This is slash. This means that it contains a relationship of a romantic or sexual nature between characters of the same gender. I have identified this as a queerplatonic relationship, meaning that while there is no sexual or romantic attraction between the two characters, there is an incredibly close emotional relationship, and there is still a potential they may behave toward each other in sexual or romantic ways. This is not the case with all queerplatonic relationships, as each is unique to those involved.
Warnings: strong language, sexual content.
If slash makes you uncomfortable, do not read this. This is your warning. I will not tolerate any hate or trolling simply based on the fact that this is slash.
While this is definitely not my first time writing slash, this is my first slash piece for this fandom, so please be respectful with any reviews and criticisms.
We have a pretty solid agreement, Marco and I. We're both single, both have similar interests, and we took to each other the minute we first met at Station 51. As partners, we work together so well we've been accused of telepathy, and we get along well on our off-time, as well. Marco and I will get together and work on our cars or catch a game on TV or go to the beach. (He's tried to get me into soccer, but it's not quite my style. Plus, the guy plays semi-pro, for crying out loud. I'm more cut out to be, I don't know, the team manager or something.) We get along like a house on fire. Sure, sometimes we fight a little and get on each other's nerves, but that's just what friendship is.
Now, the two of us are firemen. We see some heavy shit. I've personally seen a beheaded body, severed limbs, dead kids, victims burned down to the bone, people shot through the head-… We've some shit, and that kind of stuff can really get to a guy, can mess with his head. Plenty of firemen have turned to drugs or alcohol to try and numb the pain or forget. Plenty turn to other women (and sometimes men) and get divorced, either for the cheating, the substance abuse, or both. Plenty need to go to therapy. Marco and I are lucky we have each other. We can get together and decompress and recover from whatever horrors have sent us reeling.
That's where our agreement comes in. We form the agreement after a horrific run about four months after being stationed at 51s. There was a really bad MVA with no survivors, including a couple kids. We end up going back to Marco's apartment, and we just fall apart. We hug, we cry, we rage. We hold each other, and that's when we decide that whatever happens between us in these moments, whatever comforts us, is okay. In these moments, we are allowed to cry and embrace and just be… vulnerable.
It's nice to know we can be that way with each other. I like knowing that whenever I need someone to be a shoulder to cry on or someone to rage at, Marco will be there for me, and I know he feels the same way. It's like our little secret.
We've been partners for three years when I bomb the engineer's exam. I'm pretty upset about it; Marco knows it. We go to his apartment, and he just lets me rant and rave, even though I scare the shit out of his cats.
"And it just proves it again! Chester B. Kelly's too fuckin' stupid to do anything right!"
"Hey, don't say that-"
"Why not? It's true! I've always been the stupid, fat, useless-"
"Dammit, Chet, stop that! None of it's true, and you know it!" Marco tells me forcefully, grabbing me by my arms, "You're not stupid, and you're not useless. You're the best partner a guy could ask for. You know plenty, and you can operate some heavy equipment none of the rest of us can-"
"-but I can't pass a stupid test…"
I sniff, trying to keep the tears at bay, but my eyes feel suspiciously wet. Marco's hands rub my upper arms, where they had just been squeezing, and he says, "So what? So what if you can't pass a test? Is that really the worst thing in the world? Y'know, honestly-… honestly, I-I'm kinda glad you didn't do so well… because it means you'll be staying. You're the best partner and the best friend I've ever had, Chet. I… I really didn't want you to get promoted and leave, selfish as it is…"
His throat clicks as he swallows, his face red. He's not looking at me. His hands have stilled, but I can feel his thumbs stroking along my biceps. Marco, my best friend, didn't want me to leave for another station, and really… I didn't want to go, either. I love all the guys I work with at 51s but none more than Marco. I can't help it. I reach out and settle my hands on his waist, feeling him move instinctually closer. He looks up at me, his brown eyes wet and… sad? No, they're not quite sad, but I can't really explain what I see there. The way he's looking at me…
"I'm still fat," I say, sounding forlorn, wanting him to refute that, too.
Marco doesn't disappoint. He shakes his head, smiling, and tells me, "No… no, you're not fat. You're a macho fireman, remember? It's all muscle, always there to back me up…"
He flushes a brighter pink, chewing his lip. I can't help it. I continue, "Then what's all this squishy stuff around my middle, huh? 'Cause it looks like fat to me, babe."
There's a soft chuckle. He pulls a hand away from my bicep and settles it on my waist. I yelp and jump when he gives me a pinch, making him laugh louder and say, "Nah, it's not fat… feels like muscle to me."
"Then why'd that Nora chick tell me I was too chubby?"
"Because she's una mujeruca, and she doesn't know what she's missing…"
He's got that look again, and I think I'm starting to figure it out. He whispers, "It all stays here, right? What we do?"
I nod, my voice not cooperating. My tongue sneaks out to wet my lips. Yes, Marco, it's our secret, whatever we do to give each other comfort. He swallows, telling me softly, "I just… I really didn't want you to go, Chet…"
His gaze searches mine. My heartbeat quickens, but I don't move away, don't pull my hands away from his waist. He leans in and presses his lips to mine. For a moment, I do nothing. The touch of his chapped lips throws me off balance like an electric shock. He holds his lips there against mine for a few brief seconds and pulls away. I don't let him get far.
I surge forward as he pulls back, not wanting those lips to get away, gripping his waist. He smiles against my mouth, stepping closer. I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him flush against my body. His lips move against mine, and I kiss back. Oh, it's pretty much perfect, and I'm sure I'm crazy for not knowing before that it would be. I love Marco, that's a fact, but it's complicated. The way I love him isn't really sexual, but it's not really romantic, either. There's just this love, this desire to be close to him. I take his lip delicately in my teeth and suck on it, pulling a soft moan from him. Goddamn, I love him.
The kissing becomes normal, just another part of the agreement, another way we comfort each other after all the shit we see. One afternoon, we're my place after a bad warehouse fire. Five employees died, including one that passed while Marco was carrying him out of the warehouse. We just wrap our arms around each other and cry. He sobs heavily in my arms, weeping uncontrollably, his body shaking and heaving. I tell him it's okay, that these things happen, that we can't save everyone. I trot out every line I can think of to comfort him. I don't have any words of my own. There are no words that can make this better, that can make him stop crying. I hate to see him cry.
I take his face in my hands when his sobs have faded to silent tears and hiccupping breaths, trying to brush away his tears. He just looks so miserable. I lean in and rest my forehead on his, still cupping his face. He pulls in a shaky breath as I press lazy kisses to his lips and the corner of his mouth and his nose. His arms loop around my waist. It's not long before we've got our tongues in the other's mouth, languidly licking and nipping, just as we usually do. His lips are warm and a little chapped, but his mouth is perfect. He still smells faintly of smoke. Whenever I pull away, even for a second, I tell him he's wonderful and beautiful and amazing. I need him to know that.
My lips trail along his jaw, and I feel his hands slip under my shirt, rough against my skin. His breath is warm against my ear, breathy and uneven. I can't help it. I maneuver so I'm straddling him, sitting in his lap, licking and nipping at that perfect brown throat. His fingers explore the expanse of my back, like he's memorizing the curvature of my spine and the placement of my ribs. I love it. I love him. I return my attention to his beautiful lips, but he has other ideas, apparently. He ravishes my throat with lips and tongue, and I tilt my head, allowing him to do whatever he wants. I drape my arms around his neck, moaning. He dips his tongue into the hollow of my throat and nips at my collarbone. A low groan drops from my lips, and my hips roll of their own accord, pressing our groins together. My breath catches in my throat. His moan vibrates against my skin. I roll my hips again, consciously this time, and take his face in my hands once more, kissing him soundly.
His dick is hard and so is mine, and I want to laugh at the idea of us rutting here on the couch like horny teenagers. It just feels so damn good, though, the way his hips buck up against mine, and his mouth is hot and wet and fuck he knows just what to do with his tongue. He moans into my mouth, and I drink it in like water. His hands squeeze my ass, pulling me closer. I break away from his lips, throwing my head back, panting breathily as he attaches his lips to my throat again. He cums first, gasping and digging his blunt nails into the flesh of my back. I roll my hips thrice more, and I'm cumming with a low moan and Marco's name on my lips. We laugh when it's all done because we're all flushed and sweaty and alive and holy shit we just came in our pants like some dumb kids. It becomes part of the agreement.
Somehow, nothing really changes. We keep a respectful distance at work, behaving no differently than normal. We're not too touchy-feely. I don't want to jump him when comes out of the shower, his brown skin wet and glistening, muscles shifting under his bare back. We are more than friends but not quite lovers. I don't look at him and want to be sexual with him, but sometimes it's what we need, so it's what we do. There's no word for what we are, I think, no word for us and our agreement. We still go on dates with women and trade raunchy stories of our latest fuck, but we still just have this incredible need for each other.
We go back to his place after a brush fire. We're exhausted from going three days on maybe three hours of sleep, but the adrenaline is still pulsing through our veins. Marco grabs me by the shirt and pulls me into his bedroom, and I'd probably be nervous if I was coherent enough to give a fuck. I grin as he shuts the door and shoves me up against it, pinning me there with his body. He licks into my mouth with fierce passion, and I let him have his way with it. We almost died about six times each in the last three days. My body is on fire from exhaustion and arousal. I feel heavy and light in turns. His teeth catch my lip and leave glancing bites he doesn't take the time to soothe. I flick my tongue against his, teasing, smirking. I grab his ass and pull him flush against my body, lining up our groins and rolling my hips.
He sets to work on my throat, immediately going for the spots he knows drive me crazy. Breathy pants drop from my mouth. I run my hands up under his shirt, caressing his shivering flanks, rubbing the muscled chest and hard nipples. He gasps against my collarbone. Damn, my cock is so hard. I roll my hips, looking for relief.
"Mar-Marco," I pant, "Marco- ngh!- please-… bed-… be- oh!"
We nearly trip in the middle of the room but make it to the bed, tumbling to the mattress. Marco climbs up, straddling me and stripping off his shirt. My hips buck up at the sight. Fuck, I can see the outline of his dick in those jeans. I've never seen him hard. I've seen his dick before, as it was sometimes unavoidable in close quarters, but I've never seen him hard. I'm doing that to him. I'm making him flushed and hard and short of breath. He's fumbling with the buttons of my shirt while I try to free his cock from those jeans. The air is filled with pants and moans and sweat and sex.
The noise he makes when I put my hand around his cock is pornographic, and it almost makes me cum right there. I take a moment to properly look at him: pupils blown, body flushed, cock hard and short and thick and heavy in my hand. I give him a few good, slow strokes, reveling in the way he groans. He reaches down, working to undo my jeans. God, yes. My hips buck up when that wonderful brown hand wraps around my dick, a wanton moan slipping through my lips. Marco pumps it a few times, then leans down, covering my body with his, our cocks lining up perfectly. I shove my hand down between us, grabbing our two slick cocks and stroking slowly. His forehead is pressed to mine. We're both panting and moaning, breathing each other's air. Our eyes are locked, his all black pupil but for a thin ring of brown.
I flick my tongue out to touch his lips, to tease, still pumping slow and easy. I almost lost him a few times during that fire. I bring my other hand up to the side of his face, cupping his cheek and guiding him in for a kiss. I kiss him thoroughly. I kiss him in the same way I'm jerking us off: slowly, carefully, gently. I want to memorize the way his tongue moves against mine and the taste of him and how the roof of his mouth feels and the placement of his teeth. His hand slips down to join mine, and we practically cum at the same time. We gasp against each other's mouth, our chests heaving, cum sticky and warm on our stomachs. Marco kisses me lazily, our exhaustion finally creeping up on us. He manages to grab an old shirt to clean ourselves up, and we soon strip down to our shorts, curling up next to each other on the bed. We sleep until the next morning. It becomes part of the agreement, whatever we need to comfort ourselves and each other.
We're more than friends. We're not quite lovers. We still go on dates with women and tell raunchy stories about our latest fuck. There's just this innate and incredible need we have to be close to each other, to comfort each other, to know the other as intimately we know ourselves, to know just what the other needs. Sometimes we just need to be held and allowed to cry. Sometimes we need a little more. I love Marco, and he knows it. He loves me, too, and I know it. It's simple and complicated all at once. It's perfect. It's all part of the agreement.