The Professionals Circuit Archive - A Lever to Move the World       A
Lever to Move the World

 

by Kitty Fisher

  
 It was cold for Summer. Rain beat against the window-panes and Wimbledon
was off yet again.

Doyle sat, half curled on his sofa and watched Bodie watching horses run
around a track made of mud, the box flickering light across his intent
face as the commentator's voice rose to an hysterical pitch and a thousand
punters tore up their tote slips.

Though someone, somewhere, must have won.

It was just, to Doyle, on a day like today it seemed unlikely. 

He dragged his attention back to the book open in his lap. Stared at the
pages, watching the print. Bodie's voice made him start. 

"It bloody well shouldn't rain in June."

"No."

"Bloody criminal."

"At least the tennis players don't have to get wet." Doyle glanced at the
dripping horses in sympathy, and curled his legs up, harbouring heat.
Bodie was staring at the window, his profile hard and closed. Doyle
shivered. "We could always go out?" Out of the flat, out of temptation,
out of this neediness that took him harder and harder every time they were
alone.

"In this?" An aghast brow was raised at him.

"We could go bowling. That's inside..."

"No thanks. Not after last time." Bodie stood up, tossing the Racing Post
aside as he went over to the set and turned it off. The silence was very
loud as he walked to the window to stare out through the nets.

A car drove along the side-street, the swish of water raised by its tyres
drowning the silence. Doyle shivered, and watched the play of muscles
under tight wool. He wondered when Bodie was going home. Some days were
worse than others.

Ignorant of everything, Bodie pushed the net back and peered out. "Looks
like it's set in." 

"Yeah."

Bodie turned. "We could go down the pub -- they'll be open soon."

Doyle shook his head. Slowly the green of his eyes brightened as he
watched his partner's easy walk across the room. Wide shoulders, strong
thighs, the shape of sex clearly delineated under corduroy. His mouth was
dry and he knew he looked hungry, saw it reflected in the slight smile
that twisted Bodie's mouth.

As he said, "Or we could go to bed."

Relief was so intense Doyle shuddered. Bed, with this man. Sex. A craving
he was beginning to despise himself for. Maybe always had.

"I don't..."

"Just don't! Don't think. Don't pretend." Bodie crossed his arms. "Pub or
a fuck, which is it to be?"

Hesitation. Worse than denial. Though that wasn't what he meant and
hurriedly he answered, "Fuck." The word so twisted he hardly recognised
his own voice, as if it had been burned, aged, rusted with need.

"Great. Come on then." And Bodie turned on his heel, heading for the
bedroom, his attention on nothing but a single concern. Saturday afternoon
entertainment. 

Jesus Christ and all his saints...

Doyle took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then with a supple twist he
was on his feet, following.

******

Bodie was waiting on the other side of the bedroom door, with a trap that
hardly needed to be set. Doyle felt himself pushed back against the wall,
as the door was kicked shut. Bodie was smiling in the dim, thundery light,
pressing his body-weight forward, harder, bigger than the other man,
clearly loving it. Doyle saw it in his eyes and the knowing made his cock
eager, made it stain the pale cotton of his jeans with dark evidence of
desire. Hands caught against the wallpaper he twisted, and was stilled by
greater weight, by the power that only Bodie possessed.

Guilt, lust, despair; all shadowed dilated eyes. Doyle bit his lip and
tried again, tried to free himself, to find some parity, though all he
succeeded in was hurting himself, his head twisting back. He moaned as
Bodie bit the skin of his neck, breath hot on chilled skin, the mouth
avaricious and oh, so skilled. 

Resistance lost, Doyle hung still, Bodie's strength holding him up,
holding him tighter than was needed, tighter still. Until the pain was
enough to make him slide to the floor, his knees hitting hard as Bodie
stepped back, deft fingers unfastening his own cramped flies.

"This is what you want." Not a question.

Dry-mouthed, Doyle tried not to nod. "Maybe."

Bodie laughed softly. "Maybe..." A squeeze of his strong fingers and a
crystal fluid dripped towards the carpet. "Ahhh... come on Ray... please!"
Hips thrusting forward, head thrown back in need as his eyes closed.

Doyle watched Bodie jerking off. As the thunder broke, the air spiked with
the brightness of lightning. A shudder raising the hairs on his arms he
inched forward, knees aching already. Penitent, supplicant, he tilted his
face and licked. Tasted.

Salt and musk

Salt in his throat -- more burning his eyes.

And Bodie groaning as if knifed, his body convulsing as Doyle's mouth took
him, drank him.

After a moment, face still pressed to soft cotton, Doyle sniffed. And
smiled as a hand stroked through his hair. He looked up. "Hello."

"Yeah, well..."

"Don't. It'll be okay."

Bodie was smiling too, though he looked uncertain. After a moment he knelt
too, falling as if his knees had gone.

"Ray, I..."

A smile and Doyle wondered at the doubt. He stroked a hand down Bodie's
strong jaw, leaning in.

They kissed, softly, once. Then simply knelt together, holding lightly,
touching.

Doyle sighed. "Lets go away. Couple of days in the country. A nice hotel."

"You and me."

"Yeah, like it always has been."

Bodie nodded. And smiled.

-- THE END --

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