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“Is that all you got?”
Dias looks over his shoulder, and it’s not a pleased look. It’s annoyed, it’s disappointed and it drives Claude up the wall. Claude tugs at his hair, harder, it draws a hiss out of Dias. They both know it’s lukewarm, at best.
“Even with this your form is lacking.” Dias turns back, he seems angry. “Put some more backbone into it.”
Claude presses his lips together. It’s not that Dias is wrong, Claude is somewhere else. There are so many things on his mind, and usually, this helps. But this time it just doesn’t. He’s disappointed with himself. He picks up the pace and grabs Dias’ waist, slams hip against hip, slaps skin against skin. Dias groans into the rough sheets.
“Better,” he says, in between pants. “Now, keep this up.”
“Can’t you just shut the fuck up—” Claude is cut off by Dias pushing his hips back. Claude takes revenge by digging his fingernails into his skin. “For once?”
“Make me.”
It’s a challenge. Like everything is with Dias. He wants it rough, he demands it. Claude has never tried anything else. It gets the job done, takes care of the frustration, just another way for them to silence the thoughts. It’s a deal they made. Not that they’ve ever said that out loud.
Dias on his cock is an image Claude will never tire of seeing, Dias’ strong back, the way his spine curves, the way his muscles clench with every thrust. But the strongest part of Dias are his eyes, and Claude can’t see them like this.
He stops, abruptly. Dias is about to protest, when Claude pulls out, without warning.
“What the—”
“Turn,” Claude orders.
Dias raises an eyebrow. He rolls onto his side, props himself up on his elbows and watches. Claude grabs his calves, flings one knee over his shoulder, pulls the other to his own chest, pulls Dias closer to him.
“Oh?” Dias grins.
“Don’t look away, not even for a blink,” Claude says, as he positions himself to push in again. “Until I allow you again.”
Now, Dias seems interested.
They do this sometimes. Dias likes to prove how much he can control himself. He never breaks. Claude likes to have some kind of control, for once. It’s another one of their deals they never talk about.
Claude pushes in, all the way, in one rough motion. Dias hisses, but his eyes stay on Claude’s, like he’s been told.
This is their arena, their audience the dead critters caught in the webs in the corners of the ceiling of the rundown inn they’re staying at. The arena is where Dias shines. It’s where his eyes have that spark in them, the one he’s lost everywhere else. It’s where he lets go, where he stops thinking.
Their arena is the only thing Claude can give him, and so he does.
Dias’ eyes are still boring into his own, as if his goal is to push through, mess with Claude’s brain and come out at the other side again. Claude is afraid of what he might find there. He’s boring into Dias in other ways in the meantime.
His attention is on Dias now, fully. Dias is so beautiful, he’s so strong, in the arena, but also outside of that. Dias is so much.
And Claude wants to tell him. He slows down, pulls out almost all the way. He lets his fingers brush over Dias’ thigh. It's firm, but so, so soft.
“What now?” Dias asks, he’s impatient.
Claude bites on his lip. He keeps touching Dias, it’s gentle and it’s tender. They have never touched like this. Somehow, this is raw. It’s rough. They have rough sex all the time, but it feels like a breeze compared to this. It’s aggressive in the way it’s not.
Dias watches him, almost alert. He can sense that Claude is nervous, Claude knows that. For once, he doesn’t mind.
“You’re beautiful,” Claude says, and he doesn’t know why, but he can’t hold it in anymore.
Dias’ eyes widen. They’re like a storm, like a maelstrom and they stay on Claude’s.
“You’re so beautiful,” Claude repeats.
Claude runs his fingers over silky skin, muscular thighs, down, down, over his belly, down, down, the coarse hair trailing down. He leans in. He pushes in, slowly. He keeps telling him. “You’re beautiful, Dias.” He pushes the words into him, with force. It’s not harsh, it’s not sharp, it’s slow. He pushes into him and it’s soft, it’s violent, it’s new.
They’ve never fucked like this.
Dias’ brows knit together. His mouth opens, but he says nothing. His eyes stay on Claude.
Claude leans in further, closer. It’s intimate. Claude has had Dias’ cock in his mouth, his tongue in him, has fucked him in every position physically possible for them, but this feels so much deeper. He pulls a leg over his shoulder. He pushes in. Closer.
“You’re so, so pretty.”
Dias makes a sound. His eyes stay on Claude. Dias is so close, Claude presses their foreheads together. He closes his own eyes, he knows Dias’ stay open. He kisses him, it’s just a soft brush of lips, just the hint of a touch, it’s hard to call it a kiss, almost. It’s everything.
They’ve never kissed like this. Dias whines. Dias breaks.
It does something to Claude. He stills, just stays in him. Dias is hot around him.
“You’re so good, Dias.”
Dias makes another sound, and Claude still can’t place it; it’s a sound that doesn’t make sense coming from Dias. It’s all he is at the same time.
“Your eyes are still on me, yeah?” Claude whispers. He presses feathery kisses along Dias’ neck. He feels the movement of Dias’ head. A nod. Another small sound.
“So good for me,” Claude mumbles into damp skin. “You’re so perfect, Dias.”
Dias’ heart rate picks up, Claude can feel Dias’ life pulsating against his lips. There is rustling and he knows Dias grips the sheets. There’s a tremble in the leg that is slung over Claude’s shoulder.
“Like you’re made for just this,” Claude says.
Dias stutters a breath.
“Made for me.” One last kiss on Dias’ collarbone. Claude pushes himself up.
Dias looks undone. His face is red, his eyes are glassy, still on Claude. His cock throbs against Claude’s belly, sliding against it with every soft thrust, every gentle movement. Dias’ hair is like a halo around his head, he looks unreal, like this. He looks unreal in the way he looks so real. So like himself. Claude feels like he is seeing him for the first time.
“Dias,” Claude says and it sounds like a prayer and like a calling at the same time. Dias whines again, his eyes are still on Claude, and Claude dismisses him. “Let go.”
And Dias comes. Untouched, almost silent, just the hitch of a breath. He squirts between them, over his own stomach, over Claude’s. His eyes stay open, locked with Claude’s, and it’s a revelation. It’s shattering and Claude could stare into them forever.
“Good job,” he says, kisses Dias on the lips. This time with a little more pressure, but it’s still soft. When he lifts his head again, presses their foreheads together again, he says, “Your eyes are yours.”
Dias snaps back. A hand fists in Claude’s hair. “Finish,” he says, his voice is raw, he looks raw. “Inside.”
Claude hums and adjusts himself a bit. He pushes up and moves his hips again. And it’s not soft, but it’s not rough either. It’s something in between and Claude loses himself in it.
“Dias,” he pleads. “Dias.”
Dias intertwines their fingers and Claude thinks he might as well stop breathing. Dias comes again and it drives Claude insane and over the edge, too.
It takes a moment to come back to where they are. It takes another to understand what he’s done.
“Fuck,” Claude presses out. “Fuck.”
He pushes himself up and checks on Dias. Dias has a wrist over his eyes, he’s breathing heavily. He looks undone, still. This isn’t one of their unspoken deals. If anything, it’s the opposite. Claude crossed a line. A line they have carefully crafted.
“I—” Claude bites his lip. “Sorry. Dias, I—”
Dias lifts his wrist, and that shuts Claude up, he stares at Claude for a few breaths that Claude misses; it’s open, so open, he pulls Claude down by the neck and kisses him senseless.
They’ve never kissed like this.
He presses his forehead into the crook of Claude’s neck, wraps his arms around Claude’s chest, his legs around Claude's hips. Dias is so strong. Claude moves his own limbs around Dias’ frame and they sit there, wrapped around each other. Claude’s fingers find Dias’ hair and he untangles the strands.
They have fucked. A lot. They had urges and they were there and they could give each other this. They have never made love.
The room isn’t silent. There is muffled laughter coming from upstairs, yelling from downstairs. From time to time the wind hits the glass in the window, something drips somewhere, like a clock ticking. Dias’ breaths are still heavy. He’s a fighter, his stamina is seemingly endless. It’s something else, entirely.
They are silent.
Usually, Claude would get up and get dressed again. He’d do it with his back turned to Dias. He would walk to the door without saying anything. He’d go out and close it behind him without looking back. He wouldn’t mention what happened the next day, and neither would Dias.
And Claude understands; there’s something else he can give Dias.
He stays.
In the bed, Dias puts his arm around him. They stay bare. He still doesn’t say anything, but it’s not uncomfortable and it’s not forgetting or hiding. They are still sweaty, Dias’ hair is still a mess, Claude still has red streaks on his arm where Dias has grabbed him. There’s no denying. It’s just them.
And when he’s almost drifted off, he whispers into the crook of Dias’ neck, “Good night, Dias.”
Dias’ hand, the one that had been drawing circles on Claude’s side, stills. He lets out a shaky breath. He plants a kiss on Claude’s head.
“Good night.”