They meet at the pub, weary and worn—fed up with their boringly perfect lives. These meetings were never planned—always left entirely to chance. There was no set schedule, no tradition to be upheld. Just the two of them and their broken, inescapable loneliness.

Neither questioned it. Few words passed their lips, if any, and the silence of their affairs were permeated by pants and 'oh' and 'yes' and 'more...'

There were never any names, either. It was 'hey', 'good evening', and 'tonight?' Their lips never met each other's—such softness was saved for the ones awaiting them at home. It meant very little, but there was a perfection neither of them could deny.

It was a fullness, the striving toward a connection with another person neither had yet managed within their partnerships. Together, they tried every time to find that sense of peace—a completeness that would set their minds to rest. It was a constant exchange of give and take without having to ask permission. It was 'I need', not 'I want'.

It was nothing. Just sex—a silent agreement to satisfy their lust together.

It could be ended in a moment if either desired.

Or if they did not.

One night they met, unplanned as usual. But tonight there was a shadow in those dark eyes.

'She knows.' The other nodded, washed-out grey orbs unfeeling and bland.

'So does mine.'

They sat in silence, sipping the alcohol as they always do. But their silent companionship could not last. Eventually, there would be an end—they both knew it. The blonde, his tumbler dry after several minutes devoid of any speech, was quickly losing his excuse to stay.

'Goodbye.' He shifted his chair back and made to stand, but a roughened hand on his arm caused him to pause. He looked into the other's face and saw the lost, confused yearning and understood.

'Would you—?' He wouldn't ask, but was close to it.

'Tonight?' The blonde murmured the question, knowing what the response would be.

'Yes.' The ebony-haired man bowed his head in submission as he followed the other out.

And when the other took him, thrusting slower than he ever had before, as if to savour the sensations—the pull and push of their bodies as moans and pants filled the air, that sense of fulfilled satisfaction took them both as they reached the edge and sprung over it, their enthusiasm hardly dampened. It would kill them to give this up—whatever it was they shared, but the consequences would be more difficult than they wished to weather.

Suddenly, there was silence as they lay in each other's arms, warm and slick with sweat, neither wanting to move and destroy the fallacy they had created. When he removed himself and went to search the floor for his trousers, the other sat up with him, keeping him there with a lose grasp—the blonde could easily have pulled away. They stared at each other a moment, silently expressing emotions they had both sworn never to feel—not here, at least—and finally gave in to temptation.

They kissed for the first time that night, and it was everything.

Their abstinence did not last; it couldn't. They tried, really; the pub was devoid of their presence for several months, but the fractured loneliness returned too easily. Both eventually sought what little comfort alcohol could bring them, only to meet again one night.

It was his undoing. The blonde writhed beneath him, body begging for the promised pleasure, and dark eyes lit up in something like happiness. To offered something so precious and to give what he could of himself spurned within him feelings he had never known with his wife. She was lovely and sweet, nearly as perfect as a woman could be—kind almost to a fault, but he did not want her the way he wanted this man he possessed with such ardour. This beautiful man whom he had kissed but once. He heard his lover's breath hitch and strove for all he was worth, wanting to bring them both as much pleasure as he could.

And then it was over. The dark-haired man offered his lips first this time, and the blonde stretched upward to meet him, one hand reaching around to splay in his short curls. Eventually, he pulled away, only to be stopped as he had stopped his lover the last time.

'Don't leave.' Came the quiet, uncertain whisper. So he lay back down and they held each other close, settling in to sleep, to smile, and to breathe.

'She's left me.' The blonde paused with his glass halfway to his lips, uncertain how to respond. Both their children had gone, and the only one left to be hurt by this was the now-single man sitting across from him. He settled on a vague, levelled tone.

'Did she.' It was not a question, but the dark head nodded, regardless. The blonde took another sip. 'Was it—' ...because of this? He cut himself off. Again, a nod.

'Tonight?' Dark eyes searched his expression, trying to find...something. What it was, the blonde had no idea.

'Yes.'

There was no longer any doubt that they had crossed some sort of line that two men were never meant to cross. The sex was no longer just sex. Tender emotions they had never expected nor wanted were expressed through their love-making that night.

'Stay?' His lover begged, eyes full of those forbidden—but no less present—feelings.

'Always.'

END

A/N: Well, I thought that was...cute? Hmm. This thing was inspired by Sharon Old's Sex Without Love, which I was forced to pull apart this last term as a Literary Critic. Let me know how you enjoyed/hated the style. I've never written so vague in my life.