Doesn't contain graphic sex, but the actions of sex are mentioned briefly. Between two males, so if you don't like slash, don't read it, 'kay? Kay.
WET
They're walking down the boardwalk, talking about cars and the hot babe that gropes Brian when they're in the bar. The heat is hot against their backs, against Brian's face, and it's a wonder how Rome isn't dying or complaining, but the drops of sweat that slide down Rome's back prove otherwise. Still, he isn't saying anything, so Brian thinks he's fine until Rome gives a sigh.
"Damn, Brian, it's hot. How the hell did you last out here?"
"Dunno," Brian grins, vaguely recalls a memory where Rome was complaining about Barstow, the scorching heat and the desert, and he whistles innocently for a second.
"What, Brian?" And Rome's shooting him a look, that look that's suspicious and wary and Brian tries not to think about the time Rome punched him in the face.
So he pushes Rome instead.
It takes a second too long for the splash, for Rome's spluttering, and then Rome's dragging himself back up on the boardwalk, glaring darkly at Brian with those hard eyes of his--not as hard as Dominic's. The intensity in Rome's eyes is softer, less dangerous--less potent.
"What the fuck did you do that for, Brian?" Rome grunts, sitting on the edge of the wooden cement, soaking wet from head to toe. Brian stops to look at him, swallows a bit. 'Cause, Rome in a wet t-shirt is fucking hot--hotter than that chick, Emily Rose from the eighth grade.
"You looked like you were hot," Brian replies, not looking at him, grinning instead into the sky. "Thought I'd, uh, put that fire out of yours."
Rome shoots him a dark, dirty glare, and Brian whistles again. "You still look hot, though," Brian continues endlessly. "You want me to help you with that, or what, man?"
"Bro, you are so fucked."
"By you?" Brian asks, and his face is starting to hurt he's smiling so much. "Yeah, I am, aren't I?"
"Don't give me that shit, Brian," Rome mutters, pulling off his shirt halfway, and then he stops, gets up on his feet, drags water everywhere but on Brian. "Let's go home."
"Yeah," Brian says. He stares at Rome's dripping form for a second, and then bursts out laughing, has to lean against the poles to support himself. Rome knocks him one in the stomach, not so hard but pretty fast, and Brian gasps with pain and mostly laughter, hears Rome's boots stomp away angrily.
Which is fine, because then they're at home and Rome's mouth is eating Brian's, his fingers groping everywhere with that possessive touch that makes Brian gasp, and he chokes on his moans when Rome sucks his cock just right or brushes just the right spot with his fingers--makes Brian absolutely dizzy and crazy for him.
But that's okay, Brian admits, because afterwards he's lying in the afterglow with Rome, tangled in his legs and arms.
"Crazyass white boy," Rome mutters in his ear, and his voice washes away the blood and sweat from L.A., the sound of a low, angry voice.