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He can always tell when his lover—if that’s even the right word—is feeling feisty, because he’ll wake up alone instead of cocooned around a trembling koala unwilling to let go. There are times when Leo clings to him for hours in the morning, either refusing to say a word or occasionally grunting out painfully raw admissions. There are times where Leo’s just gone—Elijah will casually ask the nearest Chloe for his location, and she’ll report that Leo’s halfway across the city.
Other times he’s told ‘in the kitchen,’ or ‘in the lounge room,’ or—his favourite—hovering by the pool.
Elijah never rushes. He already put in the leg work, and now that he’s retired, there’s no need for grueling weeks without sleep and frantic sprints between laboratories and test rooms. He can afford to take his time picking out tight jeans and a close-fit black button up, like he takes his time brushing his hair and teeth, but not a shower—he wants Leo to still smell the stench of sex beneath his clothes. Last night was particularly rough, even for his wild lion, and spotting a few stray hickeys on his neck in the mirror gives him a pronounced sense of pleasure. His Chloes never mark him. Best of all is knowing that Leo came away far worse—he must still be littered in the red lines of Elijah’s nails and purple bruises from his teeth. Leo would’ve walked to the front room with a sizeable limp. The creamy skin on Leo’s thighs alone must look like mottled patchwork. It’s a shame he didn’t stick around for Elijah to enjoy that view in the comfort of bed. Android skin never mars so well as the real kind.
Leo’s all real, and that shows in the way he hunches by the pool, glaring into the depths—the Chloes never hesitate to dive in. Leo’s shoulders tense at the mere sound of the door sliding open, at the quiet brush of Elijah’s footsteps. But he pointedly doesn’t look around. Clearly, he’s feeling defiant—another beautifully complex human emotion.
He doesn’t even say ‘hi,’ so Elijah doesn’t either—just nudges the small of Leo’s back with his sock-covered toes. It’s the same spot he came on last night, after the first round of finishing deep inside. Hopefully, Leo’s cleaned up since then. He’s wearing the same cargo pants he came over in, but he’s stolen one of Elijah’s old sweatshirts—probably because Elijah ruined the sweater he had yesterday. It was cheaply made—the loose buttons and seams didn’t stand a chance. Elijah tore them apart with ease. And Leo loved it—he moaned loud enough that Elijah couldn’t help covertly glancing at the many hidden cameras. He’s delighted to have all those delicious noises saved for the next time he wants to touch himself to the sight and sounds of absolutely railing his best friend’s son.
Elijah coaxes, “Why don’t you go for a swim, pet?”
Leo grumbles, “I’m not your pet,” and hunches in on himself. He’s so tightly wound all the time. He could use a massage. Not the prostate kind—the only kind Elijah gives. The Chloes can deliver clinically effective massages, but Leo flinches back when they try, and Elijah can’t put his hands on that lovely figure without swiftly devolving into other activities.
Elijah doesn’t need an answer anyway, because he knows it. He kneels down behind Leo, conscious of how Leo subtly glances over his shoulder, wary but unwilling to run. At the far end of the pool, two Chloes are idly bathing, chattering inanely to one another in hushed voices. They’re pure decoration to Elijah, but he loves how they set Leo on edge. Or maybe Elijah’s the lone cause of that. He purrs across the back of Leo’s neck, “You can borrow my trunks, if you like... or you can always swim nude...”
Leo squirms, like the mere ghost of Elijah’s breath is abhorrent. He was more than into it last night—he arched himself into Elijah’s mouth and begged not just to be touched, but to be kissed, and licked, and fucked harder and deeper.
Humans are delightfully inconsistent that way. Leo’s the most unstable of all, and yet so adorably predictable. Elijah dares to wrap an arm around him, to pull him back—Leo’s breath hitches as he’s drawn flush against Elijah’s chest, Elijah’s chin hooking over his shoulder. Leo’s legs are crossed, knees hovering a few centimeters over the edge, and it’d be easy enough for Elijah to just push him in. Elijah does love seeing Leo wet, but not in nearly so many clothes. And cargo pants and sweatshirts aren’t exactly good swimming gear. Elijah’s cruel enough to goad, “Why don’t you want to strip down for it? You’re not still insecure about those pretty track marks, are you? ...Or is it that your waist isn’t as small as Chloe’s, and now that I’m feeding you, you’re getting a bit of a stomach...?”
Leo tries to elbow Elijah hard in the gut, but Elijah pulls back in time. It’s not his first time prodding Leo in the most sensitive places. But it has the desired effect—Leo finally looks around at him, glaring daggers. Leo spits, “Maybe I don’t want to swim in your fucked-up pool because you’ve got it painted like a friggin’ blood bath, you psycho.”
Elijah smoothly counters, “Ah... and you’d rather have it painted the colour of blue blood, would you?”
Leo goes cold. Elijah keeps his slick smile, hoping that the next time Leo does go swimming, he sees the effervescent turquoise and thinks of thirium, then thinks of Elijah pumping it right into his veins. Then he’ll come running back, and Elijah won’t really shoot him up, but hold him through the tremours of withdrawals, happy to be in Leo’s mind as both the problem and the solution.
Elijah nods at the water and offers, “Tell you what, babe. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to strip down and dive in right now.”
Leo’s eyes narrow. For all the things he takes offense to, money isn’t one of them—he’ll always take handouts. He’ll just sneer while he does it.
“...Or, I can give you ten thousand, if you come with me to my office, kneel beneath my desk, and suck me off while I reply to a letter from your father.”
Instantly, Elijah’s own sweatshirt hits him in the face. By the time he’s pulled it off, the cargo pants are at his feet. Leo’s in the water, the remnants of the splash ebbing over to Elijah’s toes. Leo submerges himself entirely, then surfaces like a dolphin, flinging his dark hair out of his eyes and wiping the water off his face. He’s as pretty in the pool as he is in the shower. He tells Elijah, “I’ll take it in cash,” and sticks out his tongue.
Climbing back to his feet, Elijah replies, “I’ll tell your father you’re doing well, then.”
And Leo swims over to try and splash him as he strolls off, smirking.