Title: Lock, Stock & Unexpected Humiliation
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own a goddamned thing. Perhaps that's a good thing, 'cause, look what happens when I just borrow the poor boys! Me governing further over them would be, well, a catastrophe.
Author's note: I wrote this for the lovely maisirmoltesen, and I do hope she enjoys reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you by any chance think this is a wrong and unattractive pairing, then don't read it. I on the other hand agree with maisir; they are HOT. So... deal with it.

It was nearly morning.

The night had started to let go of its grip, and the sun would be rising up above the London roofs in just a few hours. No birds did chipper, there were barely any cars out roaming the streets at this hour; everything was just so tranquil and quiet, one might have thought the entire city had gone mute.

Somewhere in a small apartment, where the metro every once in a while whooshed past and made the entirety shake in violent convulsions, four young men were drinking their heads off.

One would have thought they would have had better things to do on a Thursday, but since only one of them had a legal, get-here-on-time-or-your-ass-is-out-the-door kind of job, and this only one was trying hard not to remember this fact, there they were. In the beginning of the evening, they had actually tried to get some sort of conversation going, but it had all spun out of control, since now, they'd succeeded in fulfilling the purpose of the nice little get-together: to get as wasted as possible.

Ed was half-heartedly shuffling his brought-along, tattered deck of cards. They weren't really playing anymore so much as dealing out cards, giving them a quick glance and then admitting to the fact that they weren't sound enough of mind to make wise decisions in the game. The last few times, the game had ended in everyone folding except for Ed, who was holding on just out of old habit and a strong, lingering urge not to lose face in front of his friends. Card-games was, after all, what he was supposed to be good at, and admitting screwing that up, even if it just had to do with drinking as much as the others, was to him an impossibility.

Right across from him at the table, Tom was having a vivid discussion with Soap. It had been going on for hours. There had actually been an observable topic to begin with, but it had died out gradually, and all that was left now was an endless flood of insults of different sorts.

"Okay," Soap said, "let's be reasonable here for a second. If you want to achieve your goals, you'd better be ready to make some sacrifices."

Tom's face was contorted in fake surprise. "Wow. Soap, that's the first smart thing you've said in… wait, let me think…"

Soap rolled his eyes at him. "Whatever."

"At a loss for witty comments, are we?" Tom sniggered. Gaining the advantage in a conversation like this always gave a sort of high that was almost equivalent to the adrenaline rush of punching someone out cold.

"No," came Soap's quick retort, "but I'd like to spare 'em for a rainy day. Also, my intelligence is precious, and I refuse to spend any more of it on insulting you, when half the time you don't even realise you're being insulted."

Bacon, who had slid down more and more in his chair during the evening and still hadn't found the energy to get up, gave him two thumbs up across the table. "Good one, Soap."

Indifferent, Tom grinned at his opponent. When it came to quick retorts, he was no less skilled than the chef was. "Oh, I didn't realise you could run out of it. Mine, I'm happy to say, is endless." He grabbed a cigarette out of the open package lying on the table, and snapped his fingers casually. "Bacon, lighter."

"Ego as big as the Eiffel, eh, Fat man?" Soap raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, and that's not all," Tom uttered, without faltering a second. He then proceeded to light his cigarette with the lighter Bacon had just thrown him.

Soap snorted sardonically. "I'm not even going to consider what you just said a valid point in this ever ongoing debate. Your skills in arguing are feeble, and I'm just wasting precious time that I could spend getting more drunk fighting windmills."

"You're the worst loser ever," stated Tom amusedly, "but let's stop this, it's dead boring."

Ed looked up from his now very thoroughly shuffled deck of cards, and shot his friends an inquiring glance. "Up for another game, mates?"

Bacon took the opportunity to banter immediately. "Yeah, if you two could stop flirting, we could actually have a good time." He winked at them. "I want to drink, you want to drink, we all want the same thing, so let's work against achieving our common goal rather than hitting on each other, shall we? As entertaining as this is."

"It isn't," said Soap tiredly. Hopefully, he snatched the cigarette pack from the table, turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing dropped out. "Fuck," he proclaimed, and directed his immediate attention to the smoke being blown into his face by the person sitting next to him. "You took the last one?"

"Yeah, obviously, mister current affairs," Tom smirked.

"You could've bloody asked first," Soap said, irritated. "No manners. And don't say you're proud, 'cause I'll punch you if you do. This means someone has to go out and buy more."

"Right," Bacon said, "well, you've got my vote. I'm not gettin' up to do you a favour."

"Well, Jesus, thanks Bacon, for that heart-warming comment," Soap said. "Alright, then. Ed it is."

"Oh no, don't even try it." Ed shook his head energetically. "I don't fancy taking a night-time stroll around the streets looking for cigarettes to feed your habit, Soap. Not when the lot of you are sitting in here and gettin' comfy."

Tom chuckled silently.

"What?" Ed said, apparently annoyed. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing, Ed. I'm just thinking, it's rather a matter of not being able to walk than not wanting to, right? The way you've been drinking…"

"I haven't drunk more than any of you have!"

"No, but past experience tells me you're not so good with alcohol, either. I should like to see you try and walk ten feet without ending up a sorry little pile of wreckage."

An affronted look on his face, Ed smashed the deck of cards down on the table for dramatic effect. "That's ridiculous! I can walk just fine! And I can drink just as much as you can. Besides, if you think I can't move my legs as efficiently as you'd like, then why don't you send someone else? Bacon, for example, who's just being a lazy bastard."

"You know, that's not a bad idea," Tom nodded. "You two could go together. You know, for support."

Bacon, red-eyed from lack of sleep and the enthusiastic intake of as much as alcohol as he had been able to get his hands on, stared at Ed disapprovingly. "Thanks for that."

"So… what? You get to decide who's going for cigarettes? Who made you the fucking boss all of a sudden?"

Even though Ed knew he was getting worked up for absolutely nothing, he was determined to fight for his right to let go of responsibility on this one.

Tom eyed him sarcastically. "Ed, do I really need to remind you? It's your turn. You said so yourself."

"When did I say anything like that?" Ed spat.

"Last night, if I remember correctly."

"Well, you were drunk, so maybe your memory's fucked, ever think of that?"

"You were drunk too, so how can you even try to contradict what I'm saying? Now just go… and buy… cigarettes. It's for the common good, you know. Otherwise Soap will go all Mister Hyde from the abstinence, and as we all know, that's not a pretty sight."

Nobody bothered to negate Tom's remark. They knew every word was true. Besides, it was getting the job done. Ed, who wasn't as skilled a debater as his rival was, wore a mien of hurt pride.

"Next bloody time we get drunk, I'm recording," he muttered. Without further ado, he grabbed a strong hold of the edge of the table, then heaved himself up on his feet, swaying slightly. "Bacon, get up."

"What? Excuse me, but where in this discussion did we establish my forced partake?"

"We didn't. But I'm not going out there by myself. I admit, I can't walk straight on my own. Someone has to be there to call the mortuary if I have a bad fall," Ed said ironically. "And we could both use a breath of fresh air, don't you agree?"

Bacon muttered something under his breath that no one cared much to decipher. It took him a couple of minutes to find his feet, grab Ed by the arm and drag him to the door, there pulling on his overcoat.

"It's nice to have you supporting me for a change," Bacon said casually, as Ed opened the door.

Ed stopped dead and stared at him incredulously. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I'm saying, mister hotshot card-player. That you ending up at the bottom of a bottle usually leads to me carrying you home."

Soap and Tom, still sitting nicely in their chairs and observing the spectacle their two friends made of themselves trying to walk properly, gave each other a quick glance. More out of old habit than anything else, they simultaneously went "oooooh".

Neither Ed nor Bacon bothered to tell them off. Instead, the pair of them disappeared down the stairs, struggling not to fall over. Minutes after they'd closed the door behind them, the two left sitting around the table could still hear distant sounds of cursing and violent, three-steps-at-a-time descents.

Then everything was quiet again. The discussion between Tom and Soap had withered into a discomforting nothingness, and neither of them felt inclined to change that.

After fifteen minutes or so, during which the silence was only disrupted momentarily by the metro rushing past, Soap got up from his chair half-nimbly and started digging through cupboards. Tom watched him get more and more frustrated. After five minutes of loud noises of miscellaneous objects crashing together, he and his presently extremely sound-sensitive head had had enough.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I want a cup of coffee," Soap mumbled vaguely. "Something to clear my head a bit."

"Yeah, well, the way you're going about things, I would've guessed you were searching for nuclear fucking weapons or something of the sort. Here, let me help you out." He rose from his chair, seemingly effortlessly, and sauntered through the small space of the kitchen until he reached Soap's side. He then closed all the hatches Soap had opened, one after another, not giving the contents in the cupboards so much as a glance.

"Yeah, you're really helping," Soap sneered. "How does this improve the situation? How does what you're doing now help me find coffee?"

"Well, I'm saving you some bloody time, alright? They don't have coffee. Believe me. The only things in here," and he gestured vaguely to indicate the cupboards, "are either half-eaten, half-rotten or half of both. And there's no coffee."

"How do you know there's no coffee?" Soap argued feebly. He felt infinitely stupid for asking, but could in no way admit to any sort of defeat. It was a matter of principle.

"Maybe because I've spent the night here a couple of times, and woken up to learn the same lesson I'm trying to impart on you now." Tom rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

Soap eyed him suspiciously. "When did you spend the night here, Tom? I've never done that, I've always managed to get home safe. If you've slept here several times, how come I've never noticed?"

Tom didn't reply to this right away. Instead, he shrugged and left his side, sitting down at the table once more. "I don't know," he then said, leaning back and swinging his feet up upon the table. He looked uneasy. "Maybe you've just went home before me."

Soap shook his head. "Doesn't add up. But, look, whatever." He pulled out a chair opposite to that of Tom's and sat down too, one leg over the other, his hands clasped in his knee. It was highly uncomfortable, but the discomfort kept him aware and on the edge, which was a good thing. You couldn't hope to remain completely sound of mind when you'd drunk as much as Soap had, and he knew it. Things were already a bit fuzzy around the edges. "I could care less if you and Bacon have nice little private sleepovers with each other."

Tom flinched. He looked incredulously at his friend, who was consequently looking in the opposite direction of him. "Who said anything about me and Bacon? Ed lives here too, as you might've picked up on."

"Yeah, like I said, whatever. I don't care."

Perplexed, Tom raised his eyebrows and leered at Soap, trying to make eye contact but failing formidably. "Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. You can't worm your way out of this one, Soap. Is there something on your mind? Something you're not telling me?"

"Now what would that be?" snarled Soap, a bit more harshly than he'd meant to.

"Why all of a sudden all of these questions? And your more-than-usually hostile attitude? What the fuck have I done now, eh?

Soap sighed deeply and dropped the aggressive poise. He buried his head in his hands and sunk down over the table. Groaning, he shook his head in an almost unobservable motion. "Nothing. You haven't done anything."

"Right." Tom snorted. "Right."

Silence once again grew large and thick around the table, and moments passed in total tranquillity. Then, when Tom was just about to break something valuable just to get out of the drowsy, coma-inducing ambience, Soap decided to use his vocal chords once more.

"It's just, you think you can have everything," he pronounced, one syllable at a time, as though he was dictating to a person with impaired hearing abilities. "You think you can have everything you want. And you just… take it. No consideration. No thought behind anything."

Tom listened carefully so as not to miss anything, and then, after a moment's pause, shook his head in disbelief. "Obviously not. Obviously not, Soap. Obviously I can't have everything I want."

An instant of nothingness, and then, Soap stirred, and lifted his head from the table where it had rested in his hands. He glanced dimly at Tom.

"What do you mean?"

"Well." Effortlessly, he swung his legs down over the edge of the table, got up on his feet and walked slowly, one step at a time, with movements that might well have been cat-like if he'd only been sober enough, thus advancing carefully around the table toward Soap. Soap straightened up in his chair quickly, leaning backwards, looking almost as though he was trying to find an exit or escape-way. "I think you know what I mean. And I think that's the reason you've been acting like I'm your worst enemy, when really… I'm quite the opposite."

"Why?" Tom was almost right in front of him now, and Soap could almost sense his body-heat changing the temperature in the immediate sphere surrounding him.

"I make you unsure, yeah?" Tom held on to the edge of the table. He was mere centimetres away from his legs touching Soap's where he was sitting. "Unsure and insecure."

"No." Soap shook his head obstinately. "I don't know what you're talking about. Go sit down again."

But Tom didn't walk away. Instead, he bowed down slowly, gradually coming closer and closer to Soap, who was painfully aware of his scent of whiskey and cheap cologne. Inside he begged for his friend to move away from him, but he was unable to articulate his wish.

Suddenly, Tom's hands gripped around his shirt's collar and pulled him up. Seconds later, he was but a few centimetres away from hovering above his chair, and he was amazed at the sheer strength of the manoeuvre. He struggled to come free of the Herculean grip, but failed. His talents lay elsewhere than in his muscles, something he'd been proud of before, but now cursed in deep frustration.

"Let go of me," Soap said, teeth gritted. "Let… go. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull, but it's not funny."

"Shut up," the eloquent response sounded, and then, Soap's weak protest was defeated with unbelievable force when he felt Tom's lips being pressed against his own.

The world spun like a merry-go-round, and what had before seemed fuzzy and unclear now was completely erased into oblivion.

Finally, after having fought to free himself for what seemed like ages, Soap managed to tear himself away, his collar ripping apart with a dissonant sound. He landed hard down on his chair again, and could hear his pulse beating with a violent drum-like rhythm.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" he gasped, short of breath as though he'd recently run the marathon. He looked at Tom bewilderedly.

Tom looked down at him and grinned humorously. "I thought that was fairly obvious. I kissed you."

"No shit! What did you do that for?"

"Look, are you playing stupid or are you actually this bloody dumb?" Tom's grin didn't falter, but he raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Like I said, and I know this: I make you feel unsure…"

"Unsure of what, exactly?" retorted Soap. His pulse had still not slowed down the slightest bit. "What do you think you're making me unsure of?"

He laughed. "Well, at a risk of sounding sentimental, Soap, I mean make you unsure of what you're feeling, and that's why you get all defensive and edgy. You want me."

"Wow, that's deep," Soap said sarcastically, downing what was left in his last glass of whiskey. His hands were shaking like leaves in the autumn and he felt like he was on the brink of having a severe heart attack. "How very Freudian of you, Tom, to analyse me and my reactions like that. Well, did you ever stop to consider, during your emotional dissection of me, that maybe you're just a conceited bastard who thinks too much of himself? You're not Rudolph bloody Valentino, Tom. Not everyone is on his or her knees begging for the chance to fuck you."

Tom stared at him, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He looked surprised for a fraction of a second, and then, his face cracked up in an annoyingly cheerful grin. "Ouch! That hurt, Soap, that bloody hurt. You think I'm conceited, self-absorbed and vainglorious."

"If you think I'm walking around swooning over you like some moronic teenage girl, then yeah, I think you're all of those things."

"Okay. Fine, then." Tom shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face. "I guess there's just one more thing left for me to do."

"And what's that?"

"Convince you."

Before Soap had fully realised what Tom had just proclaimed, he was once more caught up in his embrace, Tom's tongue inside his mouth. This time, mechanically, he'd arisen from his seat, thus ending up in Tom's arms, caught with no way of getting out.

And the worst thing about it was that it felt absolutely right. It felt so goddamned wonderful that he would have screamed out loud, had the situation permitted it.

This was, of course, something he did not want to admit. Not to himself, and certainly not to Tom. That would have been to let him win. To further feed his ego.

Tom had been right. He did want him.

Goddamn it.

He pulled his head back so violently that his neck made a discomforting cracking sound.

"Let go!" The same line all over again, but this time, it was even more desperate and pathetic.

Tom, however, paid no heed, and merely pulled him in close again. Chest to chest, Soap could feel his heart pounding against his own, racing.

"You don't get this, do you," Tom breathed against his neck, as his hands wandered down to Soap's waist, where they locked a firm grip. "That was a dare. That was a fucking challenge."

"No, it wasn't." Soap writhed like a worm on a hook, and felt just as helpless. And what was more, Tom's presence affected him more than he wanted to acknowledge. He felt like he was burning up from the inside. "I don't know what you're-"

"Yes, you do," interrupted Tom intolerantly, and then, immediately following his words, he removed one hand from the grip and – to Soap's utter horror – let it wander, tracing the outline of his hip and resting it at the front of his trousers. Soap recoiled violently, but couldn't move in any direction; behind him was the table, the chair hindered passage to his left and Tom was just about everywhere else.

"See, I know you want me," Tom said, and raised an eyebrow amusedly as he saw the frantic look on Soap's face. "I know."

"You think you know everything," spat Soap, trying hard not to let Tom notice how heavy his breathing had just got. "I think you're just full of it. I've never indicated in any way –"

And there Tom was again, kissing him so perfectly, hungrily that he almost – just almost – gave in and kissed back. But still somewhere, his pride and dignity stopped him from revealing anything, and let him pull off a fittingly disgusted and frustrated grimace.

"For fuck's sake," he panted, "would you fucking LET GO!"

Tom held up for a moment. He pierced through Soap with a gaze that killed every possible argument in its cradle. Soap felt completely overrun, and when he sensed Tom's hand stroking him through the fabric of his trousers, the alcoholic daze combined with the blood rushing through his body like an uncontrollable river made him forget completely about why he was actually resisting in the first place. He gasped for air as the throbbing sensation spreading out to his every limb competed against that of his racing pulse, trying to win the upper hand.

Losing all control felt better than he'd thought it would.

"What was that now?" Tom grinned. It was the smile of an assured winner.

Soap met his gaze, the expression on his face now altered to feverish yearning. "Nothing," he mouthed.

"Is that so? Well…" Tom leant forward and caught Soap's lower lip in between his teeth, biting down carefully and making him gasp once more. "That's better."

"I don't admit… anything," Soap managed to utter, guiltily pressing his body against Tom's, his crotch against Tom's hand, as any other action would have driven him mad.

Tom laughed silently, inclining his head and kissing him lightly, playfully on the neck. "Of course not."

"I'm drunk."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Two hands now worked eagerly at Soap's belt, and he grabbed hold of the table behind him for balance and support; something to hold onto. He was barely conscious of his actions anymore; all reason, every last bit of sense had left him now in the hands of uncontrollable pleasure and desire.

Tom was good with his hands, and it didn't take long until he'd finished with Soap's pants, which more or less smoothly dropped to the floor in an instant. He then proceeded with unbuttoning his shirt. The first couple of buttons actually were unbuttoned, while the rest received a harsher sort of treatment, as they were literally ripped off from the cloth when Tom tugged at the shirt impatiently.

Soap trembled slightly. The apartment wasn't exactly what you'd call warm – either Ed and Bacon had neglected to pay their bills, or the standard had just been lousy from the beginning – perhaps a bit of both combined. Either way, it had the same effect, and Tom halted for a second when he felt Soap quiver beneath his hands.

"Are you scared?"

Soap shook his head quickly, which had to serve as answer enough to his question.

"No," he said, his throat all dry from the violent intake of breath. "Fuck no."

Tom seemed reluctant to waste any more time. He nodded, kissed him bluntly on the mouth and let a satisfied grin curl his lips as he felt Soap kissing back. He let his mouth wander down from Soap's lips to his chin, further down his throat, drawing little swirls and shapes on his collarbones – Soap moaned quietly, and from there… he outlined every little dent and prominent, tensed muscle of his stomach. But when he'd reached his belly button, he stopped abruptly.

Soap, who had leant back more and more against the solid, comforting firmness of the table, was immediately and brutally yanked back to reality. He stared at Tom, desperately, accusingly.

"Now what the fuck are you doing? You can't just… just do this to me and then stop there!"

"Just wanted to ask you something." Tom eyed him calmly.

"Can't it bloody wait?"

"No, it can't."

"What, then?" Just get it over with, Soap thought to himself, feeling little droplets of sweat running down his face.

"Do you want me to continue?"

"What the bloody hell do you think!"

"This is something that you want, then?"

"Oh, fuck." Soap closed his eyes and bit his lip so as not to scream out of mere weariness. "You really need to hear me say it, don't you?"

Tom grinned. "Yes."

"Okay." Soap saw no other way of getting out of this dilemma, where he felt like his mental health was at stake, than to give Tom what he wanted. What else could he do now than admit what they'd both known all along? Any more of these hold-ups, and he'd go insane. He couldn't bear the though of yet another break-off from heaven. "Okay, Tom, I admit it. I want you. Inside and outside, I want you, I need you, I desire you. All right? There's my bloody confession." He craved for continuance, his body screaming for attention, for touch, for the sort of comfort Tom had proven he could provide.

Withdrawal was a bitch.

And now, Tom winked at him roguishly.

"Thanks for that. That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Shut up, Tom."

He didn't argue.

Soap was now in a situation where he could no longer separate right from wrong, appropriate from inappropriate, hell, left from right, and he wouldn't have been able to even if he'd been at gunpoint. Tom's agile tongue slithered down his abdomen with unerring sureness, making him almost convulsively arch his back and wet his dry lips with the tip of his own. He was sweating so abundantly, he actually feared he'd faint from dehydration.

He'd handed himself over completely to Tom now, who of course took immediate and full advantage of it; before Soap knew it, Tom had got up from his previous kneeling position and was yet again covering him with kisses, like the tingling of spiders running all over.

The fire that burned in him was now starting to feel an awful much like arson.

He gasped for air, helplessly and unwittingly pressing himself against Tom, whose hands now played an unbearably sweet crescendo on his back, backside and hips.

"Oh, God," he moaned, ecstatic, lost in the moment.

Tom chuckled, licking his jaw's line, nibbling at his earlobes. "Yeah?"

Conceited, indeed, but none of that mattered anymore to Soap, who tried to laugh but found himself quite unable to do so, as excitement rose and became almost unendurable.

Tom played him like an instrument, and he knew exactly how to. Soap tossed and turned, but was still pinned in place right where he was; he yelped as Tom stroked his aching erection, too softly to be satisfying, driving him crazy.

"Stop that!" His cry was half-muffled, yet very distinct.

"Stop what?" Tom smiled sincerely, as though he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to him, when very clearly he did and was enjoying it to its full extent.

"Stop fucking teasing me! Get on with it!"

"Why?" Tom's smile turned almost sadistic as he inspected Soap in all his nudity. "That would spoil the fun. You didn't think I'd let you get off that easy, now did you?"

"I suppose… suppose not. Tom, you're… evil. This is torture for me and you know it, so what the hell are you punishing me for?"

"Again with the bloody stupidity." He sighed lightly, and clenched his fist. Soap recoiled and almost bounced off the table, but he was held in place. "What do you think? You didn't have the nerve to admit to wanting me."

"Yeah, yeah, but it wasn't that easy, I mean –"

"Now," Tom interrupted, "the only fair thing would be for me to get you as hot and bothered as possible, tie you down and leave you to suffer."

"Are you going to?" Soap panted, his fingers cramping around the edge of the table. The thought of what Tom was threatening scared the hell out of him. To lose something this good just because he'd been insecure… it just wasn't going to happen.

Tom paused a second before delivering his retort, to give the proper dramatic effect. Then, he shook his head decidedly, looking as though it had actually been a hard decision to make. "Nah. Unfortunately, that's not really an option anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one, I've waited long enough to have you. And furthermore…" He smirked. "You've got me all too worked up. I couldn't walk away now even if I wanted to."

That notion was a solace to Soap, who managed a faint smile, curling his hand around Tom's neck and giving him a deep kiss, the sort he hadn't felt secure enough to give earlier on. As Tom assumed his excellent usage of hands, he whimpered into his mouth, not wanting to tear himself away even momentarily.

"Turn around," Tom whispered, his breath humid and sweet-scenting of liquor.

Soap flinched. Tom's words had rushed into him and now, he couldn't even hope to stop the overwhelming feeling of panic entering him, uncalled for and completely uninvited.

It wasn't as though he hadn't expected it. After all, he wasn't born yesterday. But then again, he'd never done anything like that before.

Tom had taken hold of his shoulders – to Soap's utter desperation, since that meant a pause from the satisfaction given by those hands – and was uncharacteristically gently spinning him around, as though he was afraid he might break if he was too coarse.

That wasn't so much the problem, Soap mused half-consciously, as the prospect that he might snap, crumble from the pressure of not fucking anything up and run home scared. There was no way out of this for either of them now, and he knew it – the comprehension gave a mixed feeling of comfort and fearful anticipation.

And now, he'd been turned around so that he faced the table, which he grabbed hold of even stronger now than before. He felt Tom standing behind him, and turned his head around, permitting him to kiss him. Heat surged through his body now like never before. As he felt Tom's lips being pressed against his, he closed his eyes, finally throwing all what was left of caution to the wind.

Tom's breath was heavy against his neck as he somehow got out of his pants and underwear – fingers fumbling, frantically ripping with no control, it was a miracle he managed, but he did. The electricity flashed momentarily as the metro passed outside, but Soap hardly noticed; everything simply seemed to sparkle and twinkle, flutter and falter, eyes pressed together tightly, the darkness tainted by remote colours.

He could have done anything to make the moment last forever as Tom pushed inside him, and he had to bite his tongue to refrain from screaming. Small wounds were cut open, and the iron taste of blood filled his mouth. Pain, pleasure – in the realisation of the moment, everything became distant and mingled together, and Tom moaned something under his breath, his arms around Soap, and his hands… oh, God, his hands…

Soap wailed, his body strained and on the brink of quivering, and Tom rocked forward, backward, in a steady rhythm that seemed to permeate everything. He dug his fingers into the table, his nails scratching the surface, leaving small yet well visible marks on it. Soap didn't notice. The feeling of Tom inside him, penetrating him, filling him up, was mind-blowing, just mind-blowing, and combined with the alcohol imbibed earlier, it shrouded everything in a welcome mist, which lingered and thickened with time.

He'd expected it to hurt more than it did, but perhaps expecting the worst made everything else a pleasant surprise.

Tom not being an entirely selfish lover also helped.

As much as Soap wanted it to last forever – he really did – of course it couldn't, and the more time went by, the faster Tom's rocking rhythm got, and his moaning all the louder.

"Ah, goddamn it… Soap… oh, fuck…"

All of this was of course very flattering.

Soap didn't know how much time had passed, but didn't care either. His whole world was spinning, and everything around him swirled. And as the metro once more flew past, making everything shake and tremble, including the table he held onto as his last path to salvation, he came, ground shattering, earth crumbling.

He would have fallen to the floor right after that, washed out and exhausted from the physical and emotional stress, had it not been for Tom still holding onto him from behind. It was over, but they were still standing there together, entangled in each other, unwilling to let go, their heavy breathing all that could be heard. They just lingered there, standing just like that for a moment. It felt sort of nice, both wanting it to last as long as possible.

Soap shuddered as the heat gradually left his body and let the cold in again. He cursed Ed and Bacon for their inability to have a responsible approach to money.

And that was about when it hit him. He'd been oblivious earlier, but now, clarity of mind came as a saving grace, unexpected.

"Err… Tom…" Soap, hands still quivering, loosened himself from his grip and turned around. Reluctantly, he looked into Tom's eyes, afraid of what he'd see in them. But he saw no trace of blame or regret. Relief washed over him, and he managed to laugh, blushing slightly. "They should've been back by now. You know… maybe we'd better…" He nodded to incline both of their clothes, swamping the floor all around them. He spotted his underwear a few metres away under a chair; somewhere along the line, one of them must've kicked them away.

Tom's eyes glinted toward him. "'Course," he said humorously. "Wouldn't want them to…"

"No, " Soap filled in, "we most certainly wouldn't."

Without further ado, they began picking up their clothes, pulling them on quickly, backs turned against one another. The realisation hadn't quite dawned on them yet, through the dimness of the alcohol, what they had done and how this would affect everything. Ignorance was still bliss.

When Soap had got into his clothes again, he took a quick glance in a mirror oddly nailed on the wall. His hair was a total mess; sweat had made it lie down almost entirely flat on his head. His face looked pale and bloodless. The dark shadows around his tired eyes were even darker than they used to.

All in all, he pretty much looked the way he used to look after drinking as much as he'd had to drink. Only now, he couldn't get that stupid, content grin off his face, no matter how hard he tried.

He was shocked. Naturally, this wasn't something he'd exactly counted on when he'd signed up for yet another night of mindless drinking with his friends.

But intoxication takes care of a lot of problems, if only temporarily.

Tom was correcting the chairs and setting everything just right, the way it had been when Bacon and Ed went hunting for cigarettes in the jungles of late night London, and called for Soap's attention. "I think I've put everything in order, just about. I'm going to wash my hands, and, Soap?"

"Yeah?"

"In the meantime, why don't you clean up after yourself." Tom turned around and headed for the bathroom, sniggering to himself.

If Soap had been reasonably sober, he might've just spontaneously self-combusted from feelings shame and guilt, but he was nowhere near the sobriety required. His ears did redden faintly, though, as he grabbed a rag from a hook on the wall and did as Tom had told him to.

Now that the table was cleaned off from evidence and Tom had washed his hands, they both sat down at the table. Both baffled, both in their own little worlds.

"Oh, God," Soap said for the second time that night, but this time for a completely different reason. Tom didn't bother inserting a shrewd remark, but just let it slide. Somewhere inside him he realised that space was probably something they both needed now. Badly.

Minutes later, loud bangs and crashes outside the door announced that the two previously missing parts of the quartet would once again be gracing them with their presence. Arm in arm, they fell in through the doorway, bottles in plastic bags jingling.

"We found your bloody cigarettes," bawled Ed. Bacon giggled like a schoolgirl, catching Ed as he almost fell right into his arms, his legs wobbly and unsteady just as could be expected.

"And I daresay you found more than that," Tom said, grinning broadly. "More booze in there, eh, Bacon?"

"Oh yeah," Bacon retorted, winking at him. "Whiskey for you, 'course. The brand you like."

"Cheers," Tom said, urging them inside. "Come on in and join the party. We were getting bored here without you."

"I can see that," Ed said, inspecting Soap and Tom at the table. "Thought I'd ended up in a funeral-home or something. You lads need more drinks."

"And we're more than happy to provide 'em." Bacon bowed sardonically.

They dropped their coats right down on the floor and took their places at the table. Soap tried to remain absolutely calm, but an uncomfortable feeling was sneaking up on him. He didn't like lying, but this wasn't exactly lying, was it? It was just shutting the hell up. It would have to do. Any other option would've be unthinkable, of course. He hoped it didn't show too much that he now lacked a few buttons on his shirt. He hadn't been able to find them, but guessed they had to be somewhere beneath the few pieces of furniture around. He just hadn't felt like crawling around on his stomach, not when he knew how close to queasiness he was.

Very, very close, for quite a few different reasons, nervousness being one of them.

Drinks were poured, cards were dealt, and for an hour or so, things went on smoothly.

Right up until Bacon failed at pouring dark ale into his glass, and got a better look at the table. He frowned.

"Hey, these marks 'ere… how did they get there?"

Nobody answered, and in a matter of seconds, the subject was lost due to lack of interest and power of follow-up. Tom and Soap said nothing, and Ed was half passed out somewhere beneath the table, and so it came to be that the entire matter just dropped into the general obscurity.

And everything was fine. Really, everything just felt like it could be overcome. Alcohol solves lots of problems.

But as we all know… nothing good lasts forever, and ignorance is bliss right up until the morning after.