"Hey."
It's not the best reason for him to look up, but tonight, Erwin's grasping at straws. He does. Brown eyes froth over him like he's robbed them of something. Red hair bounces in a tousled, stout beehive, shimmering with curling spray in the streetlight and snowflakes as they catch between individual locks.
"Do I know you?"
Eyebrows bend. They're thin as a needle, plucked edges sharp enough to write with. Whoever they are, they don't sit down at the bus stop with him. With obstinate stiffness, as if daring the wind to pick up or the snow to fall harder, they stand out in the open. Erwin can't make them out perfectly against the glow of the advertisement stamped on the stop's plexiglas wall. Fritz Bridal : Laying the Foundation for the Rest of Your Life. Now he wishes he'd picked a different stop. A different city. Actually, just to be sure, he probably should've settled on a different planet. He's at least sixty-seven percent sure that nothing there would remind him of Hange.
"Not yet," barks the stranger. "But give me $150 and you can learn anything you want about me."
So that's it. A half-hearted curiosity moves his mouth for him as Erwin squints his companion's way. "Son, do you know where we are?"
They take that moment to step out from behind the neon lights, and to him it looks like the arrival of an angel. Almost jogging him from the fathoms of his despair, he eyes his partner from head to toe. They're a man, at least physically; tight, corded shoulders roll out of a black tank top that is without a doubt not a men's, and that same shirt is flat at the bust with his lack of breasts. They– he– is shorter than Erwin, but then, most people are. Towering over his fellows in stature is something he's used to; an age-old salve, being the small, pathetic, cowardly thing he is on the inside. His arms look strong, the bow-shaped dip of his collarbone pronounced in a way that only emphasized his masculinity. Faux-fur lining of a thrift store coat girdles the lithe humps of his body in a way that almost compels Erwin's attention. And then there's his makeup; spiked, loud, dangerous, angular red tear-tracks arcing from the corners of his eyes, a lush round of it at his lips, shadow at his brows and foundation still visible from the imperfect second mask of makeup. Whatever specific desire he satisfies for money, Erwin can tell he's new to the game. He's trying too hard. All he needs is a whisper, and he's shouting with his body.
The cold's got him shivering. Yes. The cold. That dastardly, beautiful excuse. Isn't he supposed to be mourning a failed marriage? Hange, Hange. Her name is a space for hardship. Yes, that feels much more appropriate.
Laying the Foundation for the Rest of Your Life. Worse places to start laying it than a ghetto bus stop in the middle of a winter night.
"This is Shiganshina, yeah," says the newcomer. The edge in his voice betrays his youth; now that he's closer, Erwin can hear it as clear as day. "I was born here."
"Then you'll know how dangerous it is for prostitutes here. You'll know how bad crime is. Especially at this hour. How . . . regressive some views on gender and sexuality are here, " Erwin waves an arm down both ends of the deserted street they're waiting on. Foreboding, lightless brick buildings rise up high on both sides of them. Old industrial warehouse like this, from Shiganshina's distant past, are perfect places for creatures prowling the street to make sex workers disappear. He reads the paper in the morning, he knows that much, at least. "Do you want my advice? Go home. Go back to school and stop doing this before you lose the chance to do anything else."
The stranger just sits down next to him, a bored expression weighing down his made-up face. Erwin finds he misses the intensity, the gaze that, though it doesn't say what, knows it is owed something and demands it. "Like I said, I live here. You think I don't know a guy like you could choke the life out of me? That's why I'm talking to you." He pulls a cigarette and lighter out of one of the beat-up front pockets of his coat. Snow and smoke have a brief introduction as he gestures the burning stick to Erwin. "I don't need the whole thing."
It's a no. An utter no. And then the acrid, dry puff of smoke hits his nostrils, bringing memories on its backstroke, and suddenly the cigarette looks much more appealing. No, not at all because of the slender, strong flair to the way the younger man holds it. The redhead blows rings at him, haloing his lips with that bloody, beautiful rouge stained over them. Erwin nods, not meeting his eyes. The stick changes fingers, and just before he can lift it to his mouth, the redhead takes hold of his wrist and pulls himself up to Erwin's height. He's surprised by his strength. Red ears, dyed by the cold, tickle with warm breath, the first that's graced them in some time.
"To be honest, it kinda does it for me," whimpers the stranger. "How . . . robust you are. One modest fee, and I'm yours. C'mon. You look like you're here all the way from Mitras. $150's got to be pocket change to men like you."
"Did you stop to consider that I may not be attracted to men?"
"Are you?"
"I suppose your life depends on it. If I'm not, I could get violent."
"With biceps like those, you'd better. Answer my question."
"Yes."
"Would ya look at that? Turns out I'm going to be just fine."
"Young man, you're missing my point–"
"Who's ring is that on your finger?"
And there the hated, longed-for band lay, tight around his pointer. Erwin had almost forgotten about it, but then, much of its luster had long since been forgotten, too. The sickly light from the streetlamp turns it from the gold it began their life together as into a diseased bronze, a ring of palsied bone clotted with rust. Redhead eyes it curiously as Erwin takes a pull from the cigarette. Bitterness billows down his lungs. It ties the feeling together, really; that sense that everything has some affliction now. Nothing is healthy. Even the pull he feels towards his companion feels tainted; his body pushes it away even as it envelopes him, hissing this is why Hange is gone. Fighting a kraken makes about as much sense as this.
"Mine," Erwin wards off.
"I'm nineteen, not stupid. I know that's not how wedding rings work."
"Please, leave it alone."
"What happened between you and him?"
Hands close around straws. Anything to haul him out of the pit. "Her." Redhead's mouth makes that o-shape again, in a kind of teasing surprise. Erwin loves it as much as he hates it. The bottom lip curls in the same way as a beckoning hand, a mirrored appendage inviting him forward. Maybe redhead's the type that likes to be overwhelmed and have both of those veined forearms locked behind his back and his mouth savaged and hips bruised by a taller, stronger, blonder man. Maybe. Maybe. If there's any goodness in this world, which Erwin personally doubts.
He guesses in this case he could literally buy an answer to that question. The bills burn a dark hole in his wallet.
"Oh, I can see where this story's going," grunts the stranger. "Poor Mrs. Commander, marooned with a husband who isn't smelling what she's selling. That's what brings you here?" He's poking a bit too roughly, now. How does he get any clients with this kind of attitude?
"I wouldn't expect someone of your age to understand." A bite in kind. Hopefully it'll be enough to piss redhead off. The cigarette burns short. He sucks on it again.
"Then, sir, why don't you teach me to?" And it's a sweet way that he says it, an affect of longing lacing his words that hooks itself into Erwin's bones. Makeup flames black as blood on his face. "You want a therapist, I'll be your therapist. I'll be your friend. I'll be the love of your life if you want. I can make it work."
"Why? What do you care?" He wants to curse, tell this kid to fuck back off down the street he'd come from, Erwin had already met the love of his life. Minus the dissatisfaction whenever he slept with Hange, the biting inadequacy he knew she felt when they finished, the terror even an innocent locking of the eyes with another man could inspire in him. A million histories deleted and truths revised. Hange might as well have been nothing to him at all and tears come from absolutely nowhere. Warm and then freezing over his cheeks, just like they had been. He and his wife, teetering at toxic ends of an impossible continuum.
"Who's to say I do?" Redhead borrows his cigarette for a moment, mouthing its unburnt side from Erwin's mouth and he startles with the closeness of their lips. Dollar-store perfume and something like pumpkin mix in with the nicotine reek. He seems for all the world like a muscled Cruella deVille with the angle he drawls at the stick from. "You're lonely, loaded and probably long." A gesture to the seamed crotch of Erwin's pants. "If I were to write myself a job description . . ."
"You aren't very good with your sweet words, son."
"Well, you strike me as a man who appreciates some honesty." Fingers thread in the back of Erwin's hair, at the sanded-down baby hairs that Hange had always liked so short. Earlobes numbed by the snow are reborn in a plume of hot, luscious breath. "But the truth will cost you, sir." Living wetness engulfing soft skin, a gentle tug that sends tingles down Erwin's neck.
He's angry. Turned-on. Hurt. Mad that this kid is trying to take advantage of his grief, aroused because solid walls, just look at him, wounded because how dare he feel such shameless desire roll down his throat for another when he hasn't even totally moved out of their house yet.
Her house, he has to remind himself. So ordained Judge Darius Zackly, chief minister of destroyed dreams, in the divorce settlement. It's a good thing Erwin had already been looking for apartments, per her request. He's still thinking of her as his wife and he kicks himself for it.
Hange's house. Hange's life. She has no problem forging ahead without him.
Her life.
Is this bench in the middle of nowhere just going to be his from now on? Snow and darkness? Washed-out bricks rotting around him? No one coming?
His hand finds the stranger's thigh, rippling with fitness, and squeezes hard. Something stuck between a wince and a groan saws its way out between his teeth. They're so bright, even in the dark. Beautiful.
"Ah . . . that's better. Harder."
He does what's asked, falling into the order.
"Tell me your name."
"Erwin." The hand travels northwest. The yoga pants do absolutely nothing to hide the bulge redhead's working on. But then, that is likely the point of having them on at all. "Tell me yours."
"C-call me F, sir," shivers the stranger, or F. Erwin's palm is so huge it engulfs his whole crotch entirely.
"F? That's not much to go on." He finds he likes this, quite a lot. F's pencil-sharp brows even out, freed of their tension, and drift upward in a pleasured ascension.
"Well– mmm— you know, it's meant to be . . . alluring. Mysterious. F could stand for anything. Flesh. Flames. F-Fucking. Flirting. It draws– ah– draws folks in, siiiiir." The keen comes out high and desperate, dragonlike with the breath that the cold makes visible. F's body unravels at Erwin's touch and it's incredible how pliant he is now. That unerring young man who'd stood out in the snow can't possibly be the same one moaning for him now, can he? Maybe it's a front meant to draw him in. Erwin doesn't care, not really. He'd spent twenty years putting on fronts of his own. It only serves him right.
With the wonderful way F sounds, none of it matters for long. Erwin takes F's sharp chin in his hand and slips the bills he asked for into fur coat's pocket. It's all he can do not to tear it from the body before him and leave it for the snow to bury.
"Freedom," he whispers, before his mouth makes ruin of F's immaculate makeup and Hange's memory both.
There's little to say of what transpires after that. At least, that's the breadth of what flows through Erwin's mind. The bus ride is a blur of tongues, whipping, screeching, pink and soggy things searching dark places for dark things. If the driver notices he and F ripping at each other, he doesn't make a commotion out of it. Erwin wouldn't either, if he were in the other man's position, and thank god he's not. The old man is absolutely not worthy to lick up the apple of F's throat. That is a joy he intends on keeping for himself tonight. Tomorrow night. Forever, it seems, with heady lust having banished grief and the late hour making Shiganshina melt into shifting light and shadow outside. It's not even that it's the suggestion of a future like this, of longevity with F, it's just . . . an echo of an echo. There's no promise to tomorrow, not anymore, but there is the now. F's small hands tensing at Erwin's biceps as they kiss like enemies. The swell of his ass in his lap. The soft nuzzle of that stupid, evil, concealing coat that's quickly become too warm to wear. These things are real, so real that they blast every might-have-been from Erwin's mind.
The tongues keep falling. Tangling. Cords of life that've twisted and caught on each other by loathed circumstance move against each other. F tastes like a drink, like some kind of spiced rum. He might just be imagining it, so intoxicated by the kid's body that he can only process it as some kind of chemical addiction. Granted, he might be imagining all of it. In between the burning lit under his skin by F's hands, Erwin considers he might still be at home, wrapped in sweaty, tear-soaked sheets, inventing some fantasy just to keep himself from buckling.
Then F moans his name, and the bus driver tells them "get the fuck out of here". Tires shriek into the snow-slush. Half-consumed by each other, they somehow make it out of the vehicle without tipping over. There are so many somehows with F. Probability warps around him, an unyielding obstacle when the tide of the world should have swept him away. He thinks of that first look on F's face, accusing, appraising, in search of what the rest of humanity seems to have denied him just for existing. It makes him want to crush F to him again, hard and overwhelming.
Somehow, they make it to a dingy apartment that wafted with nicotine and the salty-green smell of mold. It's F's greatest trick. He turns distance into an afterthought, time into a minor feature. Erwin pulls him down to the couch like it's his apartment, like he lives here. Lips slide together, and it's only now that he notices F's makeup's been smudged and stained all over his face. He's wrecked. Soiled. Perfect craftsmanship tossed out in favor of his own wanton howling. Something like delight pulses in Erwin's chest when he sees it. F is even more handsome without the mask, though maybe it's just colored by the possessing. The other man's his for now, for the rest of this endless night.
Some of the red drips down onto Erwin's face. Into his mouth. F's nose is bleeding. Perhaps they'd bumped together too hard on the bus?
"Your nose is–" but the younger man doesn't care. He tugs and tears at Erwin's pants like he's trying to unearth a corpse, which in a way, he is. He and Han–they hadn't had a sex life to speak of by the end of it. Time for a resurrection.
"F," he says, more firmly and with no more effect. F strokes him to life, feeling the heave of Erwin's cock in his hand and the protests almost die right there. His body shouts in the silence and Erwin shudders heavily when F sucks down onto him without asking. A circling tongue, staking a claim. It's been too long. Moist warmth works to glue them together, and it's not just saliva.
"Enough," he growls, shooting upwards and taking a fistful of red hair between his fingers. They tumble. Blood arcs.
F's face is smeared with it and it's surely soaked into the couch a bit and it's all over Erwin's crotch and the look in his eyes.
Fear.
Suddenly the implications of this situation become frightfully clear.
How many other men might've done this to F, loomed over him like angels of death spattered in blood and filled with rage?
Erwin lets go of wrists he didn't register he'd grabbed.
"You're bleeding," he murmurs into F's ear. A kiss to the shell of it seals his apology. "Go and wash it off, please." Couch cushions catch him as he falls into it, scarlet-wetted cock dangling in an embarrassing fashion. Crusted orange light fills the hallway not unlike that streetlight from a century ago.
In the pause, everything rushes back. F is the only thing worth letting his attention be stolen by, but that doesn't stop Erwin's mind from wandering. Hange, Hange, Hange. "A towel for me as well, please!" F comes back with the aforementioned rag, weary and tattered but still useable. Erwin wipes himself down. He's ruined it. He's gone and played the part he always does and fucked it all up. F won't look at him, even after he's cleaned.
"I thought you liked how 'robust' I am," Erwin breathes, not feeling robust at all without any pants on.
"I do."
"There's no need to feel embarrassed."
"You aren't very good with your sweet words, Commander." Every part of Erwin perks up at that. F's eyes linger on one in particular, dark and hot.
"Tell me that you're alright."
"I'm alright."
"Are you lying to me, F?"
"Yes."
"I don't care for that. I paid for you."
"And here I am!" He's yelling. Angry tears that burn to nothing before they leave his brown eyes. Erwin finds himself angry, too, enraged with himself that he's defiled even this holy young man. Is there anything he can touch without spoiling?
"I don't think you get it, son," he rumbles. "I paid for your body. To own you form and spirit for the night. I'm not one to handle products unsafely, do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Erwin." A hand gently loops around F's throat, the apple massaging Erwin's palm. Gentle kissing. He takes his time with this one. Whatever horror he'd awakened in F needs to be put back to rest. Smooth chalk flavors stipple on his tongue as they part, foreheads rippling.
"Try again." Upping the violence. Teeth on flesh. F's mouth is swollen.
"Yes, Commander."
And that's all it takes. Even with the denseness of the fitter parts of his body, F weighs next to nothing in Erwin's grip. He lifts the younger man off the ground and relishes in the smooth slide of his thighs now that they've been freed of their pants. F runs his fingers through Erwin's hair, screwing up the part, screwing up everything, turning the world upside down. Erwin likes it better from this angle. All he could see from here is the younger man's face twisted and puffy-eyed, kissing him hard. F reminds him vaguely of a hysterical teenage girl. Erwin feels guilty and endeared at that thought in equal measure. Calves tighten against his waist in a silent, needy appeal.
It's a march of trial and error through the apartment's dank hallway, but eventually it leads them to F's bed. Rough sheets, mismatched pillows; Erwin falls between them and feels right at home. Kisses litter themselves along the vein in his neck, all the way up to his jaw. Everybody always tells him he has a supermodel's jaw. Erwin finds himself desperately hoping that F likes it.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, earning a breathy "Thank you, sir." They trade things, here, an affirmative for a squeeze. Beneath him, F's cock pokes up, reaching for any kind of contact. Erwin grips. Hard.
"Say it right, please," he growls into that fat bottom lip he's given F. A few tugs on his cock to sweeten the order. A thumb against the head and F's shuddering.
"Commander." It's so supplicant, so thin, that the wind could've blown it away in an instant. Erwin doesn't care for it. He needs stronger prayers tonight and like any god, he coerces them with pain. Teeth bear down on F's wiry shoulder, pulling at the skin there until it's red and purple and tingling.
"Louder." Swift, supple strokes now, base to tip, swallowing the whole of him. F's precum softens the contact and he arches his back like he's been struck by lightning.
"Commander!" It's the slightest alteration, barely a register higher than it'd been before, still reedy and shy. This kid should never be shy, not in front of Erwin, at least. Someone who moved the way he does, looks the way he does . . . what would they ever know of shame?
It bothers Erwin deeply.
Solid walls, just look at him. F's unraveling.
"So your landlord can hear us."
"Commanderrrrrr," splits the still darkness. Erwin's got F's mouth on him in moments, scrabbling up the bed and splaying his legs so the younger man can have access. He has to admit, it's better without blood diluting the saliva. Better this way, slower, much more deliberate, F's teeth grazing with the surgical care over the head of his cock. He's good, exceptional, actually. As new as he might be to pimping himself out, having power over other people's pleasure is something he must've started practicing early. F throws himself into it, into Erwin. It's his turn to stutter, hips trembling as he feeds himself into the redhead's mouth and tightens a gauntlet in his hair. A hum around him, a billow of breath. F sucks in great sticky gulps of Shiganshina's stale air and then takes him down to the base again. Erwin wonders just how deep he can go, how far he can invade. F leaks into fathoms he didn't know he had, starting puddles, nourishing roots. Maybe one day the two will even out. Muscles deep in the back of his throat contract around Erwin's cock and he sees stars, bloating in darkness.
"G-Goddamnit," spasms out from between his lips on a shaky whine and F pulls off of him in an instant. His eyes search, thankfully free of any revulsion at the sight of Erwin. He's concerned, a doting half-smile rising over swollen, nibbled-at lips; it might be the first genuinely positive emotion Erwin's ever seen on him. It makes all of this feel . . . domestic, somehow. Par for the course when everything about it suggests it is otherwise.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" F asks. No, he'd done quite the opposite. Another somehow on his part; Erwin's been consumed with the thought that nobody will ever make him happy now that Hange's gone (damnit, he can't stop from thinking her name in time). Like any other notion he doesn't care for, F appears to have thrown that one out entirely. Believe it or not, Erwin's trying to follow his lead.
"N-no," answers Erwin. "It's . . . " For some reason, he can't meet F's eyes. Be it some imperceptible signal on Erwin's face or his own suspicion, his gaze falls to the cold ring at his hip.
"Still thinking of her?" F glowers. Their faces draw close, enough for Erwin to make out individual strands of color in his irises and taste the salt on his tongue. A hard mouth sucks on his, scraping tastebuds away with filling-bolted teeth. A hint of metal. Erwin didn't taste it before.
"Guess what, Commander," hisses F against the cup of Erwin's ear, grinning. "Now it's my turn to not care for something. I don't want you to think of anyone but me, you get me? I want to linger with you for years. Take your ring off." Erwin returns the smile and the gesture both and delights in the redhead's shiver when he slips both palms over the taut curve of his ass.
"Give me a reason to."
So F sucks his cock a while longer, rolls onto his stomach, and eases Erwin inside him.
The flutters are uncontrollable in both of them, at first; F spasms around him, and for his part his own hips quake with potential energy longing to be released. It's no small comfort to Erwin that he's chosen a young man to be his first in months. Shaking like a virgin with someone his age, someone experienced? Solid walls, he'd never hear the end of it. It takes some effort to remind himself that F is experienced, at least enough to make some meager living off of this.
But the filthy pants rolling off of that sweet iron tongue say otherwise. They have such dark things to say.
"You're . . . big," is one such dark thing. "It's been . . . a– shit– a while!" is another. Meager living, indeed. Thigh to thigh, they're flush, Erwin's head just barely nudging what he thinks is F's prostate. A press. F whines, high and low and half a growl. God, the flare of his hips is just . . . His hands swallow them, thumbs massaging into the unmblemished divots between waist and thighs.
Another forward thrust.
Wet heat blooms, different layers hooking onto Erwin's length in just the right way to make him sigh.
F turns to look up at him when he hears it, head half buried in a dusty, sequined pillow, the kind you could turn black or shiny-green depending on which way you raked the sequins. Erwin picks up the pace and the jostling of their bodies muddles the surface of the cushion into random plates of black and emerald. It's disjointed, halfway between beautiful and ugly, not so different from the two of them. He doesn't have to wonder which of the two he most embodies as he seizes forth into F. The blush showing through the circus puddle of red on the young man's face and the euphoric way his mouth hangs open tell Erwin all he needs to know.
"Who are you . . . mmm, who are you thinking of?" whispers F.
"Depends," comes the reply, murmured against the nape of the redhead's neck. "On what your name is." He draws out everything but his tip, and just so F knows he means it, shoots back inside as if summoned by a magnet. Wringing this kid out is the only thing he seems to respond to, and thank god for that—
"Floch!" he sobs. "I-I'm Floch!"
"Then I suppose I'm thinking of you, Floch." It takes some time for Erwin's heart to settle and his hips to find a rhythm, but eventually enough snow has fallen to bury his ring for good.
One glimmers brighter than the other.