So sick, so sick of being tired.

And oh so tired of being sick.

We're both such magnificent liars.

So crush me baby, I'm all ears.

So obviously desperate, so desperately obvious.

I'll give in one more time and feed you stupid lines all about "its basic..."

You Know How I Do, Taking Back Sunday

It seemed as if each time they parted, they had to start all over again. The coyness, the exploratory touching, it was a deliciously vicious cycle. Don would stop by; they'd have a few drinks, watch a game that neither of them cared about. A hand, usually Mac's, would creep outside the predetermined boundaries of the seat cushions. Don never looked surprised, not even the first time; he just turned his hand over and folded it into Mac's. That would be followed by a good half an hour of them moving millimeters closer to each other until they had no choice but to lift their hands to allow space on the couch for their bodies.

All of this would have taken the better part of an hour, then someone, usually Don would lean in for a quick kiss. His eyes were always closed and it was always the briefest brush of their warm skin together. Don would pull back with his eyes still shut, bracing himself for the day when Mac realized that they were crossing way too many lines to not worry about their careers. But this was something they both needed, didn't know if they could do their jobs without it. Quite the catch twenty-two, Don provided him with enough sanity to correctly perform the tasks required of him but he also added enough chaos to keep him up on the nights that he fell asleep alone. Which was always.

After the kiss they'd sit in silence for a few minutes, giving each other the time they needed to gather their wits, consider bolting for the door. Don usually sat with his eyes shut, lashes resting against the skin Mac knew to be baby soft as opposed to the skin only a few inches lower that had the promise of a five o'clock shadow at eight o'clock in the morning. Even if his eyes were open they were never on Mac, he had always found this unsettling.

At first Mac had waited for Don to look at him, say something, but now Mac knew better. He'd lean in and kiss just below Don's earlobe, his chin brushing against the collar of his shirt, let Danny laugh but the patters and colors of Don's clothing only drew Mac in closer. Often times Mac's unoccupied hand would reach over their bodies and run down Don's tie. He wondered if Don thought he had a thing for the ties or if he knew how anxious he was to feel his body. He hoped it was the latter, although given time and trust, they could have some fun with the former.

Don's body would relax and he'd sink back into the armrest of the sofa, one arm sliding around Mac's waist, pulling him on top of his body, the other hand still folded in Mac's. Mac was content with lazy kisses, being older he knew that sometimes kisses could be even better than sex, he wondered if Don knew this too, of if he was just easing into the water. He wondered a lot about Don, about their "situation". Then he would start to wonder if Don wondered and that got his brain spinning in a direction he liked to safe exclusively for work.

But all of this wondering took place after Don had left, because when his hips were flush against Don, there wasn't much he could think about. Slowly Don's leg would wrap up around his body and Don would arch up against him, applying more pressure to their hips, but breaking the kiss. And this would be it. They'd rock against each other until their muffled moans became louder groans and their bodies began to shake, each time Mac felt like he was in junior high. The sickening feeling of coming in your clothes, knowing you'd have to walk home sticky, then do your own laundry in fear your mom would see what had happened. Come to think of it, it reminded him of being in the Marines a lot too. But that was something else he didn't want to think about, he put that thought on the shelf in the back of the closet along with his memories of Claire and everyone he had left back in Chicago. Some things were better left not thinking about, in the dark, in the closet.

After soiling yet another knock off suit Don would wait until they both caught their breath before he attempted to speak. He'd run his hands over his face, his watch sliding over his wrist in a way Mac found nothing less than erotic, and then say something about it getting late, big case, court, whatever it took to get him out of Mac's apartment. Mac hid his disappointment with a practiced ease, he hadn't been acknowledging his feelings for so long he wondered if he even knew what they were anymore. There went his brain again, stewing over things better left in the closet. But it was better to the alternative, which was watching Don walk out of his home. Every time Don got up Mac thought about grabbing his hand, or at least asking him to stay for a bit. But his mouth never seemed to work right so he'd just nod his head and pretend that the last two hours hadn't meant a thing.

The second time Don had shown up, Mac expected things to start off where they had left off. But they hadn't, they were back at square one. On the couch, a full cushion between them. He almost thought he had imagined the entire thing, maybe it had been nothing but a stress fueled delusion. Or maybe that was too sophisticated, maybe it was just a wet dream. Mac thought he was too old for those, but he was too old to be dry humping someone on his couch so he supposed anything was possible. All he knew for sure was that he was too old to be sleeping alone. And Don was too young not to be.