Product Placement

Chapter 34 - Kink

"Is that a vest? Are those leather? Is that a fucking stripper pole?"

Of all the things Butch had ever expected to say in his entire life, this was not one of them. Hell, he wasn't even expecting to ever need to think all of those words at the same time, or have them enter his head on the same day. Then again, he was never expecting to come across the sight he was currently beholding. Namely one hustler with whom he was intimately involved with, dressed in a tight pinstripe vest and tighter leather pants that looked more painted on than squeezed into. In all honesty, the man might as well have been naked. The getup hid absolutely nothing.

And to think, just minutes ago, Butch had been hurrying through the back streets to get to Francis with the day's homework and some cold medicine, concerned for his health and well being. He'd been absent lately. Ever since that first early weekend job he refused to tell Butch about, Hustler had been covering more and more shifts and drops with even less explanation. It got to the point where he missed entire days of school. Being the only kid who actually knew where HK lived (aside from Fingers, who was usually busy anyway, and offered a small favor for bringing the homework he was supposed to over as well as the load Butch was given), the teachers sort of relied on Butch to make sure that one of their students wouldn't have to be sent to summer school.

But now, in this back alley, with a schoolbag with two students worth of homework, Butch saw he had ample reason to be concerned. Just not for the reason he thought he needed to be. Francis at least had the decency to look horrified and shamed. He flushed and paled all at once, his jaw unhinging and hanging open. When he did manage to scrape his chin off the floor, he swallowed hard and groped for a response while Butch, ever the master of words, sputtered.

"Oh shit."
"What the hell am I even looking at?" Butch asked, steadily slipping from shocked to terribly amused.
"This isn't – It's not what you think!"

Butch didn't mean to laugh. Not really. But this whole scene was just so absurd. This was The Hustler – the guy who wore trench coats in the dead heat of summer. The guy who barely ever stripped down unless three sets of doors were locked. The same kid who, when forced to wear something that showed off his body, became grumpy and irritable because people took notice of how fucking hot he was. That man was standing in front of him in the most revealing outfit even Butch with his depraved mind could have never conceived. To be fair, he was embarrassed as hell about it, but still. He was wearing it. No matter how much it pained the hustler, Butch just had to know why or he'd die trying to figure it out.

"So why are you dressed like that, anyway?" Butch asked, stifling his giggles, blunt as ever.
"I can't really tell you."
"Some hustler thing. I get it." Butch tried his best to sound dejected. It usually got Fran to break pretty quick.
"Switch day." Francis mumbled, looking off to the side.
"Pardon?" Butch asked, lifting his hand to his ear.
"Switch day." He repeated, slightly louder. The exasperated sigh that followed seemed to carry him through the haphazard explanation. "It's this stupid Hustler tradition. Basically you draw a name out of a hat and you have to dress up like the hustler you pick. It's stupid and happens only like every three years and God I thought I could skip it this year but everyone I work with is an idiot and I hate them all."
"Could be worse." Butch responded automatically, hastily slapping together some worse scenario. "Could be a dress."
"I had to dress up like Tammy when I was eleven." Hustler deadpanned. "She wore mini skirts and hooker boots the month before so the outfit would qualify."
And because Butch was stupid, his response was: "They found something like that in your size?"

The blurted statement had all the effects of prodding a tiger with a sharp stick between cast iron bars. It pissed the hustler off something fierce, made him snarl and puff up and look like Butch would be a snack soon, but there was no actual threat. Instead, the hustler in the strange outfit paced and eventually turned from him, trying to ignore his presence. Butch felt bad, yes, but when Francis turned he had time to stare at his ass, which he did.

There were too many things wrong with the outfit to properly categorize – first and foremost being how good the hustler looked in it. Seriously – who the fuck could pull of leather pants and a vest with no shirt? For a moment Butch considered that he might blame it on his love for Francis, but he obliterated the thought just as quickly, because this thing was just hideous, and he settled on the idea he was more attracted to the more… obvious parts of his friend with benefits now openly on display. Namely his ass and his dick, which were both laughably visible, and greedily ogled by the storyteller until he was caught, and then some more after that.

"So…" Butch started, hoping to steer the conversation toward something less awkward, if at all possible.
"This was why I skipped school." The hustler grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fore and middle finger, a healthy highlight of red spilling out from under it. "Not because I'm sick."
"Oh you're sick alright." Butch spat playfully, biting his lip to conceal a snicker "Who the fuck wears a getup like that?"
"You remember Kink, from the sex shop?"
Butch nodded. Then he paled. "He seriously parades around in that?"
"All day. Every day. Except holidays and clearances– then he accessorizes. Or dresses down."

Butch couldn't quite hide his snigger that time, and Fran's head snapped up to glare at him, though the effect was stunted pretty bad by the flushed face and half-frightened grey eyes alternately threatening his very existence and watering up in some very effective plea not to tell a soul. Almost immediately he felt bad for Francis and his predicament. If he were ever caught in something like that, he'd want to crawl in a hole and die too. Oh but he was having such fun looking. His eyes had strayed below the belt more often than not. Butch was honestly surprised Fran hadn't pulled the 'my eyes are up here' line out yet. Then again, he wasn't exactly looking at him – more looking at the ground as if begging it to swallow him whole.

"So he's gay?" Butch attempted yet again to move the conversation along.
"You're actually asking me that question."
"Point taken." Butch quickly hid his face-breaking smile and changed the subject, appraising him. "You look good."
"I look like a hooker."
"Not really."
"A bizarre hooker."
"That fits a little better."
"Fuck you."
"You have no idea how much I want to."

The statement slipped from Butch with such startling honesty it made Francis turn his head back to him. Butch didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead he looked lecherous, his eyes glued to the slick and shiny leather pants. It was enough to make the hustler want to physically rearrange his face, or at least wipe the smile off and blacken his eyes so he would stop staring.

"Don't get used to it." HK scoffed, attempting to hide his shame behind contempt. Familiar anger.
"Too late." Butch countered, greedily reaching out to touch.

Francis slapped his hand away, but only once. Butch hand was splayed over his thigh, groaning as he traced muscle, blindly searching for the more obvious of lines to wrap his hand around. The hustler had grit his teeth and shut his eyes, a hiss escaping him. Butch was so close so suddenly – close enough to feel the heat of his hand, his breath washing over his neck, the heartbeat in both their throats. Francis felt his throat close, and heard Butch's open into a feral groan. Though he'd felt the exhales he was still surprised to see Butch so close, his eyes dark and altogether far too interested in him. The look confused him and made him angry to some degree. But those thoughts soon fled, all thoughts did, actually, in favor of outright giving in to the expert pawing. He didn't want to hit him, tell him to fuck off, demand he stop being so damned obvious and force him to stop touching, even if he was growing hot and uncomfortable. Mostly though, he remained confused.

It was strange. He couldn't remember Butch coming on so strong before – save those times when they were separated for a long while. Then Butch was quite adamant about touching – but to be fair, so was he. Now though, having seen him not two days before and around his peripheral frequently, this sudden desire seemed out of place. Yes, he knew he was wearing provocative clothing, and yes he knew Butch could be a horny teenager like any other horny teenager – but this seemed a hell of a lot more intense than their usual hookups. Usually Butch sort of let him lead the way. Now it was Butch touching him, taking over, pushing him subtly backwards into the clean metal pole, his hand wrapped around a completely different one.

The metal pole against his back made Francis hiss in discomfort, the shock of relief to his burning body made him twitch. One hand shot up above his head, his hand wrapped firmly around the pipe. His elbow scraped against the brick wall, biting into it. His body arched off the pole and into Butch, who greedily accepted the majority of his mass with looped arms and groping hands, all heading south.

"How much is he making you charge for a night?" Butch hissed into his ear.
"You gotta buy him out."
"Oh?"
"Ten items gets you a dance."
"How about a discount. Since, you know, we're already fucking, so this is nothing new."
"I am not dancing for you." Francis spat, breath ragged.
"Spoiled sport." He felt Butch's teeth sink into his earlobe. "I guess I could count this as a dance, even though I can't see it."
"Prick."

Francis tried to deny the fact he was writhing against the pole, into Butch, because that would just be more humiliation he knew would haunt him. But, for all his mental reasoning, he could not make his body cooperate. Butch's endless amusement with this was not well disguised, grinned against the flushed skin of his neck, chuckled into his ear, ground against his hips. The hustler would have snorted at him for it, but it came out more like a guttural groan that Butch promptly swallowed up and gave right back.

As if Butch wasn't already being enough of an insufferable prick about the whole matter, he had the audacity to, after kissing him senseless and running his hands over the less than decent looking bulge, pull back and admire the state he'd worked the hustler into. The vest, though tight, had ridden up his stomach some and stuck skewed in place even when Francis tried to straighten himself out. The pants were an absolutely painful looking mess that Butch had yet to take his eyes off of. The entirety of the hustler was equal parts pissed and terribly horny, which made Butch lick his lips and groan loud enough to be heard while pressing himself against the opposite side of the alley, collecting his own breath and making the proper adjustments to bolt if needed.

"Damn that's a good look for you."
"Fuck off."
"I'm getting a dance later."
"Absolutely not."

Butch laughed while edging away, close to the wall with his eyes still stuck below where Francis would have his belt if he could have possibly found a reason for one. Fran didn't do much more then frown and huff at him, straightening up against the metal pole, trying and failing to piece himself back together as a normal, composed businessman. Such was great for Butch, because it meant he could get out of the way. Rather than run off, though, Butch did the stupid thing and provoked the beast further, licking his lips and dragging his eyes over the body. Just before Francis could collect his wits and force himself to move past the painfully tight clothing to throttle the other male, Butch was taking off, waving over his shoulder and promising to meet up later.

Francis hoped he'd forget any part of this. Hell, he was hoping he could blot out this memory soon.

O/O

The crawl home from work was the worst he had in years.

There had been no customers aside from Butch for most of the day. Once the sun had set, however, he'd been flooded. Under normal circumstances, Francis would be thrilled. He made ridiculous cash and Kink's commission was larger than his percentage wise, so he really made bank. The downside to that was the humiliation he had to face. The outfit was bad enough when he squeezed into it, worse when Butch recklessly teased him about it. The chumps, though – they were the worst. They couldn't buy him out, but seeing the new dealer they tried to fuck with him anyway. Literally, in a few cases. He thought, foolishly, these people would be shy. They were bold and demanding as all hell. They badgered him long after he had quit the business, some accusing him of playing hard to get until he twisted their hand back far enough. He'd have to pay Kink a bit to get him over possibly losing a couple of customers. Every other dime was going to cover the days he was going to have to take off to get this terrible day out of his head.

Francis kicked the door shut behind him and flipped the lock, his hands going from the door to the vest buttons, popping off buttons as quickly as he could without damaging any of them. Knowing Kink, he'd want everything back intact. His stock was fine, the clothing would be too, provided he could peel himself out of it. The bent wrists and harassment aside, it wasn't to terrible a day that couldn't be cured by showering – or at least it wasn't so terrible he couldn't begin to forget about it by just ending it now, before something else went wrong.

"You're home."

Oh boy. Something else to go wrong.

The hustler sighed heavily and turned his head to the archway leading into the sitting room like it was some great and terrible effort to do so. Butch smiled at him. Francis shook his head and tried to process the picture. Butch, sans jacket and cigarettes, chewing a toothpick, lounging in the empty doorway in the dark, presumably waiting for him to come home. Had he the patience, he'd have made some joke about this being fairly serial killer like. But the hustler did not have the patients, nor the energy for such a thing. Instead, he flipped Butch off and hoped that was enough. It wasn't. The bi-haired male pushed off the wall and stood upright, greedily raking his eyes over him like he had that afternoon, going so far as to be a great deal more blatant about what he was looking at, licking his lips. Butch lifted his eyes up again and kissed the air in his direction.

"Butch- how did you get into my house?"
"I have my ways." Butch flicked the toothpick away.
"Great. Lovely. I'm going to bed."
"You promised me a dance." Butch had the audacity to sound hurt behind his smile.
"I did no such thing. Now go away I want to sleep."

In an instant Butch had sprung from the doorway and blocked his pant up the central staircase. Francis could have done any number of things – knocked him over, sidestepped him, gone up to the second floor some other way, or slept in the nearby guest room. But he was too tired to bother using anything else but his voice and maybe one hand. So he sucked in a breath and began to raise both. Butch did some shifting of his own, his lower lip between his teeth, eyes bright in the dark. Before Francis could say a word Butch laid his hand over his cock and pressed the heel of his palm forward.

The string of curses flowed out of his mouth in place of demands, in one slow whoosh of breath that ended with a snarl and some sort of shove. Butch paid him no mind, far too enthralled by the way he could just see the shine from the next room outline the even more noticeable bulge. He had no doubt it was uncomfortable (hell, his own vaguely loose denims were becoming tight), but he didn't give a damn. The combined groans of tight leather and aggravated Francis rutting against his palm though he complained sort of made the storyteller high on power and control. Even hot and bothered Butch knew he could still form words, and to block that from happening he pushed his whole body forward and tilted his chin, catching the lower lip on his slack jaw between his teeth. He didn't expect there to be so much give, considering Francis was usually a wall, standing upright no matter what rammed into him. But this time he buckled and slid sideways, not quite toppling but leaning heavy and dangerous against the rail and half onto Butch, who hoped he would snap out of it soon because he couldn't support the weight. Despite this, he didn't stop kissing Francis, drawing his tongue from the half opened mouth. His free hand found its way to the bare chest and made its home there, feeling him up, pushing him up. Just in case.

"Bad day at work baby?" Butch cooed into the slacked mouth, smirking when a choked snarl interrupted him.
"Fuck you."
"Aw, poor thing. Lemme take care of you."

Hustler assumed this is what whores felt like with a particularly handsy, energetic client. Mildly disgusted and questioning what had gone so terribly wrong in their life to get them to this point. But Francis couldn't deny he liked it, even though he really, really would have liked to. Butch's hands had been trained to please him. They knew where to go, what to touch, how to hold. His mouth knew just how he liked to be kissed and bitten and spoken to, though the words were often breathless and unintelligible. His body knew how to sway and grind and turn his into a traitor. And Francis moaned whorishly, because fuck Butch and fuck him, he'd taught him too well.

"No. No not right- stop, Butch no." Francis hissed minutes too late, trying to keep Butch from outright sticking to him "Jesus Butch give me a second to at least get out of these pants fuck."
"No." Butch breathed, already having entirely too much fun. "I like them."

Francis choked on hitched breath; biting down on his tongue and shoving Butch back against the railing. Like a burr, Butch hung on, one hand clasped to his neck, the other trying to circle his dick. The hustler bit him again, groaning into it like he was the one who was bitten. Butch could feel the heavy breath washing into his mouth, the stiffness under his hand and in the others stance. He didn't like either of them being so ridged and confined, and apparently neither did Francis. However, while the hustler agonized whether or not to allow himself to become unraveled, Butch did not. Butch knew exactly how to unwind the tight coils and get them both loosened up.

So h bit back, pressing up as hard as he could against him, goading him to act. He bit Francis when he tried to shy away and moaned when he pushed and pulled. It wasn't long before there were cracks in the hustler's usually stable resolve. Butch rewarded him when those cracks split. When Francis grabbed his side and pushed him hard against the banister, he rolled his hips against the leather pants. When he ripped off Butch's shirt and dug his fingers into the skin, butch moaned like a whore squeezed his hand. Because this was what they were familiar with. What Butch missed about their relationship before, and what Francis needed to clear his head. Rough and dirty fucking, angry and spontaneous.

Francis was always careful with his bruises. When they used to fight they weren't. When the hustler swung his fist it took on all the characteristics of a wrecking ball, and wherever it landed blossomed disgusting blues and yellows and stayed there like a trophy of surviving. If there was blood or broken bone underneath, then you get an extra star for pain tolerance – not that Butch ever had those to display. But these bruises – teeth and finger shaped, softer hues of blue and purple, were always hidden, because they were not badges of honor. Distinctions of shame, more like – not because of the activity, not of how – but questions of who neither were willing to answer. Which was especially discouraging to the hustler, because at this angle he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into Butch's shoulder, into his sensitive neck and make him moan until he choked and cried.

Where this violent streak had come from, he had no idea. He blamed the leather pants.

Butch pulled away from the probing lips and teeth and tongue to suck in desperate gulps of air. He was granted little reprieve, for the taller, provoked male went straight for his throat, biting and sucking carefully out of sightlines. Even like this, fighting off his own desperation and rampant arousal, Francis knew exactly what he could get away with. But he did push it and the body further, testing how limited those limits were. His were severed, however, When Butch worked his hand back between them and found the snap and zipper holing the damnedable leather to his legs. He was constricted enough it was painful and had been painful since Butch started pawing at him. Not that it made him stop. Forcing him down did, though.

Both hands square on Butch's shoulders, wrapped around his bare skin and pressing in like clamps, Francis pressed downward. Butch resisted him, but eventually his knees buckled from the pressure and he dropped at the foot of the stairs. Butch didn't even attempt to look confused. In the next moment Butch's hand sought the zipper again (they'd gone for the railing on his way down, to keep some balance) and pulled down. Francis groaned as the leather was peeled away and he was freed, stroked by the boy on his knees. His mouth hovered over the waiting cock, but he didn't move any closer. Butch merely peered up at him, red faced and swollen lipped already. The hustler ran a hand through Butch's hair, but instead of letting the longish strands go like he normally would, he curled his fingers in and tugged Butch's head forward so his mouth pressed against the side of his dick.

"You had better fucking suck it good." The hustler rasped with all the quality of a decent porn star actor (if not a octave lower, laced with actual need) "'Cause that's all you're getting before I bend you over."

Butch didn't need to be told twice. He shifted his head, pushing back against the larger hand to better position himself. Though he had to fight for it, he really didn't care too much when it came down to performing the act. He sucked greedily, inhaling sweat and musk and leather that all mixed into some terrible concoction that had no right making him as incredibly horny as it was. He was hyper aware of everything – the lewd slurping noises he was making, the convulsions of the stomach inches above his nose, the hand wrapped firmly in his hair and scratching over his scalp, dragging his face forward. Butch could hardly take it, but he really, really wanted more.

Francis pulled his cock out of the eager mouth too quickly for Butch's liking. He'd felt it twitch and pulse in his mouth, so he knew Fran was close, and he wanted to see the taller male crumple to the floor upon completion. Not given that satisfaction, Butch huffed and whined, taking a few deep breaths. Though he'd been near the point of choking once or twice, Butch's mouth hung open for more. His jeans were too tight and he really needed the distraction. Francis had pulled out, but Butch was still able to lap at the underside of his cock and look up at him, waiting for any indication of what was coming next. Shirtless and red faced and panting, the hustler forced his head back at a sharp angle, away from his prick. For a minute he just stared, but Butch licked his lips and spread his legs out more for better balance and to alleviate some pressure, and that was enough to get diluted grey eyes to close. Butch could feel the shiver against his scalp.

Given a moment to compose himself (though Butch made it difficult, as he always did) Francis rasped something like 'turn around' or 'fuck' or some mixture of the two, pushing on his shoulder to make him do so. Butch, as always, complied readily and made a chore. He turned around and braced himself against the railing, but did nothing else. Frustrated and horny and not willing to deal with this crap anymore, the hustler grabbed Butch by the belt and yanked him backwards, tugging on his pants violently. They didn't come off as easily as he would have liked, but Butch sacrificed a hand to unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper so they at least came down to his knees. That same hand scrambled against the smooth marble of the staircase when Francis tugged him back again, holding his body up while the opposite arm locked in place, holding fast to the railing.

Of course, Francis had lied. He spat on his hand and slicked his fingers and pressed two in as gently as the situation would allow, which wasn't much at all. Not that Butch found any fault with it. He pressed back against the hands holding him in place and pushing into him. Butch was only vaguely aware of Francis behind him, muttering filthy things into his ear or somewhere near there. The various aches in his lower half hardly bothered him, but it made good reason for him to groan and wriggle and beg for more because it was killing him. He continued to press the issue even after Francis hissed at him to shut the fuck up, curled his fingers, and bit his bare shoulder.

His complaining backfired however, when suddenly the weight behind him vanished at all points. Butch choked and turned, looking behind him to see where the other male had gone. However, before he could so much as let go of the railing to twist his back any more, Francis took up the space hind him again. He seized his neck and forced him down onto the marble, one knee pushing the back of Butch's thigh, spreading him wider, one knee on the first step, the other on the floor. The smaller barely had time to brace himself against the flat stone and the railing before there was a pressure inside him again. Three fingers, slicked with something more than spit, pushing in and curling and spreading apart. After a short time Butch wasn't complaining just to get on HK's nerves. He really did want desperately to be filled.

Luckily enough for him, the hustler was at the end of his rope as well. One keening wail from the storyteller had him growling and pulling his fingers out. He sought the bottle of lube he'd pilfered from Kink's stock (he'd pay him back alter – sex now), and coated his hand, then his prick. Butch, the bastard, shook his ass and barked at him to hurry up, only to get smacked for his troubles. Another bruise to hide among the several ones dotted along him was hardly cause for concern. Francis' lack of care for them was – but he'd speculate on it later. Now he was busy. Lining up his cock head and pressing it into the stretched opening, he barely gave time for either of them to breathe before he was in.

Butch forced out whatever breath he had left onto the stairway in some sort of garbled noise. Now that he was looking (and really, he couldn't look anywhere else without discomfort), the marble looked rather nice. Said thought was far off and misplaced, but it stuck for a minute. Butch thought about telling Francis, but when he opened his mouth a breathy moan fell out instead and the thought went with it, dampening the cool stone with hot, forced breath. Whatever it was that he was going to say, Francis probably wouldn't have paid it any mind anyway.

He was bent forward as Francis drove in the next time, nearly cracking his face in the stair railing, though he fixed that problem by bending his arm to keep from smacking directly into it. Far be it from Butch to actually tell Francis to stop. Oh no, that would be so far from what he wanted. This was what he liked. This roughness, the fingers digging into his body, the hard slaps and heavy cock pulling him apart from the inside. He made sure Fran kept going to, hissing and goading him on with absolute nonsense he spilled over the floor. His free hand, what braced him going down, strayed to his cock while the hustler busied himself with fucking him as hard as he could into the stairway. His belt scraped along the floor and dug into his knee, but neither male paid it any mind.

Butch had been the first to spill. A heavy, broken cry fell out of him, between the banisters. His come stained the stairs and though his legs were weak, Butch had enough presence of mind not to collapse on his own mess. Francis wasn't far behind, gripping his hips tightly as he rammed in the last few timed, burying deep and growling above him. Butch's face was in the stone, pressed harder by the heavier body above him. He still felt the thick fingers curled into his skin, the softening cock inside him, the slight tremors. It was hard for him not to fall over, but Butch managed – so long as Francis didn't throw any more weight onto him.

Luckily for Butch, he the hustler stayed upright, though shaky on his feet. Francis turned him over and pinned him to the stairs after a few moments of heavy breathing, as if Butch was about to get up and run somewhere on weak legs. The edges dug into Butch's back and imprinted themselves on his spine, but he didn't notice that until later, after Francis pulled his mouth off of him. Still panting, he didn't pull away that much, didn't care that he was breathing in Butch's used air or sort of still kissing him. It was nice to finally have some relief, and Butch was keeping quiet for once, even if he did have some satisfied little smirk on his face.

Eventually, Butch shifted underneath Francis, his smirk waning to a grimace until the larger of the two got the picture and stopped compressing him into the cold stone. Butch twisted back the way his spine was supposed to go and pulled his pants up, leaving them unbuckled. Unwilling to d the same (and go through the torture of squeezing into them again), Francis left his undone and stumbled with Butch, leaning heavily on him, up the stairs. They got up to Fran's room in silence, pausing to get their balance a few too many times. But they made it, and they collapsed on the hustler's bed without bothering to undress further or even curl up under the covers. The last thing Francis remembered before he finally let the day finish was Butch's head pressing up underneath his chin and some satisfied sigh, though he wasn't sure who it came from.

O/O

The first words Francis heard when he woke up were "I win" – and had that not been confusing enough he found himself in his bed, naked, with Butch wearing his clothes (his shirt specifically, far too big for him, hanging off his shoulders) and looking entirely too awake to be the grumpy, morning-hating storyteller Francis knew pretty well. So, rather than answer, he looked past the smiling face and manhandled his clock, blinking at the numbers until they made some sort of sense, and then promptly dropped the time-telling device on the floor and his head back onto the pillow.

Butch, unaffected by the sleepy Francis, picked up the clock and crawled onto the sleepy body, messing with the hustler's bedhead until the larger male grunted and batted at the air nearby to get him to stop. Butch, knowing when to quit, gave up on that and burrowed back under the covers. Hustler's shirt was warm and soft and smelled like him and his pants did too and Butch had decided that even if they were too big he was probably going to steal them or at least sleep in it for a while. Francis, in his bear-like ways this morning, paid him no mind when he curled up close and tugged the pillow out from under his heavy head.

For a while, Butch let Francis rest. It wasn't that he wanted to – he was actually rather bored. But he was in some pain. His ass and jaw hurt, he had several marks on him that clothing that fit him would cover, and he'd scraped his chin on the stairs or railing some time last night. It wasn't the worst he'd been dealt – by Fran especially- but it was enough to keep him from being a continual pest. But that couldn't go on forever, and before too long his fingers were in the hustler's severe bedhead again, picking at it and smoothing it out. Francis eventually sighed and gave up on sleeping rolling over some and looking at him while Butch groomed his awful hair. Butch, ever filled with thoughts, spat out the first one that came to mind in a far too cheery voice which Francis, used to this by now, answered without even really thinking.

"You never danced for me."
"Mm. You didn't buy anything."
"What about that discount?"
"I fucked you on the stairs." HK yawned. "For free. And gave you a bed to sleep in. For free. There's your discount."

Butch was chuckling though the hustler's tired deadpan. Still his fingers were in Francis' hair, threading through it. Without the gel and styling or whatever the fuck he did to it, Fran's hair was soft and kind of floppish. Francis didn't stop the fixing up of his head or the subsequent head massage. Considering his previous day and night, this was enormously relaxing, and very much needed. If only he could keep Butch's mouth shut for another hour or two. Then he'd be golden. Unluckily for him, Butch was wife awake, and eventually stared talking again to fill up what he thought was empty silence (Francis would have called it comfortable, but that was just him, he supposed).

"How much do you think those pants run for?"
"Butch, I'm surprised at you." Hustler admonished blandly "I mean I knew you liked them last night, but I thought that was because I was in them."
"Actually I was thinking about getting them for you." When Francis didn't answer, Butch played cute, rolling onto his back and tilting his head so he was looking at the hustler upside down. His frown wasn't nearly as terrifying from that angle, or that single, slightly bloodshot eye.
"You're shitting me."
"Early holiday present." He frowned "No good? What the hell else am I supposed to get you? You're a bitch to shop for and my family is a hundred miles long. Give me a fucking clue."
"You want to get me leather pants."
"Yes."
"Just because it turns you on."
"Also yes."

Francis smacked him with a pillow, rolling over onto his stomach so his arm was banded over Butch's chest by the time he wrestled himself from the goosefeather – cotton blend. Once the other male unearthed himself and attempted to look pissy, Francis shot him a grin, and watched with no end of amusement as the mask of anger broke, brittle and dissolved, until Butch was smiling too.

Despite the early hour he was struck with some strange though familiar twisting want in his stomach, and because of the early hour he didn't really register his actions. Namely the raising of his hand and tracing the outline of Butch's face with his index and middle fingers, ignorant of the strange, half frightened look on the storyteller's face, dragging them from his temple over his cheekbone to the soft square of his jaw. Eventually the hustler's larger hand slipped over the back of the sensitive neck and pulled him forward to the point where they bumped noses. Francis made some small noise that could have been a chuckle if it weren't so short lived, and finally pressed his mouth to Butch's. No more, no less. Just simple contact. And, after a moment of hesitation, Butch gave into it too.

Caught in this strange space just short of lucid dreaming, Francis wasn't exactly sure how to react. He knew where he was, what he was, and who he was with. But how was undefined, and why he was reacting the way he was also remained a mystery. So he pressed on, doing what he felt was right. He dropped his head, kissing just below his ear, then at the junction of his neck and shoulder, then finally the shoulder itself before burying his nose into the smooth, pale skin and inhaling. He'd lost the barest trace of cigarette smell that usually hung about him, instead carrying the short tinge of soap and bed linins and his detergent and, of course, his usual somewhat sweet scent. Never had he had a dream so vivid he could smell – feel, yes, taste maybe, but not smell. Confused, he shifted his hand over Butch's side and caught a bit of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing.

"Ow. Dick." Butch hissed in his ear, wonderfully close, real.
"So I'm not dreaming." Francis replied blearily, not bothering to raise his head, instead stroking the pinched spot in an attempt to soothe it.
"You're supposed to pinch yourself, ass."

Despite the grumpy response, Butch blinked, trying to eye the hustler without giving himself a headache, which proved difficult given their positioning. He swallowed thickly, somehow stuck between liking the comfort and warmth being sandwiched between his arm and his bed and becoming panicked over what the hell Francis could possibly mean by what he just said. Did he dream of things like this? Did he really dream of something so simple? Surely he couldn't have admitted he liked just holding him. That would be odd. That would be something Butch would have wanted, with his stupid unspoken attachment. This was the kind of thing he hated dreaming about because he always woke up and felt cold afterward.

It had happened before between them, so it was entirely unheard of. But it was just those few moments. After a long session. After a long day. During a long movie. Sometimes because he was alone most of the time and just didn't feel like doing much else after making out. Butch wasn't an exception or something special –was he?

The questions stampeded through Butch's mind enough to interfere with his ability to rest as easily as the hustler did. It was no better than those nights at home when Francis would root himself deeply in his thoughts and just not go away, not let him rest. It made him feel awful and scared and stupid, and the feelings were creeping up the back of his throat like bile now that the object of his desire and love was half draped over him, weighing on him physically too. Francis' sleepy strange behavior wasn't helping the situation any. He had almost regained it, that contentment with the rough, angry sex and nothing more. But now he was fucking it all up by being so damned good and sweet to him. His heart hurt perfectly and he thought if he were any less jaded he might start crying. Fucking puberty and hormones were doing a fucking number on him. He hated this, he hated this, he hated this so fucking much.

And yet Butch clung to it, to him, and fought to keep his breathing even, shutting his eyes so he wouldn't have to look anymore, forcing himself to go back to sleep.

And Francis didn't notice the torment he was going through, only the mildly confused but far too sleep thoughts in his head about how nice his was, how good this felt, how right. He'd question himself in the afternoon, perhaps, but for now he simply held a bit tighter and breathed in, the idea of waking early thoroughly vetoed in lieu of sleeping in, sunken in the blankets and warmth with Butch, for however long he could. 

Chapter 34 ~~~~~~~~ Back to Recess ~~~~~~~~                 

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