He’s going to bring it up tonight, Tommy thinks.
Why not. Life’s too fucking short to not go after the things you want – especially if you can’t stop thinking about them, like a song that’s gotten stuck in your head.
They’re sitting up against the headboard of the bed, still mostly dressed; talking quietly and lazily making out in between. It’s obvious that they’re going to fuck later on, so there’s no need to rush anything. Tommy is drinking whiskey, because he’s not driving back tonight and because he can annoy Alfie by declining any rum and making remarks about this still being about “business”.
The glass sits safely on top of his knee while they’re kissing, he’s holding it with his left hand, careful not to spill. He would deny this when asked, now more than ever, but he genuinely enjoys talking to Alfie. Well. Most of the time. When he’s not being an insufferable prick about something.
“Hmmm,” Alfie says when they separate again, keeping his eyes closed for a second, like he’s concentrating. “That is quite good, that.”
He’s focusing on the aftertaste of the whiskey, Tommy realizes. Alfie doesn’t drink – he’ll have a sip of something if he absolutely has to, for example if there is a toast he can’t get out of – but as a general rule, he doesn’t. “Don’t particularly enjoy being drunk,” he’d said, when Tommy had asked him about it once. “Also,” he’d added a moment later, like it had just occurred to him, now that he was thinking about it. “Don’t really care for the taste either, nine times out of then.”
Despite that, or maybe even because of it, he has an uncanny ability when it comes to discerning what is good and what isn’t. The fact that he seems impressed now is undercut by the small detail that it’s his bottle, which means he either purchased it himself or received it as a gift and didn’t throw it out.
“Is it,” Tommy says dryly. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Ohh yes, mate. Yes it is,” Alfie says, nodding seriously. “Should be aware by now that I have excellent taste, yeah?” One corner of his mouth tips up and Tommy knows what’s coming, even before Alfie waves an all-encompassing hand in his direction.
“Case in point-”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Tommy interrupts, downing what’s left in his glass.
“This is my house,” Alfie says, pretending to be scandalized. “I will not be denied the right to express my opinion in my own bloody house-”
Tommy rolls his eyes, puts his empty glass on the nightstand and goes to straddle him. The mood noticeably shifts. Alfie tips his head back against the headboard, looking up at him, but keeps his hands by his side, not touching yet.
Right, Tommy thinks, this is an opportune moment. It’s not like this is a big deal, anyway. He’s not trying to introduce an elephant to the proceedings or asking for a blood sacrifice – it’s just something he’s been thinking about, on and off for longer than he cares to admit. Alfie notices his hesitation right away, because of course he fucking does, and raises an eyebrow. “What is it, then?”
The fact that he’s already asking makes Tommy not want to say anything, just out of spite. He looks down to his hands, resisting the urge to rub them on his thighs.
“You got any objections…” Jesus Christ, he’s killed people in cold blood. This shouldn’t be so hard. He clears his throat. “If we maybe did it like… this?”
Alfie looks interested, but clearly doesn’t understand. “Like…?”
“Me on top, like this,” Tommy says, in what feels like a rush but probably wasn’t. He looks pointedly between them, indicating their current position and feeling kind of queasy doing it. Nerves, probably.
It’s not like they haven’t done it facing each other plenty of times – in fact, they do it face to face more often than not, because apparently Alfie likes to stare at him when they fuck. It’s a bit uncomfortable, sometimes, the way he pays attention, cataloguing every little thing – but then again, it’s not like that came as a huge surprise. He does the same thing when they’re not fucking, too.
“Right, no objections at all,” Alfie says slowly. “But I do have to ask, right – any reason you’re making that particular face? You lose a fuckin’ bet or something?”
Tommy rolls his eyes again. He can’t remember ever sleeping with somebody that annoyed him as much, at least not before or even during sex. The urge to give a sarcastic response is overwhelmingly strong.
“You’re right,” he says. “You got me. This whole thing, it’s a gigantic prank. Arthur’s put me up to it.”
But Alfie – who would normally go on a lengthy tirade about how unnecessary and off-putting it is to mention that name when they’re in bed, Tommy knows him well enough by now – isn’t distracted at all. “Then why the face?”
“It’s my face, Alfie,” Tommy says, exasperated.
“Well, yeah,” Alfie says, like he isn’t the one that started this whole stupid debate. “But if you’re insisting on that exact one, I’m gonna have to ask what the main issue here is, don’t I.”
The thing is – Tommy understands is own problem right then and there, even though he wasn’t aware it existed until now, which makes him feel stupid, which in turn makes him feel embarrassed. Alfie has an unsettling tendency of making him realize things about himself. It’s irritating as all hell.
“Just… I might not like it.”
There is a moment of silence. Alfie looks genuinely confused, which is something that never happens; he’s tilting his head sideways like a dog trying to identify a strange noise. “So?”
“So, might be a massive waste of time,” Tommy says, then awkwardly adds, “For you, I mean.”
There is another moment of silence where they both seem to process this.
“Right… now, what I am hearing is this,” Alfie says then, head still tilted to one side. “And please, do feel free to interrupt if I got any of it wrong. I, right – I get to fuck you.” He points at Tommy’s chest with two fingers and then keeps his hand resting there. “And you’re offering to do most of the work, yeah? And the biggest risk in all of this is the possibility that… at some point, you might decide that you’re not enjoying yourself. And then presumably, yeah, we can still fuck, but in a way that’s… more acceptable. All-around. That about sum it up?”
Put like that, it does sound kind of dumb.
“…yes,” Tommy says.
“Oh, fuckin’ woe is me,” Alfie says sarcastically, but his eyes are warm. “However will I cope.”
“Fine,” Tommy says flippantly, trying to get some of his dignity back. “Settles it, I guess. If you don’t give a fuck either way-”
“Wouldn’t go that far, mate,” Alfie says. He’s tucked his hands under Tommy’s loose shirt and undershirt, thumbs pressing gently against his hipbones; not exactly tugging him downwards, but since Tommy is already in his lap, it helps highlight the fact that he’s hard anyway. Also, he’s looking at Tommy in that way that never fails to make the back of his neck go hot. “As a matter of fact, I am very invested in you enjoying yourself, believe it or not.”
“I don’t,” Tommy says, before leaning in. “You’re in this purely for your own gain.”
Alfie just hums against his mouth, sounding amused.
It’s strange at first – too deep and not in a good way. He moves carefully, testing himself and trying different angles. Alfie keeps perfectly still, one hand loosely curled around his hip, letting him figure it out in peace.
Tommy isn’t paying much attention to him for a minute or two, busy with himself and trying to decide whether he likes this or not. It feels… Right now, it feels fine rather than good. When he looks down again, Alfie has shoved his free hand under his head. He looks relaxed and attentive; not like he’s got his cock up Tommy’s ass, hard as a fucking rock.
“Don’t mind me, yeah,” he says, grinning, “I’m just down here, enjoying the view.”
“Go to hell,” Tommy says, hot flash of arousal coursing through him. He’s breathless all the same, feeling exposed, and like he doesn’t know what he’s doing; two things he normally hates more than anything, but always seem to get him going in this particular context, whatever the fucking reason may be.
It would probably be better if he braced himself somehow, he thinks. Otherwise, his legs are going to get tired fast. He absolutely refuses to put his hands on Alfie’s chest for balance, not when that bastard looks so goddamn pleased with himself, so he tilts forward, putting his palms against the mattress next to Alfie’s head instead. This changes the angle, makes it feel less intense and more shallow, but also- fuck.
Alfie has moved somehow, he realizes, just a little; he’s pushing up and into him just barely and for some reason, all of a sudden it fucking works.
“Christ,” he pants, not giving a fuck how it sounds. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” Alfie says, satisfyingly hoarse, and rolls his hips upwards again. “There we fucking go, hm?”
Tommy is pushing back against him already, moving on pure instinct, fingers twisting in the bed sheet, and it’s all good from there. It’s all working out. They settle into a slow rhythm, not even really fucking; Alfie never pulls out more than an inch before pushing back in and it’s hitting the perfect spot, rubbing him just the right way. God. It’s going to take forever to come like this, Tommy thinks, fuck, he can feel it building so fucking slowly.
It does take a long time.
By the end, they’re both drenched in sweat. Tommy is not quite shaking, but there is a faint tremor running through him that just won’t stop. His thighs are burning. At one point, Alfie quietly asks, “You want me to do anything?” and Tommy shakes his head. He isn’t even sure if he can get there without help – it feels like it’s been an incessant upward climb and he either is going to come soon or lose his fucking mind. One or the other.
Alfie, for all his faults, takes directions really well when they’re in bed. It almost seems like somehow, all his patience has ended up in this specific area, leaving none of it for any other aspect of his life. In addition to that, he regularly displays a kind of stamina that Tommy finds almost impressive.
He’s toyed with the idea of mentioning it, because it’s a nice kind of compliment in theory; if it weren’t for the fact that as far as their fucking is concerned, Alfie is already sure of himself to an infuriating degree and, frankly, doesn’t deserve that kind of encouragement. Tommy keeps showing up, that should be enough to clue him in.
Eventually, he caves and puts his hands on Alfie’s chest after all, using it to prop himself up without being too gentle about it. Alfie doesn’t seem to mind – he never does. His hands are splayed wide on Tommy’s hips, kind of holding him in place, kind of moving him along.
It’s almost unexpected when his orgasm finally hits – not because he hasn’t seen it coming, but because he hasn’t seen anything else for what feels like forever at this point. He pitches forward, trying to put a hand against the headboard – misses because it’s too far away and almost overbalances, except one of Alfie’s hands is suddenly there, intertwining their fingers and putting his elbow down on the bed to keep Tommy from falling flat on his face.
Tommy rides it out, cock pulsing almost sluggishly; aware that the noises he’s making sound like he’s in pain.
When he finally comes back to himself, he feels good. It takes conscious effort to lift up his head and blink down at Alfie, who’s staring up at him with an amazed expression. Maybe a little bit smug as well. Who even cares.
“You all right up there?”
Tommy nods, managing some kind of affirmative sound on the next exhale.
“Well. That’s good, then,” Alfie says, sounding almost fond. He flips them carefully, projecting the movement beforehand, so Tommy just goes with it, getting his leg out of the way by hooking it around the back of Alfie’s thighs when they turn over. They’re both red-faced and overheated. Tommy thinks it’s entirely possible that he might never catch his breath again.
“S’fine,” he says, reading the question off of Alfie’s face. It comes out sounding only a little slurred. “M’fine, fuckin’ go for it.”
“Well, if you insist,” Alfie says. His hair is sticking up in multiple different directions. There’s tension in his shoulders, in the way he is holding himself – evidence of the fact that he isn’t nearly as relaxed as he’s making it seem. It has been a long time since they started this.
He does go for it, pushing into Tommy slow but deep. It’s almost on the wrong side of too much, especially after all the shallow fucking they did before; except Tommy feels completely boneless right now, which helps a lot. He’s also pretty sure that this isn’t going to take long, which means he can definitely hold on for a bit and he’s right – Alfie comes maybe a minute later, quiet except for his ragged breathing, grabbing Tommy’s thigh so hard it hurts.
“Bloody hell,” Alfie murmurs eventually, sounding dazed. “I’m never moving again.”
“That’s reassuring,” Tommy murmurs back. It wouldn’t be ideal, since Alfie’s still on top of him, keeping some of the weight off by half-heartedly propping himself up on his forearms. Still, he can’t really bring himself to care. They kiss clumsily for a bit, like an afterthought, before finally disentangling.
Alfie settles down next to him, so close they’re almost touching, but not quite; too warm and comforting at the same time.
“So,” he says, “That went well, yeah? That what you wanted?”
Tommy decides to keep his eyes closed, because he can’t keep the smile off his face, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see Alfie seeing it. He puts an arm over his eyes instead. Just in case.
“Yes,” he confirms, because it did go well and it was exactly what he wanted.
“Hmmm,” Alfie says, going quiet. It’s a very pensive silence – Tommy knows the difference by now.
“Whatever it is,” he says, trying and failing to sound stern, because he is still in the middle of the best kind of afterglow. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.”
The pensive silence continues to last for a bit longer. Then–
“Well, I was gonna make a very tasteful joke, yeah, about horses and riding-”
“Oh, fuck off-” Tommy says, pulling the arm away from his face.
“-but if you’re dead set on not appreciating anything-”
“-then I really can’t help you, mate. Apparently some people can’t be helped.”
“You’re the one that needs bloody help,” Tommy says, not sure if he’s irritated or if he wants to laugh.
“Well, yeah,” Alfie says, good-natured, “Nobody’s denying that, eh? You want some more whiskey?”
Tommy thinks about it for a moment.
“Sure,” he says, reaching for his empty glass. “Why not. Might make this conversation more bearable.”
And if he is secretly more amused than irritated, well… nobody needs to fucking know.