Steff's bed had always felt enormous to Blane, even though it was the same size as his own. He didn't know what it was, exactly, that made it such a vast, luxurious expanse. Maybe it was the minimalist black silk bedding, maybe it was the fact that it wasn't his, maybe it was the fact that it was McKee's. Steff had always felt that way to him, as a person; larger-than-life and wholly without apology, unrestrained and undefined by the boundaries of reality or circumstance.
Maybe it was the just way it was situated; marooned like an island in the suite that surrounded it, which was bigger than the average master bedroom in a normal middle-class home—though Blane's own was no smaller.
Maybe it was that Blane's bedroom was an opulent tower, a minimum-security prison, whereas Steff's bedroom was a refuge, a middle finger, a den of iniquity, a treehouse, a sanctuary. An escape—from his parents, his future elevated trash-heap legacy atop a construction company; from the weight of his own constant guilt and their smothering expectations.
He'd been on this bed for hours now. Nothing much had changed except for everything. They no longer lounged side by side, untouching. Now they lay entwined, almost entranced; Steff's hands in his hair, and his in Steff's, Steff's tongue in his mouth, and his in Steff's, and the bed felt bigger than ever.
Now it seemed to surround them, engulfing each slow shift of their bodies, its soft topography comprising the strange new shape of Blane's current universe, with Steff as its blazing center, the sun it all revolved around.
Blane felt drunk now; truly drunk for the first time that night. McKee had opened Blane's shirt, and his own, and the intermittent press of their warm, bared skin felt better than anything he could remember. From time to time Steff mindlessly grazed the flat of his palm slowly over his nipple, giving him chills.
He felt his pulse react as McKee moved over his body, wordlessly pushing himself up on his hands and looking down at him. "Now what?" he murmured.
Blane's lips parted. "I don't know." It wasn't true. He knew what would happen if Steff was Andie, or any of the other girls he'd been with. Where things would go next, where he'd go next. It wouldn't even be a question, just a natural progression. But he couldn't quite bring himself to say it.
"I do." Steff's hand found his fly and deftly unzipped his pants, making a move to shift down the bed.
"Steff—"
"Did Andie do this for you, friend? She seemed like a bit of a prude, but maybe she made an exception for true love and a trust fund." McKee eased Blane's pants down his thighs as he spoke, along with his boxers. Exposing him, like it was nothing. His motions were casually mesmerizing, almost beautiful, as he ran a hand up the inside of Blane's leg and urged it aside. Blane saw his own cock, taut and jutting, flushed and wanting. McKee studied it for a moment, stroking it slowly from tip to shaft and back again. "Well, look at that. You're a handful, aren't you. I had no idea." He bent his head and kissed Blane's inner thigh, a trifle insolently.
"Steff." The sight of that familiar ash-blond head bowed low over his loins was almost too much for Blane to process. He reached out and grasped it, plunging his hand into the masses of hair. "At the same time." Blane's throat clicked, but he found words and forced them out. "All right?"
Steff first looked surprised, then indecently pleased. "I don't know who you are," he drawled, "but I like the way you think."
Blane acted instead of answering, shifting, turning; reaching for Steff's hips, dragging himself level with them. McKee was visibly stiff beneath his boxer shorts, the expensive French-striped cotton gently tented by his erection. Blane touched it through the fabric, first, tracing its contours, rubbing over the length with parted fingers, pinning its shape against Steff's thigh. A beat later, on impulse, he leaned in and dragged his mouth over it, imbuing the fine material with heat and breath and sensation.
"You're a slut, Blane," Steff said, fondly.
"Yeah? And what are you?"
"Just lucky, I guess."
"Shut up and suck it, McKee."
Steff laughed, and an odd, warm thrill shot through him at the sound. In the next moment, something else shot through him, a bolt of sharp and sudden pleasure, as McKee did exactly what he asked.
Let it happen. Don't think about what he's doing. Even if he's doing it better than anyone ever has. Jesus Christ. This is happening. How has this never happened before?
Blane jerked Steff's boxers down and reached for what was revealed, grasping hot, hard flesh in his palm. Steff's cock felt like his own, but the musk around it was different; heady and undeniably McKee. Blane found himself savoring those foreign pheromones, steeping in the warmth and masculine aroma that lingered there, caught in Steff's downy beige netherhair.
Steff pulled back for a moment, gazing through his forelock, dragging the flat of his tongue languidly over the head of Blane's cock, making him shudder. "Well, McDonough?"
"You're better than Benny," Blane heard himself say.
His best friend's dick was hard in his hand. The sheer surreality of that consumed him for a moment. It was smooth along its rigid length, flaring broadly in the middle before tapering to an elegant tip. The vein on the underside was prominent and sculpted, a lifelike detail on a Roman statue. Blane could almost see it pulsing. It was hard to believe he'd moved Steff's cold blood so far south.
Blane closed his eyes and put it to his lips; let it slip past them, filling his mouth. The head was soft and succulent against his tongue, the shaft unyielding, like warm iron. He heard Steff's breath hitch, and it was like a hit of some hitherto unknown drug.
The line blurred quickly between giving and receiving, with McKee mirroring him in counterpoint, the experience intensified by slight variations in technique and approach. They fed off each other's actions, spurring each other on; Blane was subsumed, lost to the moment as he swallowed and surged, forcing McKee's cock as far down his throat as he could, feeling Steff's hands grip his ass as he pulled his loins close to do the same.
Blane knew what girls liked; a finger or two gently sucked and slicked and slipped inside, keeping a rhythm while his mouth did the rest. Andie had been no different. When Steff did the same to him, it was a total surprise. "Jesus, McKee," he bit out, shuddering.
"What?" Steff said negligently.
"That thing you just did."
"Oh, right. Did you want me to stop?"
"No." Blane closed his eyes. "But you should, unless you want me to blow my load right down your throat."
Steff seemed to think about it. "Maybe not yet," he said, eventually, withdrawing.
Blane rolled onto his back, overcome for a moment, arm flung over his eyes. His mouth felt flushed and hyper-sensitive, along with the rest of him. The bright, fuzzy hiss of the static on the screen felt like an aural manifestation of his physical state. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, the echo muffled by black silk. Below, his thwarted cock throbbed.
"I have to say you surprised me there, McDonough, with that little soixante-neuf maneuver." McKee's voice was idle, indolent. "It's almost like you've done that before."
"Jake Halvorson and I blew each other once, like that. At the same time. We were bored and stoned. And I've traded a few hand jobs, but that's nothing. So has everyone. You know how it is. I mean, that's all, though. I've never really been with another guy. Not like this. But so what? There's always a first time."
Why draw the line there, thought Blane. Now he wondered why he had. There was a taboo attached, of course, but it wasn't like that had ever stopped them from trying anything else. In their world, there were few barriers. Even if you tried to keep sacred cows, there was nothing to fence them in.
"What are you saying, Blane?"
He felt Steff ease between his legs, covering his body, and when he opened his eyes, there he was, gazing down, shaggy sand-blond hair hanging forward, framing that sultry patrician face.
He could smell the exotic, enigmatic fragrance of whatever Steff used to blow-dry his unruly mane of thick, smooth hair into careless, side-swept perfection. He could smell Steff, himself, just beneath it, and he didn't have a word for that. He only knew what it did to him.
"Do you want me?" Steff asked.
"Isn't it obvious?" The words came out halting, disbelieving, husked and on the verge of a whisper. Blane was all too aware of his stiff, aching dick, and who it was currently aching for. He laughed; McKee did not.
"Maybe. But I've been waiting to hear you say it." Steff's voice was low and louche. "So maybe throw me a bone, here, McDonough."
The full hedonism of the moment hit him all at once; Steff's lithe and sinuous frame pressing him into black satin, the sensual flickering of the snowy screen beside them in the blue darkness, the cocooning stillness of the grand, empty house around them, the taste of three-hundred-dollar Scotch on their tongues. His senses reeling, Blane decided he might as well be truthful. "I need you." He grasped Steff's lush, tawny head in both hands, looking him dead in the eyes. "I need you, okay."
McKee's fingers traced his throat and jaw. "I was wrong about you, friend. There's a real person in there. You should let him out more often."
"Why don't you come in and find him?" Blane had reached a point of no return, where nothing was off-limits anymore, and nothing was too much. Some distant, former part of him was shocked at the words, watching them go, but the rest of him only wanted to help Steff stoke the bonfire that would burn him down. He'd poke through the ashes, afterward, and see what, if anything, was left.
When he dared to look up, Steff was staring at him. "You're filthy," he murmured, with a note of admiration.
"So do it," Blane said, breathing out, closing his eyes. "Screw me like you screw Benny. From behind, or—I don't know, I don't care how—just fucking do it. I want you to do it. I want you. You hear me? I want you."
"Jesus Christ, Blane."
"What's the big deal? You've done it before, right?" Blane already knew the answer was yes, but some perverse part of him wanted to hear it from Steff's own jaded mouth.
"I mean, I don't make a habit of it." Steff's murmur was lilting; evasive, insinuating. "Not with guys, anyway. But like I said, Blane: anything for you."
"Does that mean you've never done it with a guy?" Blane found that hard to believe.
"No," Steff said, coolly. "It means I don't make a habit of it." He gazed down at Blane with hesitant, predatory solemnity. "But I could make a habit of you."
"I get it now," said Blane, staring up at him with a faint, wry smile. "I get why they all say yes." Except Andie. Andie had turned Steff down flat. For him. It seemed pretty funny now.
"You're wrong, friend. I don't say that kind of shit to just anyone." Steff looked away right after he said it.
Blane didn't. "So how do you want to do this?"
Steff pushed off from the bed, still avoiding his eyes. "From behind. Not because it's kinky or whatever, though, all right? Your first time, it's just easier that way."
"Whatever you say, pal." Blane shoved off his pants, and shouldered out of his open shirt, unhesitating. "Still feels a little kinky, though."
It actually felt more than just a little depraved to be naked in McKee's bedroom, kneeling on his bed in the electric twilight, waiting for him. He hadn't gone far—just to the bedside drawer of his minimalist nightstand, opening it one-handed while losing his own shirt, and shucking the boxers. Like every guy their age, Steff kept the Johnson's baby oil handy. As Blane watched, he squirted some into his palm and stroked himself, up and down the shaft, palm deftly rounding the knob a couple of times before going back to the base. It made the taut skin glisten.
McKee turned back to him, now nude, still stroking, putting a knee on the bed. "I'm ready if you are," he said, almost too blithely. "Try to relax, all right?"
"Yeah." Blane eyed Steff's lightly tanned body for a beat, then turned and eased forward onto his palms. The act of getting on his hands and knees for McKee felt even more depraved than the naked waiting, but he had to admit he didn't hate it. He clutched his fingers into the black silk bedspread, briefly, aware of his vulnerability, especially in front of a guy like Steff. But Blane was starting to realize something he had always known: Steff was better to his lovers than his friends.
He didn't have long to contemplate it before he felt McKee's palm on his lower back, and he suddenly thought about Steff's hands, how he'd always noticed them; the easy and unthinking way they gave themselves to gestures, the graceful way they tapered at the tips. It aroused him, to think of those hands on his body, all their expressiveness and intention focused on him alone.
A moment later he felt those same tapered fingers trace down his spine, then lower, through the curve of his ass, finding him where he lived. Steff's fingers were slick against the sensitive skin, grazing him there, gently pressing inside. Blane breathed in silently at the touch, at the unthinkable intimacy, and the one committing it.
The next touch was different, glancing; blunter, broader than the mere brush of mindful fingers. Steff was poised to penetrate him, just like he'd done to Benny in front of Blane so many times—on the same bed, in the same hedonist way. Blane's head spun at the thought, which seemed incredibly dirty, impossibly debauched. He reached back to grab Steff's smooth thigh, feeling the muscles flex as McKee leaned in. The arrowed head breached his body almost too easily, and Blane heard himself gasp, felt his body react, immediate and involuntary,
Steff pressed on. "Easy, friend," He murmured, his voice a soothing drone, almost absent, like he was concentrating on holding it together. "You're all right."
McKee's cock sank into him slowly, inexorably, as his body gave way, parting around its steady incursion, yielding to slickness and physical insistence. There was an intensity to the sensation, unlike anything Blane had ever felt before. His mouth fell open. "Oh, God. Oh, wow." Arms taut, he bowed his head, breathing in and out. "Fuck."
It was something. Really something, Blane thought, but that something wasn't really pain. The ache he felt was more about absence than presence; a hollowness wanting to be filled, needing Steff inside him more than anything else. He pushed back hard against McKee, taking him the hilt, clenching his teeth against the breathtaking way its broadness stretched him.
"Christ. A little warning, McDonough?" muttered Steff, grasping his hips, fingers digging in. "Look, I know you've got something to prove here, but if you do shit like that, I could just lose it right here, all right? Game over. And it wouldn't be my fault, either."
Blane closed his eyes. "I don't have anything to prove, Steff. I just want you. That's all."
"Stop that."
"It's true."
"Fine, but stop it." He felt something from Steff that seemed almost like a shudder.
"How about 'fuck me'? Can I say that, McKee? Fuck me, Steff," He laughed, breathlessly. "Make me your bitch."
"That's not what this is," said Steff. "That was never what I wanted."
"Mellow out, McKee. It was a joke." He reached back to touch Steff's thigh again, and let his hand linger, stroking it. "Come on."
McKee pulled out by way of reply, and Blane swore, then swore again at the sudden way he slid back in. Planting a hand on his lower back, Steff leaned in and screwed him slow and hard, setting a rhythm, settling deep each time, bottoming out, loin to sacrum, with a little close-quarters grind at the end of each thrust for extra emphasis.
Blane was groaning, swearing—shaking, Christ, almost yelling—before he even realized it. It was good, indeed, that Steff's folks were out of town, and he found himself absurdly grateful for their general parental negligence.
"Aren't you chatty," said Steff, arid, on the underside of his breath. He sounded aroused and amused at the same time.
"We should have done this years ago." Blane bit his lip. "Christ. Fuck. Harder. You can do it harder. Faster."
"Aye, aye," drawled Steff ironically. But he did it. He pushed Blane's chest down on the bed, grasped his hips in both hands and snapped into a ruthless cadence. The slap of striking flesh resounded. Blane pushed back against him with equal brutality; mindless, overcome, drunk on the sensual violence of the act, reveling in the passionate collision of their aggressions.
After a few minutes of that, he felt Steff subside. He leaned in to place a lazy, open-mouthed kiss between Blane's shoulder blades and went back to the deep, leisurely thrusts, and Blane nearly lost it.
"Put your hands on the headboard, all right?" McKee showed him as he said it, guiding him upright so they were chest to back, Steff's arm wrapped around him. Blane let his head fall back over McKee's shoulder, gave himself over to everything.
"Tell me something, Blane. What do you think Bill and Joyce would be more upset by?" Steff murmured against his ear. "Andie, or me?"
Blane shuddered. "Either would probably get me disowned."
"Oh, no, no, no, I don't agree. They'd tolerate this, so long as you married all right and kept it out of the society pages. After all, I have the right name, even if I have the wrong parts."
"They feel right to me."
"You're a slut, Blane."
Blane twisted, grabbing Steff by the back of the neck, staring into his bedroom eyes, feeling his own gaze burn, hot-blue and feverish. He felt McKee slip out of him, leaving an aching void. "Get on your back."
"Whatever you say, McDonough."
McKee pulled him down, and they kissed roughly, clumsily, as he fumbled for Steff's cock and slid it back in. He gasped as it hit home and his instincts took over; he rocked forward at once, riding McKee viciously, barely losing stride. Steff's hands rested on his hips, riding his motions, escaping now and then to slide over his stomach and chest. McKee's face was no longer shadowed by his hair, which had fallen back, haloing his head on the pillow; his breathless expression both guarded and vulnerable.
There was something almost reverent there that fascinated Blane, even through the haze of his mindless arousal and the heavy aura of lust that surrounded them.
Impulsively, Blane leaned forward to kiss his mouth. The motion made Steff's cock shift inside him; it bullseyed some deep, bittersweet place, catching him by surprise.
He let out a loud, raw groan, and knew he was coming. He felt Steff's hands tighten on his body, felt Steff's loins go taut beneath him. Felt the rise of his hips as he thrust up, joining Blane's motions, doubling their impact.
Steff didn't make a sound. He stared, eyes piercing in the quarter-light, looking almost like he was concentrating, the faintest flicker tightening the space between his brows.
"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck." Blane convulsed and cursed, crude words called forth by climax, like ejaculation; jerked out and uttered hard, losing meaning as they became a pleading mantra. He went rigid for a beat, as everything inside him clenched and released, and he succumbed to it, paralyzed by waves of too-sharp pleasure that struck him mercilessly.
He shot off all over Steff in hard, roping bursts, painting his stomach, spattering the smooth planes of his lightly tanned chest with white, liquid heat at high velocity. McKee moan-laughed as a late bolt hit the underside of his chin.
Dazed, Blane stared in mild horror. "Shit, did I—"
"Relax, friend." Steff held his gaze, grey-eyed, looking unusually louche, even for him. He reached up and rubbed Blane's come over his skin, luxuriantly; over his neck and chest, and up to his lips. "Kiss me," McKee said, low voiced and low-lidded, lifting his chin as if it was a casual request.
Blane did it. No hesitation.
Steff groaned into his mouth and he felt a little lightheaded.
"I'm sorry, God. Sorry. I just—I couldn't stop it. Did you finish?" Blane managed, as their lips broke apart. He hastily grabbed for his discarded button-up, intending to wipe his mess off Steff. "Did you…?"
"Oh yes," said Steff. His hand stroked the side of Blane's head, fingering the tousled waves above his ear, as he whispered near it. "Right inside you."
Blane felt a shudder run through him, an aftershock. "Jesus Christ, McKee." It made sense, given where Steff had been in the moment, but hearing him say it was something else.
He could feel Steff's cock pulse inside him, intermittently, as it softened, like it had a life of its own. McKee lay back, eyes half-lidded, with a faint, lofty smile on his face. He seemed supremely unconcerned; shameless, almost decadent.
Blane eased off him carefully and fell back on the bed beside him. For a long time he just breathed, letting himself steep in the brutal sweetness of the postlude. A low, pleasurable throb radiated through his loins. He felt fragile; wrecked, drained by the force of his orgasm. All his past ecstasies seemed shallow and colorless in hindsight, and he wasn't sure how to feel about that.
He wasn't sure how he should feel about a lot of things, but for once, he knew how he did.
The television blizzard flickered blue, the warm buzz washing over their bodies. The sound was white and soothing, signifying life; an inhabited oasis in the mansion's empty silence. He turned his head to glance at Steff, eventually. "What now?"
Steff turned his head, lips parted, looking him over for a moment. "You want to stay?"
"Over?"
Steff paused. "Yes," he said, in a leading tone.
"Yeah." Blane rubbed his chest slowly. "What about the rest?"
"Can I assume we've made up?" Steff's eyes sought the ceiling. "We're friends again?"
Blane smiled slowly. "Can you imagine what an asshole I'd be if I said no right now? I'd be like you."
McKee huffed out a soft laugh, but he didn't sound too amused.
"Of course we're friends." Blane sobered, staring. "I thought that much went without saying."
"Good. You're my sanity. And I've missed you."
Blane was taken aback, and didn't try to hide it. He gazed at McKee, blue eyes searching his handsome profile. For all that he'd always taken Steff's insolent nature as an anchor and his constant company as a refuge, it had never once occurred to him that Steff might see him in a similar way.
"Hey McKee," he said. "Why are you all the way over there?" Steff glanced at him. Surprise was one of his most attractive expressions, thought Blane; that light, mild shift in his classical features. He felt something stir in his chest. "Come here."
Steff obliged, rolling over to lie alongside Blane's body, gazing down at him. A moment later his hand found Blane's face, stroking his jawline. "Better?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Blane. He grasped the back of Steff's golden head and pulled him down, kissing him deliberately. The moment clung, suspended like spider silk, until it gently gave way, and Blane was left breathless. "It is now, anyway."
Steff studied him. "It's chilly in here, don't you think? Let's get under the covers, all right?"
Blane obliged, even though he hadn't been shivering from the cold. Without clothes, the ambient temperature of the room did feel a little low, though, he had to admit. It was a big house, and the heat had doubtless turned down for the night. That, and most of his blood was still lazily making its way back from his loins, like drunk people finding their way home after a party.
"You have a fireplace in your room, right?" Steff said.
"Yeah," said Blane. The decorator had built a whole theme around it.
"That's what I need. A fireplace."
It was strange, being in Steff's bed, instead of just on it, but much like Andie, it was a strangeness he found intoxicating. The sheets were silk, which was unsurprising, but still nice; a cool counterpoint to the equally foreign sensation of Steff's warm, smooth skin against him, Steff's fingers carding through his hair.
"Are you thinking about her?" McKee spoke quietly, after a few moments.
"Yeah, a little. But not the way you think."
"What do you think she's doing?" Steff said, as if he didn't quite believe him.
"Something good, I hope," said Blane, idly. He'd never held any ill will toward them, either of them. Not really. He'd never really held any against McKee, either, in spite of his many crimes. He just wasn't built to hold a grudge. "But she's probably sleeping." He thought of Andie's bedroom, the Victorian trim painted out in aged, shabby off-white, festooned in lace and florals and pinks. It was a fond memory, but it felt oddly distant now.
"How do you figure?"
"I'm sure she and Dale are taking it slow. He has that whole…chivalry, pedestal thing going on." Blane smiled vaguely in the darkness.
"You didn't."
"I'm not really a prince. I just look like one. But you know that."
"I wonder what she'd say about this." Steff traced his fingers over Blane's bare shoulder absently. Maybe a little possessively. Maybe a lot possessively. Blane had to admit he'd always kind of liked that part of McKee's dynamic toward him, responded to it, without ever once realizing why. He was late to a lot of things.
Blane thought back to Andie, and all the conversations they'd had about his friends in general, and Steff in particular.
"You always chose that asshole over me. Always. The whole time, Blane. Don't you dare deny it. Don't you dare deny it. You stood me up for prom. You stood me up! Just because you showed up at the last minute with some weak, stupid line about not believing in yourself, that was supposed to make it all okay? Make it better that the only thing you really cared about was fucking Steff McKee, and what he thought about you? I don't know what that guy has over you, but it must be some good shit. Everything else is just an afterthought to you. Including me."
Blane had the grace to be a little chagrined. "She'd probably say, 'I told you so'. We talked about you a lot, actually," he admitted, with an uncomfortable laugh. "Probably much more than she would have preferred."
"Really." Steff sounded like he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or suspicious.
Blane gazed at the ceiling, basking in the aftermath, lulled and gratified by the mindful, deliberate way Steff touched him. There was a solidity to it, a gravity, an intensity to Steff's desire and regard that grounded him in time and place.
"Andie thought you kept me around to control me. Like it was all a big ego kick for you." He paused. "I always knew it was more than that, but I never could quite explain it to her, either."
"Yeah, well, guess what. Your girlfriend doesn't get me. Big surprise, right?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
"—I mean, at all." Steff made a quick, agitated motion with his hand.
"She's Duckie Dale's girlfriend, Steff."
"'The reason I keep you around.' I mean what a thing to even say. Look: I don't want to control you, Blane. I just wanted to keep you. To myself. I mean, can you understand that?"
"Yeah," said Blane, after a moment, nodding. Given tonight, he actually could. "But why?"
"You're decent. Everybody needs some decency. Even me."
"Decent." Blane turned to stare at him. "I'm decent."
"No, no," Steff said, annoyed. "Not the way you heard it. Decent, Blane, all right?" He paused. "You're good."
"Good?" Blane laughed. "Wow. I don't think I'm that good, Steff. Good-natured, sure. Good-looking, maybe. But when it comes down to it, I'm just not that great of a guy. I'm boring. You said it yourself. Noncommittal. Andie said that one…"
"You're good for me." McKee said it solemnly, grasping his head and gazing into his eyes with a concrete sort of finality. "Most things I like aren't." He paused. "Most things I have aren't."
Blane stared. "Come on, Steff. You're not as bad as Andie—or you—like to think."
Steff's gaze dove away from his. "Think about it, Blane, because I do. I've thought about it a lot lately, since you've been gone. What's good for me? My parents? Benny? My friends? My habits? What's good about any of it? Who is there for me, but you?" His grey eyes sought Blane's face in the barred moonlight, "And who is there for you, but me?"
"So, we're a thing now?"
Steff blinked. "Are you asking me if I'm your boyfriend, McDonough?"
Blane hesitated. "It doesn't really sound like the right word, does it." McKee averted his eyes almost before Blane had finished speaking, like the conversation bored him stiff. He was staring elsewhere, through the plaster and into the wallpaper of the next room. Maybe the next house.
Blane ran a hand through the front of his hair, knowing that while he could definitely give McKee a run for his money in self-loathing, he didn't have the chops to best Steff at indifference or dismissiveness. He could only be sincere; earnest and artless beside Steff's guile and evasion. He could only be himself. "But yes."
"I'm what I've always been, Blane. Yours." Steff paused. "That was never the question."
"Then what was the question?"
"Whether you'd ever figure it out."
"Better late than never." Blane turned himself toward McKee, admiring him at close range like he'd never seen him before, his fingers grazing up and down his side with a new impunity.
Steff reached over his body for the remote, and clicked the television off.