Disclaimer: QAF belongs to Channel 4 and Russell Davies, and I wouldn't change a thing, except that I desperately wanted for there to be more. No infringement intended. No money made.

Sex disclaimer: Never ever have I ever done it at the conclusion of a game of naked Twister.
Sex disclaimer 2.0: If you watched the show, you've seen it all before.

Notes:
Title stolen from the end-captions of QAF2. This actually takes place in the abstract time between Vince and Stuart leaving Manchester and when we find them again in Arizona, but that's not particularly important.
 
 

He wakes up and it's two in the morning and he's cold. Strange, because after he left England he didn't think he'd ever be cold again. Everything in America's hot, as far as he can tell. This desert. The sunburn he's acquired almost camouflages the freckles scattered under the surface of his skin, but it gives him a raw look he doesn't entirely like. He isn't ever going to be able to carry off the kind of casual sunburn he sees on men out here. Doomed forever to be sweet-faced and round-shouldered and burned across the bridge of his nose.

Down below, he's still slightly raw. Found this bloke earlier tonight in a particularly ratty small-town pub, gorgeous, and went with him. Got shagged on an army blanket in the back of a half-ton, which he has to admit was a new experience. Not that he claims to have had all the experience in the world up till then. But it was good. Laid out on his belly with his legs spread and busy fingers working in between them. Warm/cool track of a human tongue down his back to his ass. Onto it, and into it. Long, sweet minutes while he whimpered and twisted and rough hands rubbed along his sides.

Something cool and slick, and then the smell of latex, and in him. Deep, and a little rough. The hands on his skin weren't like anything he'd had before, not even the couple of times he'd picked up blokes from the steel mills. He's used to something a little more middle-class. Soft skin, soft hands, very precise hair. Only as Stuart's reminded him, between them they had every such man in Manchester, and it was boring.

What he's learned so far is that Americans are fun, and sexy, but they don't kiss. Or mostly not. He's shagged his way across America from Boston, and in two days they'll be in Arizona, and he's only been kissed three times. The first time actually in Boston, where he acquired a boy so glossy he could have escaped from a Harvard catalogue. Oxford shirt, slick blond hair, Aryan face and eyes, and a taste for British accents, even those terminally working class.

Very sweet, that first one. The flat was very clean and stark inside, and it was perfectly obvious that there were parents somewhere, financing the setup. He'd come in expecting something perfunctory and instead spent half the night making out with most of his clothes still on, laid back on a futon and duvet on one edge of that very white room. Holding his very white boy, and kissing him. Face, mouth, cheekbones, throat, collarbone. Both nipples. Wet, as wet as he could manage with his mouth all the way open. Ribs and slightly soft belly and the tiny navel. Chewed along the waistband of those perfectly pressed khakis. Admired and massaged the marks he'd made. And eventually went down on him, sucked that very pretty boy off easily, and got kissed again when he sat up. Only a quick flinch to show the boy hadn't been expecting the taste. Made him wonder, just a little, if it was the kid's first time.

He didn't think so, though. Because he woke up early and all he got was a quick kiss and smile and an offer of breakfast. Out of the building while the sun was still coming up. Very clean streets, like something out of a movie. 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', maybe, though that's set in New York. Came back to their hotel and Stuart was asleep, curled in on himself with bite-marks covering his chest. Naked under the sheets and a little bruised. Happy-looking. And sometime later that day, Stuart found the perfect mate to his jeep, only adjusted for driving in America, and they left.

The second kiss was random, and he thinks it was in Mississippi. He stepped out of a pub -- a bar, he's learning different words these days -- into an alley, and some big hand closed around a handful of his shirt and pulled him in. Awkward and messy, the tongue coming in strangely, a grope at his crotch, and gone before he could even decide whether to pull away or towards. So he just went back inside with his lips bruised and finished his drink.

The third time was tonight, just briefly, and not on the mouth. He was panting on the army blanket when lips brushed the back of his neck. More intimate than their shagging, but less than the drive out into the desert. He's come to the conclusion that he loves cars, and that men are just a nice additional toy, and someday he'll have to explain to Stuart about that one.

For a minute after they'd finished, he thought he was going to have to hitch back to town. The look his cowboy gave him was slightly horrified, but it didn't solidify into anything like violence. On the way back, he played with the radio. Sang a few lines of country music he was learning. Watched the big hands on the wheel.

Back in bed by half-past midnight, and Stuart wasn't there. He's come in since, and's curled up like the bed hog he is, wrapping all the covers around himself. Naked under that, probably, but he's bundled like a mummy and there isn't any way Vince can tell short of sinking both hands into that tangle of polyester and cotton and checking for himself.

So he gets up instead and finds his jeans. Pulls them on with his shoes and goes to stand outside. Ignores the cold. The ground's radiating heat; he won't freeze to death.

There's a big gravelled parking lot in front of the motel. Half a dozen trucks in it, including a couple of lorry rigs without trailers, and Stuart's jeep, and two small, rusted cars that must belong to the night staff. Something big like a Cadillac that belongs to whatever rich bastard's using this place for a knocking shop.

His -- the big fellow in the cowboy jacket and silver bolo tie. Two hundred eighty pounds, he thinks, and deeply middle-aged. Probably bald under the hat. Bit of a strut. Vince must have stepped into the light, because the wanker turns to look at him, suddenly suspicious.

Warm arms cross against his belly. Stuart, then, moving as quiet as the cat-slut he is. Both arms around Vince, and his chin on Vince's shoulder. Vince has a flash of this-is-my-boyfriend-you-bastard-why-don't-you-fuck-off-and-die before he's confronted with the full, threatening bulk of the man. Somewhere between who-do-you-think-you-are and time-to-bash-the-faggot.

He hasn't flinched at that in a long time. "Something wrong, mate?"

Pause. "Guess not."

The fact that he's English seems to end the question a certain amount of the time. He always wants to cackle at it. Their ways are strange to us! He should walk around draped in pink plastic like some escapee from the days of the first Doctor and see if it makes anyone more suspicious.

"I love it when you're manly." Soft Irish drawl in his ear. He thinks sometimes that Stuart's voice is probably the wanking soundtrack for half the men in the western world, and it's probably for a good reason. He's been ready to fall on his knees at a whisper of it for sixteen years.

"Fuck off."

Stuart rubs against him from behind, and he realizes that the bastard didn't bother to get dressed before coming out here. Barefoot, too, which explains why he seems so short. His feet must be aching from the gravel. They're soft; he doesn't think Stuart walks around without shoes except on very highly polished hardwood floors. Certainly always had good shoes as a kid. Soft feet, almost but not entirely unlike a woman, he supposes. Because he can't imagine any woman radiating that combination of don't-fuck-with-me and come-here-and-fuck-me in the arc light of this desert lot.

"Come back to bed. I'm freezing."

Sigh. "Fine."

He goes back in and drops his jeans while Stuart sits naked in the centre of the bed, watching him. "You had fun tonight."

"So did you." Not a thing to think about.

Long pause, then Stuart spreads his arms open and says, "C'mere."

And he comes. Commanded, utterly. Stuart's dog. And sits, gets Stuart's arms and legs both wrapped around him from behind, so that he's held against that thin Irish chest. Naked and bruised, sore inside, and still thinking that if Stuart asks, he'll get down on knees and elbows and spread himself open for him.

Stuart says, "Tell me a story."

"Why?"

"Because you woke me up, you daft bugger, and you owe me."

Fine. "Once upon a time there was a man who travelled through time in a call box."

"Vince, you're not getting me to watch that crap. Enough with the Doctor Who."

"Picky, picky, picky." Another pause. Still air around him, almost-cold except for Stuart's warmth against his back. Warm, wet breath against his neck. A kiss so tiny he doesn't register it at first presses onto his skin. "Fine.

"Once upon a time there was a prince who left his kingdom and travelled through a strange land. And he saw different men, and how they were gorgeous, and he had them all. In every city and even along the road. Because he was beautiful and he could. And he travelled with his fool, because the fucker made him laugh, I guess, and sometimes he teased the poor fool almost to death. Until the night the prince stole a gun from a man he shagged outside a really nasty pub in Arkansas, and showed it to the fool. And they agreed that it was the best thing they'd ever seen, and a really big improvement on fuck off. So the prince and the fool took the gun with them, and hid it under the pillow of whatever bed they were currently sacked out in, and decided that someday, when they needed to, they could use it to make some bastard very sorry."

It's there now, just a few degrees right of Stuart's bare ass on the bed. Silver-white and surprisingly heavy. He likes it. Once or twice he's lifted it out to look at it while Stuart's asleep.

"You're insane, Vince. You're lucky I love you or I'd be forced to let them lock you up. And you're not allowed any more science fiction, ever."

The big warm hands work loose from each other and start massaging gently across his chest. One soft-stubbled cheek grazes his shoulder. A second's full-body cat-rub before Stuart settles down.

Vince twists suddenly, and pushes Stuart back on the bed. Amazed at his own audacity, though not at the hugeness of the dark eyes staring back at him. Nor the hard-on that's very noticeable against his leg. And leans over him, reaches under the pillow, and pulls the gun out.

So. He straddles Stuart's hips and stares down at the man, who's unnaturally relaxed and just watching him. Ready to be amused, maybe. Wide eyes on him while he rubs the barrel of the gun from Stuart's breastbone down to his navel, following the very faint pattern of hair. Just once, he gets a heave of that stomach in response, a little something to suggest that the half-cold metal feels really, really good.

It's not fair. Stuart throws these moments of intensity at him, and expects him to resist. Biggest fucking tease he can imagine, all spread out and naked under him.

He runs the barrel back up and rests it pointing up toward's Stuart's too-pretty jawline. "I thought we decided you weren't going to tease me anymore." He doesn't like the hint of a whine that's in his voice, tries to ignore it.

No answer from Stuart at all. Then another long rub of that erection against his leg. So, hard at least. And more impressive for the fact that he'd bet money and his mother's house that the bugger got fucked through the wall earlier tonight. Big eyes, begging up at him. This is how he does it. Just beautiful and intense. He's suspected for a long time that Stuart never says anything to the men he seduces at all. Just looks at them in true come-hither style, and they come.

"God, you are just so --"

He doesn't get to finish the pronouncement. Stuart laces both arms up, hauls him down and kisses him.

Easy after that, and easier for the fact that they're both already naked. Hard because it's Stuart, but he's so gorgeous sometimes that you want to hit him. He moves like a cat under Vince's body, spreads his knees, makes it easy for them to rub against each other. Long, sloppy kisses and their cocks rubbing together. It's how he remembers sex being, when he was a kid. When he was still scared of it and a new touch made his stomach turn over and he was sixteen and the only thing he wanted in the world was Stuart Allen Jones, the clever little Irish bastard that not even Vince's mother could resist.

Frantic while he rubs himself off, and he's more than a little embarrassed that Stuart's still hard against him after he's come. Except that Stuart only pulls him in and kisses him more slowly, and rubs against him, very hard and deliberately, and slow. Just four or five times and comes himself, and burrows his face in Vince's shoulder.

Like he's the centre of the universe. Like he thought it would be. Maybe the only fantasy that's ever worked out something like he expected.

The gun's still there, on the sheets above Stuart's left shoulder. Vince shoves it away. A little sick at some of the things he considered doing with it. Rolls onto his side and curls up, feels Stuart curling around him from behind.

"Hey, you OK?" A light touch brushes across his temple.

"Yeah."

"Alright, then." And burrows into Vince's neck again.

He's always shocked at this. Stuart's tenderness is almost perfunctory, but it's as direct as an animal's, and that makes it easy to believe. One of these days he's going to have to kiss the man in some redneck bar and then work out all the revenge fantasies he has. And because he wants to see if Stuart will kiss him back with an audience watching. Forgetting, for the moment, that he's the one who shrinks away from contact with other men in public. Because in his mind, he's very, very brave, and someday he's going to be brave by daylight.  

 
 

jane
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