Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rushing through the building, Criston does not even have time to straighten his tie before he is ushered into a large banquet hall. He’s still got his luggage with him, a large leather bag he heaves over his shoulder, and has to clip on his name tag with one hand.

The room is bustling, a tall-ceilinged hotel banquet hall, attendees finding their seats and grabbing coffee from the self-serve catering. Many people have sleepy eyes and suitcases by their legs, righting disheveled hair from long, early morning flights. 

His name tag indicates he is at table five, so he maneuvers his way through the crowd, nodding politely at people who he accidentally makes eye contact with, not recognizing any of the faces. People recognize him, though- or, they at least recognize the emblazoned Hightower Corp logo on his bag, company merch he is required to use for work travel. Eyebrows raise and eyes widen, excitement washing over the features of people who don’t really see him, just see the dollar signs a partnership with Hightower Corp offers. Returning from the conference with connections to such a company would no doubt enable them for a promotion, or at least a hefty bonus. Blissfully, none of them try to stop him as he walks. For now.

Sighing, Criston shakes off the lustful gazes that follow him, pulling up beside table five and kicking out a chair, falling into his seat and thudding his bag onto the floor. He wants to tip his head forward to lay on the table, but resists the urge. Shifts in his seat until he’s comfortable. Nods at the people sitting across from him, who say nothing back.

“Jeez. Look, there’s free coffee, man. You need to perk up.” The person next to him leans all in his space, eyes jumping from his name tag to his face. Smiles, pinched but confident. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

“So, you’re the other representative.” Criston responds, throwing himself to the side to put some space between them, reaching into his bag to pull out his laptop. “Oldtown division, right?” 

The man leans one arm on the table, sipping at his coffee, eyebrow raised. “You don’t know who I am?”

Criston scoffs. “Why the hell would I-“

He trails off as he eyes the man’s name tag, reading it once and then again just to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Gwayne Hightower. Son of Otto, president of Hightower Corp.

Alicent’s brother. 

He gulps, suddenly sweaty. 

Laughing, Gwayne sets his cup on the table, dragging a hand over his laptop aimlessly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Cole. From my sister, at least.” His eyes skate judgmentally over Criston’s clothes, mouth a sneer. “I’m curious if you will live up to your reputation.”

“And what reputation is that?” Criston counters, frozen under the scrutiny for a moment, before he jumps to his feet, frantic. Doesn’t wait for Gwayne’s answer, barreling past his chair and towards the coffee bar. Takes a long breath in through his mouth as he adds one sugar to the cup, stirring it around and around, pretending his heart isn’t slamming in his chest. 

Why no one told him the president’s son was his counterpart for this conference, he’s not sure. Maybe someone was trying to pay him back for a slight. Maybe they didn’t know. But, either way, it’s a shock to his system. 

He hasn’t seen Alicent in a long time. Years, actually. Once they ended things, she moved on to marry her best friend’s father, some old tycoon, became a railroad heiress. Popped out four kids, blonde pieces of shit that look just like Rhaenyra. Posts horrible essays about motherhood and the church online, touts her babies for sponsors. He only knows because his sister sends him Alicent’s posts sometimes, since they still keep up with each other.

Wonders how much of things she told her brother. How close they were, back then. If they’re still close now.

Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, he throws his shoulders back so he can return to his table with at least a semblance of bravado. Plus, the introductory speaker has gotten on the stage, tapping on the microphone to draw everyone’s attention.

Gwayne stares at him, follows him with his eyes, as he walks back through the crowd. Shoves Criston’s chair out from beneath the table when he approaches, loafer hooked around the leg.

Getting into his seat, Criston sips his coffee silently, ignoring the way Gwayne’s shoe still remains on his chair. How his fingers drum the table right next to his forearm, where he has it resting.

Introducing the conference, the speaker dully talks to the crowd, laying out the next three day’s worth of meetings and workshops and sessions. 

Criston is here for education. His boss made it explicitly clear. Network all he wants, the biggest thing is for him to attend the information sessions. Learn about competitor strategies and national financial trends. Come back with some new skills and knowledge, and he can anticipate a boost in funds for his team, to let them start on a new security initiative. Something he’s been pushing for years, even before he was the head of the department.

He nods as the speaker continues, detailing their daily catered meals on behalf of the hotel and convention space. 

Next to him, Gwayne groans under his breath, leaning close enough to whisper. “You really believe we have to stay for this shit? It’s a waste of time.” 

He silences him with a sharp stare, turning back to focus on the presentation. Gwayne scoffs, murmurs to himself and leans back lazily in his chair, shoe still nudging against Criston’s. It shifts his seat back and forth as Gwayne taps his foot, and it makes Criston grit his teeth, clamp his hand around his coffee, stamping down a ferocious anger that’s snapping up his throat.

The moment the introduction is concluded and people start to chatter, Gwayne shoves to his feet. Looks down at Criston expectantly. 

“What?” He barks, raising an eyebrow, tired of the man hovering over him.

With a tilt of his head, Gwayne motions towards the exit. “Let’s go check in, find our rooms.”

Balking, Criston stays put. “What, am I your babysitter?”

Gwayne barks a loud laugh. “Well, I certainly can’t trust you to stay here and represent my father’s company alone.” Again, he scans his judgemental eyes down Criston’s form, lip curling. “We’re not really looking to extend our image to… the common man.”

Heat rises into Criston’s cheeks, head filling with an ominous buzzing sound. He flexes the fingers of both hands, breathes hard out his nose. If he were anywhere else, if Gwayne was anyone else, he’d deck him in the nose for the comment.

Alas, though, Gwayne watches his expression with glee, eyebrow raised expectantly as he eyes Criston’s clenched fist. 

Reacting would just prove his point.

Seething, Criston turns away from Gwayne, focusing on people speaking in the distance. 

Laughing, again, Gwayne decides to follow, tipping down so his breath ghosts over Criston’s ear. He flinches and pulls away, but Gwayne is relentless in his pursuit, grinning with teeth. “Do you really think my father would let you keep your job if he found out you were the one who got my sister pregnant her sophomore year?”

Ice shoots down Criston’s spine and he looks up at Gwayne with wide eyes, who meets his stare with triumph. Opens his mouth to continue, but he’s cut off by a hand clapping down on his shoulder. It makes Gwayne stand up straight, and turn to meet the eyes of a young man, brown hair coiffed around his head and jaw covered in a clean beard. 

“Lyonel Tyrell.” Gwayne laughs, giving Criston one last glance over his shoulder. He extends his hand to the newcomer, initiating a firm shake. “Fancy seeing you here. What’s it been, three years since we last met?”

“Hightower. I knew it was you!” Lyonel’s laugh is boisterous, and he tips to lean one hand against a vacant chair, relaxed. “I thought you were above these sorts of things.”

“Yeah, well,” Gwayne chuckles, “I felt that I needed to remind everyone I’m still here.”

“And,” eyes jumping to Criston, Lyonel offers a short nod in greeting. “Who’s this?”

Before Criston can stand to introduce himself, Gwayne is stealing the task. “Our Head of Financial Risk, Criston Cole. From Dorne, if you can believe it!” He turns to smack his palm over Criston’s back, rocking him forward as he gets to his feet. Criston stumbles, has to catch himself on the edge of the table, throwing Gwayne a furious look. Bites his tongue to keep quiet, shoves his hands in his pants pockets. Smiles thinly at the Tyrell.

“Dorne, you say? We would vacation there every summer at a resort in Starfell-“

Cutting him off, Criston leans over to pick up his bag, tucking his laptop under one arm. Pins the man with a firm look. “It was nice meeting you. If you’ll excuse me.”

Walking away briskly, blood pumps in his chest. He ignores Gwayne’s eyes on his back as he departs, moving deeper into the banquet hall. Sets himself up at a new, unoccupied table, cracking open his laptop with a huff. Chats with people who walk by him. Studies the schedule for the conference, mapping out his attendance. There’s a dinner social for the first day, but besides that, the day is for getting situated and meeting other participants. He has no other obligation, really, until the next morning, when sessions start.

There’s an optional city tour for people new to Lannisport, and he considers joining it for a brief moment, eager to be out of the room and away from the vultures circling him. He’s never visited the city before, hasn’t seen the ocean from this side of the continent, but one look at the itinerary (50 people packed onto a tour bus for three hours) has him dropping the idea.

With a heavy sigh, he opens up his email, electing to get some work done, instead. The crowd in the banquet hall starts to thin out as he types away at a proposal, the room quieting down, and the change is almost soothing. He grabs another free coffee just before the caterers come to take it away, and he hardly minds that the drink is lukewarm. 

Blissfully, peacefully, no one bothers him. Not even Gwayne, who’s disappeared with the Tyrell, no doubt off to do something more exciting.

He’s absorbed in his work for a long time. Hours, maybe, until he looks up from his laptop and sees he’s the only one in the room. Everyone else has moved on with their day, found new activities to hold them over until the welcome dinner. 

It’s significantly into the afternoon, and Criston’s two cups of coffee with no breakfast are starting to catch up to him. His stomach grumbles pitifully. 

There’s a sandwich shop nearby, so he ventures from the hotel, bag over his shoulder. Orders something cheap and basic, scarfs it down standing up outside the place. Blinks hard in the sunlight, watches cars stream by. 

Dinner is in the same banquet hall as before, tables set with boxed meals, wilted salads and lukewarm lasagna. It’s bizarre, watching people in suits cracking open the tinfoil, digging into cheap pasta with plastic forks. 

It’s pragmatic, for Criston, and he eats fast, not wanting to start a conversation with the three elderly men at his table. They’re from a trading company up north, and are grumbling about some supplier they mutually hate, casting glances at Criston every now and then. 

He manages to escape from the meal without a conversation, rushing into the hotel lobby. The sun has long fallen, early evening throwing the world into darkness, and he’s more than ready to check into his room. Lay out his suit for tomorrow, get to sleep early. Grogginess from his early morning plane ride is starting to catch up with him, and the food in his stomach makes him blink, slow and methodical.

“Room 806.” The front desk girl shoots him a dazzling smile, curling a hair around the tip of her index finger, as she passes his room key.

“Thanks.” Criston grunts, throwing her a weak smile before stomping off towards the elevator.

A familiar frame stands before the elevator, copper hair brushing against his shoulders. He taps his foot as he waits, sighing impatiently.

Criston walks up to stand next to him, not saying a word. It takes a while for Gwayne to realize he’s there. 

“Cole.” He nods, once he notices, as the elevator dings in arrival. Gwayne rushes forward first, but sticks an arm out to hold open the door. Criston follows him. 

As the door slides shut, they are sucked into solitude, Gwayne stabbing at the buttons.

“Floor eight.” Criston requests, absentmindedly twisting his keycard in his hands. 

Gwayne laughs, turning to face him as the elevator starts to shoot upwards. “Same floor, then.”

Electing to ignore him, Criston stares down at his feet. Tries to forget the words Gwayne had so carelessly whispered into his ear earlier that day, secrets he has kept close to his chest for five years. Shakes his shoulders out, banishing the thoughts, even though he sweats a little under his collar.

The moment the elevator pulls to a stop, door opening, Criston takes off, leaving Gwayne behind as he glides down the hallway. Takes a left, then a right. Passes a few doors, and then he’s there. Room 806.

It takes him a moment to get his keycard to work, frustratedly smacking it against the sensor, allowing for the perfect amount of time for a hand to slide across his lower back. Gwayne, catching up to him, coasting his fingers over the fabric of Criston’s jacket.

Pulling up to the neighboring room, Gwayne smiles, a glimmer in his eye. “804.” He says, in explanation, eyes on Criston as he unlocks his door. 

Rolling his eyes, Criston shoves open the door to his room, letting it quickly slam shut behind him.

Comes face to face with another door, right inside the entryway, connecting their rooms like they’re in a side by side family suite.

He sighs, loud enough to echo around the room, and slams the deadbolt on the door for good measure. Stalks towards the window, throwing the curtains open. There’s a balcony outside, looking over an expanse of city, high rises disappearing into the night. In the far, far distance, he can see water and large cargo ships moving into port. He stands, slowing his breathing, for a long moment as he looks out the window. Puts his hands on his hips and works to stop his heart from doing somersaults. 

There’s a couch and large bed in the room, everything smooth and sleek and clean. No desk, but a casual table and chair, which he uses to unpack his items. Sets out his suit for tomorrow, puts his toiletries in the bathroom. It’s a shocking space, dark and sultry, with a large mirror and rainfall shower, matching the dark wood of the bedroom. Wildly luxurious.

Criston strips off his jacket, draping it over the back of the couch. His tie swiftly follows, and it’s a relief to rip it from around his neck, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt. It’s like he can breathe for the first time all day, and falls onto the couch in a heap, untying his dress shoes and kicking them off with disdain. The bed calls to him, alluring and seductive. He imagines the sheets and plush pillows against his skin and nearly jumps in still dressed, suddenly tired down to his bones. 

A knock on the adjoining door startles him upright, jumping from the noise. At first, he elects to ignore it, growing completely still so as not to alert Gwayne of his presence. 

Another knock, more insistent, has him getting to his feet. With a huff, he unlocks the door and wrenches it open, meeting Gwayne’s lecherous grin. 

“Hey.” He greets, holding up a bottle of champagne. “Come drink with me.” 

Criston’s eyes skate down the length of the man, who is clad in the hotel’s robe, white and plush where it’s tied around his body. His feet are bare, legs too, and Criston wagers he’s fully naked beneath the cloth. The champagne in his hand looks expensive, and it drips around the edges, like it’s been chilled in an ice bucket. 

“No.” Criston replies, moving to shut the door.

An unintelligible exclamation from Gwayne, who lurches forward and takes hold of the door, stops him. He’s still grinning, but there’s a firmness in his gaze that makes Criston’s skin prickle. 

“It’s free, and I can’t drink it all alone. Come on.”

Scoffing, Criston crosses his arms. Gwayne does not relent.

He latches his free hand onto Criston’s shoulder and tugs, making him stumble into the room. Before he can right himself, Gwayne is draping the arm around his neck, driving him further across the threshold, towards the couch that is identical to the one in Criston’s room.

“Sit.” Gwayne orders, moving away to open the bottle, robe swishing around his calves as he walks. There’s two champagne glasses already sitting on the table, and a sweating bucket of ice that’s creating a puddle.

Looking around, Criston sees Gwayne’s suit thrown over the back of the chair, name tag detached and fallen to the ground. His shoes are placed neatly by the door, and his suitcase is on the floor, unopened. 

The balcony door is cracked open, letting in a stream of fresh air and noise from the city below, horns honking and people shouting.

The pop of the champagne’s cork startles him, Gwayne smiling triumphantly as he tilts the bottle and watches the bubbles pour into the glasses.

Criston sinks into a seat, back straight and stiff, shaking his head at himself. Thinks fondly of the bed waiting for him in his room, identical to the one he sits next to.

Reluctantly takes the glass of champagne Gwayne offers him, before he sits down in the chair, leaned back and legs extended towards Criston on the couch. Gwayne sips at his drink, staring at him over the rim of the glass, bubbles sizzling as the cup moves.

The champagne does not look particularly appetizing to Criston, and he stares at it in his hand, fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. It feels tiny in his grip, fragile, and he carefully lifts it to his mouth to take a drink. It fizzes against the skin of his face as he does, tickling, and pops and bubbles as it slides down his throat. It’s nice, though. He can taste the quality, the way the flavors smoothly coat his tongue, sweet and bitter all at once.

“So,” Gwayne says, around a gulp. “Tell me.”

Raising an eyebrow, Criston takes another sip from his glass.

Gwayne gestures with his free hand as he speaks. “Where did you get off, fucking my sister and leaving when you got her pregnant?”

Freezing shocks zap down Criston’s body at the words, legs growing numb. His hand trembles where he grips his drink.

With observant eyes, Gwayne watches him, gaze sticky and sharp as it crawls across his face. 

“I mean, seriously.” He continues, crossing one leg over his knee. It makes the robe fall away, slit opening to expose all the way up to his thigh, where he’s got a faint tanline. “What sort of asshole do you have to be to not just marry her after that?”

Criston’s attempts to defend himself are rocky, but he manages to drag words from his chest. “We knew we wouldn’t. We didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, I bet. You were still in love with her roommate then, right? So what was she, a rebound?”

He feels his face pale. Drinks desperately from his cup, palms sweating. 

Gwayne knows about Rhaenyra? 

Alicent must have told him, must have told him everything, about their fights and their dates. How he refused to introduce her to his parents, to ruin the perception of his purity and chastity. How she hid him beneath her bed one day when her father visited, terrified and hard in his jeans. 

How they met: when Rhaenyra brought him home, kicking Alicent out so they could fuck.

A mess, really, is what it was. A regretful mess. 

Gwayne must see the tension, the despair behind his eyes, because he abruptly breaks out into a hearty laugh, refilling his glass. Criston startles at the noise, jumps a little in his seat, and watches carefully as Gwayne shrugs his shoulders. 

“I’m just messing with you, man. You really think I give a fuck what my sister gets up to? We don’t even talk anymore, not after she had my niece.” He laughs again. “She became insufferable after she married that geezer, retreated into the church. Makes me sick, honestly.” 

Staring, Criston tries to pretend his heart isn’t racing. Relief floods through his body. 

“I really can’t believe you got her to have an abortion.” Gwayne sighs, adjusting the robe to cover his legs again. “She’s so religious, dude. If anyone found out, it would ruin her.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Criston’s voice is harsher than he anticipated, and he winces at his own tone, nervously chugging from his glass until it’s empty. Gwayne notices, and grabs the bottle from the table, leaning forward to refill it. As he does, his robe slips again, dipping down over his shoulder, the groove of his collarbone and the curve of his neck on perfect display. 

Criston catches himself staring, and jolts back, nearly spilling his newly filled drink as he does. Tears his eyes away to look out the window, gulping down a mouthful of fresh bubbles.

They’re silent for a moment, listening mutually to the commotion of a siren from the street below, loud and piercing. 

Pushing to his feet, Gwayne hovers, staring down at Criston on the couch. His robe still hangs loosely over his shoulder, tipped just to reveal his chest, the ridge between his pectoral muscles and the dips of his neck. He reaches into his pocket and extracts a pack of cigarettes, brandishing them in front of Criston’s face. “Smoke?”

In response, Criston doesn’t nod or speak, just gulps down the rest of his champagne and stands, following Gwayne out onto the balcony of his room. The air is crisp and fresh when they slide the door open, carrying a scent of food from some stand in the distance. 

Holding the pack up towards his mouth, Gwayne extracts a cigarette with his teeth, lips pinching around the filter. He passes the box to Criston, who does the same, standing with his back against the window, uneager to move towards the balcony railing.

There’s a slight breeze, so Gwayne fumbles with his lighter, trying to get a flame going one-handed, glass of champagne in the other. 

It’s courteousness that makes Criston reach his arm out, cupping around the light to block it from the wind, letting Gwayne get a good inhale going as his cigarette starts to smoke. He turns to lean an elbow against the balcony railing, facing Criston, tipping his head back to blow his exhales away from the open door of his room. Criston is passed the lighter, and the exchange fumbles slightly between their hands, but he manages to get a grip on it and spark up his own cigarette. Smokes it hard and fast, breath shaking as he does, uncaring of the cloud forming around his hair and clothes.

Gwayne watches the city below, swapping between his cigarette and champagne almost equally, taking tiny drags and tiny sips, ashing onto the railing. The wind blows at his robe, still loosely open around his torso, making the skirt of it billow up to his knees. His skin practically glows in the light of the room that seeps through the window, pale and unblemished, striking against the darkness of the city beyond him. 

When Criston finishes his cigarette, smashing the butt against the railing to put it out, Gwayne offers him another. He gladly accepts.

They smoke in silence for a while, Gwayne lackadaisically lighting another for himself as he stretches his champagne between sips. His throat tenses when he exhales, still careful to keep the smoke from going into his room, and his eyes fall closed almost every time. Criston understands the sentiment, feels peaceful with the nicotine in his veins, only heightened by the buzz he’s got going from his champagne. 

He can’t help it when his eyes fall to Gwayne’s collarbone again, still exposed from the drape of his robe. The bone protrudes from his skin, slides to meet the hollow of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows his drink. Criston watches it travel all the way down, disappearing behind his chest, and takes a fierce final drag from his cigarette as he bounces his gaze back up to meet Gwayne’s. 

The man smiles, lascivious without even trying, the way his lips tilt up slyly, exposing a shallow dimple beneath the lower one. He leans harder into the railing, bending slightly at the hip, twisted to the right to still face Criston. Smokes lazily until he’s finished, swiping his pile of collected ash off the railing. It disappears into the wind, caught and blown away to rain down on the city street below.

Criston straightens up from where he leans against the window, brushes his hands over his thighs, knowing he reeks of smoke. Absently runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and scratches his palm over his beard, rubbing through the stubble.

He clears his throat. “I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

Gwayne smiles up at him, head propped casually on one hand. “Guess so.”

Criston nods, awkward as he turns to walk back through the room, thoughtful of the eyes that pierce through his back. Each step feels strange and calculated, scrutinized as he moves, and when he makes it to their dividing doors, he does not turn around to offer a farewell.

Shutting the door behind him, locking it with a thud, he pushes a loud breath from between his teeth. Feels the weight of silence and solitude settle around him, and maneuvers to the bathroom, ready to be asleep.

In the bathroom, he takes a long moment at the vanity, washing his hands to rid them of the cigarette smell they carry, scrubbing with the hotel soap until his skin turns red. Looks at himself in the mirror as he does, hair disheveled from the day, pieces flopping over his forehead and around his ears. Meets his own eyes, which are red and surrounded by rings, evidence of his exhaustion. Follows the curve of his neck beneath his clothes, the broad muscle of it, as it disappears into his shirt collar. 

Shoving off the vanity, he moves to turn on the shower, hot water bursting out of the tap with a puff of steam, and starts to pull off his clothes. He won’t be able to wear them again for the conference, not with the smoky stench of them, but at least he had the foresight to take off his only suit jacket before. There’s enough shirts and pants in his bag to hold him over, and he throws the clothes to the ground in a heap.

His nakedness makes him immediately shiver, the bathroom cold and hard, tile freezing under  his feet, so he wastes no time jumping into the shower. Groans beneath the hot water as it flows over his hair and down his body, rivulets splitting around his neck and barreling towards his feet. The walls are dark tile, the light a fire-like amber, and the room seems to physically suck the weariness from his bones. An ease, a wave of relaxation, washes over him as he shuts his eyes and plants his face in the shower stream, mind quieting.

The hotel shampoo looks well and fine enough, in a luxurious place like this, so he pulls a few pumps into his palms to scrub into his hair. It smells like bright, fresh oranges, the steam of the shower embedding it into the air around him. Like he’s outside on a summer day, peeling an orange with his sister, fighting over who gets the last slice. For good measure, he uses more of the shampoo, suds slipping over his body as it’s rinsed from his hair. 

He stands under the water for another minute before reaching for the soap, liquid pumping into his hands, more of the same orange scent as he scrubs his limbs, his chest, his stomach. And it must be the lights, the soothing beat of water against his back, the pleasing smell of oranges hugging around him that makes him ghost his soapy hands between his thighs, twitching at the touch. Sensitive, as he drags his fingers up the crease of his leg where it meets his torso, landing on his pelvis and the trimmed hair that descends from his belly button.

His bed calls to him, yes, but the here and now of his hand by his cock is infinitely more intoxicating, oranges in his nose and his hair, hot steam caressing his skin. It doesn’t take long, hand moving in a circle around and over his pelvis, for an erection to start to build. When his hand skates over his hardening dick, he bites his lip, muffling the sound that erupted from the back of his throat. 

Making quick work of it, he takes himself in hand, sliding up and down the length of his cock without much preamble. He doesn’t need it, like this, touching just the right places with just the right pressure. Leaning his free hand against the shower wall, he tips his head forward to rest on the tile, hot water pouring down his back. Slides over himself with effortless precision, the contact slick and loud from wet skin on wet skin. 

Criston pinches his eyes closed, mind flashing with both everything and nothing, focus solely centered on the growing pressure in his cock. He feels it in his stomach, in his chest, the heat of his arousal, and he groans behind his lips, just because he can. Just to hear himself, to see how loud he’ll allow himself to be.

The heat of the shower is growing unbearable, almost, coupled with the temperature beneath his skin. He twists his wrist just perfectly, the way he likes when he’s under the covers of his bed and needs to beat one out quickly. Nothing urges him to draw it out, make it last, because he can feel his tiredness cresting just behind the arousal. The moment he gets out of the shower, he’ll be asleep, naked and dripping. 

Head still leaned against the wall, he bites at the arm propping him up, cutting off a whine he doesn’t mean to make. Bucks into his fist, wetness from his cock enhancing the glide, so much so that it almost feels like a mouth. When he cocks a finger up just so, it’s like a tongue, bumping against the underside of his dick. Lips, suctioned around him.

Behind his eyelids, he sees lips ticking up into a sly, knowing smile. Eyes tracking his every movement. Copper hair and bare skin, exposed beneath a robe. He’s following the trail of skin down, further than he had dared before, past the curve of chest muscles and along the expanse of a pale, toned stomach. The robe slips further, it keeps going, and he’s treated to a glimpse of the soft spot between thighs, right at the inner leg, and he wishes he could get closer. Experience the smell, the taste of it. The salt of skin and sweat and smoke. 

Pink, plush lips taking the length of him, sucking and spitting, eyes closed in focus. Or, maybe in rapture. Just like on the balcony, tipping his head back to inhale the smoke of his cigarette, lips glistening from champagne. Lips wrapped around the cigarette filter, lips smiling over the rim of a glass, lips wet and open as he fucks into them. 

It doesn’t take long for him to come after that, hand rocketing over his cock until he’s nearly keeling over from the aggression of his orgasm. The high rips through him, fast and hard, leaving his toes tingling as he comes down, panting where his head rests against the shower wall. Hot water down his skin is like agony, the sensation overwhelming as his nerves buzz, but he can’t find it in himself to reach around and shut it off. He stands in it, in the torture, cum in his hand and stars in his eyes as he catches his breath. Straightens up, after a while, and rinses himself off again, just for good measure. Climbs out of the shower in shaky legs, ignoring the towel he had laid out and his toiletries by the sink. 

Criston drips across the carpet when he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, stumbling past the table and couch, falling right into bed. Kicks at the blankets, ignores the wet spot his body is creating, and climbs in. 

He has thought the moment his head hit the pillow, he’d be knocked out, but he’s still panting from his orgasm, even as his eyes fall closed like they’re made of iron. 

Catalogs the sensations in his body, the tingling that remains in his feet, the tenderness beneath his stomach. 

An image of Gwayne, smiling at him, pauses his observation.

His eyes shoot open. He thrashes beneath the sheets, trying to knock the image away. Trying to forget the way he had spiraled in the shower. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even realized he was doing it, jacking off to the memory of his coworker. And that’s what he had done, isn’t it? Disgust simmers in his chest.

Grabbing a spare pillow, he slams it over his face, crushing it into his nose until he forgets. Forgets everything but the tiredness making his muscles sink into the mattress, until he’s engulfed in darkness.

-

The first event of the conference proper is a promotional fair, where businesses and firms have booths set up to boast about their new technologies and services. Hightower Corp opted out of having a booth, instead relying on the representatives to market the company by word of mouth. 

Really, though, they’re famous enough to not need a booth. Everyone already knows who they are.

Pushing through the crowd, Criston tails after Gwayne, who is making a beeline towards the other end of the room. Tables push in towards them on both sides, people of all walking speeds milling between them. Criston’s elbow often jabs into someone’s side, and he has to offer them an apologetic grimace before walking off. He bumps into Gwayne too, pace stilted and uneven as people cut in front of them, walking into his back more than once. The contact makes him jump, heart rate spiking each time when his hands land on the lithe frame of Gwayne’s body in order to catch himself. And, each time, Gwayne shoots an amused look over his shoulder at him, shrugging and rolling his eyes.

As they pass through the event, representatives with clipboards vie for their attention, offering hands out to shake, hoping to stop them. Every time it happens, Gwayne waves them off with a brilliant smile, shaking his head exasperatedly, like they are just too busy to talk at the moment, not letting on that they simply aren't interested. Criston has to admit that it’s a great tactic, has them being waved off with smiles, eyes sparkling from the courtesy. 

Gwayne finally pulls up to a halt at the end of the room, turning to face Criston. They’re next to an empty table, clipboard and stress balls abandoned by the representative in favor of other, cooler merchandise around the room. 

“Okay.” Gwayne says, leaning in close to be heard over the commotion of the room. Criston ignores the feeling of breath skating across his cheek, dropping his gaze to the floor. “There’s only one table worth our time today, Cole, so let’s make this quick. Then, we can go fuck off until the sessions start.”

Nodding, Criston adjusts his laptop under his arm, looking around the room. Anywhere but at Gwayne, really, who raises an eyebrow at him and scoffs quietly, barely audible. 

“Why so quiet this morning?” The question crawls down Criston’s spine the moment it leaves Gwayne’s mouth, whispered between pursed lips. “The hotel pillows keep you awake?” 

He stiffens where he stands, throat suddenly dry. Clears it with clenched teeth, a cough that makes his eyes water. 

Laughing, Gwayne hits him with a sharp elbow in the side, moving past with a thin smile on his face.
 
Criston has to blink away afterimages from the night prior, on the balcony, reckoning that version of Gwayne, robe slipping around his shoulders, with the version before him now. Black pants snug around his legs, shiny loafers poking from beneath the hems. White dress shirt buttoned to the chin, tie sleek and ironed, knotted perfectly around his throat. Put together, collected. 

He follows Gwayne back through the crowd, eyes on the swish of his hair over his shoulders. 

They pull up to a stop before a booth covered with a blue tablecloth, a bright white emblem of a seahorse printed on the front. Gwayne immediately launches into conversation with the man standing behind it, shoving a hand forward to initiate a shake. 

“Laenor Velaryon. It’s great to meet you.” Gwayne pins the man with a dazzling smile, firmly clasping their hands. “Gwayne Hightower.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Hightower.” The Velaryon replies, smiling in return. His eyes flick over to Criston, and when he pulls his hand from Gwayne’s grasp, he extends it out again. His fingers wrap around Criston’s as they shake, warm and steady. 

“Criston Cole.” He introduces himself. “Hightower Corp.”

“We’ve been looking forward to meeting with you.” Laenor continues, stepping back. “The company is set to go public in about six month’s time, and we have heard great things about your brokerage work.”

Gwayne laughs, standing up straighter. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to help with too much of the specifics, but this is a great chance for us to start the conversation. We have some great financial advisors and brokers who are chomping at the bit to work with you all at Driftmark Shipping.”

Nodding, Laenor reaches into the pocket of his navy suit, extracting a pair of business cards. “Take my information, and why don’t you two join us for dinner tonight? Downtown after the sessions end, I’ll send you the address.”

“We’d love to, right Cole?” Gwayne looks over at him, grinning.

Criston nods.

“Great.” Laenor passes over his business card, looking in their eyes as he speaks. “We can continue our conversation there.”

It’s a dismissal, they both know that, so they leave after exchanging firm handshakes in farewell. Criston, again, trails Gwayne through the room, until they find an empty corner, which Gwayne ushers him into. The grin on his face is so large, eyes so wide and searching, that it makes Criston look away, watching people chatting across the room. 

“Do you know what this means?” Gwayne’s moving closer again, and he’s waving the newly acquired business card in Criston’s face. “We’re about to land the largest client in the firm’s history. Our holiday bonuses are going to be unreal.”

Criston takes a step back, shoulders hitting the wall behind him. There’s an inch of space between them for a moment, and he feels like he can actually breathe, but Gwayne quickly closes it, voice low. 

“We can’t fuck this up. We’re going to that dinner.”

Rolling his eyes, Criston crosses his arms, trying to shrink away. “I never said we weren’t.”

Swinging one hand around, Gwayne aims a hard smack at his shoulder, squeezing a little when it lands. “Good.”

Criston winces beneath the touch, and rips himself out of Gwayne’s reach. “Can we just get through the rest of the day, first?”

Watching him retreat, Gwayne chews on his lip absently, eyes skating down briefly to land on his chest, before jumping up again to meet his eyes. “Let’s go get some coffee first, at least. None of the catered shit. There’s a cafe down the street.”

Sighing, Criston shakes his head, ignoring the itching feeling under his clothes left by the weight of Gwayne’s eyes on him. “Okay. Fine.”

They return to the convention center nearly an hour later, after waiting in line for lattes. It was worth it though, to have something good and strong to carry them until the afternoon. 

Conference sessions have begun, and Criston scrolls through the agenda on his laptop, reminding himself of the ones he’s going to attend. There’s a financial technology seminar first, then a server security workshop, and a management techniques info session. After that, there’s lunch, and a couple more sessions he hadn’t planned out. Then, dinner with the Velaryons at some seafood restaurant by the water that they’ll have to taxi to, right after the last session. 

Another glance of the day’s calendar makes him sigh, already fiending for another shot of espresso.

Gwayne, on the other hand, seems perfectly jazzed. He hasn’t left Criston’s side the whole morning, chattering and sipping on his coffee and texting on his phone, buzzing about the Velaryon dinner. It’s all he can think about, it seems, bringing it up every five minutes like it’s the most important day of his life. 

“You know you’re the president’s son, right?” Criston interrupts his rambling, walking into his first session. “Aren’t you used to rubbing shoulders with highbrow people like that?”

Gwayne follows him into the room, taking a seat right next to him at a back table. “Well, yeah, but this is different. I did it. Not my father.”

Shaking his head, Criston doesn’t respond, looking to the front of the room as the seats start to fill up and the presentation begins. 

“Financial technology is an up and coming sector that is important to be aware of.” The presenter starts, flipping through a slide deck. “We at Lannister & Sons can consult your corporations on what it means to integrate financial tech into your work, so come and talk to us after the session for more information. First, we would like to start off with-”

Leaning closer, Gwayne whispers into Criston’s ear, breath carrying a whiff of coffee. “Why are you interested in this shit? It’s boring.”

Shooting him a cruel look, Criston leans in turn, breath ruffling Gwayne’s hair. He talks quietly under his breath, not wanting to disturb the speaker. “You didn’t have to follow me in here, you know.”

Gwayne pulls back, lips ticking up in a smile. He waves his hand casually, flippantly, as he leans into the table they’re sitting at, ignorant of the woman next to him who keeps shooting him annoyed looks. “What can I say, Cole, I just can’t leave you alone.”

The speaker draws Criston’s attention again, and he rips his eyes away from Gwayne’s, pretending there isn’t a faint heat climbing up his face at the comment. He shakes his head to himself, rolls his shoulders, and ignores the way Gwayne’s foot has inched closer to his under the table in all their shifting and whispering. He can practically feel the heat of it through his own shoe, even though they aren’t touching.

He focuses intently on the presentation at the front of the room. 

“Cryptocurrencies are the latest trend in financial technology, but are not the only new things happening in the industry. Fintech has broken into the stock market, and is used around the world to speed along transactions, exchanges, and cash outs.”

Furiously, Criston starts to type notes on his laptop, picking out important details relevant to Hightower Corp. There are some technologies to look up, some start up companies to consider partnering with, and industry examples to research. It’s interesting stuff, when you look at it the right way, and could easily be tacked on to a new tech package in the next year.

Next to him, Gwayne sighs, leaning back in his chair. Criston ignores him.

The session wraps up with a guided LinkedIn search to connect with the Lannister representative, and Criston does it, even when Gwayne scoffs and laughs at his submission to the activity. He doesn’t go up to talk to the guy, though, packing up his items with swiftness and leading Gwayne out of the room amidst a flood of other session-goers.

Criston rounds on Gwayne when they make it into the hallway.

“Listen,” he starts, frowning. “Why don’t you go to your own sessions, something you actually care about? I’m doing this for work, believe it or not, and I don’t need you whining for attention every five minutes.”

“Fuck off.” Gwayne scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Now, what’s the next session you’re dragging us to?”

“I just said-”

“I’m coming, alright.” Gwayne’s voice is hard, the usual glee beneath his words gone. “And I’ll shut up, if that will get you off my dick. Let’s just go already, god.”

Reluctantly, Criston leads them to the next session, a server security workshop that introduces them to new techniques for secure transactions and filing. It’s nothing revolutionary, he could’ve found all the information by hunting around the internet, but it’s nice to have it consolidated in one place. The best part, though, is the simulation they run, analyzing an internet connection on its safety level.

Gwayne looks over his shoulder as he types. “Real riveting stuff we’re doing here. Diagnostics, wow.”

Criston ignores him.

“Fine, fine.” He pulls back, looking around the room at the other attendees glued to their computers. “I can be quiet. I’m a good listener.”

“Can you stop distracting me?” Criston quips, typing one last thing before he finishes the activity, hitting a button and watching the results pop up on his screen. He’s learned some neat coding tricks to share with his team when he returns home, and spends time slowly reading over the simulation’s suggestions for security enhancement across all industries. 

The session ends with little fanfare, and he heads to his third one, on management techniques. Like a puppy, Gwayne trails after him through the convention center, pressing in close to his back when they board an escalator. Criston can almost feel Gwayne’s breath on his neck, and he twitches a little, forcibly quelling a shiver that shoots down his spine. 

Unfortunately, the management session is more boring than he had anticipated, so he spends the extent of it on his laptop, zoned out from the presentation at the front of the room. He gets some work done, answers emails, advises on a fire that needs putting out in the web maintenance sector. It’s productive, even if it’s a waste of time, and he books it out of the room the moment the session is released, Gwayne scrambling after him. 

Next is lunch, and they both trudge gratefully to the convention center’s banquet hall, stomachs grumbling and energy fading from the long hours of sitting and listening to lectures.

When they step into the room, Criston is horrified to see lists of place seatings greeting them.

“Oh, god.” Gwayne complains, hands on his hips as he looks at the placements. “It’s like we’re in kindergarten. Which dry cunts have they put me next to?”

Scoffing, Criston flips through the list, searching for his name. He finds it, buried in the third page, putting him at table ten. 

Gwayne ends up at table three, and they split off from each other to find their seats. Criston ignores the childish wave Gwayne offers him in farewell, silently grateful to be relieved of his presence for a while. His hovering for the length of the entire morning had started to grate irritatingly on Criston’s nerves, always turning around and seeing someone trailing after him. 

Stopping at table ten, he sighs when he sees every seat filled, the group engaged in some deep discussion. He had hoped to enjoy a moment of quiet with his lunch, but he sees that won’t be possible.

Around the table, he recognizes some of the names on name tags as he sits down. There’s a Greyjoy, from Pyke Fishing Equipment, gesturing angrily at a Tyrell. Across from them, an Arryn and Baratheon listen in, nodding along. Big names, from big families. Old families. Sweat starts to collect beneath his collar.

Criston settles into his seat, stiffly setting his items at the edge of the table, reaching for the pre-packed salad waiting for him at his place setting.

“And who might you be?” The gruff voice of the Baratheon has him freezing with his fork in his mouth, eyes jumping up across the table to meet the man’s eyes. He’s got a thick beard, almost down to his chest, and has his hands splayed over the table, wide and strong. “You don’t look like a Hightower.”

Laughing awkwardly as he swallows around a leaf of lettuce, Criston clears his throat, gingerly setting his fork down. “I just work for the Hightowers. My name is Criston Cole.”

“Where’s that from?” The Tyrell pipes up, voice shrew and crackling, the smell of cigarettes wafting from where she sits. “Pentos?”

He sighs, shaking his head, heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Dorne.”

“Wow!” Greyjoy, now, leans in his seat to get closer to Criston. His accent is thick, weighing his voice down deep in his chest. “What’s a Dornishman doing all the way in Lannisport?”

“I’m from King’s Landing.” Criston clarifies, leaning away from the man. “Just here for the conference.”

The Greyjoy continues. “So, how’d you get connected with the Hightowers? They’re some paranoid sons of bitches, hate socializing with the rest of us. Stay cooped up in Oldtown until they’re forced to make an appearance.”

“College.” He answers, gritting his teeth. “Knew people who knew people.”

“Well, I’d say that’s just amazing.” The Arryn finally speaks, slapping a firm hand on Criston’s back, jolting him forward in his seat. “Your family must be very proud.”

He straightens back up, shrugging the hand away from his body, nailing the man with an icy stare. “I guess.” 

The table breaks into chatter again, as they start talking about the state of the Kingsroad, leaving Criston stewing in his own head as he fiercely chomps down on bites of his salad. Tries to shoo the memories from his mind, of the last time he spoke to his mother, when he first got the job out of college. She had spat at his feet and called him a corporate sellout. Ripped apart the check he had brought to her as a gift, refusing what she called his blood money. Since then, his aunts and cousins have ignored his calls, refusing to invite him to gatherings, under her influence. The only person he keeps up with is his sister. 

Grinding his teeth together, his jaw starts to ache as he picks up pieces of conversation around the table. They’ve moved into boasting: about children at ivy leagues, vacations across the ocean, and vintage cars in garages. The Greyjoy and Baratheon argue about who owns the bigger yacht. 

It’s all like static in his ears, brutal as it rings inside his head, and he starts to itch and twitch in his seat, eager to leave. Eager to be back in the conference sessions, not having to listen to the trivial discussions of the country’s elite. Surprisingly, even, he would rather be spending his time with Gwayne, because an elitist cunt who’s interesting is at least better than this.

Finishing his food, Criston pushes to his feet and leaves the table, ignoring the way the group grows silent at his exit. He doesn’t care. The inside of his skull feels like it’s roasting, and any more time spent with such company would end with him snapping in a way he dislikes. 

He stalks towards the door to the banquet hall, relieved when he bursts over the threshold and the foyer is empty.

Footsteps behind him, though, have him looking over his shoulder, a snarl on his lips.

“Where are you going?” Gwayne bounds toward him, and Criston takes back the thought of missing his presence, immediately bristling as the man pulls to a stop next to him. He’s munching on a cookie, the last remnants of his catered lunch, and he stares at Criston with wide eyes, panting slightly from his hustle to follow him.

“Outside. Leave me alone.” Criston barks, turning to walk off. 

Infuriatingly, Gwayne follows, right on his heels. “Let me come with you. I hate these kinds of lunch things. I’m always stuck with the oldest, driest people imaginable. Marq Ambrose, you’ve heard of him, talked my ear off about apple trees and invasive pests. Apple trees, Cole. For at least forty five minutes.”

“Doubt I’m any more entertaining.” Criston grumbles under his breath. They reach the exterior doors of the convention center, and they glide open, treating them to a crisp breeze from the water. The salty smell on the air immediately cools something inside Criston, and he sighs, walking outside. 

Keeping in step with him, Gwayne laughs, throwing an arm over his shoulders. He jumps under the contact, but keeps walking as Gwayne speaks. “My friend, you are infinitely more captivating than those bastards in there.”

His mouth has moved close to Criston’s ear, and the sensation of words floating over the skin of his neck sends a shiver down his spine, making him wrench his head to the side in effort to put distance between them. Gwayne’s hand on his shoulder feels heavy, leaden against his bones, and the feeling worsens when Gwayne claws his fingers, digging into the fabric of Criston’s suit jacket. 

Gwayne stares at him as they walk, a bright smile splitting his face, eyes flicking between Criston’s like he’s reading something. He reaches his free hand into the pocket of his slacks, and extracts a pack of cigarettes, the same one from the hotel room. Criston’s eyes immediately jump to it, skate over the grip of Gwayne’s fingers around the cardboard. He hadn’t noticed before, but his nails are carefully manicured, short and filed, shiny like they’ve got a gloss on them. Gwayne watches his attention shift, and he laughs, shaking Criston’s shoulder. 

Without asking, he offers the pack to Criston, who taps out two cigarettes, shoving one between his teeth. The other, he brandishes back towards Gwayne. The man leans forward and takes it with his lips, driving their faces closer, and it makes Criston freeze, breath catching in his throat. Images jump in his mind, disgusting fantasies he had fabricated in the night, of Gwayne’s pink lips coasting over his skin. The reality before him is eerily similar to what he had imagined, and he holds his breath as Gwayne meets his eyes, the corners of them crinkling with glee.

Around the cigarette in his mouth, he laughs, backing away but still staring. “I knew this would perk you up. Come on, let’s stand in some shade.”

Extracting his arm from Criston’s shoulder, Gwayne leads them to a good spot against the wall of the convention center, conveniently shaded from the sun by a large tree. He lights up his own cigarette with ease, taking a long drag before depositing the lighter into Criston’s palm. 

They smoke in easy silence, listening to cars driving by, birds chirping overhead. In the far distance, it’s just possible to hear water hitting the coast, ships coming into port with low blows of their horns.

The fog of anger that has clouded Criston’s mind recedes, and the agitated twitch of his eye disappears. He’s grateful, for the bustling city view distracting him, the solid wall of the building holding him up.

They drop their cigarette butts to the ground at the same time, stomping them with their loafers, before turning to walk back inside the convention center. With only two sessions left in the day, and then dinner with the Velaryons, the end seems suddenly attainable. Criston is eager to get back to his hotel room, to turn the tv on low and fall asleep to the chatter of a meaningless movie.

For the fourth session, Gwayne picks one from the agenda for once, and Criston reluctantly tags along, because he had made no plans for himself. It’s interesting, at least, an industry analytics and data presentation. That’s what Gwayne does, at Hightower Corp, so he actually pays attention to the speaker, and Criston is afforded the opportunity to zone out. A few times, he finds himself watching the side of Gwayne’s head, sat side by side in the crowded room, knees nearly knocking into each other beneath the table they’re squeezed under. There’s an intriguing change in Gwayne’s face as he pays attention to the presentation, a lift of his eyebrow every now and again, and a twitch of his lip when he dislikes what the person has to say. He doesn’t take notes, but he watches attentively, and Criston suspects he’s able to remember at least the interesting, key takeaways by memory.

Once, Gwayne catches him staring, and they lock eyes for a long moment as the presenter switches slides. Gwayne cocks his head to the side, curious, before shaking his head with a thin smile, turning away. Criston rips his gaze away, too, and fights the heat tingling in his cheeks, strange and unsettling beneath his skin. Rubs his palms on his knees to rid them of sudden sweat, tapping his foot on the ground mindlessly. 

As the session ends, Gwayne is chatting with a woman on his right, and stands to shake her hand. Criston stays sitting in his seat, scrolling though his emails, strangely aware of how close Gwayne is standing next to him, hands planted on the table. He cocks one hip as he speaks with the woman, throwing his head back to laugh at something she said. Forcibly, Criston pulls his attention away, back to his laptop, typing aimlessly in an email draft in an attempt to divert himself.

Gwayne laughs again, and he tips backwards slightly from the force of his humor, and the back of his thighs bumps softly into Criston’s elbow as he types. The contact makes him freeze in place, eyes on his computer but not really seeing anything, the touch against his arm warm through his jacket sleeve. It’s hardly a point of contact, but somehow, Criston can feel the muscles of Gwayne’s legs moving beneath his slacks as he rocks aimlessly on his feet, gesturing with his arms as he talks. A lump has formed in Criston’s throat, and he gulps hard against nothing, trying to work it down. His ears are hot, and static is climbing up the base of his spine, and he nearly smacks himself to distract from the overwhelm.

The touch is quickly gone when Gwayne steps away, and Criston stiffens in his seat, slowly turning to watch out of the corner of his eye as Gwayne exchanges business cards with the woman. She leaves shortly after, waving over her shoulder, and Gwayne waves back. He turns back to face Criston, hands on his hips, a lightness in his face that’s the exact opposite of the heaviness sinking Criston into his chair. Avoiding Gwayne’s eyes, he looks back at his laptop, mind spinning. 

“Who’s your new friend?” Criston quips, voice harsher than he had intended.

The question makes Gwayne laugh, loud as it bounces through the emptying room. “She’s a Cargyll. I used to visit the Crownlands often in school, and she offered to show me some new places.”

Rolling his eyes, Criston slams his laptop shut, pushing to his feet with his eyes on the ground. “Good for you. Can we go?”

Gwayne laughs again, and Criston can feel his gaze on him as he leads the way out of the room.

Their fifth and final session is uneventful, and they both spend the hour and a half on their laptops, clicking through work tasks and responding to messages. At one point, Gwayne kicks harshly against his shoe, sharply drawing Criston’s attention. He furrows his brow in annoyance when he leans towards Gwayne, who turns his laptop to show him a data visualization for trades over the last quarter. There’s an impressive line shooting up towards the top of his screen, and Criston’s furrowed expression transforms into an impressed one, raising an eyebrow. 

“A lot of this is from your side’s sales. It’s impressive, actually.” Gwayne’s voice has a smile in it. “I haven’t been to the King’s Landing branch in forever. You guys got renovated recently, right? You’ll have to show me around the next time I visit.”

“We have people for that-“

A soft laugh cuts him off. “But that would be so boring, wouldn’t it? I want to know where all the fun things happen, the office gossip.”

Criston sighs, doesn’t utter another word, knowing he’s engaging in a discussion that would be impossible for him to win. 

When Gwayne leans back into his chair, waiting out the rest of the session, he’s got a triumphant smile on his face, that Criston watches from his peripheral as he works.

The end of the conference day comes gratefully, and ahead of their dinner with the Velaryons, Criston and Gwayne opt to skip the closing speaker for the day and head across the street to the hotel, speeding up to their rooms. They split off at their doorways, clicking the doors shut behind them, and Criston takes a long moment to savor the silent solitude of his room. Kicks off his loafers, unbuckles his belt, and sits down on the hotel bed, tipping his head into his hands, closing his eyes.

It’s then that his brain starts to whir, thoughts zipping across his consciousness while he’s unprepared. 

Velaryon has been the name on everyone’s lips over the last three years, due to the speedy success of their shipping business. They’ve cornered the market on water transportation, with the best boats and the best sailors in the country. Everyone wants to work with them, an old money family that’s found the key to staying relevant in modern society. 

Corlys Velaryon, he’ll certainly be there, alongside his son. Criston knows his name from reputation alone, a naval veteran who’s stern and disciplined, and an excellent businessman. The thought of their potential conversations sends a jolt of anxiety through Criston’s body, making his stomach flip.

There’s a reason he’s not in the client services sector of Hightower Corp. College did not teach him how to rub elbows with the nation’s elite, and he’s still got no clue on how it’s supposed to be done. He’s meant to sit in his office, behind his computer, and protect the company from threats, not shmooze with potential partners.

Gwayne’s not really meant to be doing that, either, but Criston imagines growing up in the shadow of Otto Hightower was practice enough for conversations with high society. For that matter, Gwayne is a member of high society.

His anxiety is building, and it’s tempting him to knock on Gwayne’s door and feign a stomachache. Anything, really, to get him out of the dinner. 

Checking his watch, he sees it’s nearly time to depart, and he manages to kick himself into gear, stripping out of his conference suit and pulling on a nicer one, that’s dark grey and tailored. His undershirt is black and perfectly fitted over his shoulders, and he’s forgone his tie, but packs one in his pocket, just in case the meal calls for it. The whole time he’s dressing, his mind spins and his stomach rolls, and he can feel himself breathing hard. He gets a little lightheaded when he slips his shoes back on, trying to suck in a deep breath before stepping back out into the hallway, aimlessly on his phone while he waits for Gwayne.

His door opens shortly after, and he steps into the hallway, hair pushed back with a new application of gel, and he’s also switched out of his black conference suit. Criston can’t help but drop his gaze to Gwayne’s feet, surveying the long stretch of his legs in the slim cut blue pants, pinstripes elongating him until he’s gargantuan. His jacket matches, and Criston’s eyes skate over the stretch of his shoulders and his snugly tucked in black button up, a black tie blending effortlessly into the color of fabric.

“No tie?” Is the first thing Gwayne says, and Criston looks up into his face, watching him survey his outfit in return. He smiles as he asks the question and gestures to his own body, shrugging. “Now I’m going to look like a try-hard jackass.”

“I can put one on, I have one-“

“No.” Gwayne cuts him off with a sharp look, voice hard. “Don’t. It’s perfect.”

Perfect?

The comment makes Criston’s eyes drop to his feet, awkward as he shifts his weight between them. 

“Alright!” Stepping forward, Gwayne blows past him down the hall, walking fast towards the elevator. “Let’s go.”

Criston hurries after him, catching up once they stop before the elevator. “Do you want me to call a taxi?”

The question has Gwayne looking abruptly over his shoulder, face twisted in confusion, eyes narrowed as he stares at Criston. “A taxi?”

“Yeah, I mean, isn’t the restaurant a ways away?”

“A taxi?” Gwayne repeats, turning to face him, crossing his arms. “Are you serious? What year do you think we’re living in?”

A sudden burst of self consciousness erupts behind Criston’s chest, and his ears burn. He can’t meet Gwayne’s eyes. “I don’t know-“

“I have a driver, you idiot. He’ll take us.”

Criston grimaces. “A driver? Why the hell do you have a driver?”

Gwayne shrugs. “Father’s orders.”

He drops the subject as the elevator arrives with a ding, and they crowd into the car with a group of other people in suits, conference goers heading to their own dinners. Gwayne chats idly with a couple of them, while Criston tries to reckon why Gwayne would receive a driver for the trip if he didn’t also get one.

As they exit the hotel, Gwayne’s driver pulls up to the pickup spot, perfectly timed. He moves to jump out of the car and open the door for them, but Gwayne waves him off, pulling the SUV’s door open with a flourish. 

“After you.” Gwayne winks at him, ushering Criston into the car. 

He sighs, but complies, crawling across the backseat clumsily to sit on the other side. Gwayne slides in after him, pulling the door shut, and then they’re off. 

Immediately, Gwayne starts up a conversation with the driver, while Criston looks out the window in silence. 

“Hugh, where’d you go today? Down by the water?”

“Nah,” the man replies, looking into the rearview mirror. “My daughter had a soccer game this afternoon, so I went and watched that.”

“Did she kick ass?”

“Oh, yeah.”

As they drive, Criston watches the city stream by, streets filled with tourists and commuters and construction workers. People are in suits, heading home. Some are in dresses and heels, off to dinner. Kids run down the sidewalks in packs, ride bikes between the sea of cars, and it’s all so noisy and bright. Horns honk, cars swerve and turn and slam on their brakes, lights flicking from green to red at a moment’s notice.

Beside the roads, tall skyscrapers shoot into the clouds, lights turning off for the day, dark and menacing as the setting sun reflects off their windows.

Between the buildings, Criston can see slivers of the water. His first glimpses of the Lannisport coastline the entire time he’s been in the city, and the water seems to sparkle from the sunlight, bright and alluring.

Hugh navigates them expertly through the crowded city, dropping them off outside a nice restaurant, with an awning over the door. There’s a doorman who opens it for them when they jump out of the car, waving farewell to Hugh as he peels off. 

The hostess offers to take their jackets the moment they step over the threshold, but they both politely decline, scanning the room for their party. Criston’s heart beats hard in his throat, and he feels as if he’s suffocating, pulling sharp breaths in through his nose. He’s sweating all over, can feel it dripping down the back of his neck, and he looks wistfully back outside, debating making a run for it.

“There they are.” Gwayne says, quietly, a hint of awe in his voice. “And, the woman with them, do you see her?”

Criston turns to follow Gwayne’s eyeline, across the restaurant to a secluded corner booth, where four people sit and drink around the table. Laenor Velaryon, he recognizes him from earlier that day. There are two older men with him, too, and one must be his father. A woman sits with them, white hair falling in an intricate braid down her back, and a strange jolt of fear shoots up his spine. She looks just like Rhaenyra.

“Rhaenys, she’s my brother in law’s cousin. I’ve only seen her once. She didn’t go to the wedding.” Gwayne starts to move them forward, further into the restaurant. He places a hand in the middle of Criston’s back to help drive him, and the touch feels electric though his clothes. “A cold, serious bitch. That’s my impression of her. We’ll see how this goes.” 

“Why’s she here?” Criston asks, stumbling over his feet as they turn between tables.

“She’s the CFO of Driftmark Shipping. And, next to her, that’s Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother. He’s the COO.”

“Oh, god.” Criston’s stomach flips violently, and his hands tremble a little. 

They approach the table.

“How good to see you again!” Gwayne bounds right up to the booth, extending a hand to Laenor, who jumps to his feet. They’re both smiling, big and bright, while Criston wishes he’d melt into the floor.

“Fellas, meet the family. There’s my parents, Corlys and Rhaenys, and my uncle, Vaemond.” Laenor introduces the Velaryons sitting around the table, and they each nod seriously, extending hands to shake. 

Gwayne moves in first, but Criston is not far behind him, due to a shove from the hand Gwayne had left on his back. 

“Gwayne Hightower, and this is my associate, Criston Cole.” He introduces the both of them, firmly shaking the brandished hands. Criston follows, grip firm as the Velaryons work to crush his fingers in their grips. 

“A pleasure.” Rhaenys says, voice cold. Her eyes skate judgmentally up and down Gwayne’s form, and when she turns back to the drink she’s nursing, Criston spots a disgusted look furrowing her brow.

“Hightower, eh?” Corlys chuckles, glancing at his wife. “We’re practically family, then.”

Laughing, loud and jarring, Gwayne shakes his head. There’s a hardness beneath his words that makes the table sit up straight in their seats. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” Rhaenys unexpectedly challenges. Criston and Gwayne are still standing, and while Gwayne works to scoot into an open seat at the end of the booth, Criston stays where he is, skeptical of the tone they’ve been greeted with. 

“I’ll get us drinks.” He barks out, quick and firm, and Gwayne looks back at him with wide eyes. “Can I get anyone anything?”

“Sure!” Laenor pipes back up, looking concernedly between his parents. “Old fashioneds all around, on the rocks, please.”

Hurrying off, Criston is eager to step up to the bar, leaving Gwayne behind to deal with whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. The place is pretty busy, so it takes a minute for the bartender to sidle over, but when he does, he skates his eyes appraisingly over Criston’s clothes before leaning over to take his order. 

“What can I get you, handsome?” He asks, grinning and showing off brilliant white teeth, strands of blonde hair falling gently out of the casual updo he’s sporting. 

Criston relays the order, getting the same for him and Gwayne, too. The bartender rolls his eyes jokingly, and walks off to start mixing the drinks. 

Taking a seat on an empty barstool, Criston watches as the man collects his ingredients, agile fingers skating over and under the bar, pulling out bottles and glassware and measuring tools. 

It’s soothing, to watch him stir the dark liquid, to hear ice clanking as it’s set into the glasses. To forget about the tense welcome they had received from the Velaryons, and eavesdrop effortlessly on the businesspeople sitting next to him. He’d stay at the bar all night if he could, but when the drinks are topped with orange peels in a flourish, he knows he has to be getting back.

The bartender carries the six glasses over on a tray while Criston pays, voice light and jovial as he drops off the drinks. Criston walks back over just as the man is done serving, and when he turns to return to the bar, he walks close to Criston, running a hand along his forearm. 

“Enjoy.” The man says, still smiling, and all Criston can do is nod in return, feeling awkwardly hot under his suit.   

Space in the booth has been left for him at the end, and he squeezes in next to Gwayne, bumping against his spread legs as he gets comfortable. The drinks have been distributed around the table, and everyone is quiet, silently sipping from their glasses.

Gwayne leans over to whisper into his ear. “Did you get the bartender’s number?”

Criston lurches backwards. “What?” His voice carries, drawing the attention of the Velaryons, and Gawyne kicks at him under the table. 

Relentless, Gwayne smiles over the rim of his glass as he takes a drink, liquid moistening his lips to glistening. “He liked you.”

“Okay?” Criston lunges for his own glass, not eager to continue the discussion. He can feel redness blooming across his face.

Gwayne sighs. “Whatever. I’m just trying to help you out.” He leans back, exiting Criston’s space, and turns to spark up a conversation with Laenor. They chatter quietly amongst themselves, about their alma maters and their cars. Criston picks up from the conversation that Laenor is only twenty-one, barely a year out of college, but is making a big name for himself at Driftmark Shipping. His father is obviously proud, and watches him speak with a brightness in his eyes. 

Rhaenys, on the other hand, can’t stop shooting death glares in Gwayne’s direction, and, therefore, shoots them in Criston’s direction, too. He gets pinned under one of them for a moment and nearly pisses himself, pulse jumping and drink sloshing as he meets her eyes. Her eyebrows are lowered, mouth in a grim frown, and he hastily looks away, but not without wondering what Gwayne possibly could have done to piss her off so much.

Across from Criston, Vaemond finishes his drink with a loud sigh, slamming down his glass with finality. He turns his gaze on Criston, too, but there’s less hatred in it. More like judgment, scanning over Criston’s face like he’s trying to place him from somewhere.

“Have you ever done a commercial before?” The man asks, pointing in Criston’s face. 

His eyes widen. “No. I wish. You must be mixing me up with someone else.”

“You really do look identical to someone I’ve seen before.” Vaemond laughs to himself, shaking his head. “No matter. Tell us, what do you do at Hightower Corp?”

Taking another sip of his drink, he sets it down so as to speak with his hands, heart pounding in his throat as he opens his mouth. “I’m the Head of Financial Risk, so I work on cost-benefit analyses, trade risks, global financial trends, that sort of stuff.”

“Ah!” Vaemond laughs again. “So you’ll be the one deciding if we’re a safe client or not.”

Criston laughs, too, but it’s awkward. He waves his hand to try to bat the comment out of the air. “No, no. That’s up to the board. But I sometimes help with portfolio reviews.” 

“I see,” he responds, looking over to Corlys. “Should we get at our questions?”

The older man lands his gaze on Criston, and the intensity of it makes him tremble a little. It’s like Corlys can read him from the inside out, can see the blood rushing in Criston’s veins and the thoughts whirling around in his head. He nods, answering his brother’s inquiry.

Before Vaemond can continue, though, Rhaenys holds up a hand, silencing the table. Gwayne and Laenor had been in the middle of a spirited conversation about the gym, and they reluctantly fall quiet at the woman’s prompting. 

“I have a question.” She says, cold. She trains her focus once again on Gwayne, scowling.

“Rhaenys.” Corlys interrupts, voice cautious. “Why don’t we just-”

“No, no. Let me ask the man.” She shuts down her husband’s attempt at quelling her, turning fully to face Gwayne, who has grown still in his seat. Criston can see a redness creeping up the back of his neck, and it’s almost satisfying to know he can get flustered, too. “Why should we invest a single cent of Velaryon profit into your father’s company, after what he’s done to my family?”

Stiffening, Gwayne sets down his drink. He’s turned away from Criston in order to face her, but he can still see the way his eyebrows have lowered over his eyes, mouth twisting in confusion. “I am unaware of any slight against you, ma’am.”

“Oh, sure-”

“No, really.” He doubles down. “I largely stay out of my father’s personal business. Out of my sister’s personal business, for that matter. I just work here, and have the last name.”

Rhaenys scoffs.

“Tell me,” Gwayne continues. “What have they done?”

The table is silent for a heavy moment, Criston’s eyes jumping between the Velaryons, who sit wide-eyed, just as stunned by the conversation. They don’t look surprised, though. They’re not disagreeing with Rhaenys. 

“You don’t think we’ve been able to see what your father has been playing at?” Rhaenys challenges, crossing her arms. “Marrying his daughter to a rich man as he’s dying.”

Again, Gwayne narrows his eyes. “I don’t have anything to do with that. Neither does the company, and that’s what we’re talking about, anyways. We offer some of the best services in the country for newly public corporations, and would love to work with you, if you can put aside your personal vendetta.”

“Enough.” Corlys’ deep voice cuts through the group, keeping Gwayne and Rhaenys both from saying another word. “We don’t need to get into family affairs here. Let’s talk business. We can hash this feud out another time.”

Shaking her head, Rhaenys obviously disagrees, not willing to lay the issue to rest, but she doesn’t argue. She seems just as curious about what they have to offer her company, or else she wouldn’t be entertaining an introductory meeting. 

Gwayne nods, picking up his drink again to take a long, long sip. In his lap, his hands clench and unclench, and Criston watches the movement carefully, as his knuckles go from white to pink to white again. His voice is tense, pushed from between clenched teeth, as he works to get the conversation back on track. “Why don’t I let Criston here tell you more about our resources for new clients.”

He shakes his head minutely, hoping Gwayne notices the subtle move. “I don’t think I-“

“Oh, look how humble he is.” Gwayne’s typical, jovial nature has returned, and he laughs in Criston’s face at his spluttering. He swings his free arm around to grip at Criston’s shoulder, digging his nails in and shaking him. “You should’ve seen him at the conference, he’s a model employee. No one better to have this meeting with, if I can be so bold.”

The hand on his shoulder is like a boulder, sinking into his skin and settling him deeper into the booth. It twisted Gwayne’s angle slightly, making their feet nudge under the table due to the sideways nature of the grab. He feels every point of contact, the hand on his shoulder and the foot bumping his, along with all the places they don’t touch, such as their thighs, that rest an inch apart side by side in the booth. He’s hot, again, and blames it on his drink.

“Ah,” Criston clears his throat, refusing to look at Gwayne. Refusing to meet those bright eyes, or cheery grin. “Well, we have financial advisors available 24/7 for our new clients. As well, we have a variety of partner corporations that offer discounts and special services that everyone at Driftmark Shipping would be able to utilize.” 

Everyone at the table listens carefully, nursing various levels of drink, nodding along to his words. Even Rhaenys, who still steams in her seat, but takes notes on a notepad simultaneously. Vaemond takes notes too, but on the napkin from beneath his empty glass, pen scrawling messily as Criston speaks. 

“We are one of the most sought after brokerage firms in the country, and want to help connect your new stock opportunities with the best possible buyers. Take some of the stress of going public off your plate. Most of our clients see profit increase within six months of working with us.”

Gwayne claps him on the shoulder, shaking him lightly, eyes raptly attentive to the movements of his mouth as he speaks. He’s smiling, like he’s proud, when he turns back to face the Velaryons, taking hold of the conversation. “Our work with Driftmark Shipping would be a special case, as well, because of the size and scope of your business. You would receive a designated team, instead of a single representative, and would get priority attention until everything gets settled.”

Laenor clears his throat, interjecting. “Would we be able to negotiate a representative to work in one of our offices for the first few months?”

Gwayne answers easily. “Of course. I’m certain members of our Oldtown division would love the chance to work on Driftmark for a while. The city gets quite drab.”

That gets the table chuckling, even Rhaenys, who continues jotting down notes as they speak.

After a while, a waiter walks up to their booth, sensing a lull in the conversation. The Velaryons order appetizers for the table without looking at the menu, before they all start to browse entrees.

Criston moves to open his menu, but it’s ripped from his hands before he gets the chance. Gwayne stares at him, lips twitching, as Criston snaps his head to follow his stolen menu. 

“Let me.” Gwayne says, blinking hard and slow, speaking quietly again, so only Criston hears. “I don’t want you embarrassing yourself in front of them.” He motions towards the Velaryons with a cock of his head, and Criston frowns. 

“I didn’t even get to look-“

“You should’ve looked it up before we came.” Shutting down his protests, Gwayne snaps open the menu, skimming over a few pages before nodding and slapping it shut. “You like shellfish?”

Criston nods, skeptical. Something hot and nasty simmers in his chest, and he fists one hand in the hem of his suit jacket, clenching his teeth. Tries to maintain himself, even though he’d very much like to drag Gwayne outside and smack him upside the head. 

“Don’t look so upset. I’m helping you.”

“I didn’t ask you to-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Gwayne shrugs. “I’m doing it.”

Huffing, Criston turns away from the man, crossing his arms beneath the table, trying to fight the annoyed look off his face before the Velaryons notice it.

When the waiter returns, he sits silently, staring down at the wood grain of the table as Gwayne orders for the both of them, nudging his foot under the table once he’s done, like he’s looking for approval. 

Criston ignores him.

The bartender returns to the table with fresh old fashioneds for everyone, claiming they’re on the house. When he sets Criston’s glass down, he drags a finger slowly through the condensation as he pulls away, smiling brightly as he walks back to the bar.

Next to him, Gwayne scoffs, and Criston can practically feel him rolling his eyes at the display.

Mercifully, the Velaryons ignore the entire exchange.

“How long have you both worked with the company?” Vaemond asks, once their food arrives, leaning one elbow onto the table. The question is nonjudgemental, even as it makes Criston bristle, setting his oyster fork down as he finishes chewing.

Gwayne answers first. “About six years, for me. I’ve worked in analytics for nine, though, just at another firm.” 

“Since college.” Criston follows, calculating the years. “So, eight years, I think.” 

Vaemond whistles between his teeth. “Heading a department so young, that’s amazing.”

The compliment makes him look towards the floor, flattered. “Thank you.”

A nudge against his leg catches his attention, and he slides his eyes over to watch one of Gwayne’s fingers trail along the side seam of his grey slacks. It grazes over his skin, soft and lazy. He feels his breath catch in his chest from the tenderness of the touch, and his thigh twitches. Gwayne certainly notices. 

“Um,” Criston tries to forget the way the touch is sending sparks down his leg, forcing himself to look back up at the Velaryons. “Do you have any other questions, for now?”

All three exchange a look, shaking their heads. Corlys takes on the responsibility of response, an easy smile tilting the corners of his lips. “No, thank you. We are looking forward to getting in contact with a client representative to discuss next steps.”

They eat in easy silence for a while. Gwayne does not move his hand from where it splays over the seat of the booth, nudging against Criston’s leg.

Vaemond shoves to his feet once their dishes are cleared by the waiter, bill paid by a shiny credit card from Laenor’s wallet. “It was great to meet you boys.” He sticks out a hand to shake.

Criston and Gwayne jump up as fast as they can, scrambling to not knock their limbs against the booth. Gwayne yanks his hand from its place next to Criston’s leg as they stand, shoving it into the pocket of his pants.

Slapping his hand into Vaemond’s, Criston offers him a polite nod. “Thank you for the chance to speak with you. All of you.” He moves to shake Corlys, Laenor, and Rhaenys’ hands, too. “We hope you’ll take the opportunity to work with us.”

Gwayne follows behind him, even shaking Rhaenys’ hand, who grips hard enough to make Gwayne bite down on his lower lip. “We’ve got just the representatives to set you up with, and they’ll do a great job discussing your next steps and options. You’re in good hands.”

“Thank you.” The Velaryons say in unison, settling back into their seats at the booth.

Quickly, Gwayne and Criston depart. 

As they walk, Gwayne drives a hard elbow into his side, motioning over Criston’s shoulder towards the bar. 

Behind the counter, the same bartender is counting bills in the till, looking up at them beneath his hair, released from its updo. Criston meets his eyes, and the man smiles, sly and sideways, offering him a tiny wave of two fingers.

Criston doesn’t respond, just spins on his heel and storms out of the restaurant, heart racing.

“Don’t be a pussy!” Gwayne calls after him the moment they break out into the street, illuminated beneath streetlights that have recently come on. He’s laughing, hands shoved back into his pockets. “Hugh won’t be here for a little bit. Go get your dick sucked.”

“Dude.” Criston whips back around to face him, scowling.

A feigned look of shock blooms on Gwayne’s features. He raises an eyebrow. “What? Do you not like guys?”

The question startles Criston, and his heart seems to drop into his stomach. He chews and stutters around his words, strangely tense in a way he’s never been when asked that question before. “What? No, it’s just-“

“No, no, I get it.” Gwayne interrupts him, crossing his arms as he smiles, knowingly. “You’re not into hookups, need the emotional connection-“

Spluttering, Criston waves aimlessly, dissuading him from the thought. “No!”

Laughing again, Gwayne takes a step closer, tilting his head condescendingly. “Ah, right.” His shoe scuffs on the sidewalk as he moves. “If you’d fuck my sister, then you’d fuck anybody, I bet.”

Mouth falling open into a gape, Criston stares as Gwayne stops before him, the top of his head glowing beneath the street light. The sky behind them has grown darker, sinking into night, and it makes Criston dizzy, the contrast of it all.

Gwayne keeps talking, voice slithering into Criston’s head.

“Hey, do you know Andy, from the HR department?” Criston shakes his head, but he doesn’t stop. “He’s one of those gay guys who’d sleep with every dude he saw if he could. You should hit him up. He’s a super bottom, you’d like him.” Gwayne hums, stuck in a memory. “I fucked him once. It was pretty good, he did this neat little trick with his tongue-“

“Okay!” Criston’s shocks himself with his own abruptness, and bites at the inside of his cheek, reeling himself in. “Alright. I get it.”

Gwayne does not continue his story, but he smiles, thin and wicked. Crossing his ankles over each other, he sinks into his weight, as if the concrete is plush beneath his feet. His words are low and conspiratorial when he speaks again, after a long moment of surveying Criston’s face. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Standing stiff by the side of the road, Criston scoffs, tearing his eyes from Gwayne’s. “We have work tomorrow.”

“So?”

“What about Hugh?” Criston counters, crossing his arms. “Isn’t he on his way?”

Blinking coyly, Gwayne’s smile widens. “I haven’t called him yet.”

It’s not even a surprise, really, when Criston thinks about it. He just rolls his eyes, annoyance boiling through his body, sighing loudly. “Right.”

“Come on!” Gwayne uncrosses his legs to step closer, reaching one hand up as if to grab onto Criston’s forearm. He doesn’t, though, keeping his distance. “There’s a place a few blocks up. Let’s go.”

“No.” Criston shakes his head.

Now, Gwayne does latch onto his forearm, shaking the limb roughly, making Criston flail around. “We’re going. You can’t leave me out here all alone, to get roofied by some predator.”

“You’re too old to be dealing with predators.” Criston grumbles, shaking Gwayne’s grip off of him. 

“Ouch.” Gwayne retracts his arm, gripping at his chest with a smile. “I’ll have you know, there are plenty of old bears that want to prey upon me.”

“God.” Sighing again, Criston tips his head into his hands, shaking it from side to side. “Fine. Let’s go. One drink, and I’m serious.”

Immediately, Gwayne perks up again, leaping forward to sling an arm over Criston’s shoulders. He tenses beneath the weight of it, can feel the curves of Gwayne’s muscles against the skin of his neck, and it makes him sweat a little, down the center of his chest. He lets out a long, slow breath from his nose, keeping his eyes forward as he’s manhandled up the street.

The bar Gwayne brings them to is small, windows dark and tinted so you can’t see inside, but once they walk through the door, it’s evident the kind of place they’re in. Lights low and music thumping through the floor, the whole place is tinted red and purple from dim bulbs, throwing every corner and curve into deep shadow. It’s not too packed, there’s people filling up booths all down the length of the building, and a few groups sit up at the bar. Everyone’s leaned close in conversation, no one’s shouting, and it makes the whole place seem classier, even with the colorful lights and vinyl seats. A wall of liquor greets them as Gwayne steers them towards the bar, and Criston takes a long moment to survey the collection.

Hopping up into a stool, Gwayne gains a few inches on him from the height of the seat, waving over the width of the bar to get the bartender’s attention. She walks over slowly, drying a glass out with a towel, smiling politely. 

Criston doesn’t get the chance to order before Gwayne is doing it for him, not bothering to say hello to the woman. “Two martinis, with a top shelf gin, your choice.” His bluntness is cut with the charming smile he shoots her way, and Criston watches as she melts beneath it, smiling back. 

“Of course.” She says, looking over at Criston, raising a brow as if to ask for his order separately. 

Gwayne waves her off. “That’ll be it, for now. Thanks.”

The bartender whisks off to make the drinks, and Criston sighs, thinking longfully of a plain glass of sherry. 

Turning to climb onto his own barstool, he’s tripped by the legs of it as Gwayne latches his foot around the base, yanking it closer. He stumbles, catching himself awkwardly on the vinyl of the seat, and it creaks beneath the weight of his hands. Behind him, Gwayne laughs, light and airy, foot still hooked around the stool. He doesn’t move it even when Criston gets onto the seat, legs bumping against each other as he turns and shifts to get comfortable. 

Facing Gwayne, Criston tries to paint his face into a picture of disappointment, forcing his eyebrows over his eyes and his mouth into a frown. The moment he’s settled, though, Gwayne’s lifting his other leg to nudge between Criston’s, foot planting itself on the bar between where Criston’s feet rest. Their shins brush, the leather of their shoes squeaking together, and Criston’s legs are forced to accommodate both of Gwayne’s on the chair, one between his knees, the other bracketing his outer thigh. It makes it impossible for him to school his features into anything, really, except the gape of abject shock, unexpected and surprising. He’s unable to prevent the heat that blooms up the column of his throat, or the gasping inhalations that start up from between his lips. It’s all a response to the way Gwayne’s knee bumps against the inner part of his thigh, the soft and tender meat of his leg that is sensitive even through his pants. Sparks zip across his skin, up his spine, from the touch, and Gwayne seems to know it, pushing his knee just that much harder into his leg.

“So,” Gwayne murmurs, tipping himself closer. “We didn’t really talk all that much last night. Tell me about yourself.”

He has to work his throat in an attempt to swallow the lump that has formed within it, dry and heavy, before he can speak. “Not much to tell.” Criston chokes out, momentarily distracted by the bartender bringing their drinks over. Gwayne waves her off with a wink when she offers to close their tab, and Criston manages to restrain himself from objection, instead lurching towards his martini and taking a large gulp from it. Some of the drink splashes over into his lap as he holds the glass, and he swears under his breath, rubbing at the spot on his pants furiously.

Sipping from his glass methodically, refined and slow, Gwayne raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s not true. Tell me what you do for fun. What you studied in college. Anything.”

Criston takes another drink from his glass, the martini nearly half empty already. He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s not much fun in my life. Too busy with work.” 

Laughing, Gwayne shakes his head. His knees swing with the movement, and they windshield wiper into the sides of his legs, making Criston jump. He promptly sets his drink onto the bar, refusing to spill again. “You don’t do anything fun? Go to bars, meet girls? Watch movies? Paint?”

“No, I mean, I work all the time-“

“Oh my god, Cole, this is pitiful.” Gwayne speaks with his mouth open in a disbelieving smile, teeth showing. “When was the last time you got laid?”

The question lances something hot down his spine, and he shivers in his seat, whipping his head to stare behind the bar. Blinks for a moment, wills his heart to slow down. Pretends he doesn’t feel Gwayne’s legs touching him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Just tell me. Come on.”

To answer the question, Criston actually has to think for a moment, looking back on the last few months. He calculates, chewing on his tongue. “Maybe, like, eight months, I think.”

“Jesus Christ.” Letting out a long sigh, Gwayne props his elbow up on the bar, taking another sip of his drink before he plops his head into his hand. He’s lowered, this way, looking up at Criston with wide eyes, blinking slowly at him. “That’s why you act like that, then.”

“Like what?” Criston startles at the question, snapping his eyes down to meet Gwayne’s, stiffening in his seat.

It takes Gwayne a long moment to elaborate, pulling his bottom lip in his teeth aimlessly as his eyes bounce between Criston’s. He shrugs as he speaks. “Like you’ve got a stick up your ass, or something. You need to loosen up.”

Annoyance flares in Criston’s chest, and he can’t stop himself from snapping back, fire burning in the back of his throat. “Oh fuck off, why don’t you?” He grasps at his drink yet again, gulping some down. He’s starting to feel it simmering in his stomach, heavy in his body, and there’s a slight bend in his gaze, like the room is contorting around them. 

Chuckling again, Gwayne kicks at Criston’s ankle, the tip of his shoe rubbing against Criston’s sock. “It’s just an observation.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s a shit one.”

Sighing again, Gwayne rolls his eyes. Drops them down to his feet, where they’re tangled with Criston’s, watching the press of their shoes together for a long, slow moment.

The entire time, Criston watches him, exploring the way his hair tips over from behind his ears, the gel cast fading from the activity of the day. His skin, shining beneath the bar lighting, lit red and purple, to send his eyes into dark shadow, elongating and sharpening his features. It’s striking, the way the light bounces perfectly off the moisture of his lower lip, residually wet from his drink, and Criston finds himself drawn to it for longer than he had intended, blinking slowly, staring wide eyed.

He’s broken from his trance when Gwayne looks up again, meeting his eyes with a smirk. They’re locked in a stare for a beat, neither blinking, Gwayne looking up at him from his perch on his hand. His smile only grows, the longer they stare, and Criston can’t help the creeping, itching feeling that starts to collect behind his eyes. 

Humming, Gwayne flicks his gaze away, pulling his glass to his mouth once again.

Words seem to lodge themselves in Criston’s chest, and he wants to speak, wants to break the silence that has grown heavy around them, but can’t find the right thing to say. Every potential comment feels wrong, heavy on the back of his tongue, impossible to expel. They sound stupid, too, in his head- futile attempts at conversation. 

Nothing interesting, exciting enough to possibly keep Gwayne’s attention. 

He sighs audibly. 

It draws Gwayne back to him. “You work out, don’t you?” He quips, smirk extending up towards his eyes. Pokes the toe of his shoe against Criston’s leg again, digging into the meat of his calf.

Criston wants to pull his leg away, remove himself from the prodding, but there’s no room to do so. He’s trapped between Gwayne’s body and the bar, pressed close, leaving no space for him to twist or shift. Instead, he endures the shoe sharply pinching into his skin, testing the firmness of the muscles beneath his pants.

“Uh,” he coughs, voice thick. “Yeah.”

“Take off your jacket.” Gwayne laughs around the order, skimming over the stretch of Criston’s shoulders, but there’s seriousness in his tone. He waits, expectantly.

Criston is frozen in his seat, feels the gaze slipping hungrily over his chest, and all of a sudden can’t breathe. Lifts his hands awkwardly, entertaining the idea of following the command, but freezes at the lapel of his suit jacket, fingers digging into the fabric. 

Still staring, Gwayne hones in on the way his fingers stretch over the jacket, shifting slightly in his chair. 

“Fuck it.” Sighing under his breath, Criston commits to the action, leaning forward to slip the jacket over his shoulders and pull his arms free. It takes him a second, the suit snug around his biceps, but he manages to do it semi-gracefully. 

Draping the jacket over his lap, Criston stretches, dress shirt much less restrictive. He works to roll up the sleeves, folding them to his elbows, grateful to have something to do with his hands for the moment. Staring down at his own endeavor, Criston pointedly does not look over at Gwayne, who’s eyes he can feel, traveling greedily around the exposed slit of his open collar.

An approving hum draws him back into Gwayne’s orbit, and he watches the man nod, satisfied, as he scans the lengths of Criston’s arms.

“I, uh,” Criston explains awkwardly, motioning at his own torso. “Box. Couple times a week.”

“I can tell.” Gwayne smiles, and finally tears his eyes away, concluding his inspection. One swing of his cup has him emptying the rest of the drink down his throat, toothpicked olive clattering against the glass when he sets it onto the bar. “No wonder my sister was so enraptured with you.” 

“Enraptured?” Criston scoffs. “That’s the last word I’d use to describe what she felt about me.” 

Aimlessly, Gwayne bats at the olive in his glass with his finger. “She had to steal you from her best friend for a reason. And it certainly wasn’t your banter.” 

“Oh? Tell me, then.” The drink in his veins emboldens him, makes him cross his arms across his chest, the muscles of his arms bulging in front of him. A smile ticks up the corner of his mouth, and it feels good, to taunt Gwayne in return. “Since you’re so all-knowing. What was it?”

Eyes jumping to Criston again, Gwayne smiles like he’s caught him, reaching a hand out. Criston tries to dodge it, but he fails, falling victim to Gwayne’s olive-coated fingers latching onto one of his dark curls, pinching the ends of his hair between his index and middle finger. “Your hair. It’s like a girl’s, so well-kept. She certainly liked not fucking some dirty, disgusting frat boy. That type of undergrad is rare.”

The momentary bravado that had spiked through Criston evaporates at the hand so close to his face, twisting and rubbing one of his face-framing curls. He can feel the tug of the strands at his scalp, and it’s almost good, like nails scratching through his hair. No way he’s letting Gwayne know that, though. 

Gwayne’s hand climbs, gets a hold of a few more curls, crawling up towards his scalp. Criston is frozen beneath the touch, mouth opening and closing pitifully, eyes surveying the distance between them that has been significantly closed from the contact. Fingers ghost over Criston’s ear, carding through his hair, and he can’t stop the shiver that erupts up his spine.

Pulling his hand back, Gwayne frees Criston from the contact, but he’s still leaned close, breath tangible against Criston’s face. Gwayne looks back and forth between his eyes, up through his lashes, and as he settles his arm back into his lap, he flexes his fingers subtly, as if he were still grabbing at Criston’s hair. 

The bar has grown busier, more people reduced to standing, around cocktail tables or against empty walls. Music has stayed pumping through the place, but it’s louder, as if urging the crowd to dance. Patrons sitting beside them at the bar have to speak louder over the noise, and Criston can hear the people behind him talking about some estranged cousins. At one point, a girl sidles up to the bar right behind Gwayne, and he casts an annoyed look over his shoulder at her proximity. When he turns, the red lights over the bar cut a fierce line down the side of his face, carving his cheek as if from stone. His hair catches some of it, too, and the copper color is illuminated, becoming like blood, dark and saturated. His hand twitches of its own volition, suspiciously eager to run through the strands, to mirror the touch Gwayne had done to him. 

Sticking his hands firmly between his thighs, Criston resists the urge.

Moments later, the bartender appears before them, brandishing two shot glasses full of clear liquor. Placing them onto the counter, she slides them over, grinning. 

“To convince you to stay.” She laughs, nodding at both of them in turn. “You’re some of my favorites of the night.” 

Without hesitation, Gwayne is reaching for the glasses, passing one to Criston in a bumpy exchange, fingers colliding. He laughs in return to the bartender, who stands with her hands on her hips, towel hanging out of her back pocket. “Your favorites, huh?” He’s smiling, hard. “For our scandalously good-looks?”

“Obviously.” She says, immediately, no hint of sarcasm in her voice. She looks between the two of them with heat in her eyes. “You make a beautiful pair.”

Throwing back his shot, dribbling some of the vodka down his chin as he does, Criston nearly chokes as it hits his throat, coughing and spluttering. He stares at the bartender with red, watery eyes, eyebrows lifted.

Gwayne’s expression is similar, though he looks over at Criston with a smirk on his face, observing the choking, that’s turned him beet red. 

“Oh?” Gwayne responds, still looking at Criston, to the bartender. 

“You boys have a fun night.” Is the last thing she says, before disappearing down the length of the bar to serve a rambunctious crowd of women.

Staring after her, Criston shakes his head to himself in confusion. Feels the burn of the vodka in his chest and feels like laying down, the upright nature of the barstool suddenly agony. Mirroring Gwayne, he tips forward to rest his chin on his hand, propped over the bar. After settling, sucking a long breath in through his nose, he flicks his eyes in Gwayne’s direction. They land on the red of his hair, the curve of his nose, and it’s then that Criston knows he’s well and truly drunk, because he can’t stop focusing on a spot right in between Gwayne’s brows, a crease that forms when he takes his own shot, that he has the urge to smooth out with the pad of his thumb.

Music swells again, an upbeat song that gets patrons in booths to their feet. People are drunker, looser, and stumble as they walk, loud and excited as they mingle and dance. The energy seems to be infectious, because pretty soon, the bar feels burst to filling, people off the street stopping in to join the party. Gwayne taps his foot on the footrest of Criston’s stool, nudging against his shoe with each movement, casting a casual eye around the room to witness the commotion. Criston’s vision is swimming, just a little, so he stays firmly still in his seat, leaning his elbow further into the bar, blinking lazily.

It’s too loud to talk, so they don’t. Criston watches Gwayne watch the crowd, who holds his empty shot glass between his fingers. Slowly, he rolls it between his thumb and index finger, glass sliding smoothly against his skin.

When he sets it abruptly onto the bar with a clank, shoving to his feet, Criston startles upright in his chair. 

“What?” His voice is a second behind his mind, and he gets to his feet, too, looking around the room.

Gwayne, close enough for their knees to touch as they stand, smiles. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

Disbelieving, Criston keeps sweeping his eyes around the bar, landing on ever more rambunctious patrons who grow louder by the second. The noise is starting to ring in his ears. 

With a nod, he motions towards the door. “Alright.” 

Outside, they stand against a wall and blink hard beneath the bright streetlights, watching the nightlife explode down the block. It takes Hugh a while to get to them, thanks to the traffic, so they observe the people around them silently while they wait. Criston’s head still swims, just a little, so he’s grateful for the ease of their position, arm to arm with their backs against a wall. A couple gets in a fight and starts to scream a ways down, and they watch silently as the woman starts to cry. Someone asks Gwayne for a cigarette at one point, and he lies, saying he doesn’t have any. They laugh about it afterwards. 

The car ride back to the hotel is easy, and Criston closes his eyes as they drive, the motion of the vehicle soothing as it hums beneath him.

Hugh drops them off at the door to the hotel with a wave, and they make their way to the elevator, heavy on their feet from exhaustion. Gwayne still manages to hold his head up high as the elevator ascends, while Criston lurches gratefully towards the support bar on the car’s wall, leaning his entire weight into the metal.

Reaching the eighth floor, Criston and Gwayne stumble out of the elevator, greeted by the stifling silence of night. No one walks through the hall, doors are shut and people are asleep, so they creep down to their rooms in hopes of not disturbing the quiet. At his door, Criston fumbles with the lock for a moment, before his keycard clicks it open and he pushes it in.

Beside him, Gwayne stands in the hallway still, one hand on his door handle.

Criston meets his eyes, and raises a brow in question, confused. 

Gwayne clears his throat, staring back. “You want to come in?”

It could be the alcohol still heating him from the inside, but Criston feels hot all of a sudden, itchy beneath his clothes and heavy in the back of his throat. Sweat prickles at his collar, and he pulls at the neck of his shirt, coaxing air into it. Drops his eyes down to the floor, shifts on his feet. Mulls the words over in his mind, wonders why they’ve lanced sparks down his body. His tongue feels like lead when he speaks. 

“I’ve got to get to sleep. Busy day tomorrow.” He motions over his shoulder towards the darkness of his room, heart pounding. “Are you alright?”

Waving him off, Gwayne smiles, but it’s firmer than usual, not quite reaching his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go get your beauty sleep.”

He walks into his room without another word, shutting and bolting the door with finality, as Criston still stands in the hall, watching the door long after Gwayne has disappeared behind it. His hands tremble, still gripping his door handle and keycard, breath hot and shaky as he exhales loudly. As he moves into his own room, he tries to reenter his body, breathing hard so the static that has climbed up his skin dissipates. 

Criston strips out of his suit and brushes his teeth, preparing quickly for bed. Avoids looking at the adjoining door as he moves through the room, pretending that Gwayne is not just on the other side of the wall. Asleep, maybe, or awake and keeping himself busy, with that strange look of disappointment still on his face. 

Falling into bed, he’s asleep in seconds, sinking blissfully into the darkness of slumber.

-

The next morning, Criston enjoys a solitary breakfast in the hotel lobby, scarfing down a plate of catered food and two cups of free coffee. He waits in the lobby, adjusting his tie, for a while, in case Gwayne wants to walk over to the conference together, but he never shows. So, Criston heads out alone, crossing three blocks to the convention center, name tag pinned to his chest. Sun shines brightly down between buildings as he walks, bouncing off of windows and reflecting harshly into his eyes. Cars stream by, horns honking, and somewhere in the distance, an alarm blares. 

He gets through the opening speech easily, half paying attention while simultaneously answering emails on his phone. The theater they sit in is long and tall, packed to capacity with conference goers, and he sits squished in between two women, who both work in banking. All the speaker does is lecture them about time management and encourage them to make the most of the third and final conference day, and to not miss the dinner and keynote after the sessions.

The rest of the morning consists of sessions, again, but they’re wildly different from the previous day. First, he attends a wellness workshop, that is mostly geared towards HR representatives, but teaches tricks for office wellness, like ergonomics and nutrition. With long days at desktop computers, Criston knows his team needs extended support for taking breaks, so he writes down some implementation ideas while the session goes on. 

Before the second session, he takes a long lap of the floor of the convention center, seeing if Gwayne is anywhere waiting for him. Criston can’t find him, and he shrugs to himself when he heads into his next session, reckoning that Gwayne’s gone off to attend sessions he’s interested in, this time. 

Session two is all about networking, and there’s no presentation, which disappoints Criston severely. When he’d elected to attend, he thought the session would teach networking strategies and management techniques for supervisors. Instead, it’s a practical experience, where attendees are forced to network and ice break. He ends up practically speed dating for two hours, reintroducing himself over and over again to people he has no interest in connecting with. 

Most of them are douchebags, too, who make a shit ton of money but don’t really have to work. They’re attending the conference to make connections, not to learn. They seem severely bored by Criston when he speaks, trying to explain his work, and move off to bigger and better fish whenever they switch partners.

One man he meets is nice enough, shy and trying to push himself out of his comfort zone, so Criston enjoys their conversation. Otherwise, he leaves the session more exhausted than anything, grateful that the last one before lunch is on inbox organization.

He still hasn’t seen Gwayne, and something unsettling spins in his stomach. Like he’s nervous, which is outrageous, because it’s honestly better for him to be alone for the day, so he can actually focus on what he’s came to the conference to do. Gwayne’s probably off schmoozing with a group of high profile investors, eating a fancy breakfast and making plans for work partnerships. 

Still, though. Criston can’t help but think about their farewell the night prior, Gwayne outside his room with his tense smile, expression covertly dismayed, voice curt. 

If something’s wrong, Criston is not privy to it, so he resigns himself to letting the memory go, not wanting to distract himself from his work. Even with his conviction, Criston unfortunately still feels his heart thudding in his chest, curiosity swimming in the back of his mind. It’s strange to not have Gwayne next to him at all times.

About two tips from the inbox organization session are useful to him, so he notes them down at the end of the presentation, before they are released for lunch.

The halls are packed as every conference goer is funneled towards the banquet room, jostling into each other like penguins as they meander. More people join the fray as all sessions are released, and the din filling the hallway is practically nuclear. Someone jams an elbow into Criston’s side, and he nearly keels over from the impact, feet unsteady. A backpack knocks into his arms while he stumbles, and his laptop is flung to the ground, lost underfoot in the crowd. 

Swearing, he turns off course of the banquet hall to follow his laptop, splitting through the crowd like a rock in a stream. People barely make way for him to backtrack, and he apologizes as he goes, but there are still nasty looks thrown his way as he disturbs the order. 

He finds his laptop against the wall, somehow kicked and moved and slid all the way to the side of the room, but it looks relatively unharmed. By the time he bends to pick it up, the crowd has largely passed, as people line up within the banquet room to collect their lunches. 

With a sigh, Criston starts to turn back towards his destination, before stopping and shifting to the right, instead. There’s a bathroom a few halls down, he’s seen it when he’s been waiting between sessions, that the crowd will not be overwhelming, unlike the restrooms in the banquet hall. The idea of waiting in line for a mediocre sandwich and a crowded bathroom makes his skin crawl, so he sets off quickly, hoping the crowd will die down by the time he makes it back. 

Turning a couple corners, he reaches the men’s room, and it looks blissfully empty.

He shoves through the door, placing his items down by the sink, and heads to the urinal. Unzips his pants, and settles in to the silence of the room, just as the door swings open again with a creak. 

Something dies inside him at the interruption, and he hangs his head down with a sigh, peeing as fast as possible. 

The intruder moves straight to the sink, washing his hands, before stepping back and ripping a few paper towels to dry them with. He doesn’t leave. 

Criston avoids looking until he’s zipped up his pants, and as he moves to wash his hands, he can’t help but throw a judgmental eye towards the person who’s lingering in his space.

Gwayne’s chipper, smiling face looks back at him, and he startles as he throws the tap water on, splashing it all up his front.

“Don’t look so happy to see me.” Moving forward, Gwayne reaches for more paper towels, passing them to Criston so he can blot off his suit. He’s laughing the whole time, and comes to lean against the sink counter, forcing Criston to meet his eyes.

Grumbling, Criston washes his hands and dries off his suit, voice low. “Where have you been?”

“Ah.” Glee weaves itself through Gwayne’s voice. “You were looking for me? How sweet.”

“No.” Criston tries to cut him off, but it just sounds pathetic and urgent, voice echoing through the empty bathroom. “Was just curious. You hounded me yesterday, and today you’re nowhere to be found.” With a slam, Criston shoves the wad of damp paper towels into the trash can, having to move a little closer towards Gwayne as he does. 

Neither of them step back to reclaim the empty space. 

They stare for a quiet moment, except for the sound of Criston’s breathing, heavy and loud in his own ears, and he wonders if Gwayne can hear it, too. 

He looks good, looks normal, doesn’t seem hungover. His suit is black again, like everyone at the conference, but his tie has an intricately delicate pattern of dark green cut into it, providing an accent down the length of his chest that pops off his white dress shirt. His hair is slightly damp around his ears, pushed back from his forehead like normal, as if he had taken a shower earlier and let the strands air dry.

Rolling his eyes, Gwayne sucks a deep breath in through his lips, parted gently and shining in the bathroom lights, as if he had just reapplied lip balm. He sounds annoyed when he speaks, hands going to his hips. “You know, I’m getting tired of this charade.”

Tearing his eyes from their scan of Gwayne’s clothes, Criston meets his gaze again, eyebrows raising. “What are you-“

“I’m tired of you pretending like you don’t want to fuck me.” 

Criston has to stand, blinking stupidly, for a few moments before he really registers the words that left Gwayne’s mouth. They’re like lighting into his core, a flashbang that overwhelms and blinds him, and he’s left gaping like an idiot until Gwayne takes a step towards him. Reaches a hand out and pinches lightly at the hem of Criston’s sleeve, staring down at the contact. Criston can’t look anywhere but Gwayne’s face, the curve of his nose and the determined set of his brows. 

He’s serious.

Gwayne shakes Criston’s arm from where he holds his sleeve for emphasis. “Don’t try to deny it. I won’t believe you.”

Moving from gaping to spluttering, Criston pulls his sleeve free, taking a step backwards. “I don’t-“

Chasing him, Gwayne drives him backwards, taking large steps that Criston mirrors, until he’s backed in between the urinals and the wall of the bathroom stalls. His shoulders brush against the stall, and he jumps from the contact, hot all over. Like there’s steam coming out of his ears, fire climbing up the back of his neck. He can’t look at Gwayne anymore, and drops his eyes to the ground, watching as Gwayne’s feet step up to be toe to toe with his. 

Voice a whisper, when Gwayne speaks again, he’s frighteningly close to Criston’s face. His heart thuds loudly in his chest. “I miscalculated, last night. I should’ve dragged you into my room, thrown you on the bed. It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

Choking, Criston isn’t able to form any words in response, gesturing weakly with his hands. His eyes jump around the room, anywhere but Gwayne’s piercing stare, and he ignores the voice in his mind that cheers, loud and obnoxious, from the attention. It’s like he’s standing in the middle of a fire, like the world around him is screaming, and he forgets that the bathroom is silent, echoing their voices between the walls.

Eyes skating over his face, Gwayne studies him. Each movement digs into his skin, like Gwayne’s eyes are flaying him alive, burning and piercing and painful as he’s psychoanalyzed and picked apart. Like Gwayne can see the thoughts spiraling through his mind, the memories and fantasies, desires and depravations.

“Fuck.” The word cuts through the room, jarring, as Gwayne’s hands move in a blur, latching onto Criston’s shoulders. “You’re hopeless.”

It’s impossible for Criston to get his feet steady under him the moment Gwayne touches him, only lending to the ease with which Gwayne yanks and drives him, starting to pull and direct until Criston is shoved into the farthest bathroom stall. Hard enough that he spirals backwards and rams the backs of his legs into the toilet, crying out pitifully even though it didn’t really hurt. 

Stalking after him, Gwayne locks the stall door, moving like a panther, smooth and methodical. His gaze is unabashedly lascivious, heavy as it crawls down Criston’s body and back up again, landing pointedly around his midsection once he’s been fully scanned. 

“Show me.” Gwayne orders, crossing his arms. 

Startling, Criston freezes, tongue swollen in his mouth. “Show you what?” His blood roars in his veins, and he’s half tempted to shove past Gwayne and run out of the bathroom, just to save himself from the thud of his heart in his chest. 

Eyes jumping to his face, Gwayne looks at him like he’s stupid. Gestures pointedly to the front of Criston’s pants, where his shirt is tucked in.

“I’m not…” Criston chokes around the words, face on fire. “I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Gwayne takes a step closer, closing the distance of the length of the stall. His hands hover around Criston’s waist, but don’t make contact. “I’m asking you to.”

Criston shakes his head.

Scoffing, Gwayne latches his fingers into Criston’s sides, ripping his dress shirt from where it’s tucked into his slacks. “So, you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me? That all the blushing, and the staring—the fucking staring—meant nothing?”

“I wasn’t staring-“

“You were staring.”

“Okay!” Criston throws up his hands, batting Gwayne’s away, shirt left loose and untucked around his hips. He pushes roughly through his hair, disheveling the curls. “Okay. You’re hot, right? But you know that. I was just looking. I wasn’t going to fuck up our very tentative, professional friendship.”

“Friendship?” Gwayne scoffs, moving his hands back in, skating beneath the hem of Criston’s button up to feel the undershirt beneath. “None of this was ever friendship, Cole. I want you to fuck me.”

Any breath is practically sucked out of Criston’s lungs, from both Gwayne’s words and the way he’s toying at the waist of his jeans, slipping his fingers beneath his belt just for the sake of teasing. He’s close. Really close. Criston can smell him, his cologne, that’s woody but expensive, peppermint and violet and musk. A hint of cigarettes, too, like he smoked a few hours ago and the scent still clings to his fingers. His breath, when it floats over Criston’s skin, is minty, as if he just brushed his teeth. It’s an intention that makes Criston’s knees wobble, just a little, and has his mind going blissfully quiet, blood rushing down his body. 

Unintentionally, his hips jump up in response to the touches beneath his waistband, and it’s virginal and humiliating, making Criston start to sweat from embarrassment, until a wide grin stretches across Gwayne’s face. Triumph, vindication. Proof of Criston’s wanting, right before his eyes. 

Gwayne’s hands magnetize immediately to the buckle of Criston’s belt, and none of it is embarrassing anymore, because Gwayne is humming behind his teeth like he can’t contain himself, chewing on the inside of his cheek mindlessly. 

“You’re coming over tonight.” Gwayne says, teeth clenched. “Okay?”

Criston’s belt buckle is undone, hanging loose while the belt is still threaded around his hips, as Gwayne goes for the zipper of his pants. Criston fumbles around his words, but manages to choke out a response. “Yes.”

Humming again, this time in affirmation, Gwayne nods, pleased. It takes him less than ten seconds to pull down Criston’s fly and unlatch the button of his slacks, allowing the front of his pants to fold open. One of his hands dives right in, skating firmly over the front of Criston’s underwear, and they both sigh, loud and desperate, at the contact. 

Again, Criston bucks up into the touch, biting down on his lower lip from the sheer amount of sensation that’s shooting through his body. They’re light, ginger touches that are just allowing Gwayne to explore, but they feel like a full blown fucking, from the way the contact has Criston immediately frazzled. Like he’s a virgin, getting fondled for the first time on his girlfriend’s basement couch. 

Slowly, Gwayne’s careful exploration grows firmer, coaxing, slender fingers carving varied paths over and around his cock. It gets him hard, gradually, but it’s there, the shape of his erection within his boxers. Gwayne can certainly feel it, if his expanding grin means anything, and the way his breath is puffing louder out from between his lips. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out, and Criston is suddenly painfully, desperately curious about the state of him beneath his own slacks.

“Oh.” Gwayne lets out a tiny sound as he wraps his hand around the base of Criston’s cock, digging into the fabric of his underwear to get a good gauge of the girth. “This’ll be good.”

The urge to ask more details, about what specifically it’ll be good for, jumps in Criston’s mind, but he forces himself to keep his mouth shut, pretty damn certain he knows the answer to his question.

Picking up his pace, Gwayne’s fondling grows almost aggressive, fast and desperate until he’s nudged up close to Criston, their feet tangling, noses nearly touching. With another soft noise, Gwayne pulls his hand back, watching with humor in his eyes as Criston’s hips try to follow the retreat, shocked by the removal. Panting, Criston’s vision swims as Gwayne brings his hand up to his lips, gasping when he licks a long, wet stripe up the center of his palm. And again, for good measure, staring into Criston’s eyes as he drags his tongue over his skin, filthy and wet and slow, spit dripping down his tongue.

In the blink of an eye, not enough time for Criston to prepare himself, Gwayne is dropping his hand and jamming it down past the waistband of his boxers, nails dusting over his skin and through his hair just briefly, wasting no time before wrapping his slickened palm around Criston’s erection. Skin on skin, it’s electric, makes Criston cry out before he can trap the sound behind his lips, bucking immediately into the touch. Gwayne loves it, watches with wide eyes, hungrily taking in as much of Criston as he can see. His face, his chest, his opened pants. Looks down the length of his arm and gets a tiny glimpse of Criston’s naked cock in his hand, but is primarily blocked by his underwear. He breathes hard, loud, and tips his head forward to nudge it against Criston’s shoulder, chest heaving.

He’s offered no acclimation period, no time to savor the contact on his dick, and is instead barraged with the damp slide of Gwayne’s hand, from the root of him to the tip, every bit of skin subject to sensation. Gwayne’s wrist moves fast, no longer taunting him, eager to see what he can do, eager to feel all of Criston in his hand. Immediately, Criston is gasping and shuddering, on the edge, and has to launch his hands upward to grip onto Gwayne’s biceps, just so he can remain standing. His hips piston up into his hand, helping the glide, and he cries, just faintly, from the back of his throat. 

When Gwayne pants, hot and heavy, it dampens the sleeve of Criston’s suit jacket, right over the ball of his shoulder. It takes him a while to speak, opening and closing his mouth but unable to make any words come out, until he gulps hard a few times, which Criston feels against his arm. 

“You’re fucking me later.” His voice is heavy, wrist pumping so fast it must be painful. “God, this is torture. Three days of torture. You’re an idiot.”

Irrationally, Criston laughs, short and barking, jostling Gwayne off his shoulder. He watches Criston laugh with rapt attention, eyes still wide, teeth gripping onto his bottom lip, and the sight quells the chuckling in Criston’s chest. Gwayne’s lip still catches the bathroom light, damp from his mouth, and Criston finds himself rocking forward on the balls of his feet, gaze pinned to Gwayne’s lips.

Now, it’s Gwayne’s turn to laugh, bringing up his free hand to catch Criston by the jaw, holding him back from diving forward any further. His lips tip into a wry smirk, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. He clicks his tongue, making Criston blush up his throat. “Kissing on the first date, huh? How slutty.”

Criston’s got a retort on his tongue, but it dies when Gwayne skates over the head of his cock, squeezing perfectly, making his legs shake. Gripping harder onto Gwayne’s arms, Criston works hard to swallow, mouth and throat dry, desperate to tip his head back and close his eyes. There’s something in him, though, that forces him to stay up, to keep his eyes open, so he can watch every moment, every twitch of Gwayne’s hand in his pants, every twitch of Gwayne’s features.

“I want you to come in your pants.” Gwayne taunts, as pressure builds in Criston’s stomach. He’s bucking up into Gwayne’s hand, almost mindless, eyes blurring, fingers digging into Gwayne’s arms. It’s there, he’s chasing it, the crest of feeling, and he almost feels mad, from how bad he craves it. “Like a fucking teenager. So you have to go back out there and know-“

A groan punches out of Criston’s chest, just barely muffled behind his clenched teeth. He’s sweating, trembling, and god, when was the last time he felt like this- 

“What I’m going to do to you tonight, Cole, you won’t even believe. I want to limp for the next week-“

Echoing through the bathroom, the loud creak of the door opening makes them both freeze, all sounds caught in their chests. Panting, wide-eyed, they stare at each other as voices enter the room, a pair of footsteps making their way to the urinals. 

Gwayne squeezes cruelly at Criston’s cock, hard and leaking in his underwear, and he bites back a whine, slapping at Gwayne’s hand as he gets over a series of tremors.

At the urinals, the men chatter aimlessly about the upcoming conference sessions, and fuck, how long have they been in the bathroom? They definitely missed the catered lunch. Sessions will likely resume any minute. 

Criston shoves at Gwayne, pushing him away, forcing his hand from his pants. With a frown, Gwayne steps back, eyes still glimmering, as if he’s perfectly content to finish Criston off with the strangers across the room, hurried and silent. 

Shaking his head, Criston steps away further, falling into a seat atop the toilet, tipping his head forward into his hands. He breathes, fast and painful, heart thunderous, and he really feels like he could keel over from how hard his dick is.

By the stall door, Gwayne watches him, arms crossed. Smug, smiling, as if Criston can’t see the bulge in the front of his pants, too.

They listen silently as the men wash their hands and leave the bathroom. 

Gwayne takes a step back in his direction, arm extended, and Criston bats it away once again.

“Later.” Criston pants around the word, sighing. He’s struggling to catch his breath. “It’s going to get too busy.”

Humming under his breath, Gwayne sighs, too. Runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, where it’s grown sweaty from activity. “Fine. Fine.”

It takes at least five minutes for them both to calm down enough to leave the stall. Once they do, Criston splashes his face with handfuls of cold water, staring at himself in the mirror. Stares at Gwayne, too, who leans against the wall, self-satisfied, smirk permanently stuck on his face, like an asshole.

They don’t speak as they leave the bathroom, greeted by a crowd of conference-goers filing into rooms for their next sessions. Criston’s stomach grumbles, and he mourns the lunch he missed, but more than that, wishes the erection he’d stuck up into the waistband of his boxers would go down. Gwayne walks behind him the whole time, way too close, like he’s breathing down the back of Criston’s neck, sending shivers up and down his spine and making his head feel fuzzy. Gwayne follows him right into a random room that he selects because it doesn’t look too crowded, the presenter at the front an old man in a bow tie. Materials he passes out say the session topic is on regulation compliance. Perfectly boring, so Criston doesn’t have to focus.

As if he’d be able to focus on anything but the arousal shooting through his body.

In relief, Criston falls into a seat at an empty table, slamming his laptop down as he does. He’s grateful for the shield the table provides, and undoes the button of his slacks, letting it pop open behind the buckle of his belt. He’s only minimally reprieved from the tension in his pants, but it’s enough to allow him to get his thoughts in order. He’s still panting and sweaty, like he just took a long run, and it’s a strange state to be in while fully clad in a suit. 

Next to him, Gwayne pulls out a chair slowly, sinking into his seat as if he’s got no care in the world. The whole time, he smiles crudely in Criston’s direction, eyes skimming over his face and chest, head tilted in knowing, as if he can see the race of his pulse beneath his skin. 

Criston tries to ignore him and focus on the presentation, but can’t help the way his mind is full of static. He can’t think, can’t listen, and instead just tries to act like he’s paying attention. Stares mindlessly at the slides being shown, breathing hard and steady in an attempt to steel himself.

Slowly, creeping, a touch finds its way to the top of his thigh, nearly making him jump out of his skin. Those same long fingers from before, crawling over the crest of his thigh to dip into the crevice between his legs. Criston sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, snapping his head to the left to pin Gwayne with a stare, eyes narrowed. With a smile, Gwayne persists, sliding his hand up painfully slowly, until he’s able to nudge against the bulge that remains in Criston’s pants. He jolts at the contact, making the legs of his chair squeak as they scrape across the floor, gritting his teeth in concentration.

Gwayne leans closer. Pushes down harder, teeth glinting in the light of the room.

For good measure, he pumps just once up the length of Criston’s shaft, tortuous and measured, not quite gripping but still able to move with firm finality. His cock jolts in his pants, strains once again against his belt, and Criston tips his head forward so his chin meets his chest, attempting to save face.

When Gwayne pulls his hand back, it’s equally as torturous, to experience the loss. He’s practically vibrating beneath his skin, cock pulsing in his pants, and if he was younger, he’d just come untouched right now and get the agony over with. Instead, he bites down hard on his lower lip, breathing sharply through his nose, foot tapping idly on the floor in attempt to regulate the way his nerves are sparking. Thinks of how good the release will be, after being forced to wait for it. It will make the torment worth it.

For the rest of the session, Gwayne does not touch him, purposefully keeping a wide berth. He stares, though, particularly at Criston’s crotch, as if he can’t wait to see what’s hidden beneath his clothes.

The moment the presentation ends, five minutes over time, Gwayne jumps to his feet. Doesn’t say anything, but slaps a firm hand on the back of Criston’s neck, digging his nails into his skin, scraping and scratching along the column of his throat as he drags his hand away. 

“See you.” Gwayne says, quiet, as he moves from the table, disappearing quickly out into the hallway, leaving Criston behind in a whirlwind of emotion, blinking stupidly at the space he had just been occupying. 

Shaking his head, Criston collects his items and slowly gets to his feet, following the rest of the people in his session out the door and into the fray. He’s calmed down, thanks to the soul-sucking boredom of the presentation, but he’s starting to reach a level of depletion that makes each step he takes feel gargantuan. Every ounce of his body is tired, coming down from the high-strung thrum of arousal, and it’s all he can do to make it into his second and final session of the afternoon, practically collapsing into a chair.

He doesn’t even know what it’s about, and doesn’t care to learn. The presentation in the background is the perfect white noise for his senses, allowing him to close his eyes for a moment, and pretend he’s not in a room full of people.

Sees copper hair behind his eyelids, a pale hand skating down his chest, and he shivers from the memory. 

Another memory, too, that’s so similar, but wildly different. 

Same red hair, spilling over his chest, as a hand snakes under his sweatpants, shoved against a wall. He’s kissing. And gasping, unafraid to be heard. Scared and concerned for the woman who chews on his lip, who he hadn’t seen in eight years. There’s still blood on his hands, from carrying her son into the emergency room, playing father for a boy whose dad didn’t seem to give two shits about the fact he’d had his eye cut out. 

Alicent had called him, crying, begging him to pick them up from Driftmark. He hadn’t even gotten dressed, had driven across the bridge and back, as Alicent cradled her son in the backseat. The kid bled all over his upholstery, and Criston had spent the next week getting the stains out. 

Once the boy was whisked into surgery, Alicent couldn’t bear staying in the hospital waiting room. Had brought Criston back down to the car, to go get something to eat, but before they’d gotten in, she’d shoved him against the wall of the parking garage and kissed him like she was dying. Jacked him off against the concrete, hands cold but focused, desperate to do something to make her forget about the horror, just for a moment. 

Criston had been too scared to touch her. Too scared of getting dried blood in her hair, or startling her out of the activity. He’d let her have her way with him, until he came in his sweats, hot and disgusting and hard, but delicious. She tasted sweet, like she always did, as they made out in the passenger seat of his car. He’d begged to fuck her, to make her feel good, but she denied, over and over, until she grew tired of it all and succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep while still straddling his lap. 

They stayed that way until the doctor called, saying that Aemond was out of surgery. Criston had left, while Alicent returned to her son’s bedside. 

He hasn’t seen Alicent since. Has thought of her, from time to time, but not extensively. Not until her brother appeared before him, everything that Alicent is and everything that she is not, similar in complexion but not much else.

Gwayne’s offering something that she never did. No strings attached, easy fun. Seduction. Allure. 

Shaking his head, he rouses himself from thought, reorienting his perception with the room around him as he opens his eyes. People are chatting, the presentation has concluded, and he sits upright in his chair. 

After the session is the closing ceremony and dinner, which has been touted as a formal, fancy affair. He’s got just enough time to run across the street and put on a nicer suit. So, he does.

Bursting into his hotel room, he’s like a tornado, throwing his clothes about as he changes, acutely aware of the situation he’s getting himself into for the rest of the night. He’s not normally the type of guy to preen before a hookup, but something in him makes him want to, rapidly showering and spritzing himself with cologne. Scrunches his hair in a towel so it will curl more, and slips on a pair of briefs, surveying his own ass in the mirror. Wonders if Gwayne will like all of it. All of him. 

The suit he slips into is tan, and accents his skin, with slacks that fit tightly around his thighs, a fit he doesn’t normally pick, but looks striking on occasion. Makes his legs look bulkier than they are, and accents the width of his shoulders, smooth fabric stretching across them. His undershirt is white, plain and boring, and he snakes his black tie around his neck, pushing the knot up to his throat.

Looking in the mirror one last time, he nods at his own reflection, steeling himself. Sucks in a loud breath, before throwing open the door to his room, prepared to whisk off down the elevator and back towards the convention center.

It surprises him when Gwayne is standing across from his door, leaned lazily against the wall, ankles crossed like he’s been waiting for a while. He picks at his nails, only looking up when Criston steps out of his room and lets the door fall shut behind him. 

“Ready?” Gwayne asks, pushing off the wall, as if he hadn’t disappeared for half the afternoon.

For a beat, Criston doesn’t say anything, just crosses his arms and surveys the other man. Starts with his shoes, brown loafers tied neatly, with dark socks poking out around his ankles before they disappear into his pants. Green, so much green, covers his body, and it’s almost emerald, striking against Gwayne’s skin, making his hair look even more red than usual. His suit is perfect, tailored to fit him like a glove, green pants and jacket tastefully embellished so as not to be overwhelming. Matching Criston, his white undershirt hugs over his chest, and he doesn’t have anything beneath it, allowing Criston to see the shadows of his skin, just barely. 

Entertaining the examination, Gwayne plants his hands on his hips, tilting his head in amusement. “You approve?”

Scoffing, Criston rips his eyes away, scratching at the back of his neck. “No.” His ears feel hot.

“Great.” Grinning, Gwayne turns to walk down the hall, beckoning Criston to follow him. 

The elevator is packed with conference goers in their dinner finery, and Criston and Gwayne are corralled to the side, shoulders jammed together. Gwayne manages to get a hand on Criston’s lower back, letting it hover there for the entire ride, and Criston wills his stomach to stop flipping over itself.

Moving with the crowd, they make their way back to the convention center. Everyone is corralled into the banquet hall, which has been decorated with tableware and linens, a stage set up at the front of the room. There’s balloons, too, at the entrances, like they’re at a child’s birthday party. 

Gwayne leads them to a table at the side of the room. He pulls out a chair, fingers draped gracefully over the back of it, but doesn’t move to sit down, pinning Criston with a raised brow. 

Staring back, Criston looks between Gwayne and the chair, putting the pieces together that he’s being chivalrous, for some reason. Like he’s a girl.

With a scoff, Criston rolls his eyes, ignoring the gesture and yanking out the neighboring chair, throwing himself into the seat. His heart pumps fiercely in his chest.

“God.” Gwayne echoes his scoff, rolling his eyes. Criston watches as he sits down, staring curiously at the way Gwayne gingerly lowers himself into the seat, knees bending slowly to control his descent. Once he’s sat, he doesn’t look over at Criston, throwing some sort of hissy fit as he pulls his water glass up to his lips.

As the seats around them fill, Criston tries to regulate his breathing, resisting the way his chest wants to heave, entire body humming in anticipation of what’s next. He watches Gwayne sip at his water, the way a couple droplets escape out his lips and down the side of his mouth, entranced when his tongue shoots out to collect them. It’s like he can feel the eyes on him, because his gaze flashes over to Criston, and he jolts, trying to pretend like he wasn’t staring. Looks out across the room to sell it, watches as caterers start to move around the tables, taking drink orders. 

When the servers finally get to them, their whole table requests red wine, making them laugh in camaraderie. 

“Might as well just bring the bottle!” One man guffaws, getting the group giggling again as the server rolls his eyes in mock annoyance.

Sitting to Criston’s right is a tiny old woman with long, dark hair, sleek and shining as it tumbles over her shoulders. One of her wrinkled hands moves to tap on Criston’s forearm where it rests on the table, drawing his attention.

“We all work together.” She motions at the rest of the table. “But I’ve never seen you boys before. Where are you coming from?”

Criston smiles. “Hightower Corp. I’m from King’s Landing.”

“Oldtown.” Gwayne pipes up, motioning to himself. Criston hadn’t been aware he was listening. 

“Hightower, eh? I heard some of you were here. Not many though, right?”

“Nope.” Criston answers, looking to his left at Gwayne, who’s drinking from his water glass again. “Just us.”

“Strange.” She hums, moving closer, conspiratorial. “Did they put a max on your attendance? We’re from Lannister & Sons, there’s got to be at least twenty-five of us here.” 

Chuckling, Criston shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. We’re just the ones they asked to represent.” 

Satisfied, the woman moves back, just in time for a server to swoop in and drop off their wine. She grasps greedily at her glass, smiling around the drink when she turns back to Criston. “You boys into financial tech?”

For a while, as they enjoy their drinks, Criston chats with her. Learns she’s a marketing leader for some of the new technologies Lannister & Sons is releasing, and she drops some not-so-subtle hints about the products that Hightower Corp should invest in. She asks a variety of in-depth questions about Criston’s role in financial risk, and it’s the first conversation of the whole conference he really gets into, recounting one of his best stories about a crisis situation with a corporate credit card. At some point, the rest of the table starts listening in, and they laugh as Criston shares about the $10,000 charge some scammer ran up for hotel porn on a stolen card. It gets others going on about similar situations, everyone loose and happy with the wine in their veins.

Servers return to deliver salads around the table, and that quiets the conversation, just in time for a presenter to walk up to the microphone at the front of the room. He taps on the top of it, echoing a loud screech through the room that has the diners covering their ears. 

“Sorry.” He murmurs into the mic, adjusting the stand. Coughs dryly without moving his mouth away, and again, the sound thunders through the room.

Next to him, Gwayne scoffs audibly, nudging Criston with his elbow in annoyance. It nearly makes him slosh his wine onto his shirt, but he manages to catch it, glaring at Gwayne all the while. Ignores the weird butterflies climbing up his throat. 

Their salads, pitifully bare with finely-shaved truffles on top, look dry and unappetizing. Criston picks at it awkwardly, stuffs some of the leafy greens in his mouth and forces himself to chew, all together not too hungry, but particularly turned off by the flavors on his tongue.

Up on the stage, the speaker talks unbelievably monotonously, the president of one organization or another, encouraging new professionals to stick with their industry. Criston all but tunes it out, sipping on his wine, feeling it drop into his stomach. He’s acutely aware of Gwayne sitting next to him, the way their feet almost touch from the proximity, how Gwayne’s hand has inched into his table space, seemingly unintentional.

Groups around them chatter softly while the presentation goes on, the clang of forks punctuating their words, not wanting to forfeit a single opportunity to network. Someone laughs loudly, and that gets the room’s attention, riling some shushes from particularly servile members of the crowd.

The second course comes out while people applaud the first speaker off the stage, the main dish being a roasted grouse over a variety of creamed vegetables. Criston picks meat off the tiny bones as the next speaker starts, who is much more energized, definitely some inspirational self-help bastard whose only job is to talk to crowds. The speech is long, lasts the entirety of the second course, but at least Criston is able to stomach some of the food, this time, so as not to look like an imbecile. Gwayne eats his daintily, like he’s not really enjoying it either, foot tapping aimlessly on the ground as he motions the waiter for another wine. 

As the servers take away their plates, replacing them with tiny cuts of cheesecake, Gwayne leans towards him, breath ghosting over his ear. He smells like Merlot and cologne, throwing an arm over the back of Criston’s chair to get closer, speaking quietly. 

“You want to stay for the rest of this?” Accompanying his words, Gwayne’s other hand slides softly over Criston’s knee, circling and teasing with one finger. He can feel Gwayne’s teeth, right by his ear, close enough to nip if he really wanted to. 

Criston stiffens in his seat, eyes jumping fearfully around the table, making sure none of their companions have picked up on the energy Gwayne is omitting, eager and hungry like a whore. He shoves at Gwayne under the table, but fails at pushing him away. “No one else has left.” Every other table in the entire banquet hall is filled as the conference goers listen to the speaker, enjoying their drinks and desserts.

A hot puff of air tickles down Criston’s neck as Gwayne laughs. “Who cares?”

“I do.” Criston bites back, shifting forward in his seat to tear himself away from Gwayne. He stabs at his cheesecake with aggression, shoving it into his mouth without thought of savoring the sweetness, distracting his body from the heat it has been generating from the moment Gwayne started touching him. It’s like he’s been celibate for years, the way he’s reacting to every little move Gwayne pulls. He can feel his cock pulsing in his slacks, just slightly, desperate to be touched again.

Behind him, Gwayne grumbles under his breath, but relents, moving fully back into his own space. He starts poking at his cheesecake, purposefully scraping his fork against the plate, but Criston ignores him, not willing to let him win. 

A question and answer portion of the speaker’s presentation starts, with conference goers raising their hands and waiting for an aid to bring them a microphone. Audibly, Gwayne groans when the first set of hands shoot up, unabashedly annoyed at being held longer in the banquet hall. The Lannister & Sons representatives look over at him strangely, and Criston just shakes his head, trying to divert their attention.

Beneath the table, Criston kicks at Gwayne’s shin, triumphant when he lands one and the man has to bite back a cry. He shoots him a stern look, for good measure, and Gwayne seems to deflate, sinking deeper into his seat, reaching for his wine.

None of the questions are worthwhile, and gradually, the crowd becomes disinterested, half sitting with their heads tipped over in boredom, while the others start up their own conversations that eventually overshadow the speaker on stage. The organizers seem to ultimately give up on the Q&A, so they take a few moments to conclude the conference, rallying everyone’s attention with a loud exclamation through the microphone.

It’s boring drivel about how the conference was a resounding success, and Criston can’t bring himself to care. The room seems to agree, people growing antsy in anticipation of their next moves, whether it’s curling up in a hotel room or heading out to a bar. Around their table, the Lannister & Sons group chatter about a lounge up the street, some place they go to all the time after work hours. Criston and Gwayne are enthusiastically invited, and disappointment blooms around them when they kindly deny the offer. 

“There’s a bottle of champagne waiting for us in my hotel room.” Gwayne explains, sending a sly grin in Criston’s direction. “Next time we’re in Lannisport, we’ll join you. Right, Cole?”

Criston can’t really get over the way Gwayne’s eyes keep skating down his chest, more blatant the closer the speakers get to concluding. Doesn’t hear the question, so he just nods, staring like an idiot.

The moment the last speaker places her microphone back onto the stand, Gwayne and Criston jump to their feet, nearly knocking heads in their simultaneous rush. Watching them, their table mates laugh, and they reach over the stretch of the table to shake hands with each of them, curt and swift as they say farewell, promising to connect online.

Gwayne makes it out of the banquet hall a few steps before Criston, and turns around to sling an arm over his shoulders the moment he passes over the threshold. Getting hold of the top of his arm, Gwayne pulls him in close, mouth hot as it makes contact with his ear. 

“I hope you know that there’s no champagne,” Gwayne jokes, taking the chance to scrape his teeth along Criston’s earlobe as he manhandles him out into the street. The contact sends shivers down Criston’s spine, making him sigh audibly as he’s driven forward.

They retrace their steps back three blocks to the hotel, Gwayne keeping them intertwined the whole way. With each foot he puts forward, Criston starts to buzz beneath his skin, anticipation and arousal swirling together into a perfect concoction, sending his mind spinning. 

It’s not until they’re in the elevator, rocketing up to the eighth floor, that Criston starts to feel the cruel lick of anxiety in his stomach, blooming through his chest and sending his heart pounding. Gwayne moves closer, reveling in the solitude of the elevator car, slipping a hand down Criston’s back and over the curve of his ass, watching the movement the whole way down. Criston can feel Gwayne’s eyes devouring him, the way he pulls up the back of Criston’s suit jacket to get a better look, groaning lewdly from behind clenched teeth. 

Attempting to get out of his reach, Criston shoots out the elevator door the moment it opens on their floor, walking close to the wall as Gwayne trails behind him. His heart thumps painfully in his chest, and he works hard to put one foot in front of the other, a little tipsy from the dinner wine.

Walking right past his room, they both stop before Gwayne’s door, Criston hovering awkwardly as Gwayne furiously swipes his keycard, swearing when it doesn’t work upon first try, giving Criston just enough time to check the state of his breath, deeming it acceptable. He runs his hands through his hair, too, trying to smooth it out, and Gwayne catches him doing it when he gets the door open and turns around in triumph.

Pushing the door open, Gwayne holds it with an outstretched arm, beckoning Criston forward. He stares where Criston’s hands have left his hair, curls mussed around his face, defeating the purpose of any brushing he attempted.

Criston steps forward, cautious and slow, looking beyond Gwayne and into the dark of his room, shades pulled over the large windows. The bedside lamp was left on, throwing a faint golden light over every surface, deepening the sense of quiet reverence. As he passes Gwayne, scooting along the door frame so as not to brush against him, Gwayne laughs, seemingly amused by his trepidation. To punctuate his laughter, he lands a sharp smack on the back of Criston’s thigh, right below his ass, like he’s a horse being coaxed forward. The contact makes him wince, even as he does end up lurching further into the room, whipping around to pin Gwayne with a stare.

Following close behind, Gwayne is nearly upon him in an instant, voice low and quiet as he moves forward. Criston anticipates an impact, bracing for it, but Gwayne just skates a hand over the length of his arm, passing by without a care in the world. “You do this often?” He asks, stepping closer to the bed, hands jumping up to the knot of his tie.

Still by the door, Criston shrugs, voice stuck in his throat. “Not really.”

“Why?” Gwayne pries, dexterous fingers sliding his silk tie apart, undoing the knot and whipping the fabric from around his neck with a crack. He unbuttons the top of his dress shirt, next, letting the collar fall open in a casually professional sort of way. “You’re handsome.”

For some reason, the simplicity of the comment flusters Criston, sending warmth up his spine, the heat cresting over his ears and cheekbones. He shifts side to side where he stands, moving to rub a hand along the back of his neck. “Never really like anybody enough to take the time,” he answers, shrugging his shoulders.

That captures Gwayne’s attention, eyes jumping to Criston as he pulls his suit jacket off. He raises one brow, smile pulling at his lips. “You like me?” 

Criston rolls his eyes, tearing them from Gwayne’s to look at the floor. “Shut up.” He wrings his hands in front of him, suit feeling tight around his arms and chest.

“No, you said it.” Tossing his jacket onto a chair, Gwayne takes a step closer, voice teasing. “You want to fuck me because you have a big ole crush on me.”

“I didn’t-“

“Can’t take it back, Cole.” Their toes are touching, now, loafers nudged together. Gwayne stares with an intensity that makes Criston wilt, avoiding the contact at all cost. “Show me what you can do with your cock, and maybe I’ll decide if I like you, too.” 

Criston’s breath catches in his chest. He has to part his lips to breathe.

Watching his expression, Gwayne’s eyes jump around like a predator’s, catching every twitch or shift on Criston’s face. He’s pinned on his lips for a long while, the two of them breathing hard in the silence, and a ripple of tension floats through the room, intensified by their long-awaited solitude.

Snapping his hand forward, Gwayne plants it hard in the center of Criston’s chest, making him wheeze. Gwayne doesn’t care, though, and drags his fingers up and around the buttons of his dress shirt until he reaches the knot of his tie. In a slow, tantalizing movement, he slips his hand around it, digging his nails in for a fierce grip on the fabric. An audible scratching sound emits from the hold, like the tie itself is tearing from the squeeze, and Criston feels his eyes go wide. He’s holding his breath, gaping like a fish out of water, skin buzzing from where Gwayne’s hand had touched.

The whole time, Gwayne watches him, mouth tilted in a smirk, until he yanks the tie forward, and Criston with it. 

Their lips collide like magnets, fast and fierce and hard, teeth clanking from the lack of delicacy. Neither of them care, though, and they both know it, stumbling backwards together until Criston’s back slams into the hotel room door. He grunts from the impact, huffing air into Gwayne’s face, and the man laughs between their lips, pressing harder.

Gwayne kisses like a heathen, ungodly in his movements, like he cares little for sensibility or decorum. No, he presses the entire line of his body against Criston’s, effectively pinning him to the door, feet nudged between Criston’s shoes, like he’s trying to consume him completely. He kisses wet, and hard, and passionate, showing Criston everything he has to offer in a mere twenty seconds, before taunting him by pulling away, moving to his throat, nipping right above his shirt collar. Gwayne tugs on his tie as he moves, constricting it around the back of Criston’s neck, yanking him sideways with every twitch of his hand.

Tipping his head back, Criston thuds the crown of his skull against the door, unable to feel the sting of the impact as he pants hard towards the ceiling, like he had been holding his breath. With ferocity, Gwayne climbs up the line of his throat, dragging his tongue and his teeth along every inch of skin, suctioning once or twice in places that have Criston’s toes curling in his shoes.

As Gwayne ascends, kissing around his jaw, Criston remembers his hands, hanging limp by his sides. Remembers his own will and power, lifting them to hover behind Gwayne’s back for a moment, quivering with tension, as he discerns the best place for them to land. One, wrapping around Gwayne’s waist. The other, lacing through the hairs on the back of his head. They’re soft and silky, like they’re covered in expensive products, and the smoothness with which Criston’s fingers glide through the strands is enchanting. He can’t decide if he wants to keep sliding his palm gently along Gwayne’s head, or if he wants to pull and tear until his perfect hair gives way to something human, something tattered. Gwayne startles from the contact, a groan punching out of his chest that is only muffled from his lips stuck to Criston’s jaw. 

The sound invigorates Criston, lances heat into his gut, and he wrenches Gwayne’s head back to look at him down the length of his nose. As he’s forced away from Criston’s jaw, Gwayne’s eyes are blurry, mouth red and glistening, lips slack, as if appalled by the loss of contact. He doesn’t move, lets Criston look at him, the way his skin is growing pink and his chest heaves beneath his shirt. Criston’s hand has easily, effortlessly disheveled his hair, twisting a perverse triumph in his stomach, and some of it is stuck against the skin of Gwayne’s face, tacky from sweat. 

Criston can’t manage to tear his eyes away from the spit-slick state of Gwayne’s lips, entranced by the way Gwayne’s tongue pokes out slightly from behind his teeth. How they had felt so soft against his skin, even amidst nips and bites.

Pulling Gwayne forward once again, Criston smashes their mouths together, sinking into another kiss. He can taste the bitter bite of Merlot when Gwayne licks against his lower lip, mixed with a coolness that means he had eaten a mint at some point, unbeknownst to Criston. They kiss hard, again, Gwayne rocking him slightly by his tie just to be able to slam him into the door for a second time. Criston grips harder around Gwayne’s waist, pulls him tighter against his body, and Gwayne whines when the buckle of Criston’s belt pushes harshly into the front of his pants.

As their lips slide together, they heave rasping breaths whenever they find moments of separation, and it’s the only thing Criston can hear, save for the thump of his heart and the ringing in his ears. Gwayne sucks in puffs of air like he’s dying, each time making a sound low in the back of his throat, and his hand finally abandons its vice grip around Criston’s tie in order to thread both fists into his hair, gripping for dear life. He wrenches Criston’s face sideways, deepening their kiss, forgoing breathing in favor of licking along the expanse of Criston’s teeth, panting wet and heavy against his lips. It only makes Criston grip harder, in return, and they weave their limbs together in an abstract array, elbows jutting and knees locking and necks twisting.

Perfectly, Criston is able to slide his knee between Gwayne’s legs, surprising a yelp from deep in his chest. Pulls him harder, supports some of his weight, in order to grind his thigh right against the bulge building in Gwayne’s pants. Not too hard, so as not to overwhelm him, but enough to give Gwayne’s cock a hint of attention. He bites down on Criston’s lower lip in response, slides his hips back and forward in tiny movements, chasing the pleasure that makes him scrape his hands cruelly against Criston’s scalp.

They’re entwined like that for a while, Gwayne ramping up the gyration of his hips as he snarls into Criston’s mouth, tongues licking and teeth exploring, losing the rhythm sometimes so they slip and nip at each other’s jaws. Criston bites too hard, once, and Gwayne rips his hands from his hair to shove at his chest, separating their torsos long enough for Gwayne to level him with an annoyed look. It’s ineffective, though, as it just makes Criston’s stomach flip violently, eyes skating along the chewed state of Gwayne’s lips, entranced by the faint marks peppering his jaw. His hair is fucked, messed beyond saving from Criston’s hand, and it suits him. Destroys some of that business-like decorum he touts religiously, lets the copper of his hair bounce against the color of his skin. 

Something obviously infatuated must crest across Criston’s face, because Gwayne’s frown turns into a thin smile, head tilting curiously as he drifts his eyes down to the collar of his shirt and back up again. Before he has time to process it, Gwayne is latching back on to his tie, yanking him forward to resume their kiss, only this time, once their lips are locked, Gwayne’s nimble fingers start to take apart the knot, letting the tie fall loose over his chest. Next, he flits between each button of Criston’s shirt, unlatching them as he travels down, hands curiously mirroring the path he had taken into Criston’s pants in the conference bathroom. The memory makes Criston jolt, dick active and excited at the prospect of continuation, hips arching upwards just once. It’s enough to make Gwayne laugh, cruel and victorious, as he yanks the shirt from his waistband, finishing off the buttons. The whole thing hangs open, exposing Criston’s white tank top beneath, which hugs his form obscenely, if Gwayne’s face indicates anything. Like a dog presented with a lamb chop, he licks at his lips, unabashed in his staring. Or in his touching, when he brings his hands up to coast down the muscles of Criston’s chest, feeling the firmness of his abdomen. His hands travel further, coast down to the top of Criston’s pelvis, which pokes out from his pants.

When Gwayne presses down, taunting, Criston’s hips buck once again, and he throws his head back against the door for a second time. Gwayne sucks his teeth, chiding, removing his hands for a moment, before slapping them against both of Criston’s cheeks, moving in close. His breath is hot, and it puffs over Criston’s face.

“Don’t worry, baby.” He coos, and Criston shivers, embarrassingly, at the sultry velvet of his words. “I’ll take care of you.”

With that, Gwayne yanks him deeper into the room, stumbling as he navigates them, unseeing, towards the bed.

Feet tripping over each other, Criston is wobbly as he’s forced forward, step by step, until he’s twisted around and shoved into a seat at the edge of the bed. Gwayne stands above him and stares for a moment, eyes jumping between Criston’s before he leans down to lock their lips in a slow, wet kiss, sliding his mouth firmly against Criston’s, starting up a tingling in his chest. He pulls away with a loud smack, smiling, until he abruptly falls to the floor, knees slamming unpleasantly into the ground. It makes Criston jump.

“What are you doing?” He questions, reaching towards Gwayne’s shoulders. His hands are batted away.

“Helping.” Gwayne smirks, latching his fingers around the buckle of Criston’s belt, ripping it open, just as he had in the conference bathroom. Criston’s stomach flips, chest heaving.

Moving fast, Gwayne has Criston’s pants open in a near instant, reaching towards the waist of his underwear. Doesn’t take any time to tease or tempt, pushing the fabric down just enough for Criston’s cock to be exposed, half-hard. Criston fists the hotel blankets in his hands, growing stiff.

Gwayne licks his lips.

Inching forward, Gwayne’s focus is glued to the sight of Criston’s dick, skating up and down the length of it with rapt fixation, eyeing the tip and the base with equal amounts of curiosity. Glee sparkles in his eyes as he watches Criston’s erection come on, cock hardening from the thought of attention alone.

With a pleased sigh, Gwayne surges forward, nudging his nose against the shaft. Criston convulses in his seat, groans from behind clenched teeth, digs his nails into the blankets he’s gripping. Gwayne’s smirk, devious and knowing, widens, as he opens his mouth, revealing his wet, rosy tongue, displaying it for Criston for a moment. It glistens, obscene and almost dripping in the dim light of the hotel room, and Criston’s chest constricts painfully. His heart thrashes in his chest, and everything is suddenly too loud, too much, the sight of Gwayne’s open mouth like a torch to his senses. 

Extending his tongue, Gwayne slowly sucks the head of Criston’s cock between his lips. Their eyes are locked together, staring as Criston is wrapped in the hot heat of Gwayne’s mouth. He forces his hands to stay on the bed, even as everything in him yearns to get a fist in Gwayne’s hair, a whine punching out of his chest as he’s treated to the decadent slide of Gwayne’s lips.

Impatient, Gwayne does not tantalize, immediately starting to take Criston’s length deeper into his mouth, licking and laving around it, tongue hot and skilled as it strokes him. Shivers wrack Criston’s body, sparks zing down to his feet, and his concentration is reduced to the singular point of Gwayne’s mouth on him, lips stretching to accommodate his girth, eyelids lowering as he gets into the motion, tasting Criston on his tongue.

The silence of the room is deafening as Gwayne lets a loud, unabashed slurp emit between them. To Criston, the sound seems to bounce between the walls, echoing and all consuming, louder than anything he’s ever heard in his life. His focus is taut, brittle, centralized painfully on every minute movement Gwayne makes, senses exploding as his cock grows wetter, arousal encouraged with every lick of Gwayne’s tongue. 

It’s just like he had imagined, the pink of Gwayne’s mouth around him, pliant and generous and skilled. 

Watching him, Gwayne splays his knees further apart on the ground, sinking deeper into Criston’s lap, eyebrows low over his eyes. His lashes rest gently over his cheekbones, long and dark, each time he blinks, slow and sultry, arcing his hips to perfectly display the curve of his ass. It makes Criston hiss from behind his teeth, vision blurring at the edges.

After a couple more constrictions of his lips, the ring of muscle within his mouth dragging up the length of Criston’s cock, Gwayne pulls off with a pop. It makes Criston groan, tempted to flop onto his back across the bed, but he manages to stay upright, legs vibrating. He watches Gwayne back up, just a little, still close enough to feel his breath, puffing from between slick, parted lips.

Gwayne smiles up at him, bright and with teeth, eyes narrowed. He’s sinking further into the ground, body pliant and soft, shifting his hips. Criston can’t help following the movement, looking down from between his spread knees, to land on the tent at Gwayne’s crotch, dick hard and excited in his pants. Gwayne notices the direction of his gaze, and he laughs, easy and airy.

“I can’t help it.” He breathes, tongue moving audibly within his mouth, staring in Criston’s eyes.

Criston just grunts, hips twitching unexpectedly, nearly bumping his cock against Gwayne’s lips.

Silence grows between them, the mutual sound of their breathing the only noise in the room, as their eyes remain locked. Criston jumps between Gwayne’s, the blue of his eyes somehow brighter in the dim lamp light, even narrowed. 

He moves back in, mouth hovering over Criston’s cock once again, and he holds his breath in anticipation.

Mouth falling open, a glob of collected spit slides from behind Gwayne’s lower lip, pushed out by the slow slide of his tongue. It drips sluggardly, falling gradually onto the tip of Criston’s cock, settling into the grooves of it, some slipping down the sides. 

“Fuck.” Criston tries to bite back the exclamation, but the spit pooling into the slit of his cock overwhelms him, a diminutive sensation that is so gentle, so intentional, that it makes his cock spasm, like it’s got a mind of its own. Gwayne watches it all, mouth still hanging open, lips ticked up at the sides in elation, triumphant in his move. He spits once more, for good measure, harder and with force behind it, laughing when it lands on Criston and he twitches violently.

Gwayne pushes to his feet, ignoring the protesting whine Criston lets out.

“Stop crying.” Gwayne teases, taking a few steps across the room toward his suitcase. Criston watches him go. He rifles through his belongings for a minute, tossing spare clothes to the ground, until he finds what he’s looking for.

Criston scoffs, even though it’s hard to muster, with his entire body utterly focused on his cock. “You brought lube on a work trip?”

Laughing again, Gwayne tosses the bottle onto the bed, still halfway across the room. “I was getting fucked at this conference, one way or another. And you just happened to be the perfect candidate.”

“Wow,” Criston rolls his eyes, even as the words make his heart flutter in his chest. His voice is tight, forced from his lips. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Pointedly, Gwayne’s eyes drop to Criston’s cock where it sticks out of his pants, still wet with spit. He raises an eyebrow, and the look makes Criston want to eat his words, just a little. 

Hands going to his own belt, Gwayne unlatches the buckle and whips it from around his waist, the sound of its removal resounding through the room. He tosses it to the floor with a thud, and then works on his shoes, not bothering to unlace them, forcing them off by the heel. Pants, next, with no fuss, unzipping them and yanking them down to his ankles, stepping out of the legs. He stands almost bare before Criston, and moves to work on fully unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Taking his fill, Criston’s eyes skim over Gwayne’s legs, the way his thighs curve beautifully with lean muscle, skin smooth and milky, tan lines still faintly visible up towards his hips. Briefs hug tight around his waist, black material popping against his paleness, and his cock stands erect beneath them, concealed obscenity that makes Criston’s mouth water.

When his shirt comes off, falling gracefully to the ground like a wayward parachute, Criston’s breath catches in his chest. He’s suddenly hungry deep in his stomach, hands twitching on the bed. Gwayne’s shoulders are wide and lightly muscular, accenting perfectly the slimness of his waist, lean but strong all over, like he runs every day. He’s smooth, relatively hairless, and Criston reckons he’s never seen a man so womanly before. The pledges he’d jack off in the fraternity house shower, although young, didn’t ever look half as manicured, and the feminine men in the bars rarely offered him second glances on a night out, more interested in the six foot gym demons that had dicks as long as their throats. 

He’s a sight to behold, a treat from behind the counter, and Criston’s entire body is flooded with a frantic need, an urge, to taste his skin on his tongue.

Gwayne approaches him once again, biting at his lower lip, feet padding softly across the floor as he walks. Criston couldn’t look at his face even if he tried, too infatuated by the curve of his waist as he walks, the ripple of smooth muscles beneath his skin. Stopping inches from where Criston’s sitting, Gwayne reaches out slowly, pulling at Criston’s arms from where they’re twisted in the blankets.  

Guiding his hands, Gwayne plants them at his hips, pushing the fingers apart to splay over his skin. They both inhale sharply through their noses, twitching from the touch, and Criston manages to drag his eyes from the contact and up Gwayne’s chest, meeting his gaze. Gwayne’s cheeks are dusted red, hair falling forward to frame his face, and his lips still look pink and puffy from Criston’s cock being between them. 

His hands rest completely still at Gwayne’s hips for a while as they look at each other, breathing hard. When he starts to move, his touch is tentative, sliding above the waist of his briefs out of some sense of reserved modesty, until Gwayne’s hips buck once for no apparent reason, and he’s filled with a fierce desire to see all of him, bare and on display.

Hooking his fingertips in the band of Gwayne’s underwear, he keeps his eyes around his chest as he shoves the fabric, leaning forward with their descent in order to effectively push them towards Gwayne’s knees.

It takes a long time for him to get his eyes to travel downwards, steeling himself and his cock in order to drop his gaze below Gwayne’s navel.  

His erection is hard, wet at the tip, and it takes Criston’s breath away, mouth gaping as he stares at it. 

Gwayne nudges at his shoulder, urging him on.

Frantically, Criston shoves backward in his seat, hands leaving Gwayne to instead go to his pants, ripping his belt from the loops and shoving his pants to his ankles, kicking at them and his shoes until they’re flung off. His cock still pokes out from his underwear, and he’s emboldened to take them off, too, so he can finally be bare. Rips his suit jacket from his arms, tossing it carelessly to the floor, ignoring Gwayne’s amused chuckle at the action.

It’s easiest to remove his shirt, already unbuttoned, and then his loose tie. As he gets his hands in his last article of clothing, the white tank top he’d worn beneath his dress shirt, Gwayne comes closer. Shoves his knees together so they’re closed, making him freeze in his movement, as he climbs over the expanse of his thighs, landing in a straddle, naked legs tangling. 

Their cocks are inches apart, and Criston is immediately drawn to the sight, gasping for air like he can’t contain himself, removal of his tank top effortlessly forgotten. 

Chivalrously, Gwayne takes up the task, slipping his fingers beneath the fabric, nails scratching across Criston’s abdomen. The tanktop gets stuck in Criston’s hair as it’s slid over his head, and Gwayne scrambles with it for a minute, while Criston’s hands flash forward to grab onto Gwayne’s hips for stability, digging into his flesh.

The moment he is freed from his shirt, Gwayne surges forward, smashing their lips together once again. He kisses hard and sloppy, writhing in Criston’s lap. They claw at each other’s skin, hungry and eager, Criston’s nails over Gwayne’s hips, Gwayne’s down Criston’s back. Criston’s feet rest flat on the floor, Gwayne’s are in the air, his knees propped on the edge of the bed while he straddles Criston’s thighs. As they kiss, they move together, heads sliding and turning to match the other’s, hips jolting in identically arrhythmic pulses. Their lips are hot where they meet, the whole room feels hot, and Criston knows that there are beads of sweat coasting down his body. Partially, it’s from the length of his erection, the unending build of arousal since earlier in the day, his body growing desperate for the release it has long been denied. 

Eventually, Gwayne’s hands leave his back as they continue to kiss, tongues tangling, to feel unseeingly over the bed. When he pulls back, breaking their kiss, he’s got the bottle of lube in hand, clicking it open and tipping it over in one smooth motion. 

Nerves spike in Criston’s throat, and he chokes a little, making Gwayne freeze. Lube coats his palm, shiny from the substance, and he lifts an eyebrow, curious.

“Let me do it.” Criston demands, albeit weakly, reaching for the bottle.

Gwayne smacks him away. “You don’t need to.”

It’s Criston’s turn to freeze, pinning Gwayne with a strange stare. “What?”

Looking down at their cocks between them, Gwayne moves his hand towards Criston’s, primed and ready to slick his length up with lube. “I can take it.”

It startles Criston, the determination on Gwayne’s face, the impatience sparking in his eyes. His heart is beating fast and hard, once again, but this time in uncertainty. 

“No.” He says, clearing his throat, grabbing the lube. His arms wrap awkwardly around Gwayne’s torso as he fiddles with the cap, biceps digging into his sides.

Above him, Gwayne scoffs. “I’m not some fucking princess-“

“No.” Criston says again, voice final. He knows the perils of going too fast, starting too soon; the way a stretch too hard can ruin the night, can end with them in a worse spot than they started. He’s made the mistake of giving in enough times, and it’s cost him. Usually, a second date. Sometimes, an orgasm. Criston is not willing to take the risk with Gwayne, something heavy in his chest feels that the moment is important, that the exchange between them is too good to jeopardize. 

It’s easy to get the lube in his palm and rub it between his fingers, tossing the bottle away. To coat his hand, just lightly, and adjust Gwayne in his lap so he can reach better. 

It’s delicious, the moment his hand makes contact, slipping between Gwayne’s asscheeks, leaving a sticky stripe between them, from the trail of his touch. Gwayne falls forward almost immediately, arms gripped fiercely around Criston, head tipping onto his shoulder. He bites at Criston’s collarbone, the nip failing to disguise the soft moan that escapes his lips.

There’s only so much resistance Criston is capable of, though, and after a few broad, circular strokes with the pads of his fingers, and a shuddering, desperate whine from Gwayne, he acquiesces, the tip of his middle finger nudging inside of Gwayne. 

Gwayne sighs, driving his hips back, urging Criston in deeper. “Oh. That’s good.”

He’s barely a knuckle in when Gwayne starts to writhe with the same anticipatory excitement as before. When he speaks, close to Criston’s ear, his voice is thick and stilted, amused and aching and authoritative. “Do two. Now.”

Scoffing, Criston just shakes his head, working his singular finger, feeling the gentle stretch of Gwayne around him. 

Lifting his head, Gwayne leans back, driving himself down harder, almost up to Criston’s palm, smile sly and assertive as he proves his point. To escape his pointed gaze, Criston just closes his eyes, sticking to his pace. 

“What?” Gwayne’s voice is petulant, sassing. “You want me to beg for it? That get you off?”

Criston’s eyes snap open, annoyed. “No-“

“Ah,” Gwayne whines, put on and gooey, voice high, “please, I want it. Just stick it in, daddy!”

The words bring a snarl to Criston’s face, and he physically recoils, working to withdraw his hand from Gwayne. Clenching down, Gwayne refuses to allow him to retreat, laughing heartily. 

“Oh, calm down, Cole. I’m joking.” Gwayne rolls his eyes, fucking himself down onto Criston’s hand, chest pink and heaving. “Don’t be such a fucking killjoy-“

“God.” Criston snaps, exasperated, annoyance simmering in his chest. He pulls again, ripping his hand from inside Gwayne, ignoring the way he winces at the tug. He holds Gwayne up with an arm around his lower back, preventing him from sinking back down. Instead, Criston adjusts their position, pulling Gwayne closer, so their chests press together. Clinging to his shoulders, Gwayne seems to get an idea of Criston’s intentions, and he laughs, rutting his cock into the center of Criston’s chest.

“Yes, yes.” He moans, unabashed, wiggling his hips as Criston gets his lube-coated fist around his cock, slicking it up for a second before letting Gwayne lower himself back down. Criston tries to line up, get ready slowly, but Gwayne isn’t having it, ramming down hard enough for the head of Criston’s cock to breach him in one motion. 

They both groan, clinging harder to each other, chests rubbing. Criston can’t help it when his hips start to piston upwards, out of his control, chasing the heat of Gwayne’s insides, the grip of him around his cock almost making him feel drunk. 

Throwing his head back, baring his throat, Gwayne groans, arching his back, putting on a show. He lifts himself up and slams himself down, taking more of Criston’s cock each time, starting a pace that is brutal, panting and gasping with each thrust. Whenever Criston tries to hold back, to slow it down, Gwayne is relentless, rolling his hips, crying out, scratching along Criston’s shoulders.

“Stop.” Criston bites out, teeth clenched, feeling a tightness in his stomach, promising a much quicker end to this whole charade than he would like. 

“Oh,” Gwayne moans, looking into Criston’s eyes, studying what he finds there. Gwayne’s almost a head above him when he rises up onto his knees, bringing them back to level when he sinks down. His hair bobs around his chin, sticking sweatily to his neck, as he moves, smiling cruelly at the look on Criston’s face. “You’re going to come? How sweet, Cole, really, but I don’t mind if you’re inside me-“

With a grunt, Criston is pushing to his feet, still holding Gwayne in his lap as he goes, ushering a surprised yelp from Gwayne. He slips out of him from the changes, and the yelp turns into a dismayed whine, Gwayne thrashing in his hold. The man clings to him, a little too big for him to comfortably lift, so Criston wastes no time slamming him down into the bed. Gwayne lands on his side, splayed awkwardly, trying to right himself and climb up the bed. Before he can, though, Criston is following after him, crawling across the mattress to get a grip on his hips, pushing him over onto his front.

“Cole-“ Gwayne tries to say, but Criston shoves his face down into the blankets, shifting and shoving Gwayne’s body around. His cock is so hard it hurts, pulsing on its own, moments from release. With Gwayne face down in the mattress, he’s able to breathe for a second, regain his bearings, before swinging his legs to straddle the backs of Gwayne’s thighs.

Able to lift his head once again, Gwayne looks over his shoulder at him, a sick grin on his face. His hair is disheveled, flipping over his forehead, only adding to the debauchery of the scene, skin splayed over the blankets, ass round and taut, just within reach. Criston runs a hand over his cheeks, admiring the squish of flesh beneath his touch, groaning a little in the back of his throat. 

Noticing, Gwayne wiggles his hips, still smiling. “Come on now, baby. I’m ready for you.” 

Shaking his head, Criston sighs, getting a hold around the base of his cock. “Jesus Christ…”

The slide into Gwayne is much easier from this angle, in his control, and he keeps Gwayne from bearing down, hovering back just a little, never letting more than the head of cock to be inside him. He makes teasing little movements with his hips, watching the way Gwayne’s hole takes him effortlessly, and shivers when Gwayne slams his face back into the bed, groaning, trying to thrust further down his cock but failing.

When Gwayne finally starts to relax into the mattress, spine twitching and chest heaving, Criston allows himself to go deeper, groaning audibly as his cock disappears. He slides all the way to the base, loving the way Gwayne whines into the blankets, and he picks up his pace, hips snapping against Gwayne’s skin. The smack of their bodies together resonates through the room, bounces off the walls, and it’s the only thing Criston can hear, Gwayne’s hole around his cock the only thing he can feel. That same drunkenness returns, and he loses his grip on Gwayne’s hips, tilting viciously forward so he’s bowed over the curve of Gwayne’s ass, hands falling next to his on the bed. 

The angle works, and Gwayne cries out, muffled by the mattress. “Yes, yes, there.” He thrusts back into Criston’s movements, and they rock together, colliding hard. Criston’s cock hits hard inside of him, and he wails with each stroke, sass and bravado disappeared. Gwayne takes all of what Criston gives him, doesn’t try to alter their pace, breathing hard. His body starts to shake.

Heat shoots down Criston’s spine, and he goes faster, muscles smarting from the effort, chasing Gwayne’s orgasm. 

Reaching a hand back and around, Gwayne tries to get a hold on his cock, hard and dripping between his legs. Sucking his teeth, Criston bats him away, shifting his weight to be propped on one arm, the other skating around to drag down Gwayne’s stomach, laughing when he shivers all the way down to his feet. 

Slowly, brutally, Criston drags his hand down to Gwayne’s cock, teasing around it without touching it, Gwayne quaking in his arms. 

“Please.” Again, Gwayne cries into the mattress, bucking his hips towards Criston’s hand.

Without thinking, Criston turns his face into Gwayne’s side, sweat making his cheek stick to his skin, rubbing against his ribcage. All he wants is to taste the salt of his skin, to feel it between his teeth, and he’s unable to resist his own urge, planting a wet kiss on Gwayne’s side, just before latching his hand onto his cock, encircling it with a tight fist.

Up and down, Criston coaxes wetness from the tip, enhancing the slide. He’s slow, at first, to build it up, to feel the jump of Gwayne’s cock in his hand, long and smooth and perfect, hairless in a way Criston could never hope to be. But, once Gwayne’s stomach starts to tense up into his spine, legs shaking, Criston sets off on a wild pace, matching the beat of his hips with the wet movements of his hand.

“Yes-“ Gwayne chokes, back arching harder into Criston’s hips, before he comes in Criston’s hand, shuddering and panting, thrusting wildly, as he’s stimulated on two fronts. His orgasm is long and hard, drips down onto the mattress, and he cries through all of it, body twitching.

Criston knows he’s done when he collapses, boneless, into the mattress, squirming uncomfortably as he continues to fuck into him, chasing his own release.

Words bubble up in Criston’s throat, tightness building in his stomach, and he gets one hand in Gwayne’s hair, gripping hard enough to hear some of the strands tear.

“Almost.” He soothes, fucking hard, hips slapping lewdly. Gwayne manages to keep his hips arched the whole time, even as he’s nearly passed out in the sheets, murmuring without purpose, like he’s coaxing Criston through it.

As his orgasm floods over him, Criston manages to pull out before it hits, the explosion of his release manifesting in lines of cum over the backs of Gwayne’s thighs, as he’s virtually ripped from the inside out. He can’t see, his ears are ringing, and he’s certain he bites down into the blankets, just to ground himself. 

When he comes to, he’s pinning Gwayne completely with his body, skin sticky between them from sweat and cum. They breathe in tandem, hard and heavy.

For a while, they lay just like that, half asleep, bones leaden. It’s only until Gwayne starts to writhe beneath him, shoving to push off the bed, that Criston rolls over and onto his back, blinking his eyes open slowly. His chest rises and falls with the beat of a steam engine, steady and loud, as he forces himself to stay awake, becoming reoriented with the mattress beneath him and the distant sound of someone walking in the room above. 

Next to him, Gwayne flops down hard onto his back, shaking the bed with the force of his impact. He splays his limbs out wide, nudging them against Criston, skin sparking where they make contact. Criston feels, rather than sees, Gwayne shake his head, lungs rattling with laughter. 

“What?” He bites out, but there’s no real force in it, too tired to muster up any true peevishness.

The laughter finally rises from Gwayne’s mouth, and it bounces around the room, light and twinkling, a little delirious from the way it puffs airily between his lips. He shoves at Criston’s shoulder, rattling the bed again. “You’re a dog, you know that?” Giggles punctuate each word. “How many people have you fucked?” 

For some reason, the questions make Criston feel hot under his skin, and a little pleased, like he wants to puff out his chest and pat himself on the back. In response, he just shrugs, still staring blearily at the ceiling. 

Gwayne seems prepared to continue nagging, but is cut off by a loud grumble, his stomach screaming in sudden hunger. He laughs again, louder, like he’s surprised by his body’s action. It makes Criston chuckle, too, looking towards him, surveying the state of Gwayne across the blankets, the way his hair fans over a plush hotel pillow. The accents of his hair, the deepness of his jawline, pop in the warm lighting of the room, and his skin glistens with a faint sheen of sweat, chest still heaving. He grins, eyes closing from the force of it, and Criston has to recoil, heart jumping in his chest. 

Flipping onto his front, he drags himself towards the hotel phone, picking up the receiver. He glances over his shoulder at Gwayne, raising an eyebrow, meeting his widened eyes with a question on his lips. The concierge picks up the other end, and Criston mouths to Gwayne, what do you want?

“Room 804.” He says into the phone, wrapping the cord around his thumb as he speaks. “Yeah, food service, please.” Snapping his fingers, he gestures to Gwayne, demanding his order.

Voice soft, Gwayne has to clear his throat before he speaks, bed shifting as he pushes himself up into a seat. “A burger. Whatever they have.” 

Relaying the order into the phone, Criston hums audibly, before adding on a side of fries and a chef salad, nodding as the person on the other end speaks. Hanging up the phone with finality, receiver clattering back into place, he drops onto his back again with a huff.

“Fifteen minutes, they said.” He tells Gwayne, eyes falling shut.

Next to him, Gwayne makes a labored sound of assent, returning to lie on his back, as well.

Long minutes of silence stretch between them, but they’re welcomed, warm and comfortable, allowing the soft sounds of the street below to float through the walls. They don’t need to fill the space with chatter, and there’s no pit in Criston’s chest from Gwayne’s silence. It’s easy. The bed holds him in a soft embrace, bone-tired, only able to hang on to consciousness due to his hunger. And, because of the sparking remembrance of Gwayne beside him, outstretched fingertips nearly touching Criston’s, presence like a beacon for Criston’s senses.

“Hey.” Gwayne’s voice interrupts the silence after a while, rousing Criston from his stupor. His legs shift as he moves atop the bed, rubbing against the fabric, like he’s full of anxious energy. “So, what happens after this?”

Criston’s heart starts up an aggressive patter in his chest, cruelly interrupting his peacefulness. Words spin around in his mind, his breath catches in his chest, tongue heavy in his mouth. He can’t quite get sounds out as he responds hastily, tempted to launch out of the bed. “Uh, so, you mean, like, at work? Because, I don’t know-“

Laughter, again, floods from Gwayne’s lips, drawing Criston’s attention. He watches as Gwayne clutches at his abdomen, his other hand slapping onto his forehead, as he writhes gleefully. “Don’t be an idiot! I mean after the food comes.” Gwayne pauses, catching his breath, looking over at Criston from beneath his fingertips. His lips part as his eyes jump between Criston’s, faces close in the dimness of the room. “You’ll stay over?”

Breath lodging in his chest again, Criston stares back into Gwayne’s, the blue of them turned to a deep grey in the light. Lands on his lips for a beat, and something irrational within him urges him to lean forward and lock them into a kiss. He resists, though, tearing his eyes away and laying his head back flat, staring at the ceiling once more. He clears his throat before speaking, voice quiet, hesitant. “Sure.”

Gwayne doesn’t say anything in response, but Criston can feel the way his chest rumbles with pleasure, an unintentional sound emitting from within him as he returns to his starfished, supine position, limbs spread across the mattress. His foot bumps against Criston’s, and they both startle from the touch, but neither move to break it, falling back into the easy quiet of before.

Until, that is, Gwayne speaks another time, like he’s desperate to hear his own voice. “Cole.”

Criston just grunts to show he’s listening. 

“Call me next time you’re in Oldtown, okay?” Gwayne continues, tone surprisingly commanding in the soft ease of the hotel room. “I’ll show you around.”

“Alright.” It doesn’t take long for Criston to answer, heat bubbling in his chest, bringing redness to his cheeks. “Give me your number.”

Gwayne laughs, just once, light and happy.

Then, finally, they let the room wrap them in silence, until there’s a knock on the door, and they both jump up to scramble into clothes.