I wrote this awhile ago but I'm just now posting this here because I didn't know this site had a Boardwalk Empire category. Huzzah!
He starts wondering how things got so totally fucked even before Nucky Thompson walks in with Jimmy Darmody two steps behind him. After, though, he just begins praying that he'll make it through this alive.
He's able to keep his cool until Lucien D'Alessio begins shooting his mouth off. He wants to tell him to shut his fucking mouth, that he's not improving their odds of surviving this, but Teo is in the way and besides, Darmody takes care of that in pretty short order by unholstering his gun.
"What, you gonna shoot me for mouthin' off?" Lucien says, and the challenge in his words is so palpable that Meyer really isn't surprised that someone with as quick a temper as Darmody would respond in kind.
"Well, I wasn't going to, but you kinda talked me into it," Darmody answers coolly. In two seconds, he levels his gun at Lucien D'Alessio's head and blows a hole in it. The taller D'Alessio slumps back, dead, and Teo lets out a sob of grief and anger.
"Anybody else?" Thompson asks. Meyer holds his tongue.
"What should we do with him?" one of Chalky White's men asks him.
"Leave him at the dump...with the rest of the garbage," he answers, staring right at the remaining D'Alessio.
Teo then says the stupidest possible thing to White. "When my brothers get back, they're gonna string you up higher 'n they did that other fuckin' coon."
Meyer closes his eyes and wishes he was kneeling next to a smarter man.
He's also not surprised when White responds to that insult. He is surprised and slightly horrified when White grabs the other D'Alessio by the lapels and hoists him to his feet. Meyer leans back to keep out of their way as best he can while White slams Teo back and begins choking him.
It takes a lot longer for Teo to die than his brother. Meyer has a lot of time to contemplate the deep the shit he's in. So far, he's kept any comments to himself, but they still might decide to kill him anyway to send a message to Rothstein. He doesn't give a shit about the other D'Alessios, but they want Charlie, too. That knowledge twists in his stomach and he wants to cry and throw up all at once. A.R. better not give them Charlie, not ever.
He can still hear the strangled sounds rising out of Teo D'Alessio's throat and, unbidden, memories start floating up in his mind. He'd heard that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes, and right now, he's thirteen years old, two hours before his bar mitzvah, running through all the things that he's supposed to say. Only five years ago, but it somehow feels like yesterday and thirty years ago all at once. He remembers the nerves and excitement, the small smiles from his family and the rest of the templegoers, and praying he doesn't mispronounce a word.
White drops D'Alessio, and the man's knees buckle under his limp weight. The Italian is dead, and Meyer is brought back to reality, staring at a corpse. That will be him in a few minutes, he's sure. He blinks, and then Thompson approaches.
Meyer holds his breath to keep himself from trembling, but it doesn't work. If anything, he shakes even more. Thompson is going to kill him, he knows it. What will Charlie say? Will Charlie ever know what happened, or will he be left at the garbage dump along with the D'Alessios? How is Thompson going to kill him?
Thompson crosses behind him and Meyer turns his head, staring forward. White and Darmody don't look at him. He prays for a quick death-and, yes, he's praying again, something he hasn't done in four years, but he hopes that whatever is above him will hear him. And just like that, a strange serenity fills him.
Thompson hasn't moved behind him, but he blinks and his terror melts into acceptance. He's going to die. He's eighteen years old and he's going to die, and there's nothing he can do about it. There's no point in trying to fight it anymore. As long as Charlie kills Thompson-and Meyer is almost certain he will; once Charlie's full-blooded Italian rage has a target, he doesn't let it go-then Meyer will be happy. That's all that matters.
He just wishes he'd been able to tell Charlie before he died. He was too scared of how he'd react, but now Charlie will never know, and that's the last thing that Meyer will ever regret.
He feels Thompson's hands on his wrists, and the older man is fiddling with the ropes now. He only has a split second to wonder what's happening when Thompson's mouth is practically pressed to his ear-it's awkward, only three people are allowed to get this close to him, and Nucky Thompson is not one of them-and he says, "You can go now."
It takes nearly three seconds for the words to sink in, but when they do, Meyer lets out a choked laugh, half relief and half disbelief.
"And please... tell Mr. Rothstein what you saw here tonight," Thompson adds, and finally finishes untying Meyer's hands. The ropes fall away and Thompson steps back; Meyer gingerly climbs to his feet, knees stiff from kneeling for three hours and shoulders aching from his hands being behind his back for so long. He flexes his fingers to restore his circulation and turns to Thompson. He gives the other man a respectful nod to acknowledge both his task and the incredible service he's just given him before walking to the door. He has to force himself to walk normally-every instinct he has is screaming at him to run-but miraculously, he makes it to the door alive.
Once he's out and the door to the warehouse closes behind him, though, all bets are off. He sprints to the train station and gets on the next train back to New York.
He can't fall asleep on the train. He knows if he falls asleep, he'll have nightmares. He doesn't want to wake up screaming, and he's sure he will. He's trembling again, his knees unsteady and trousers caked with dirt from the warehouse floor, and he has no idea where his hat went, but he doesn't care what he looks like right now. He's alive, he'll see Charlie in a few hours, and Rothstein is almost guaranteed to retaliate for this.
When the train arrives, it's nearly one in the morning. All he wants to do is go home, take a bath, and pass out, but he can't. A.R. will be expecting a report.
It's more than a little tempting to let it wait until the morning, but he sighs and heads uptown, toward A.R.'s place. Rothstein probably won't be happy to see him at this hour, but he'll be more upset when he finds out that Meyer didn't come straight to him to report.
It's a relatively brief taxi ride to A.R.'s place, but it would have taken forever to walk and Meyer doesn't have the strength to manage it right now. He pays the driver and steps out, barely able to lift his feet up the steps. He knocks at the door as the cab pulls away, and after a minute or two, the door opens and A.R.'s butler blinks at him in surprise.
"Mr. Lansky. It's a little early, isn't it?"
"I know," Meyer answers, a little more harshly than he intends. "Just wake him up. He'll want to see me immediately."
He nods and steps aside so Meyer can come inside.
He nearly nods off in the chair across from Rothstein's desk waiting for him, but ten minutes later, he's striding into the office, less put-together than Meyer's ever seen him. He's wearing his trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, but there's no collar on his shirt, no tie, no jacket. His hair is combed but lacks pomade; his eyes are wide and his face pinched into an expression Meyer's never seen him wear before. He thinks it might be concern.
"Meyer. I expected you hours ago."
He nods slowly. He thought about what to say on the train and in the taxi, but he couldn't figure out how to explain it. He's still drawing a blank.
"What happened?" A.R. asks quietly, seriously.
"The D'Alessios are dead," Meyer blurts out.
Rothstein's eyebrows shoot up. "Dead?" he asks, the demand for clarification unspoken.
Meyer nods again. "Darmody shot Lucien D'Alessio for mouthing off. White strangled Teo for, I'm assuming, his brothers lynching one of the Negros who worked for him."
Rothstein looks thoughtful. "Coffee?"
It takes Meyer a second to respond. "I could use some," he says finally.
Rothstein starts making coffee and it occurs to Meyer that he usually does this, but as if sensing his thought, his boss shoots him a look that says sit down, so he stays seated. Instead, he looks away as Rothstein begins speaking.
"It was some months ago. Doyle told me about it. Thompson gave Doyle's operation to White after Doyle was arrested by the Prohis. Doyle was already partners with the D'Alessios at the time and he owed them money-I assume he still does. So to put White out of business, they attempted to lynch him. The problem was, they lynched someone who worked for him and not Chalky White himself. I can only assume that Mr. White hasn't forgiven that, and rightly so." Rothstein turns toward him and hands him a steaming cup. Meyer accepts it and immediately takes a swig.
It burns going down, and not just from the heat. "Did you put whiskey in this?"
"You looked like you needed it," Rothstein explains as he sits back down. "So after they disposed of the two D'Alessios, what happened?"
Meyer closes his eyes for a moment. "Nucky Thompson untied me and told me to tell you what I saw. I came right here. They-that is, Mr. Thompson specifically-mentioned wanting to get to the remaining D'Alessio brothers and Lucky."
Rothstein is quiet for a moment. "They bound you?"
He nods. "All three of us. Hands behind our backs, on our knees. There..." He pauses for a moment, but the whiskey in the coffee emboldens him. "There was nothing in any of their demeanors to indicate to me that I would walk away. I thought they meant to kill me, too. Even after Thompson untied me, I expected to be shot as I left." He leaves out the part about running to the train station and crying on the way. He doesn't think A.R. will care about that part.
"And then you came right here?"
"I took a taxi over," he explains, and he drains the last of the coffee. He feels warm again, but the ache in his body hasn't quite died away. At least he's not shaking anymore. It's the only mercy in this whole shitty excuse for a night. That, and the fact that he's still alive.
"Well, I have a lot to think about. I'll have my driver take you back to your apartment-no need to take another taxi. Take it easy," he adds quietly, standing up. "I'll call you when I want you to come in. I don't want to see you before then. Understand?"
Meyer stands up, too, and nods. "Yes."
"Good. Go home. Get some sleep."
The ride back to his apartment is quiet, but Meyer doesn't drift off. He wants to wait to fall asleep until he's in his own bed.
After he's had some time to sleep, he decides, he'll talk to Charlie. After all, wasn't his only regret not telling him? But he can't say anything right now. For one thing, Charlie is God knows where-almost definitely not at his Park Avenue apartment-and for another, Meyer needs to figure out what he's going to say.
If anything. As he thinks about it more, he realizes that his inner bravado was all well and good while staring his own mortality in the face, but while he has to live with the consequences of his confession... Maybe it would be better to keep it to himself.
He nods to himself. I can't tell him. There's no point. Charlie will only hate him for it. He'd rather Charlie never know than Charlie hating him.
He trudges up the steps to his floor and fits the key in the lock. He lets himself in and closes the door behind him before he realizes he left that light in the kitchen off-why is it on?
Then he catches sight of a figure slumped over the kitchen table, eyes closed and completely motionless with a cup resting a few inches from him. Meyer would recognize those dark curls anywhere. "Charlie," he gasps, rushing forward.
His mind races back to the warehouse-Thompson said he wanted Charlie, too. Has he already gotten to him? But no, Lucky's face twitches and his eyes flutter open, and for a second, he looks confused.
"Meyer. What're youse... What time is it?"
"About two-thirty," Meyer mutters, silently relieved that Charlie isn't dead. He reaches for the cup and realizes it's half-filled with cold coffee. "Were you waiting for me?"
Charlie yawns and straightens up. He groans and rubs his neck before nodding. "Thought you woulda been back hours ago."
"I was supposed to have been," Meyer explains. He dumps out the coffee in the sink and leaves the cup there. He'll get it in the morning. "There was a problem."
Charlie yawns again and stretches. His tie and collar are both on the table next to him, showing off a lot more of his neck than Meyer really wants to see right now, and his jacket and waistcoat are draped over the back of his chair. His suspenders are off his shoulders, hanging down around his sides. A flash of what may be concern crosses his face as he realizes what Meyer just said. "Problem? What problem?"
Meyer is faced with the daunting prospect of recounting the events of that night and finds his desire severely lacking, but he launches into the tale anyway, being as succinct as possible. He sits down at the table, rubbing his eyes while he tells the story. Lucky appears unfazed as Meyer tells him about the deaths of the D'Alessios, but when he gets to the part about Nucky getting behind him, his eyes widen.
"Did youse know he was gonna let you go?"
Meyer pauses and then shakes his head. "I thought he was about to put a bullet through the back of my head."
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Charlie asks. His eyes alight on Meyer's wrists and the rope burn that he'll probably have for the next week, and that seems to answer his question. Ignoring Meyer's spluttered protests, Charlie takes his hands and looks over his wrists.
The intimacy of the gesture surprises him a little, but he pretends his heart rate doesn't pick up with Lucky's long, surprisingly gentle fingers inspecting his skin. He can probably feel it anyway with a pulse point right beneath his fingertips. "I'm fine," Meyer repeats for the fifth time, but Charlie doesn't seem to hear him.
Finally, though, Lucky lets go and leans back in his chair. "So he let ya go. Then what?"
"Then I ran to the train station and took the next train back to New York."
"Ya just got back?"
"I went to report to A.R. first. He had his driver bring me home."
"So what's he gonna fuckin' do about this? Nucky Thompson betta' fuckin' pay for this," Charlie growls.
"Mr. Rothstein hasn't informed me of his plan for retaliation thus far, but... before the D'Alessios started getting stupid, Thompson mentioned that he wanted to get to the other D'Alessio brothers. And you," Meyer adds quietly.
"Me?"
"I'm not certain why."
Charlie rolls his eyes. "Well, if he wants them, too, I got a pretty goddamn good idea a' what he wants me for."
Meyer says nothing. He really doesn't want Thompson to get to Charlie at all-it'll mean Charlie's death. He can't imagine that Rothstein will willingly (or unwillingly) give Lucky up, though. The D'Alessios maybe, but not Lucky. Still, Meyer is tired of being awake. He just wants to put an end to the worst night of his life and finally go to bed. Both the coffee and the whiskey have worn off, leaving him cold and exhausted.
He pushes the chair out and stands up, immediately attracting Charlie's attention. "Where you goin'?"
"To sleep, Charlie. I have been awake for nearly twenty-four straight hours and spent nearly half of the last twelve either tied up on my knees or traveling. I am more mentally and physically exhausted than I have ever been in my entire life. All I want is to sleep," he says, and his pitch is raising until he's practically whining, a testament to how tired he really is. That, and the concern that's still on Charlie's face is toying with him, but why should it? They've been friends for seven years. Since he was eleven and Charlie was sixteen, the only constant in their lives has been each other. Shouldn't Charlie be angry and concerned with the propsect of his best friend dying?
Still, Charlie's expression is twisting something inside him, and he's reminded again that he's been in love with Lucky Luciano for two years. He desperately wants to say something now, and he's so tired and frustrated that part of him is actually considering it. But telling him would be stupid, no matter what he wants, so he bites back the words and turns away.
"Talk to me, Meyer," Charlie says quietly. Meyer hears him fumbling for something, and when he looks back, Charlie has an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand.
"I thought I talked too much as it was," Meyer half-jokes, sitting back down anyway. It's one of Charlie's many complaints about him, but he always says it with a grin, so Meyer suspects it's more of an affectionate bitching. He pulls out a cigarette of his own and waits for Charlie to pass him his lighter.
"Youse got that look on your face, like you wanna say somethin'."
"Maybe."
Lucky sighs, exhaling a stream of smoke. "So say it."
Meyer taps the unlit end of his cigarette against his lip. "I don't think I should, Charlie."
"You almost died. I know youse got about a hundred things ya wanna say. Your brain," he says, tapping his temple for emphasis, "don't ever shut off."
Charlie knows. Meyer is sure of it now. He thought that by keeping it to himself, he could deny it and no one would know any differently, but Charlie really isn't as stupid as he looks. He's almost as smart as Meyer, which is impressive, considering he never made it past sixth grade. Still, there's some things you can't learn in school, and Charlie has always been good at reading people.
Meyer lets out the smallest of sighs and takes a drag on his cigarette, wondering what to say. He suppose he could say it and blame it on the alcohol in the morning even though there was barely a shot of whiskey in the coffee and he's sober now anyway. It would be a good excuse. "It terrified me, Charlie," he says instead. "I really thought I was about to die. I told Thompson before Darmody shot Lucien that I could work something out with A.R., but he said, 'Mr. Rothstein made his bed,' and Darmody said 'Now you fellas can die in it.' There was nothing that told me they would let me live. I started thinking... How were they going to kill me? How was A.R. going to retaliate? And I just kept going over things I regretted doing, and not doing. I thought, 'There are a lot of things I should have done, and I will never get that chance.' I can't..." He trails off, staring at the burning end of the cigarette between his index and middle fingers without really seeing it. For a moment, he goes back to the warehouse and a shiver runs through him.
He comes back to reality when he feels the light press of Charlie's hand on his shoulder. He looks up, straight into his best friend's brown-eyed gaze, and all he can think is that, when he's not furious or annoyed, he has the sweetest eyes that Meyer has ever seen. The way Lucky is looking at him right now... "I love you," he blurts out without thinking.
For three long seconds, Charlie's expression shifts to puzzlement, like he's trying to decide what Meyer really means, and Meyer worries that he colossally fucked up. Before he even has a chance to take it back or clarify, though, Charlie's hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck and Charlie's leaning toward him, pulling him close.
In the heartbeat before it happens, Meyer realizes what Charlie's doing, and as Charlie brushes his lips against Meyer's, sending his blood pressure skyrocketing, Meyer raises his hand to skim his fingertips through Charlie's dark curls.
The kiss is gentle, far softer than Meyer expected from him, just a slow meeting of lips that makes him want to melt into the Italian. Charlie knew. He'd probably known for awhile. He just wanted Meyer to say it first. I should have told him a long time ago, he tells himself. He regrets not saying it sooner, and he starts thinking about all the lost time and lost sleep.
Without conscious thought, he deepens the kiss, pressing his mouth harder against Charlie's and spreading his lips. Charlie groans into his mouth, and suddenly his tongue is sliding against Meyer's, his hands pulling at Meyer's jacket, and Meyer finds himself practically crawling onto Lucky's lap just to get closer.
His jacket falls to the floor, but he couldn't care less. The whole suit needs to be cleaned and pressed anyway, so what does it matter? Besides, one of Charlie's arms is wrapping around his waist, his skin hot against his back even through both their shirts, and his other hand is rubbing the back of his neck, running through his hair, driving every non-Charlie-related thought from his head. He lets out an involuntary moan and shifts his position straddling Lucky.
His mouth tastes bitter, cigarettes and coffee, but underneath it is something else, the smell of his skin that's making him pleasantly dizzy. Traces of his cologne from hours ago, the scent of those Lucky Strikes, and some smell Meyer can't quite place that's inherently Charlie, something that takes him back seven years to when they first met. It stirs up memories and as Charlie's tongue traces along his own, against the roof of his mouth, he thinks maybe he's been in love with Charlie for longer than he though.
Heat is rolling off him, a welcome relief from the cool night air and the chill that has nothing to do with the temperature, the chill that had settled into Meyer the moment Darmody shot Lucien D'Alessio. He presses closer, leaving his cigarette smouldering in the ashtray next to Charlie's so he can devote both hands to carding through Charlie's hair. It's not the first time he's been able to touch his hair, but it's the first time he's allowed himself to enjoy it, to register how soft his curls are.
Everything about Charlie is warm, and even after the Italian starts sliding his suspenders off, untying his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, the warmth from Charlie's body is more than enough to keep him from shivering. Desire is flooding through him, spurred on by Lucky's hands all over him and his tongue in his mouth and the hot, insistent press of Charlie's cock against his ass.
Meyer definitely isn't a virgin, no matter what jokes Charlie likes to make about "limp-dicked kikes." He's been with four girls-a whore when he was sixteen, a Jewish girl named Hannah who'd lived two streets over, a loud Italian woman with a name he couldn't even pronounce (he called her Marisa, and she said that was close enough), introduced to him by Charlie, and Bridget, a dark-haired Irish-Polish girl who worked at the market four blocks away-certainly not equal to Charlie's history, but he has five years on Meyer. He's never been with a guy before, never wanted to until Charlie, so everything about this is raw and fresh to him. From the way Charlie kisses him to the press of his chest to his hands playing across his stomach, it's all new and even if he isn't one, he feels like a virgin again.
But he doesn't think Charlie's done this before, either. Not that he probably would have told Meyer if he had, but despite how sure Lucky seems, Meyer picks up on the briefest moments of hesitation. They're subtle, but there. His fingers tremble slightly before he untucks Meyer's shirt, as if silently wondering if it's okay (it's more than okay; Meyer thinks he'll die if Lucky stops touching him), and he pauses, just for a second, before sliding it from his arms. Barely a moment after Lucky flings his shirt aside, he locks his lips on Meyer's neck.
Meyer lets out an involuntary gasp, his own mouth suddenly freed, and reflexively sinks his nails into Charlie's shoulders. He feels Charlie smile against his skin, chuckling into his neck, and then he murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear, "Ya like that?"
He nods faintly, opening his eyes for just a moment to lock gazes with him. Charlie's still smiling, less mischievously and more genuinely now, his fingertips rubbing soothing circles against his bare back. "Kiss me, Charlie," he breathes, and then Charlie grins impishly, teeth flashing.
In one smooth motion, he brushes the ashtray aside, lifts Meyer (he's never been more grateful than now to be as small as he is), and sets him on the table before capturing his mouth in another heated kiss, stepping close to settle between his legs. If there was any hint of propriety before, it's gone now, and Meyer throws his own hesitation aside in favor of unbuttoning Lucky's shirt as quickly as he can, considering his own fingers have started to tremble again. He has to stop for a second, momentarily distracted when Charlie palms the front of his trousers and squeezes, but he gives a quiet moan and then he's back on task, continuing to undress Charlie as fast as his shaking hands will allow.
He's still nervous, but it's far outweighed by wanting both of them out of their clothes as soon as possible. Charlie seems to share the sentiment when he sweeps Meyer's undershirt over his head and tugs down his trousers. He hops and wiggles a bit to help Charlie, and something about the situation must strike Charlie as wildly amusing because he practically giggles, pausing for a moment to grin into Meyer's neck.
"What?" he asks, annoyed at the interruption.
Charlie looks up, still grinning, and Meyer melts internally. He's got a smile that would make anyone weak at the knees. "I just can't believe it, that's all," he says. He punctuates his thought with a light kiss against Meyer's lips.
"Can't believe what?" Part of him wants to know, although most of him wants an expeditious end to this conversation. He's been waiting for this moment for two years at least-for once, he doesn't want to talk.
"That ya love me," Charlie says. He starts a trail of kisses from just behind Meyer's left ear down his jawline that leaves fire in its wake.
"I thought you could tell," Meyer admits quietly, closing his eyes to drink in the sensation of Charlie's mouth against his skin. "I thought everyone could tell."
"I thought I was imaginin' it. Wishful thinkin'. Like I was seein' somethin' that weren't really there." Lucky exhales sharply before scraping his teeth across Meyer's collarbone, and Meyer moans faintly, tightening his grip on any part of Charlie he can reach. He can't believe it, either. It feels like a dream.
But it's not, and he's more grateful than he can express. If something this good is going to come out of his near-death experience, he might almost owe Nucky Thompson a thank-you.
"Where youse at?" Charlie asks, bringing Meyer back to reality. "You was driftin' off somewhere."
"Sorry. I was just thinking. If this is what happens after nearly being killed-"
"Don't finish that," Charlie murmurs. "I don't even wanna think about it."
Meyer completely understands, and he nods, planting a brief kiss to his hair. "So you love me?"
"As long as I can remember," he says. "Even when we was kids."
Meyer exhales slowly, running his fingers through Lucky's hair. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
Charlie sighs. "What was I supposed to say? You was just a kid. I'm too old for ya."
Meyer actually laughs at that. "Gillian Darmody, Charlie. How much older is she than you?"
"That's different," Charlie protests. "That was just sex. This... This ain't."
He has to admit that he sees Charlie's point, not that he accepts it. He nods again anyway. "I'm not a kid anymore, Charlie," he adds quietly.
Lucky grins. "No, ya definitely ain't. Youse all grown up, shavin' an' everythin'."
He swats at Charlie's head, laughing in spite of himself. "Shut up."
Charlie laughs too and kisses him again, tugging Meyer's trousers the rest of the way down as soon as he kicks off his shoes. He's sitting on his kitchen table, naked except for his underwear and somehow not caring at all. If they're going to do this here, he's going to have to scrub the tabletop in the morning, but it'll be worth it. Charlie loves him, he loves Charlie, and the two of them... Well, they can hammer out the details in the morning. For right now, it's enough that Charlie knows, that Charlie feels the same, that he's always felt the same. Tonight, they are the only two people in the world.
Charlie's tongue swipes across his again, sending a spark of heat through him that settles low in his belly, and it's obvious now how hard he is already. He feels like he should be embarrassed that Charlie can see, but he isn't. In fact, Charlie seems to appreciate knowing that he's the cause. He slides his arms around Meyer's waist and pulls him toward the edge of the table, burying his face in Meyer's neck and practically rutting against him. Meyer moans, louder than he anticipated, and instinctively squeezes Charlie's sides with his knees.
A bed. They need to go to Meyer's bed, small as it is, if they're going to do this-and it certainly seems like they are-because their first time should not be on his kitchen table. It feels cheap almost, like a mistake, a teenage fling, a quickie before his parents get home. He wants this to mean something, and he thinks Charlie does, too, but he can't talk. Somehow, his mouth has forgotten how to form any word save Charlie's name because he's whispering it over and over while Lucky leaves kisses and bites and bruises across his collarbone, and his own conviction that this be something special is crumbling into dust with every rock of Charlie's hips against his own.
He's got a fairly vague idea of how this is supposed to work, and he's a bit nervous because he's heard that it hurts. But Charlie has surprised him already, being far more careful than he expected, so maybe it won't be so bad. Besides, Charlie's fingers are running up and down his sides, through his hair, nails scratching lightly across his back, and Meyer can definitely see how Charlie's been with so many girls. He feels important, adored, and even without his natural charisma taken into account, Meyer understands the appeal. He fell for Charlie a long time ago, after all.
He becomes aware of Charlie's quiet murmuring and it takes him a moment to understand-he's speaking Italian. Meyer understands quite a bit, more than he can actually say, and even if he doesn't know exactly what Charlie's saying, he gets the idea: Charlie's crazy about him. His breath catches in his throat and he tilts Charlie's head up to kiss him properly.
Charlie sighs softly and runs his fingers through Meyer's hair. Wherever he touches Meyer seems to send electricity through him and he can't help but moan. Hands shaking slightly, he reaches between them and starts fumbling with Lucky's trousers. He feels Charlie smile against his lips again and he pulls back just far enough to make it that much easier for both of them to push down his pants. Meyer has to close his eyes to steady himself. Right now is more undressed than they've ever been before, at least in the other's presence.
"You alright?" Charlie asks quietly.
Meyer opens his eyes and nods. "I'm fine. Just..."
"Nervous?" Charlie guesses, and somehow, Meyer isn't embarassed to admit that he is, at least a little bit. After all, this is new to him. Charlie, too, probably, but he's hiding his nerves better than Meyer.
"Yes. Not a lot, but..."
Charlie nods and gives him a light, soothing kiss. "It's okay. We'll go slow."
It's almost too slow-Meyer nearly comes twice before Charlie has more than three fingers inside him, spreading him open. He has to remind himself of how late it is, after three-thirty, that he has to keep quiet because people are trying to sleep and this would be an awkward position to be caught in anyway. Even so, he has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his moans.
Charlie, for his part, looks like he's just barely clinging to his last shred of self-control. He's back to scraping his teeth down Meyer's neck, across his collarbone, leaving bruises scattered on his chest, all the while thrusting with his fingers. In between sucking on his skin, Charlie moans low in his throat and tells him how hot he is, how long he's wanted to do this, how many times he'd selfishly prayed for this. Meyer lets out a sound that's half-moan and half-gasp and tightens the grip he has on the edge of the table.
"Ch...Charlie...!" he whines, feeling his back arching involuntarily, but Charlie knows by now that he's on the verge of coming and pulls back at the last possible second, grinning like the Devil. Jews don't believe in the Devil as a rule, but at this moment, the lust and utter temptation on Lucky's face is enough to convince him. "Fuck," he murmurs, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve to catch his breath.
"You doin' okay there?"
Meyer just nods, momentarily speechless. It's not that he doesn't know what to say, it's that he's forgotten how to talk in the first place.
"Good," Charlie says.
Meyer exhales to clear his head. "Charlie?" he murmurs.
"Yeah, Meyer?"
He's not sure how to say it. He wants Charlie so much, he can feel it, but actually saying the words is a challenge he's not prepared for. Still, for the third time tonight, his mouth takes over and he blurts out, "Fuck me?"
The look on Charlie's face is priceless, both stunned and amused, but the words have the desired effect: less than ten seconds later, Charlie's shoved his underwear down just far enough to free his cock, slicked it with spit, and started to push inside Meyer.
He bites back what he's sure is going to be an incredibly loud moan. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would; it's uncomfortable at first, a hot pressure, but as Charlie slides further in, the pain gives way to pleasure. In his focus on making sure he doesn't let another moan escape, he doesn't realize he's leaning back until the back of his head smacks into the tabletop. He lets out a grunt of pain and Charlie freezes.
"Shit, you okay?"
All at once, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation occurs to Meyer and he can't help but laugh. Charlie blinks for a moment before a grin splits across his face, and a few seconds later, they're both laughing like it's five years ago, before Arnold Rothstein and Nucky Thompson and suits and responsibilities and money and life all took their toll. Meyer hasn't laughed like this in a long time. He realizes just how much he missed it before.
And Charlie is laughing with him.
Their laughter dies down as Charlie buries his face in Meyer's neck again. Meyer trails his fingers through Charlie's dark curls and the Italian sighs quietly. "Can I keep goin'?" he asks.
Meyer nods. "Please do," he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Charlie shifts his weight, resting his hands on Meyer's hips, and then he slowly pulls out and then pushes back in. Meyer gasps, closing his eyes and tightening his arms around Charlie's neck. He bites his lips and doesn't quite stifle a moan as Charlie continues moving, but he finds himself caring less and less with every passing second. Charlie feels amazing inside him, white-hot and hard and somehow perfect, and Meyer never wants this moment to end. Charlie's fingernails are biting into his skin and he rocks his hips, the action drawing a high, breathy whine from Meyer as he moves his own body to meet Charlie's too-slow thrust. "Charlie, faster," he breathes, and no, he's not begging, but there must be something in his expression that sets Lucky off because his next thrust is faster, harder, deeper.
He very nearly holds back a moan until Charlie whispers, "God, Meyer, I wanna fuckin' ruin you," and then Meyer moans and Charlie shoves him back against the table and hooks Meyer's knee over his shoulder and pounds into him, and it's hard and rough but it's Charlie, it's pure Charlie, and ever since he was sixteen years old, all he's wanted is Charlie. Nothing about Charlie is slow or sweet or soft and that suits him just fine-it's what's got him hard and aching right now and he wouldn't have it any other way. His hands are shaking and he doesn't even realize he's letting out a string of profanities in Yiddish until Charlie breathes, "Ştyl," telling him to be quiet in the only language that makes any sense to him right now.
Meyer grits his teeth, trying to shut up, but Charlie isn't doing anything to keep him quiet. Besides, Charlie's struggling to keep his voice down too, switching his swearing from English to Italian to broken Yiddish in a stream of nonsense that, nevertheless, Meyer somehow understands. He can't quite hold back his litany of, "Oh, God, oh, Charlie, oh, God," but Charlie's chanting his name and begging for his own god and letting out disjointed phrases in Italian, and Meyer just wants him that much closer. Before tonight, it had been four years since he prayed, but Charlie fucking him like this is proof there really is something above, something that wants him to be happy.
He lets out an unbidden moan, clenching his jaw against the sound, but this feeling-he never suspected it. Charlie keeps hitting this spot inside him, the same spot his fingertips dragged across earlier, only it's different now. Somehow, it's simultaneously too much and not nearly enough and he'd give anything to not have anyone around. All he wants to do is scream, to fully enjoy this without having to worry about checking himself, and his resolution is slipping away, but he reminds himself that they're both screwed if they get caught like this, and that's enough to suppress his voice.
Charlie wraps his fingers around Meyer's cock, and he can't quite hold back the surprised moan that escapes him. Suddenly, Charlie is everywhere at once-thrusting inside him, pumping his cock to the same rhythm. Meyer bites down so hard on his lip that he draws blood, but he couldn't care less. It's amazing, really, how Charlie just seems to know how to make him feel good. Meyer's whispering encouragements as loud as he dares-half in English, half in Yiddish-and Charlie's going faster now, even harder, and he can feel the end coming no matter how much he wants to stay like this forever.
It's over too soon, and Meyer finishes in a haze of hormones and barely-restrained moans, his whole body shuddering in pleasure as he finally comes. Charlie follows a few seconds later, and Meyer likes to think it's the look on his face that finally sends him over the edge. For a minute or two, they stay there, Charlie's face pressed into his shoulder and his arms around Charlie while they both catch their breath, and then Charlie slides uncomfortably out of him, drawing a hiss out of Meyer. The afterglow subsides and the ache sets in, and suddenly all Meyer feels is sore and dirty.
His conservative Jewish upbringing is screaming at him, telling him God will call down damnation for what he's just let-no, what he just begged that-Charlie do to him, and he decides that if the Catholics have the right of it and there really is a Hell, he's probably going there.
He must be some kind of freak or something-after all, he likes women just fine, so why on Earth would he fall for Charlie like this? Liking him was all well and good while it was an abstract notion, but now that it's out in the open...
"Hey," Charlie murmurs. He presses his lips to Meyer's temple, his hair, his forehead. "I love you, remember? An' if you're worried about goin' to Hell, I'll be there too. Last one there wins," he adds with a grin, and Meyer can't help but laugh, his inner tension easing. He'd gladly go to Hell if it meant being with Charlie.
"C'mon, let's get youse cleaned up an' in bed," Charlie adds. "Youse had a long night."
He doesn't protest. He just lets Charlie help him to the bathroom, lets Charlie run a bath for him, lets Charlie take care of him.
They just barely fit together on Meyer's tiny bed when they finally lie down, Charlie's front to Meyer's back and both of them completely naked. Charlie wraps his arms possessively around him, bringing an unforced smile to Meyer's lips. He doesn't think he's ever been so content, so comfortable, so ready to fall asleep when the phone rings, shattering the silence.
"I got it," Charlie says, reluctantly turning over to answer it. "Hello?"
Even from here, Meyer can clearly hear his boss's voice. "Charlie." Rothstein doesn't sound surprised.
"A.R.," Charlie answers, sounding very surprised, and Meyer's eyes widen as he turns over. "Uh, I'll put Meyer on the phone for you."
"Actually, I wanted to talk to both of you. And I know Meyer is close enough to hear this, so I'll just say it. I really do not care what the two of you do after-hours, as long as it doesn't interfere with your business with me. Is that perfectly clear?"
Meyer blinks and nods, shooting Charlie a bewildered look. "Uh, yeah," Charlie says. "Sure."
"Good. Then I'll see you boys tomorrow afternoon." The line goes dead, and Charlie slowly hangs up the phone, looking stunned.
"He knows. I dunno how, but the sick fuck knows," he says.
Meyer shakes his head. "I've long since given up trying to figure out how he finds out about these things. I'm just grateful he said he doesn't care."
Suddenly, Charlie grins and coils his arms around Meyer again. "Yeah, me too. Go to sleep, ya little kike."
"Fuck off, you stupid dago," Meyer says, but he's grinning and they both know what they mean.
I love you.
I love you, too.