Title: Now
Author: MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)
Rating/Warnings: M - sexually explicit.
Spoilers: Everything

Summary: As Syed renews his vows, he and Christian reconnect like old times - wrapped in shadow, bathed in urgency, and on the floor of a food establishment.

AN: In their final episode, Christian and Syed had sex on the floor of the Argee Bhajee. This is a given fact. The table upturned whilst it was going on. Also canon. They ended up leant against the bar, Christian shirtless and Syed still mostly clothed, with Christian's hand burrowed beneath his shirt. Again, visual canon. Unfortunately, we never saw the scene itself. Fortunately, we have fanfiction. I hope you enjoy!

Now

It's the hand on his cheek which seals it.

The words tumble through, echoing in his ears, wrapping like a warm blanket around his brain, but the hand – it cups his jaw, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, all soft touch and gentle fingertips, the truth reverberating through every contact point and leaving prints on his skin.

Christian can feel the tears still wet on his face - old tears; there are no more coming through - tracking lines down his cheek, catching in the corners of his lips; he can see the mirroring tears in Syed's eyes, those huge brown irises shimmering with honesty, with love, with regret and pain, and a million other emotions that words are too simple to begin to cover.

It was all he needed to hear. To know. He can survive the sex, the physical betrayal, the one mistake – although the thought of it still makes something inside him shrivel, contract, a tugging nausea in his gut – but the lies, the thought that those lies extended beyond; that he wasn't enough, that it meant nothing, those vows, those words, those looks, those promises –

But they weren't a lie. Christian feels his heart swell, with feeling that he can't even begin to unwind into coherency. All he knows is that what he's feeling is partway towards good.

Even if the words couldn't convince him (and he's never heard a truer sound in his life than the syllables that had slipped softly from Syed's throat just a moment ago), the tenderness of the hand on his cheek; caressing his skin with softness that he has never felt before or since, a touch that only Syed, Sy, the man he loves and who loves him could give –

The split second that it takes to frame Syed's face with his hands and tug their mouths together is long enough for all decipherable thought to dissipate into nothing – any coherency that remains, and there hadn't been that much to start with, tangles together into a ball of heat and taste, body and flesh, physical and emotional and Syed Syed Syed.

His fingertips brush through the hair just behind Syed's ears, his thumbs denting at cheekbones; Syed's free hand grabbing at one of his arms, squeezing, gripping, as they clash in a mess of lips and teeth and tongue. His fingers are still pressed against Christian's cheek, but they aren't soft anymore; they're clutching, fierce, pressing against his jaw as if to stop any route of escape. Not that there's any danger of that. The heat pooling in his stomach, the tangle of feelings in his chest, the buzzing in his head, all work together to keep Christian here, now, pressing forward ever more incessantly as they deepen the kiss, digging new depths even when it seems impossible to go any deeper.

Suddenly, Syed's fingers loosen from his elbow, trailing up the length of his arm and down his torso, as if mapping every centimetre that they can find, until his arm comes to wrap around Christian's waist. The kiss breaks momentarily, but they don't move; gasping mouths slide against one another as they suck in oxygen, breaths intermingling against lips and teeth, heaving chests pressing together as if straining to burst out of themselves and into the other.

There's a hitch in Syed's throat; a sob almost; Christian can hear it, feel it, pressed against him. It's relief, and love, and guilt, and the thought that they might never have had this ever again, and the disbelief that they're here, the fear that he'll wake up and there'll be nothing but memories. Syed's mouth opens and closes against Christian's, as if he's trying to speak but the words won't come out. Or he can't find them. Or there are no words, and never were any words, and all he can do is breathe and hold and feel. Christian stops the movement with his lips; pushing forward hard, cutting the unformed words off as they float soundlessly from Syed's throat. He doesn't know whether he's muffling them or swallowing them; all he knows is that he's framing Syed from three angles, clutching with hands and mouth, enfolding him in a fleshy prison, a warm cell, a safe enclosure from anything the outside world can bring.

As if reassured, safe in the knowledge that this is them, and now, and that Christian isn't going to leave, Syed relinquishes Christian's cheek, his fingers moving quickly down his neck to grasp at the clothes that are in his way. As incessant hands tug at fabric, Syed steps backwards, dragging Christian with him. Christian doesn't need the hint – he feels the urgency, pushes back a few more steps, their legs tangling as they only just managed to stay upright. He fights to keep his hands at Syed's face, clutching at flesh and hair, desperate to keep their little bubble as the kiss moves down, trailing tongue and teeth against stubbled jawline; but Syed fights back, wrenching Christian's arms away so that he can divest him of first jacket, and then jumper, his fingers shaking as they work at the buttons of his shirt, pressing down to the flesh beneath.

Christian's shirt is half open by the time the back of Syed's knees bump against the edge of the table, Syed's hands pulling them both down, falling back onto the unsteady surface. The whiskey glass is knocked over by an exuberant elbow; whose, Christian doesn't know. The mess of limbs is impossible to untangle and, at this moment, he doesn't care. He can't feel anything but the nails scratching against his sternum, catching at hair and scraping over his nipple; it's hot, and it hurts, and it's desperate, and Syed is wearing far too many clothes.

Headiness fills his brain, stifling the synapses. As his finger slips a random shirt button from its hole, pressing against the warm skin of Syed's chest, he doesn't care about history, or cheating, or lies, or bad memories, or good memories. He doesn't care about pasts or futures, about fears or shattered hopes or betrayal or dreams or reality. All he cares about is the beating in his chest, the hammering against his ribcage, the shaking in his hands, and the matching sensations he can feel reverberating through from Syed's body. Oh God. He wants this and he wants him, and he just wants to feel and touch and taste and leave his mark all over and everywhere because this is Syed, and he loves him, and he is loved by him, and he owns Syed and Syed owns him and that's it, that's all, that's everything.

There's a sudden clatter as the table lurches to the side, shucking them both onto the floor. They land heavily, Christian locking his elbow instinctively to stop himself from crushing Syed. The abandoned bottle of whiskey rolls around their tangled feet, bumping against his one remaining shoe (he can't remember taking the other one off, but he's sure it's lying somewhere near the doorway), clinking against the fallen glass as the remaining alcohol pours onto the floor. Christian is vaguely aware of fingers pulling at his shirt, yanking it away from the arm that isn't holding up his weight; a hand on his face, another at his chest, firm and tender and strong against him, holding him in place as he unlocks his arm and lets the shirt fall to the floor.

Stretched out on the floor, with the lengths of their bodies pressed together as gravity does half the work for them, any remnants of tenderness that may have been there fly out of the window. Christian's teeth latch onto Syed's ear, biting and sucking down his neck, tracing his tongue along the line of his pulse; a half-pant, half-groan scrapes from Syed's throat, low and loud and full of breath, vibrating against Christian's lips. Fingers work at Christian's belt, at the button on his trousers, stuttering against him with every tightening of Christian's teeth on his skin; but then an open fly, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his underwear, clutching at flesh, and Christian loses his grip, burying his face in the hollow of Syed's throat, his breath burning against the heated skin.

There's no thought, no worries, nothing but the rush of blood in his skull, the press of insistent lips to the side of his head, the throb of Syed's pulse against his cheek. He pushes himself up, quickly, tugging down at Syed's trousers until they yield; it flashes in his skull that he might have broken them, but the thought is quickly overridden as Syed releases his hand and wraps an arm around his neck, pulling them flush together, cheek to cheek, flesh to flesh, nails digging into his back, a foot caught messily behind the back of his knee, a groan, a breath, another breath in his ear, quick succession now, beating with their untimed, unsteady movements.

He can feel the moans at his neck, Syed's face buried into the dip between throat and collarbone. He thinks there's a similar noise escaping his throat - maybe a little bit different, maybe lower, maybe higher, maybe more breath, he can't be sure. All he knows is that there's hair in his mouth and stubble against his cheek and a cock against his cock, trapped between them, together and over one another, a flash of sensation as his every downward thrust meets Syed's upward movement.

There's no real rhythm, no co-ordination; just pumping hips, the vain hope of friction, not caring because with every movement there's flesh of some kind, heat, a pulse, skin; everything that they need in this moment, everything they want, bundled into messy contact and clutching fingers and open mouthed groans and together, together, together, pressing forward all the time, every inch connected; the coiling tightness, faster, closer, almost, and what's Syed doing? - lips moving against the hollow of Christian's throat – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – oh god – and then tumbling, falling, cushioned by the warm heat, a noise that could be a pant or a moan or a sob – I know, I know, I know –

There's not a sound in the restaurant but the distant hum of the outside world, the buzzing in Christian's ears, and the coarse breaths, slowly steadying themselves from their throats. He can feel Syed's arms, still wrapped around his back, but loosened, resting rather than clutching, melding comfortably into his skin; the leg that was hooked around the back of his knee has fallen limply to the side, accidentally kicking the abandoned whiskey glass. It is like they were burning together, on fire, and now they have melted into one another. Christian feels boneless, weightless, liquefied; every sense filled to the brim with nothing but the panting man beneath him.

Eventually, he braces his arms on the floor and lifts himself a few inches. Syed groans, his hands twitching slightly, as if contemplating pulling him back down, before falling loosely to rest on Christian's waist.

A cursory glance down tells Christian that they're a mess. And that they're going to have to walk out of the restaurant wearing these clothes in a little while.

Syed moans half-heartedly as Christian rolls to the side, protestations bubbling and slurring their way from his throat; but Christian catches his face in both hands, turning his head to the side and kissing him, framing him in fingers and lips; a softness that they haven't had thus far, a tired tenderness, and Christian isn't sure whether it's a good morning kiss or a goodnight kiss. He hopes it's a good morning kiss.

They part naturally, comfortably, Syed's head falling back onto the floor as Christian hauls himself to his feet and pads over to the side of the room, catching a piece of fabric from the furthest table. It isn't lost to him that this is the remnants of their wedding; the echoes of the vows, the tears, the smiles, clinging to the fabric as he returns to Syed's side and wipes away the product of the fierce and fiery and 'fuck I missed you' sex they've just had.

Syed lifts his head as Christian lets the fabric float to the side, his eyes following it to the ground.

"Bushra wanted to buy that."

They are the first words that have been uttered between them since – well, the split-second lifetime that seems to have passed since Syed re-carved his vows into the air and laid a gentle hand on Christian's cheek.

Christian smiles.

"She still can. Call it a gift."

There's a huff of laughter, and then a thunk as Syed's head falls back onto the floor.

"Ouch."

"You okay?"

"I ache in places I'd forgotten I had."

Christian quickly runs his eyes down Syed's body – he's still wearing most of his clothes, Christian isn't sure how that happened – and notes the finger shaped bruises on his arm, the messy love bite just below his neckline – damn, if he'd have been thinking straight he'd have aimed higher – and the swelling redness where his elbow had obviously hit the floor hard when the table collapsed.

"Let's try it on a bed next time, then, eh?"

Even as he speaks, uncertainty slips once again into Christian's voice. The words are quiet, soft, almost questioning. Syed doesn't answer. Christian doesn't know what that means. But he doesn't dwell on it. Here. Now. That's what matters.

With a decided movement, Christian takes hold of Syed's hand to pull him towards him; Syed protests weakly for a few moments – 'no, I don't need you to, I can do it' – before going limp - 'okay, fine, do whatever you want, I can't move' - letting Christian move and position him until they're both propped against the bar. Syed's head is pillowed on Christian's chest, a tiny sigh escaping from his lips as he nestles backwards into the more comfortable position. Christian smiles, fond and happy and sad all at the same time, his lips brushing against Syed's hair. A dull, distant awareness of the tangled mess of his thoughts begins to return to him. He runs his fingers along Syed's shirt, finding the gap of the one button he'd managed to get loose and burrowing his hand to the warm flesh beneath.

And then there's silence. For a long time. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them has anything to say. There's nothing but the rhythmic movement of Christian's hand against Syed's arm; the thrumming heartbeat against Christian's fingers; the gentle breaths that mingle together in the dim half-light of the restaurant.

They know that the past is catching up with them.

And they know that the future is looming its head around the corner.

But it's not here. Not yet.

Before that, they have now.

So there it is! My attempt at angsty-desperate-horny-loving-messy-hopeful Chryed sex on the floor of the Argee Bhajee. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.