For mojo x

Ste

I've been working out for months now. Months and months. 'Working out' sounds a bit poncey, though, a bit gym bunny, and that's not me, so when Amy rolls her eyes and says You haven't been working out again, have you? I always get, you know, defensive. Just exercising, that's all. Even though I can see she's just having a laugh.

It started with Noah. He was mad on it, went on about it the whole time. First of all it was, Thought you used to be a chef, Ste? So how come you live off junk food? Then it was, Ever thought about working on your body, Ste? I could work out a training regime for you if you like. What d'you think? Like he was doing me a favour, only it was himself he was thinking about, I just didn't realise it at the time: My mates are gonna wonder what kind of a trainer I am if I can't even get my own boyfriend into shape. Said it with a smile, he did.

Brendan used to tease me about my body, about how skinny I was, but he wanted me whatever I was like. I mean, really wanted me. Physically anyway. But then, he wouldn't ever call me his boyfriend, would he, and that's what I liked about Noah.

So I started the training thing because I didn't want to lose Noah, because what if he left me because I wasn't like he wanted me to be? What if I wasn't good enough to keep a man, like I'd never been good enough to keep a girl? What if Brendan saw that I was on my own again, and saw that I wasn't worth wanting? So I started doing what Noah wanted. I drew the line at going to the gym though, because I couldn't afford it, although I don't think Noah believed that was the real reason. Whatever.

I learnt a set of exercises and did them at home when Amy was out, mostly, and it didn't seem to make any difference at first, but then I noticed I was getting a bit bigger, maybe; felt a bit stronger.

I packed it in when Noah fucked up and went off to Newcastle or to hell or wherever he fucked off to. Stopped with the salads and the brown rice and the lean meat, and the glass of red wine. Everything was a mess again. Everything was disappointing. Everything hurt. But I had my kids, so I had to keep going, had to stop being angry because it was mental, living like that, and I was killing myself from the inside even if it didn't look like it from the outside. Not that I was angry with Noah, by the way: I forgot him as soon as he got on that bus, didn't I. It was Bren I was angry with, as per.

It was like I had something to prove. People might think I was a loser, and a mug, but I didn't have to look like one, even if I felt like one. So I started doing the exercises again, and it was different this time because I wasn't doing it for someone who was gonna crap all over me anyway. I was doing it because I wanted to. And this time I liked it. Yeah, that was a surprise. When I did it for Noah it reminded me of homework when I was a kid, before I worked out that you could stop doing homework and nothing bad would happen to you, or at least nothing worse than the shit that usually happened.

I started setting myself goals, sort of thing, like upping the number of crunches and squats and all the other exercises with stupid names that I'd had to learn. And my body was changing, I could feel it.

Brendan

I've always been strong. Skinny as a kid, sure, but I was agile, and I could stand up for myself. I learnt that from my dad: I had no choice.

Never been crazy about the gym. Seems to me, there's always better places to spend my money and my time, but there's a voice in my head that nags me to keep in shape. Always has been. I've been known to pick up the occasional lad in a gym, back in the day, so there's always been that possibility to keep me interested; scenery to look at, if nothing else.

It hasn't been quite so easy to keep to my fighting weight since I got into my thirties, and now and again I've found I've got a bit of a belly going on: not enough to worry about, or to turn off the man I wanted. Just say no to the second burger for a week or two, and stay off the beer, and it's gone.

Prison was where things got serious. More ways than one, obviously. Men seemed to go one of two ways when they went inside, either get apathetic, or get into training big time. That's the way I went: in the prison gym, when it wasn't too crowded, but mostly in my cell. You can improvise with your bed, the floor, the walls, the door, get a routine going. It started as something to do, and became a habit, then kind of an addiction I guess. I'm single-minded, see, when I set my mind on something.

It helped me to think. It was rhythmic and mindless, which left a big space in my head to think things through and make plans. It could do the opposite too, mind: when it felt like my head was bursting with images I didn't want to see, and questions I didn't want to puzzle over, I could get working out and concentrate on the sensations in my body, the tendons and ligaments and muscles stretching and straining under my skin, until that was all I could feel.

Getting stronger gave me a fighting chance, too, when I had to fend people off. Which was pretty much every day towards the end.

When I got out I kept up with the workouts, because this new version of my body made me feel untouchable. No-one could ever look at me and see weakness. It was my armour.

Ste

First time I saw Brendan after he came back from prison, it was a shock. The beard wasn't a shock, Cheryl had warned me about that. But I bumped into him, literally, and it was like something fired off inside me, something I hadn't felt for a very long time. We had a weird conversation, I didn't know what he was on about really. I often don't know what he's on about, to be honest. He's cleverer than me, isn't he: that's not difficult. He's cleverer than most people, though. That's one of the things I...

Anyway, I've seen him around over the months since then, and he's been working out (yeah I know, poncey words) because, he was always fit, but since prison, well, anyone would notice. His shoulders look wider, and his middle is sort of narrow like there's no spare flesh. I remember one time when me and Dougie were decorating, just before we opened the shop, and he came in, Brendan did. I told him to get lost, basically, but I couldn't help looking at him. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder even though it wasn't warm out, not at all. He had a shirt on, and the sleeves were pushed up, and his arms looked... I could imagine running my hands up them, feeling the hairs and the muscles.

Brendan

He looked different when I got out. Stephen. First time I saw him I didn't know what it was; even asked him if he'd got taller. It wasn't that though, obviously. After a while I worked it out. He'd filled out, wasn't the scrawny little bastard he was when I first knew him, but to be fair he'd already been getting that way the last time I'd had him back in the summer. No, it was something else, it was as if all the shit that had happened to him - at my hands, most of it - had had a physical effect, not in a bad way but... He'd put away childish things, grown from all the hard knocks and the disappointments, and had turned from that scared little kid into a man.

Course, it was a work in progress. Life doled out a few more knockbacks for him. I played my part, I'll admit that.

Took me a while to figure out that I wasn't invincible, however much I wanted to be. All that time, he was there, in my rear view mirror while I did my best to get away from him, and then came the revelation that I still loved the little fucker. I'd say it was a bolt from the blue, except it wasn't, because it had been there all the time, stuck inside me, only I was too fucking scared to admit it.

Then I started to look at him again, and everything was still there: the Bambi eyelashes, the stubborn jaw, the resentful expression, the mouth that seemed to fall into a pout every time he saw me. One time after I'd handed the money over to Douglas and they'd got the lease to their shop - before everything came back to bite me, like it always bloody does - I went in there. They were doing the decorating themselves, the two boys. Stephen was sarcastic as hell. He didn't understand: why would he? I was never straight with him, and he's never been any good with riddles. It baffled me, though, that he didn't just know that everything I did - everything I'd done for well over a year by then - was about him. He should have known.

Anyhow, that day he was in this blue T-shirt, and I think it was the first time I really noticed that he must have been working out, because he didn't have those chicken arms any more. He looked toned and strong and confident, like he was at home in his own skin. And he was defiant as fuck, and I felt my pants get tighter; had to hold my jacket in front of me. Yeah, that bad. I said to Douglas, He loves me really. Just a wisecrack. Kinda hoped he'd have the inside track though, Douglas, and say, Yes he does.

I knew Stephen would have that confidence knocked out of him again, sooner or later, when he found out that Douglas and me had gone behind his back, but at that moment I knew I'd been right to do it, just to see him becoming what he could be.

Brendan and Ste

It's been a long time getting to this point. Brendan's been edging towards him, chipping away at Ste's resistance. At times it's seemed as if the setbacks and obstacles and recrimination would never stop coming. There are still doubts in both their minds, because there can't not be doubts: this is no fairytale, they both know that.

Baby steps.

They've done all the talking they're going to do, for now. Now, it's their bodies' turn.

They stand facing each other. There is silence, except for the sound of their breathing and the hammering of their hearts. Brendan reaches a hand out, strokes his fingertips down Ste's face from his temple to his chin; runs his thumb across those lips. They'll do this slowly this time, not like last time. This time it will be different.

Closer.

Ste can feel himself shaking, but he isn't scared, not physically, not here and now. Brendan won't turn on him, he's sure of that. It's just, Ste wants him, badly. It's been so long, and as his fingers rake through Brendan's hair and he feels Brendan's hands on the back of his head, and their mouths find each other, the strangeness and the familiarity become a single impossible thing.

They get each other's tastes. The inside of Ste's mouth feels astonishing to Brendan as his tongue rediscovers it; its heat and its hiddenness.

They part, Brendan peeling Ste's hands off his neck and forcing him to step back. Ste is puzzled, but then Brendan begins to unbutton his own shirt, and Ste mirrors him, because he gets it now: Brendan wants to look at him.

Ste's white shirt drops to the floor, and Brendan's eyes slide over his torso. He looks more solid than he used to, his upper arms rounded, his chest broader maybe. Sleek. He's got rid of that little bit of hair from the middle of his chest again: why does he do that? Those little sloping nipples are stiff, Brendan doesn't have to touch them to know that. Ste looks into Brendan's eyes levelly: he knows he looks good, the sexy bugger, and seeing that confidence in him is a turn-on. Brendan takes hold of the boy's hips and slides his hands up his flanks. He can still feel those ribs like he used to, but now there's a veneer of muscle protecting them. Not so fragile any more.

Ste bats Brendan's hands away: two can play at this game. The corner of his mouth curls into a smile as he pushes Brendan's shirt off his shoulders, and Brendan throws it across the room and holds his hands out to the sides, palms forwards, in a gesture that says, Get a load of this.

Fuck. Ste's breathing quickens at the sight of him, he can't help it. Brendan has an amazing body, it's the kind you don't often see except when you shut your eyes. His shoulders are straight, powerful. His arms are bigger than ever, and his biceps curve even when he's not flexing them. His wrists look sinewy and strong. His stomach and his waist are tight and made of muscle. He looks as if he could crush you to death if he wanted. He doesn't look to Ste like someone who spends hours at the gym gazing into a mirror. This is a working body. He looks real.

Ste licks his lips, and Brendan laughs deep down in his throat and drags him into his arms, and pulls his head back by his hair, and kisses and licks and bites at his throat: it's exposed to him, vulnerable, but the hard triangle of his Adam's apple asserts how male he is, that he's a contender. Brendan scrapes his teeth over it and hears Ste groan.

Brendan feels Ste's hands move to unbuckle his belt, and he returns the favour, and soon they're naked together for the first time since that summer's day last year. Their bodies crash against each other, pelvis to pelvis, their cocks trapped together, burning.

Wherever Ste's hands touch Brendan - his arms, his back, his arse, his thighs - he feels hard muscle beneath the smooth skin. To Brendan, the boy's hands feel assured as they explore him, the fingers digging in hard as they drag at his flesh.

Brendan slides his hand in between their bodies and grabs hold of Ste, balls and cock, and as he kneads them he registers every texture: the cock jutting violently in his palm, the loose softness of his sack, the hair sparser than his own and less wiry. Ste moans against his neck. Brendan's mouth brushes the side of Ste's head, and the sensation of the razored hair as it spikes against his lips is so acute that he thinks he could count each individual one if he wanted to. All his senses are alive, painfully so.

He lets go of Ste's cock because he doesn't want him to come yet: this was meant to be slow. He wraps his arms around him again, and they kiss.

Ste gets hold of Brendan's left hand, and takes his fingers into his mouth. The fingers scissor at his tongue.

The boy's eyes are black, like a cartoon character's; there's just the narrowest circle of blue around the huge dense pupils. When he lets go of Brendan's wrist, Brendan does what Ste is begging for, and slides his wet fingers between the cheeks of his arse, and gently, and then not gently, into his hole. Ste cries out, and as Brendan's fingers hook deeper, Ste kisses him wildly and bites at his lips and tongue.

They stagger to the bed, and Brendan shoves Ste onto it. Ste watches as Brendan stands over him: the fingers that were inside Ste's body a moment ago are now in Brendan's mouth as he gets all the tastes of him again, after all this time.

Ste smiles. This man is his, and they both know it. His hand goes to his cock, absently, as he watches Brendan root through the drawer for a condom and rip it open with his teeth and hastily roll it on. One day soon, they'll go to a clinic together to get the all-clear, and then they won't have to bother with condoms any more. Ste wonders if it will feel different without one. He'll have to choose his moment, though, before he suggests that trip to Brendan.

Brendan wishes he could leave off the rubber: he's never fucked this boy without one, and the thought of doing it makes him hot. He's pretty sure he's clean, he's been careful all his life: used to be paranoid about bringing home to Eileen a souvenir of his secret life, and the habit stuck. It's not worth risking it with Stephen, not right now. Neither of them is sure where the other has been.

He's on him now; Ste's legs have parted to let him stroke on a thick slick of lube, and to let him in. Brendan positions himself, the tip of his cock testing the rim of Ste's hole.

Ste is already panting. He feels powerless, at the mercy of Brendan's strength and weight and passion; and powerful, as he presses his hand against the rough hair on Brendan's chest and feels his heart beating, and sees in Brendan's fierce blue eyes that it is beating just for him.

Brendan looks at his face. Ste's lips are swollen and his eyes are shining under half-closed lids.

"I love you, Stephen."

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't. Just let's not say things, Bren, cos last time - "

Brendan's turn.

"Don't." Then he has to ask, because he has to be sure, because it's been so long and he can't believe this is happening: "You want this, yeah?"

Ste wonders how Brendan can doubt that he's ready. His body is begging to be reclaimed.

"Yes."

Then he's in him. He'd wondered if Ste would still be as flexible now that he's that much bigger, and it turns out he is, as Brendan bends him in half at the hips. Clever boy.

So much for going slowly. Brendan's going hard and fast, and Ste wants him to, all his limbs embracing his lover's body as he draws him in. He feels full of him, possessed and possessing, and it hurts, and it's close to heaven.

Can working out make those muscles stronger? Because their hold on Brendan's cock is immense, as the inside of Ste's body spasms in wave after wave. Ste is screaming, laughing, Oh, fuck, Bren... Brendan! Oh! Fuck..! and as Brendan comes he feels a spatter of wet heat on his belly as Ste ejaculates too.

They lie there in the comedown, skin on skin, stuck together with sweat and cum and need.

Brendan pulls the condom off and wraps it in a tissue and drops it on the floor.

They almost but don't quite sleep. Brendan looks at the body beside him: it's gleaming and golden. He moves down the bed and begins to lick away the drying cum from Ste's smooth stomach. His tongue plays into all the contours, the belly button, the hollows between hip bones and pubes; around his flaccid cock, flattening the hair with spit; cleaning away the last of the mess from his thighs. He lies back again, and Ste cuddles into the space under his arm.

"Ta," Ste says, and smiles like a fallen angel.

"You're welcome." Brendan pulls the cover over them both and closes his eyes.

"You've got..." Ste hesitates.

"Mm?"

"On your tache."

Brendan turns his head and looks at the boy. There's redness around his mouth from Brendan's stubble.

"Stephen. Everything we just did, and you can't say 'cum'? Shy, are you?"

"Shut up. You've got cum on your tache, you."

Brendan smiles and shuts his eyes again.

Ste cranes his neck to reach Brendan's moustache with his tongue, and laps it clean.

"Good lad."

Brendan pulls him tighter into his arms, and their legs entwine. Soon, they will rouse themselves and kiss again and make love, taking their pleasure slowly this time. But for now, sleep overtakes them, and as their breathing settles into a single rhythm, neither man can tell any more where his body ends and the other's begins.