City Mouse

by Amy Lane

  Malcolm rubbed his face. “I don’t know. I just need . . . need to feel strong, I guess.” He didn’t look at Owen, but out the window.

  “But strong isn’t suits and a stupidly expensive lifestyle.”

  “No?”

  “No. Strong is having the faith to run after a guy you’ve fallen for and taking the risk of looking like an idiot in the middle of St Pancras. And not giving enough of a fuck to not do it.”

  “God,” Malcolm said, finally turning to look at him. “You have so much faith in the world, Owen. Do you know that? And I think . . . there are times I think I can live on that faith. I think . . . I think I could do the shitty flat in East London and screw the rest of it. But I’ve lived with being weak. I was the fat kid, and I did get kicked around, and I lived in the social housing in the shitty postcode in a fucked-up post-industrial town up north where every male I knew was on the fucking dole begging for hand-outs, and you take away the suit and the shoes and I’m that kid again. And who wants that kid?” His swallow was audible. “I wouldn’t.”

  Oh, well, hell. Owen knew it. Maybe he’d known it all along. That common root, that thread between them. They knew. They both knew what it was like to be lost in the storm. The difference was, Mal had made himself a lightning rod, and Owen had made himself a kite.

  “I do,” Owen said quietly. “I want that kid.”

  “Oh bloody hell! Are we fucking there yet? It’s well past midnight, how long does it take to get from Peckham to home?”

  “A conversation,” Owen said dryly. “A good one. And we’ve got a few blocks left—even I can recognize it. And way to evade, by the way. I still want that kid, Malcolm.”

  Mal shook his head. “Yeah, well, you might not if you knew where I went to commiserate.”

  Owen sucked in a breath. “Do we have to use a condom again?” he asked, his voice aggressive and hard and he knew it.

  Malcolm blew out a breath and looked at the cabbie, who studiously ignored them on the other side of the Plexiglas window. Then back out onto the street. “I’m not that much of an idiot,” he grouched. “Mind you, before you I would’ve.”

  “Oh good.” Owen found something had eased in him, and he could say this with humor. “Actual personal growth. Hallelujah, there’s hope.”

  Malcolm looked at him, full in the eyes, naked need in his face. “There is, right? There’s hope? For me? For us? I’m not a lost cause? One of your bleeding charities that would go tits up without hand-me-downs? I mean . . . you still have hope for me?”

  Owen hadn’t given a shit about the cabbie from the get-go. He grasped Malcolm’s chin and kissed him, firm, serious, and tender.

  “Lots of hope,” he said, thinking that relationship Armageddon might almost be over. “Lots of it.” He tried quirking his mouth up. “Like, you know, maybe some hope for make-up sex—how’s that for hope?”

  But Malcolm didn’t take the bait. He shook his head and sagged a little against Owen. “Hope’s all I need,” he muttered. “God. Sex seems too scary with all that hope.”

  Owen got it, then. With every one of these little crises, Malcolm was forced to abandon something of himself—something he likely thought was actually part of him, at least until he’d relinquished it and it had left relief rather than a gaping wound—and that was scary. Malcolm was scared of love or even intimacy he couldn’t control. Somewhere in his head, he was still the kid who had no control over his life. Understanding that it was normal—was life—freaked him out.

  Owen put his arm over Malcolm’s shoulders. Thankfully, Malcolm slid closer and then even put his head against Owen’s, and Owen tightened his fingers around his upper arm. “I just hope you’d see yourself as I see you—when you’re not trying to be somebody I don’t think you actually are. You really don’t need that tough shell. People live just fine without it. And nobody kicks them in the balls, either.”

  “They don’t work in a fucking bank,” Malcolm muttered, but the protest was halfhearted.

  “Well, we’re not having sex in a fucking bank. We’re having it in our home.” And Owen wanted to show him what sex could be like then, without shells and posturing, without games and bonds and toys. He didn’t doubt that Malcolm liked that, but maybe he was liking it all at least partly for the wrong reasons.

  Skin on skin had always been Owen’s favorite thing. He would make Malcolm see why.

  “Yeah, home. And we’re finally fucking here.”

  Malcolm pulled out from his arm, as though the intimacy of the back of the cab had been too frightening to bear, and fished out his wallet to pay the driver.

  “Leave a tip,” Owen prompted automatically, gratified when Malcolm scowled at him. Malcolm was a cheap bastard when it came to tipping cabbies, waitresses, and anyone who didn’t make his clothes special or cut his hair. So he just waved at the cabbie when the man made to dig for change.

  Owen reached into his pocket and pulled out a few pound coins, thrusting them into the confused cabbie’s hand, and then shooed Mal out of his way so they could go up to their flat and have the rest of the conversation that Malcolm was so eager to avoid.

  Malcolm fumbled for a moment before turning on the lights, and he was haunted by an impression of his flat, black, white, and gray, alien and cold. Then Owen bumped his back and the coldness went away. He found the light, and the couch beckoned. He hung up his rain jacket and turned to Owen and realized that the boy had been outside in his damned hooded sweatshirt, the same one with the college logo on it that he’d been wearing when Malcolm had picked him up in the shitty bar.

  Malcolm made a noise then, and put a finger up to Owen’s shoulders, which were still damp from the October drizzle. October already? They’d need to organize Christmas. Presents.

  “What?” Owen asked, smiling gently.

  “You never remember a coat,” he said, feeling absurd.

  “I don’t have a coat. It’s just drizzle, Mal. It’s not going to kill me.”

  Malcolm nodded, his eyes still fixed on Owen’s broad chest, on his throat and the way his blond stubble was almost invisible where his beard started. “You’re so brave,” Malcolm said, and watched Owen’s Adams apple bob. “You’re not afraid of anything. Not strange places, not new people, not living poor . . .”

  “I was afraid we were going to need a condom the next time we made love,” Owen said baldly, and Malcolm was startled into looking him in the eyes.

  “I thought you were the forgiving type,” Malcolm said, realizing how close a call he’d actually had to losing this man.

  “I am.” Owen closed the distance between them. He forced Malcolm’s head back until they were looking eye to eye. “But that’s a few more conversations, and they’d hurt, and I’m just like anyone else—I’m really afraid of pain.”

  Malcolm gave a minute nod. “Okay. More talking, then.” He felt deflated, even, unspeakably tired of feeling vulnerable and like a fool. Though, shit, for Owen he’d get through all that. “I really only went with an ex-colleague to a bar. I wasn’t aware it was more like a fleshpot. But I didn’t care for it. The guy—well, he’s a lot like me, just a bit older, freshly divorced and I don’t think he is actually happy.” He pulled at his collar, realized he’d left the tie hours ago. “He had it all and I don’t think he was happy. He only reached out because he’s not straight. What kind of common ground is that?”

  “Plenty, if you’re both in the closet.”

  Malcolm lifted a hand. “I’m not ready for that. Not at that bank. Fuck, I need to concentrate on trading, I really can’t deal with that distraction. And the head of my desk is an old guy who’s made it abundantly clear that he thinks rainbow flags are for Greenpeace.” He pulled his jacket off and opened the cufflinks, folded the sleeves up. “I didn’t mean to mess up your life. If you don’t want to work there, that’s fine. If you do need financial help or anything else, really, that’s fine.”

  Owen’s voice was characteristically wry. “Still don’t want your money, Malco
lm.”

  “Well, what do you want?” Malcolm heard the peevishness in his own voice.

  “I want to skip the part where we talk about our jobs, and I want to kiss you. And I want to fall asleep next to you. And I want to wake up next to you. For a really long time. What do you want?”

  Malcolm scrubbed his face with his hands. “I want to know that’s not going away,” he said, feeling miserable at confessing this but even more miserable at the thought of not being reassured. “I want . . . I want to never have to check for your passport to know whether you’re coming back.”

  Owen was suddenly right there, in his space, throwing off body heat and actual steam as it rose up through his sweatshirt. “Do you want a promise?” he asked softly. “I’ll make you a promise. Will that make you feel better?”

  Oh God. “Yes,” Malcolm said in a small voice. “Yes please. I . . . I mean, it’s you. If you make a promise, I’ll trust . . .” He trailed off when Owen framed his face in big, capable hands.

  “Malcolm Kavanagh, I, Owen Watson, promise you that I will never leave without saying goodbye. And I won’t ever leave you without at least asking you first if you want me to stay.” His voice grew husky and gruff as he spoke. “And I promise that I love you. And that I think you’re worth fighting for and staying for. And that it will take more than one spat or even ten of them to make me just leave you without warning.”

  Malcolm looked into his warm brown eyes and realized that they’d grown shiny, and rimmed with red, and that was a relief because Malcolm didn’t want to be the only idiot moved to tears by a simple promise.

  “Do you want a promise from me?” he asked, and it felt brave to say it. What if Owen wanted him to promise to quit his job? What if he wanted him to come out, dress in a rainbow flag, march in parades? Malcolm loved him . . . oh God, he really did, but he didn’t think he could do that.

  He should have known, though. He should have known that Owen wouldn’t ask for something he couldn’t give.

  “Okay,” Owen said, his lips twisting a little. “I want you to promise me that a strip club or whatever is the last place you’ll go after a fight, and not the first.”

  Malcolm remembered the music, the emptiness, the casual assumption of something that, for him, was no longer casual.

  “Done,” he said without blinking. “Promised.”

  Owen nodded. “Good. Now promise that you won’t try to change me. That if I’m the man you fell in love with, I’m the man you want to keep in your life.”

  Oh, those hands, warm, safe, keeping him honest.

  “I promise,” Malcolm whispered. He closed his eyes. “And I promise I’ll take care of you, if, you know, you can’t afford things, because that’s what my bloody job is for and—”

  Owen put both thumbs in front of Malcolm’s lips. “Stop right there. I’m not going to let you kill our moment.”

  Malcolm heard the addition as clearly as if it’d been spoken: Not with talking about money.

  “Okay then,” he said, realizing that this here was the thing. The nonnegotiable thing. If he’d promised not to change Owen, then he had to change this thing in himself. “I promise not to make money an—” he paused and tried again. “As much of an issue in my . . . our lives.” He glared at Owen. “Happy now?”

  Owen smiled softly. “Are we home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are we together?”

  Malcolm sighed and felt the tension blow off him like an EMP pulse.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m ecstatic. Go get ready for bed. I’ll turn off the lights.”

  Routine was so easy. Hang his suit up, put his shirt in the hamper. It was sort of a soggy autumn night—if he’d been alone, he would have put on pajamas. But he wasn’t alone now. He was sliding in bed next to Owen, and he wanted the feel of Owen’s heat at his back. Owen had a way of draping over him when they were sleeping, of wrapping an arm around his middle or putting a hand on his chest. It would be a bloody shame to miss that because he wanted to wear bloody striped pajamas.

  He lay down on his usual side, facing the clock, and after a moment, Owen slid in behind him, wearing boxer shorts. And, yes, ah, there he went, sliding the skin of his chest against Malcolm’s bare back and rubbing a big hand against Malcolm’s chest.

  Malcolm exhaled the last bit of the pressure he’d been holding inside. Whatever happened outside the door—professionally, financially, socially—didn’t really make it in here. Maybe one day there would be fewer issues making the transition from the one to the other.

  But here, Owen rubbing his hand from Malcolm’s pecs to his abdomen, down his flank and his thigh, his breath soft in Malcolm’s ear, his movements slow and languid in the dark, they were safe, protected from the frightening things, like money and carbs and lovers who didn’t do what you expected them to, or status, or job prospects, or whether he’d get a bonus this year or have a job next year. He was financially strong enough if Owen needed him. As long as Owen didn’t have to pay rent, he’d be okay, probably. It had been a while since he’d lived on an even remotely similar budget as what Owen was making.

  “Mal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re thinking too much.”

  Owen’s hands slid under the waistband of his briefs and squeezed. Malcolm’s brain got ready to switch off like a generator when the power came back on, but Owen didn’t keep his hand there. He moved it back up to Malcolm’s stomach, to his chest, to his arms, and he kept the stroking long and easy—he wasn’t trying to arouse him, Malcolm realized. He was just—

  “Could you get on with it?” Malcolm, muttered through a yawn. “It’s been sort of a long night.”

  “Then fall asleep.” Owen laughed behind him, and Malcolm almost wrecked the mood by pushing up on his arm.

  “That’s no way to go about sex,” he protested, and Owen pushed him down again, still laughing.

  “What is the way to go about sex? All serious and efficient?”

  “No. Uh.” Well, he couldn’t remember having laughed quite so much with anybody else but Owen. “Point taken.”

  Owen kissed him. “If you fall asleep then you fall asleep. I won’t be mad.”

  Malcolm turned to fully face him, saw Owen’s grin in the faint glow from the alarm clock, and grinned back. “If you provoke me enough . . .”

  “Then you’ll take charge and get us both off?”

  “You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Goober,” Owen said and kissed him again. “It’s just that we have a lot of time and I’m trying to show you that I just like touching you. You know, spending time.”

  “Doesn’t mean we won’t get off, though?” Malcolm asked just to be sure.

  “Dork.”

  “Hey, I can be patient.”

  “It’s not patience I’m seeing here.”

  Malcolm spread his arms and legs. “Okay, then. Worship me in peace. I won’t interrupt.”

  It had been flippant, but oddly, it really felt like worship. Owen touching him, caressing him, slow and deliberate, and Malcolm soaked that up for what felt like half an hour or so. The arousal happened slowly, from tingly nipples, to heaviness in his thighs, to a mild ache in his balls, intensifying with each sweep of Owen’s hand.

  Owen stripped off his underwear slowly, and when his fist wrapped around Malcolm’s cock, it was sweet . . . a relief, another caress, a quiet stimulus. Malcolm arched into his touch, conscious that Owen had moved so his face was inches away, to the side.

  Almost dreamlike, Malcolm turned his head and found Owen’s lips in the dark. The kiss was like the massage; it built, layered, one kiss on top of another, while Owen continued to move his hand, strongly, slowly, and the warmth of Owen’s mouth and the strength in his hand and the sound of their breathing in the dark and . . .

  His orgasm, when it came, washed over his body like a sleeping wave in a warm ocean—it felt like something ordinary, but the strength, the build underneath it push
ed him further, higher, stopped his breath for far longer than he expected or even knew was possible. It wasn’t frantic or desperate, so the strength surprised him—if anything could have surprised him in that odd state.

  “Damn, that’s nice.”

  “I’d say.” Owen grinned into another gentle kiss.

  Malcolm fought off the sleep that was creeping up towards his brain. “I’ll just . . .” He managed to pull himself up onto his side and then pushed Owen down. Gently. Slowly. Kissing him—from his lips to his chest and belly—was a bit like sleepwalking in this state, and he was kind of aiming to go for a blowjob, but it was so nice how Owen stroked his hair, his neck and the sides of his throat, with all the time in the world, just like it all had started.

  He didn’t think he’d ever before noticed Owen’s subtle, deep breaths, or the steady, strong heartbeat. Not as focus points, more as symptoms, maybe. It felt so good to kiss Owen and press his face into Owen’s belly and wrap his arms around him, and be touched and warm and burrowed in blankets, at peace with the world, that he kind of forgot about the mechanics. Falling asleep like this was just perfect, and that was what he did.

  Later, Owen woke up a little and cleaned Mal up and got them settled so they could sleep on their sides before the cruel whim of the alarm. Little things to do for a lover, but important. Malcolm had trusted him tonight, with a lot of things.

  Owen would never let him down.

  All of the fun travel stuff in this story and authentic European feel is from Aleks—I just thought you should know. —Amy

  Any misrepresentations of the British, London, and Cambridge is entirely my fault, as always. —Aleks