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'Why does he always look like that?' Carlos asked himself, frowning with disapproval. Even sick, curled up on the small couch in the back lounge under several blankets and- Carlos only just noticed this, and it only added to his upset with the situation- one of his overcoats, Paul looked completely satisfied with himself and in control of things. There was even a half-smile tugging at his mouth, one side of it was curled upwards ever so slightly as he watched some ridiculous DVD he'd bought for a couple dollars at one of the last gas stations they'd stopped at. As Carlos sat watching him discreetly over the top of his copy of the New York Times, he turned and had a coughing fit, covering his mouth with the wide end of one of Carlos' ties.
"You bastard. What are you doing with my clothes?"
Paul didn't look up at him until he finished his coughing fit, and when he did, he only looked up long enough to meet Carlos' eyes while he very deliberately wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the overcoat he'd decided to borrow. He dropped it and looked away, eyes focusing on the television. "It was on the floor." His voice had a raspy edge from all the coughing he had been doing lately. He added as an afterthought, "I was cold," as if that alone would excuse what he was doing.
Unfortunately, it did excuse him to a degree, which only served to frustrate Carlos even more. Annoyed, he closed his paper and folded it, tossing it angrily onto the little table next to the chair he'd been lounging in. It had fallen to him to look after Paul. "Make sure he doesn't die," Sam had joked, although sometimes Carlos found himself sincerely wishing for that very thing. He was wishing for it right then as he glared angrily at Paul, who, as always, was very easily ignoring him. It made him feel impotent and ridiculous and, even worse, it made him want Paul even more.
Watching after him sick and mostly helpless despite the airs he chose to put on only made Carlos more fond of him. It was horrible. It was humiliating. Carlos still got off on it.
Now that he didn't have the paper in his hands to pretend like he was doing something other than watching Paul, he felt awkward, as if he ought to be doing anything else. In the back of his mind he knew it didn't matter, no matter what he did, because Paul hardly knew he was in the room anyway. He was blissfully unaware of everything except for his stupid movie with its shitty acting and even worse score and Carlos just felt a burning disdain for everything Paul chose to be. It only served to remind him that Paul probably felt very similarly towards him. The bastard. Even when he wasn't trying, he still always won.
Very suddenly he realized that he absolutely had to be out of the room. He got to his feet. Paul still didn't look up. He turned around. Paul coughed, once, the sound muffled again but Carlos refused to turn and see where he was putting his mouth this time. He stalked off to the front of the bus, fuming and impotent and ridiculous.
For his part, Paul he glad to see him gone. He watched his movie and gleefully coughed all over Carlos' stupid overcoat and was almost drifting off into a fitful nap when Carlos came back. That he was back at all came as a surprise; what really put things over the top was that he was carrying a bowl of something that was steaming and smelled suspiciously good. He stepped in front of the television, peering down at Paul, with something that was almost genuine concern on his face. "I brought you soup if you'll turn off the television," he said simply, showing off a plastic spoon.
A particularly insistent growl of his stomach made Paul decide it was a deal. He flipped off the television, then looked back up at Carlos, a long, long look. Both of them were quiet. Paul held the remote tightly, almost as if it were a weapon as he challenged, "You have to feed me." And for a moment, Carlos looked like he dearly wanted to throw the soup in Paul's face, but it passed and he gave a very short, curt nod.
"Whatever you want, your majesty," he sneered, undoubtedly trying to save what little face he had left. Paul just smirked and tried to hold back another cough. When that didn't work he again turned, coughing into Carlos's sleeve, and when turned back, there Carlos was. Right there, sitting cross legged on the floor beside the couch blowing calmly on a steamy spoonful of soup like some kind of attentive mother.
Something about it put Paul off. Something else about it turned him on. Admittedly he always liked it a lot when Carlos gave in and did what he wanted, but it was different this time because he himself was in a more vulnerable position than he was used to. Unsure, he eyed the soup, then met Carlos's eyes. "It's poisoned, isn't it?"
"Shut up," Carlos shot back, and before Paul really knew it there was a spoon in his mouth and he was either going to swallow soup or be in the very undignified situation of having it spill out of his mouth. He swallowed. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Carlos asked, dipping another spoonful and blowing on it, blowing on it. The way his lips puckered slightly and his eyelids dropped low were terribly interesting to Paul; where he usually found himself ignoring Carl as much as possible because he knew how much it infuriated him, he found himself staring. It was completely enthralling, he just sort of feverishly watched Carlos's face and ate the soup that was shoved in his mouth and gradually grew less hungry and tired and more energetic.
When it got to the point where Carlos was tilting the bowl in order to get another spoonful of soup, Paul had completely settled into his presence and was less than eager to see him go. It took awhile but he usually warmed up to Carlos after he spent enough time not being an asshole, and once he was warmed up that was that. He enjoyed getting what he wanted. "My shoulders ache," he found himself saying- and they did, he was always achey when he got fevers -"You should rub them for me, since you're feeling so motherly." Of course he had to throw in the insult, he couldn't come off as too needy. He was looking at Carlos. Carlos was looking back at him, and they both knew exactly what was going on and where it would end up. It wasn't as if it would be the first time.
The spoon dropped into the bowl and Carlos very carefully set it aside, his eyes avoiding Paul's face. And of course Paul noticed, he always did, but he chose to ignore it. Once the bowl was set neatly on top of the folded paper Carlos had left behind earlier, Carlos gave a slow, sidelong glance. Thinking he was being subtle, probably, though he very rarely was. "You'll have to sit up."
Blankets and overcoats were quickly pushed aside and Paul sat up without a word, without so much as looking in Carlos's direction, and after a few seconds he felt the couch dip as Carlos climbed onto it. He shifted forward slightly, giving Carlos room to settle behind him, legs sprawling to either side of Paul's, and then Paul felt Carlos touch his shoulders, lightly at first but then with increasing pressure. "Be sure to get the back of my neck, too," Paul murmured, eyes drifting shut. As tempted as he was to lean back into Carlos's warmth, for the moment he refrained. It was enough to luxuriate in the hands on his back, one palm pressed firmly into a shoulder blade and rubbing in slow circles, the other touching the back on his neck, moving up and down then massaging with his fingers. Even if he was useless for most other things, Carlos knew damn well how to give a decent massage, and Paul could appreciate that. Most other things about Carlos only served to piss him off, but the massages? Sure. He liked those.
He always liked it when Carlos shut up and did as he was told.
It wasn't a real surprise when Carlos' hands began to dip lower, when Paul felt his shirt being pulled up and Carlos's hands slipping beneath it. Lips being pressed into the back of his neck were as routine as anything; it was just the same as always. Neither of them said a word. Paul didn't trust his voice not to crack. He didn't really feel like coughing anymore.
All Carlos wanted to do was bury his nose in Paul's hair and keep it there. Keep it there until he couldn't smell anymore, or more likely until Paul pulled away and demanded to know what he was doing. For the most part he resisted the urge, just like he always did, but every now and then when he would go in for another kiss he would let his nose brush through the soft strands and that was it, that was exactly what he needed. The moment Paul had decided to meet his eyes, that low thrum of desire Carlos always felt when Paul wanted him had begun to make its presence known. Being settled comfortably behind Paul, away from any chance of Paul catching his eyes and seeing something he didn't like was absolutely the best place for him. The two of them fit together very snugly, and Carlos was entirely too aware of Paul's backside pressing into his crotch. He was positive Paul was pretty damn aware of it, too- how couldn't he be? But Carlos obediently kept at the task to which he'd been assigned, his hands working all up and down Paul's back, working kinks out of his muscles.
That was all he would do until told otherwise. The very last thing he wanted was to accidentally piss Paul off. As he let his lips run along the line of Paul's shoulder, he wondered vaguely why he let these things happen. He loathed the way Paul treated him the majority of the time, but somehow had never quite come to loathe Paul himself. He felt more of a sort of envy, and of course Paul frustrated him but that was only because Paul didn't ever seem to try. And Carlos hated that. When he made such an effort with himself, why should Paul be able to get away without seeming to make any effort whatsoever? It was offensive. It was incredibly attractive.
And that was exactly why Carlos was rubbing his hips in slow circles, rocking forward ever so slightly and thinking, thinking as hard as he could at Paul as if that alone would spur Paul into telling him to go further.
The worst part was that he had known Paul so long that he didn't even need to see his face to recognize the smirk in his voice. "A little eager there, Shamu?"
By sheer force of will, Carlos managed to not claw down Paul's back, but he'd cut it incredibly close. He pretended instead that he hadn't heard Paul at all, and his fingers most certainly didn't dig into Paul's back a little more. His lips most certainly didn't turn downwards against Paul's skin. Not even for a second. He ignored Paul laughing at him. After waiting just a few seconds too long- oh, Paul was good at that, he knew exactly when silence turned awkward, he knew exactly how to make Carlos feel foolish -he spoke the words that Carlos had been waiting to hear. "I want to get off." Five words, very simple, very easy to understand, and the way his voice rasped as he said them made Carlos all the more eager to be the one to get him off. Slowly, very slowly so as to not seem too eager, his hands slid down Paul's back, out from under his shirt. At this point he was always delicate. He liked pulling Paul against him, he liked the feeling of a warm body on his and knowing exactly who it was- Paul. Paul.
"Yes," Carlos murmured, mostly to himself although he hoped that Paul would take it as agreement. Carlos wanted to get off too. Paul had to know it. Having a hard on pressed against your lower back would be obvious even to someone incredibly dense, and dense was the last thing Paul was. But he'd said 'I', and Carlos wasn't going to test his luck. So all he did was fold his arms around Paul, pulling him back against his chest, a hand dropping low to stroke his stomach while the other busied itself touching his nipples through the material of his shirt. He dared to look down at Paul's face, just fleetingly, just enough to take in flushed cheeks and closed eyes and parted lips. He wasn't breathing hard, and as always, he hadn't made any sounds that might give away how aroused he really was. Carlos's eyes darted away from Paul's face and down to his crotch, and that was all he needed. Paul was hard. Carlos had known he would be hard, just like he always did, but it still seemed to come partly as a surprise. He dreaded looking down and seeing nothing, dreaded the thought of Paul maybe growing bored with their game.
As sick as it was, he craved the fucked up things that happened between them. He wanted Paul to want him, he wanted it desperately. Eyes narrowing, he dropped his hand to cup Paul's cock through his pants. His fingers moved over the length he knew well, knew better than he really should have, touching the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge of his head, then moving downward along the trail of the zipper of Paul's pants. Off. He could take them off, couldn't he? Paul hadn't been specific, so Carlos assumed he could do whatever he needed to do, whatever he wanted to do. What he most wanted was to see Paul.
Really, seeing Paul naked would have been best, but if all he got was a long look at Paul's cock, that would be enough to hold him over until the next time. The experience of it would keep him waiting eagerly until it happened again. Carefully, he pulled the zip down and went back to pluck the button open. He didn't urge Paul to lift his hips, he didn't try to tug Paul's pants down. All he did was reach inside and curl his hand around Paul's shaft, not too tightly, not too loose. He squeezed a couple times, rhythmic, counting off beats and smiling inwardly when he felt Paul twitch in his hand. It got him off to feel things like that, to be reassured that it was him getting Paul off. He held Paul's flies open with one hand and carefully pulled him our through the opening, smile widening as he unwrapped his fingers and just looked, just for a few seconds. Paul was hot and hard and ready to go, the head of his cock reddened slightly and veins showing along the shaft. So ready, and he wasn't even naked. Carlos really wanted to suck him off, but when he glanced down again and took in Paul's flushed cheeks and closed eyes, he somehow doubted Paul would be amenable to him moving around.
A handjob would have to do. Carlos lifted his hand to his mouth and very thoroughly slicked his palm and fingers, eyes closed and it wasn't until he opened them and was reaching for Paul with an all too eager look on his face that he realized that Paul had opened his eyes and was watching him. He knew how he looked and didn't care, it wasn't as if Paul hadn't seen him go crazy for his cock before, but the look he had just seemed far too calculating, and not nearly wanton enough. Thinking that, Carlos didn't hesitate at all. He wanted Paul to feel it, too. He wanted Paul to want him. As he again curled his hand around Paul, he pressed his hip upwards, grinding deliberately against Paul's back as he gave a very slow, very teasing stroke. He drew his finger across the slit, still teasing, still slow and deliberate and nowhere near giving into the urge to do it fast and hard while working his hips against Paul's ass. He hadn't fallen quite that low yet.
Sometimes, though, he wished he could. Instead he played the role he'd always played. He was deliberate about what he was doing, squeezing tightly near the base of Paul's cock then giving a few long, drawn out strokes, all the while just grinding into him. Paul didn't protest him getting off that way, so, as he grew more bold, rocking into it more and more while his eyelids dropped lower and lower and his breaths grew harsher, he stroked faster, doing more of the things he knew Paul liked. Paul liked it when Carlos scraped his nails across his hipbones; Carlos pulled up his shirt and did it. Paul liked it when Carlos would use both hands on him, one stroking his shaft while the other teased and pinched and caressed his head. Carlos liked that, too, when he tried it. Paul lifted his hips, head turning to the side and exposing a pale expanse of neck. His hair just fell over it, barely obscuring the smattering of moles that dotted his skin.
Every time Carlos saw his moles, he wanted to lean down and put his mouth on each and every one. He gave the exquisite cock in his hand another squeeze and circled his thumb around his slit and Paul made a sound, a sort of needy rumble in the back of his throat that Carlos had never heard before, and he decided to take his chance. He dropped his mouth to Paul's neck, licking and sucking, making sure to touch his tongue to each and every mole. He bucked hard into Paul's back, and still Paul didn't say a word, he just made that noise again, a little louder and Carlos slid a hand into his pants, cupping his balls and feeling how tight against his body they were.
"God," he breathed, just barely pinching Paul's skin between his teeth. He pushed his hand deeper, scraping nails over the inside of Paul's thigh and he felt Paul twitch again, strongly, and he moaned, actually moaned aloud, and then he was coming. Carlos forced his eyes open to watch, mouth slack against Paul's neck as a rope of come hit Paul's shirt, then another, then a weaker shot that dribbled down over Carlos's hand. His entire body felt like it was on fire, his cheeks burned and pressed into Paul, shaking from the effort of hanging on as long as he had. Paul's come on his hand was quite possibly the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, the taste of his skin on his tongue and that was it, he was grinding into Paul's back and coming, coming hard and it was in his pants and when it slowed and stopped he knew how disgusting it would be in just a few minutes, but as he slumped back into the couch he couldn't make himself care.
In fact it took Paul pushing his hand away for him to even realize where he was again. And when he realized it, reality hit him and he wondered how badly he'd really just fucked up. Paul wasn't looking at him. Paul was trying to sit up, struggling with it really and when Carlos looked, Paul had already tucked his cock away and his flies were done back up. That wasn't unusual, Paul never wanted to linger on things after they were finished. Paul not looking at him wasn't unusual, either- that was all Paul ever did, because he knew how much it infuriated Carlos.
He knew exactly how much it pissed Carlos off to be ignored, and god did he enjoy pissing Carlos off, frustrating him, driving him insane. It felt good. He knew he could do it without hardly trying. He pulled away, sliding out of Carlos's lap and picking up the tie he'd wiped his mouth with earlier. He looked at Carlos. He looked at the tie.
Then, smirking, just for Carlos, he used the tie to wipe the come off of his shirt, dropped it, and pulled his pile of blankets and Carlos's overcoat back on top of himself. "Get the hell off the couch, I was trying to nap when you interrupted me, asshole."
"You fucking prick," Carlos snarled.
Business as usual.