely visible in the dim light, was resting right over his cock.
Charlie’s eyes shot right back up to his. Martin nodded slow again, then looked at the exit out the back, into the alleyway. Charlie nodded back. So Martin drained the last of his beer, got up, and left.
Outside the back door, Martin was nowhere to be seen. Charlie waited a moment, and sure enough, further into the dark, he peeked out from an alleyway.
“This way,” he said, barely low enough to hear. Charlie followed him down to a little corner. The closest windows were barred up and dark, no sounds from within.
“Cozy,” Charlie joked.
Martin said nothing. He just backed Charlie up against the wall, pressing their bodies together. Martin was a little taller than him, so he could feel his cock hard against his hip.
“You want me to…” He moved to touch Martin through his slacks, but he pulled back.
“Take your trousers off.”
Charlie undid his belt and his fly, shucking his pants down a little. Martin put a hand over his cock in his briefs, feeling him half-soft.
“Good size,” he said in Charlie’s ear as he fondled him. He spat in his palm and slipped a hand in Charlie’s briefs, stroking him loosely. It felt good. Not as good as his own hand, so he thrusted just a little against the rhythm, coming up to meet Martin’s hand as he pulled Charlie’s cock out of his underwear, shucking the fabric down a little. “Gonna suck you,” he said plainly.
Charlie nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, and Martin got down on his knees. It was so much like home that his heart throbbed with nostalgia over this vulgar ritual, of all things—bare exchanges and touching in the hidden dark. He missed it all.
Martin spat on his hand again to slick up the base of Charlie’s cock before taking him into his mouth, swirling his tongue around as he brought him to hardness. He could feel the arousal pulsing ready in the pit of his stomach. It’d been a while since he’d had a fuck, and it felt good. Martin’s mouth was hot and slick, and he bobbed a little on his dick, pulling off to cough a little when he took it too deep.
“You good?” Charlie asked. Martin nodded, swallowing and clearing his throat before putting his mouth back on him. He used his hand to squeeze the base of Charlie’s dick while he sucked at the head. It felt familiar. It felt good. He let himself relax as Martin worked him, pulling and sucking and squeezing. Charlie could feel himself entering the hazy state of an approaching orgasm when a loud voice at the end of the alley went “Oh, shit!”
Martin didn’t waste a second. He didn’t even turn around, just went scrambling like a Looney Tune. Pinned to the spot with his briefs ‘round his ass, Charlie watched him go skittering off nearly on all fours into the dark before getting his wits enough to shove his cock back in his skivvies—“Hell, Crank, ‘m sorry.”
Charlie nearly dropped his pants to the dirty cobblestones. Out of the dark, rosy with drink and utterly shamefaced, lumbered Bucky Egan.
For a second, it felt like someone sucked all the water out of the air, then sucked the air out of the air too. But then—this was Bucky. Jesus, this was Bucky, who daily, Charlie very politely ignored as he mooned loudly and publicly over Buck Cleven like he got off on flirting with a blue discharge. The muscles in his body eased their clenching, his shoulders lowering away from his ears by a hair.
He barely managed to squeak out a “Jesus, Bucky.” His voice wobbled like a top’s dying spin.
“I got lost, ’m sorry. Sorry.” Bucky tripped over towards him, slapping a big hand on the wall next to Charlie’s head to hold himself upright, letting his head hang down till they were nearly beak to beak, and said “I won’t tell,” in a theatrical whisper.
Charlie could’ve sworn it echoed off the bricks. “It’s not,” he faltered. “This is a little out of the ordinary.”
“So some would say.”
“I meant out of the ordinary for me,” he insisted. “I don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky put his hands up, leaned back, rolled his eyes. “Y’ don’t do this kinda thing. You’re not like this.” He stretched the words, simpered them, and Charlie bristled. “I caught y’with your figurative and your literal,” Bucky reached out with his pointer finger to clumsily hook and tug at Charlie’s belt loop, “pants down.” He tugged a little harder, pulling one side of the zip out of Charlie’s grip. “Oopsie.” Bucky grinned, his eyes squinting into little blue crescent moons. Charlie smacked his hand away and reclaimed his grip on his trousers. “Already said I wouldn’ tell. Scout’s honor.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “Thanks. For your discretion.” Bucky clicked his teeth at him.
“‘s all about trust up in the air, Crank,” he said loftily. “That starts down here.” He pointed at the dirty cobblestones.
“Uh huh.” Crank hadn’t moved. He couldn’t, because Bucky hadn’t moved. “Can you…”
“Can I what?” Bucky tipped his head to the side like a dog, his dark hair falling out of its place and into his eyes.
“Move?”
It seemed to click for him. Bucky didn’t have the best grasp of personal space when sober, so it made sense that the rest would fly out of the window with a drink or three in him. “Ohh,” he went. “But of course,” and flopped against the wall right next to Charlie. Bucky gave him about two seconds to work on his pants before asking, “So, who was that suckin’ you off? He any good?”
Charlie nearly lost his grip again. “Jesus, Bucky!”
“What,” he went, drawing that word out again. “Who was it, Marty? Wouldn’t let ya touch him, huh?” Charlie’s jaw must’ve been on the floor, because Bucky gave him that sleazy, knowing grin—his eyes all squinty, his moustache fanned out above his wide mouth— “Yeah, I know him. Not well. We’re incompatible, y’see.” And he raised his eyebrows to give Charlie a meaningful look. “Now you know something. Scout’s honor, Crank.”
It’s not that he pictured it, but if you asked him, Charlie probably would have guessed that was Bucky’s preference. It wasn’t hard to see past all his disobedient, devil-may-care bluster. So hell, in the dark, Charlie got brave. “You a sucker, then?”
Bucky snorted. “In more ways’n one,” he said, half to himself. “What’re you into?”
Charlie shrugged. “Girls, mostly. Not much of…” He barely even knew the word to begin with. “Not much of a scene in Everett.” It really wasn’t often he went down into the city for it, just enough to pick up the signs. The dance. Using your eyes like headlights, like actors in a silent picture. The very fact of speaking it aloud, to Bucky, made him feel strange. He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. To keep speaking. People didn’t bond over this like they did girls, did they.
Bucky hummed affirmatively. Manitowoc didn’t sound like it was too big.
“Had to head into Boston for that.”
“And in Boston?”
“Getting sucked.”
“Well, Crank,” Bucky said, leaning in real conspiratorially, bringing his voice down so low that Charlie had to lean over himself to hear it, “Sounds like we might be compatible.”
Charlie straightened up immediately. Bucky mirrored him, but in a way that made Charlie feel a little like he was being taunted.
“What?” Bucky asked.
“C’mon, Bucky,” he said. This wasn’t talked about. It was meant to be anonymous. “I don’t shit where I eat.”
“If this’s what you call shitting, I’d hate t’ see what you call call fucking.”
Charlie bristled. He bit his tongue against a threat that tried to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth.
“I just feel bad,” Bucky shrugged. “Chasing off your mouth t’ fuck. Figured I’d offer a friendly make-up.”
To his private humiliation, Charlie’s dick twitched.
“If this is what you call friendly, I’d hate to see what you do with your friends.”
“Would you?” Bucky asked. He’d got real close again, up in Charlie’s face. “I think you’d like t’ watch.”
Charlie felt strange, a little see-through, a little warm. “You don’t know nothing about me, Bucky.”
Bucky just shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But I do know a thing or two about sucking cock.” Then he hunched over—no, he was getting on his knees. “You can say no, Crank. You can punch me right’n the kisser ‘n leave.”
Charlie didn’t want to do that.
“You can report me directly t’ Colonel Harding.”
Charlie didn’t want to do that either.
Bucky looked up at him from where he was now kneeling in the dirty alley, big hands braced on his thighs, more earnest than Charlie’d ever seen him.
“You’re drunk,” Charlie said weakly. It was his last line of defense.
Bucky just grinned at him, bright as the day. “When ‘m I not?”
Maybe it was his hesitations toppling over, but Charlie couldn’t think of an argument. “Screw it,” he said, to the air, to himself. “Fuckin’ screw it. Make it up to me.”
“You’re in for it.” Bucky undid his pants and took out his near-hard cock with a cheerful, practiced ease. “‘m about to blow all the skinny Boston guys who ever sucked your prick outta the fuckin’ water, Crank.”
Charlie was about to tell him he was talking crazy. But before he could form the words, Bucky’d gone and licked him from root to tip, then swallowed his dick nearly to the base in one go. His head thumped hard against the back of the brick wall, but the radiating pain was immediately drowned out by hot, pulsing pleasure. Bucky’s throat rippled as he swallowed around Charlie before pulling off.
“Well don’t just stand there,” he said, voice a little scratchy. In complete honesty, Charlie wasn’t sure if he was capable of doing anything else, at least for another few seconds. “Grab on. You’re a pilot, aren’t you?”
“Fuck off,” Charlie said, taking a clumsy fistful of Bucky’s dark hair. Despite the pomade, it was surprisingly soft, much moreso than his own coarse mop. Bucky leaned a little closer, taking Charlie’s hand with him, but only close enough to touch his plush mouth to the tip.
“C’mon,” Bucky said, licking at the underside where his foreskin gathered. Charlie shivered. “‘M just a humble co-pilot. Take some initiative.” He gripped Bucky’s hair and Bucky opened his mouth wider, letting Charlie’s cock slide down the velvet plane of his wet tongue. “Thath ih,” he encouraged.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Charlie pulled his hair, and Bucky’s mouth closed around his dick, hollowing his cheeks. A little spit was glistening at the corner of his mouth, threatening to spill over. He pulled again, and Bucky slid further down, bit by bit, until Charlie’s cock was wedged again in his throat. He was breathing shakily, his cheeks pink as he bobbed just the littlest bit, fucking himself on Charlie, sliding his tip in and out of the wet, tight, heat of him.
He brought his second hand up into Bucky’s hair, and Bucky slowly pulled all the way off just to grin at him, bringing one hand up to jerk him. “C’mon, Crank,” he said, kissing along the bottom of his cock again. “Show me.” He lined himself up, lapping at the slit with the point of his tongue, looking at Charlie.
Charlie realized, with shocking clarity, that Bucky wasn’t just a mildly irritating person—he was a profoundly irritating lay. But what was most irritating was the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing. Charlie could feel a shivering tightness below his stomach, spreading to his spine. His body throbbed as Bucky used his stupid mouth to toy with the head of his cock.
He gave a small, experimental tug on Bucky’s hair, and he followed, sliding further down onto the shaft. Charlie slowly tugged him back and forth, push and pull, and Bucky followed—hollowing his cheeks, letting his tongue cushion the way. He pulled faster, forcing himself deeper into Bucky’s mouth, letting out a deep groan at the feeling of the soft resistance of his palate and his throat.
Bucky made a helpless sound, breathing hard through his nose as Charlie fucked in and out, pulling out a little more each time until he was dragging the near length of himself across Bucky’s tongue. Saliva dribbled down Bucky’s chin, and the pulsing, throbbing feeling became sharper and closer until Charlie spilled in Bucky’s throat, letting go of his hair so he could pull off and catch some air.
Bucky swallowed and coughed, and a little semen dribbled from his mouth onto the ground. “Fuck,” he rasped. “Shoulda warned me.” He took another second to catch his breath before sitting back on his haunches. “So, how’d I hold up ‘gainst the New England team?”
“I’m not sure if you can take all the credit,” Charlie said breathlessly, “if I was the one driving the plane.”
“Shuddup,” Bucky said, “You’re just saying that ‘cause I was right and you don’t wanna admit it.”
Charlie wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He’d never much talked with any guy he screwed, much less one he knew. “Yeah, yeah,” he managed.
Bucky got up, dusted himself off, pushed his damp hair back into place, patted his reddened cheeks. Charlie took it as the cue to get himself tidied up as well. “Hope I haven’t ruined your chances with Marty,” Bucky said as he straightened his tie. “Seems nice.”
“Eh,” Charlie shrugged. Martin was a thing of the past now. A relic. “We’ll see. And, uh,” he swallowed nervously, “I’ll eat my hat if he can suck half as good as you.”
Bucky’s face cracked into a gloating smile. “Told you,” he said, and clapped Charlie on the shoulder with one big hand. “I pay what I owe.” He gave Charlie’s arm a little squeeze. “Welp, I’ll find my way outta here. Bye bye, Crank.”
Charlie felt a little dizzy. That even after this, it was the same abrupt parting as he’d get from his so-called skinny guys in Boston.
“Wait a second,” he called, reaching out, desperate and chasing again.
Bucky swiveled around, looking at Charlie with an expression like always, like everyday—and something within him stopped spinning and settled. Bucky wasn’t something you could hold in your hand. Not most people, at least. Not Charlie.
He faltered a moment, trying to find something to say before the moment fully dispersed, coming up short. “No, nothing. ‘Night.”
Bucky just smiled. “Night, Crank,” he said, And then he turned, leaving Charlie only a glimpse of his back before he rounded the corner out into the cooling night. Charlie thought for a moment about following, but turned the other way.