The cracked leather clutch purse snapped shut with a final click as Barry slid it across the polished mahogany bar. His thick fingers, calloused from years handling engine blocks, fumbled slightly with the clasp. "Another rye, neat, Walt," he mumbled, the low timbre of his voice barely cutting through the smoky jazz drifting from the corner. Flecks of grey peppered his dense chest hair, visible where his flannel shirt hung open at the collar. Forty-six winters had etched lines beside his eyes, deeper since the divorce papers landed.
Across the dimly lit room, Marcus leaned against the brick wall nursing a bourbon. The taut fabric of his t-shirt strained over broad shoulders honed from hauling lumber alone since Claire passed. He watched Barry’s reflection in the liquor bottles — the slump of those powerful shoulders, the way he traced the water ring left by his glass like it held unspoken questions. Marcus swallowed hard, throat unexpectedly tight. He’d seen loss mirrored in that weary posture. The scent of damp wool and cheap aftershave hung thick between patrons.
Barry sensed eyes on him — not the usual sideways glances he’d grown used to since leaving Brenda. This gaze felt different: weighted, lingering. He turned, his stool creaking under his solid frame. Their eyes locked. Something raw passed between them — a flicker of recognition in shared solitude beneath the bar’s amber glow.
Marcus pushed off the wall, sapling-straight despite the bourbon warming his belly. He moved through the press of bodies, the bass thrumming against his ribs. When he stopped a foot from Barry’s stool, the air crackled.
"Long night?" Marcus asked. His knuckles brushed Barry’s forearm where it rested on the bar — brief, accidental. Barry flinched at the contact, skin prickling beneath the coarse hair. He saw the tremor in Marcus’ hand as he pulled back. Saw the shadows in those tired blue eyes that mirrored his own. The jazz sax wailed a low, aching note.
Barry’s pulse hammered against his sternum. He met Marcus’ gaze again, held it. The silence stretched taut between them, thick with everything unsaid. Marcus’ breath hitched visibly. A bead of sweat traced the strong line of his jaw. Barry’s own palms grew damp against the cool wood. He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. The world narrowed to the heat radiating between them, to the gap closing inch by instinctive inch.
Marcus slid onto the stool beside him without asking. The leather groaned softly beneath his weight. His thigh pressed lightly against Barry’s, a silent question in the solid warmth. Barry didn’t shift. He felt Marcus’ bare forearm, dense with dark hair, brush his own again — intentional this time. A low current sparked beneath Barry’s skin. He smelled bourbon, sawdust clinging faintly to worn cotton, and underneath it all, the clean musk of a man waiting too long.
“Longer than most,” Barry finally answered, his voice gravelly. He lifted his rye glass. His knuckles whitened around it.
“Yeah,” Marcus murmured. His knee nudged Barry’s under the bar. The contact sent a tremor up Barry’s spine, startlingly intimate amidst the bar’s low roar. Marcus leaned in closer, his whisper a warm gust against Barry’s ear. “My place is five blocks away. Quiet. Got … got a bottle of decent Scotch gathering dust.”
Barry’s throat tightened. He saw the vulnerability shimmering in Marcus’ eyes — a flicker of fear mixed with raw hope. Forty-six years of burying pieces of himself crashed against the ache in his chest. He nodded, once, sharp. The decision felt like shedding chains.
They left the bar without another word. The night air, sharp with autumn decay and wet pavement, slapped their faces. Marcus walked half a step ahead, shoulders hunched against the chill. Barry followed, watching the powerful shift of muscle beneath Marcus’ threadbare jacket.
Rain slicked the deserted sidewalk, reflecting fractured neon signs. Their strides fell into sync. Marcus’ hand bumped Barry’s, lingered, fingers brushing. Barry’s calloused palm engulfed Marcus’. A shudder ran through Marcus — half relief, half disbelief. His grip tightened, anchoring them both against the trembling current coursing between. The touch was rough, electric, a silent promise under the indifferent city lights.
Marcus’ apartment smelled of pine soap and loneliness. He fumbled with keys, hands visibly shaking. The door opened onto spartan neatness — a worn couch, bare walls except for one framed photo of Claire’s smiling face above the mantel. Marcus paused, gaze flicking to it, then away.
"She … she’d want me to be happy," he rasped, more to himself than Barry.
Barry nodded, squeezing his hand. "Mine wouldn’t," he said, a weary ghost of a smile touching his lips. The shared ache settled between them, heavy but strangely lighter now.
Inside, the quiet pressed close. Marcus poured Scotch into mismatched tumblers. His t-shirt stretched taut as he lifted the bottle, revealing the dense forest of dark hair across his chest. Barry watched the muscles shift beneath skin weathered by grief and labor.
The silence wasn’t awkward; it vibrated with anticipation, thick as the honeyed scent of the liquor. Marcus handed Barry a glass. Their fingers touched again, sparking a low heat low in Barry’s belly. He saw the pulse hammering in Marcus’ throat, mirroring his own frantic rhythm.
Marcus leaned in. Close. Barry could count the silver threads in his beard, see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The first brush of lips was tentative, questioning — a dry whisper against Barry’s mouth. Then Marcus groaned, deep and resonant, pulling Barry flush against him. Calloused hands slid up Barry’s flannel shirt, rough pads finding the hard lines of his ribs beneath the fabric. Barry shuddered, fingers tangling in the thick hair at Marcus’ nape. The taste of Scotch and salt bloomed between them.
The kiss deepened, urgent. Marcus’ tongue traced the seam of Barry’s lips, seeking entry. Barry yielded with a gasp, his own hands fumbling beneath Marcus’ worn t-shirt. His palms scraped over wiry chest hair, the heat radiating off taut skin. Marcus pulled the shirt off overhead, flinging it aside. Barry followed, tearing at his own buttons. Fabric rasped against skin as they stripped down to briefs, bare skin whispering together. Marcus’ chest heaved against Barry’s, a dense mat of curls catching against Barry’s own graying pelt. The scent of musk, bourbon, and raw need filled the small room.
Marcus guided Barry backwards, step by stumbling step, until the sofa’s worn cushions hit Barry’s thighs. He sank down, Marcus following him, knees bracketing Barry’s hips. Hands explored with clumsy reverence — tracing scars, mapping valleys between muscle, thumbing sensitive nipples into stiff peaks.
Marcus buried his face in the crook of Barry’s neck, breathing ragged. "Christ, you feel ..." he choked out, teeth grazing Barry’s collarbone. Barry arched, a low rumble escaping his chest as Marcus’ hands slid lower, tracing the thick trail leading beneath Barry’s waistband.
The briefs came off, discarded on the threadbare rug. Barry trembled as Marcus’ gaze traveled down his body — a slow, searing appraisal that left him exposed. Marcus’ eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. His own erection strained against fabric.
"Touch me," Marcus demanded, voice thick. Barry’s calloused hand closed around Marcus’ shaft through the cotton. Marcus cried out — sharp, guttural — hips jerking forward. He ripped his briefs down, freeing himself, pressing hard into Barry’s grip. Skin slid against slick skin, hot and demanding.
Barry’s other hand clutched Marcus’ hip, blunt nails digging into flesh. The rhythm built, frantic: hips pistoning, breaths mingling, the moist slap of bodies straining together. Marcus groaned Barry’s name like a prayer, forehead pressed to Barry’s, sweat stinging their eyes. They were suspended — two battered men clinging hard, drowning in the raw pulse of each other.
Marcus trembled violently, thighs clenching tight around Barry’s waist. Barry felt the hot pulse against his belly before hearing the choked shout ripped from Marcus’ throat — thick spurts of sperm slicking skin. The visceral shudder running through Marcus triggered Barry’s own release: a sharp gasp, muscles locking tight, hips thrusting upward uncontrollably. Heat spilled between them, sticky-wet.
Marcus slumped against Barry, chest heaving against chest, breath hot and ragged on sweat-slicked skin. The frantic pulse slowed; the desperate grip eased. Barry’s hands slid up Marcus’ back, smoothing damp skin, holding him close. Marcus buried his face in Barry’s neck, lips brushing the hollow beneath his jaw.
They lay tangled in the aftermath, bodies cooling, breathing slowly synchronizing. Marcus traced idle circles on Barry’s damp chest, fingers catching in the grey-flecked curls. Barry stared past him at the ceiling crack, the familiar ache of solitude momentarily overshadowed by the solid warmth pressed against him. He shifted slightly, pulling Marcus tighter. A low hum vibrated in Marcus’ chest — contentment, disbelief? Outside, muted city sounds filtered through the window: a distant siren, tires whispering on wet asphalt.
Marcus lifted his head. His eyes, softer now, searched Barry’s face. He lifted a hand, rough fingertips brushing the deep lines beside Barry’s eye. "Alright?" he asked, voice hoarse but gentle.
Barry swallowed, the simple touch lodging the word "yes" thickly in his throat. He managed a nod, his own hand rising to cup the back of Marcus’ neck, thumb stroking the wiry hair there. Silence reclaimed the room, charged now with a quiet understanding deeper than words. Marcus’ thumb drifted slowly, tracing the curve of Barry’s bottom lip, his gaze lingering.
Marcus shifted, rolling them gently sideways until they lay facing each other on the worn sofa cushions. He traced Barry’s collarbone with a calloused fingertip. "I never thought ..." His voice caught, rough-edged. "Never thought I’d feel skin against mine again that wasn’t cold marble." His thumb brushed the old scar on Barry’s shoulder – a crescent from a slipped wrench. "You got stories written here."
Barry caught Marcus’ hand, pressing the palm flat against his own chest where sweat still glistened in the grey-flecked hair. "Mostly bad endings." He hesitated, eyes flicking to Claire’s photo on the mantel. "Your wife ... did she deserve a man who’d mourn her this long?"
Marcus’ gaze didn’t waver. "Deserved more than a widower drinking himself numb in bars." He curled a fist in Barry’s chest hair, not painfully, anchoring. "You? Brenda just walked away from ...?" He gestured at Barry’s solid frame, the strength still evident even slack with exhaustion.
Barry’s laugh was a dry scrape. "Preferred accountants. Men who didn’t smell like motor oil." He inhaled sharply as Marcus’ knuckles grazed his nipple. "Said I was ... too much. Too rough. Never figured how to be anything else."
Marcus stilled his hand. "You’re exactly enough." The words hung heavy between them. Outside, rain hissed against the windowpane. Marcus watched a droplet trail down the glass. "When you walk out that door," he murmured, voice thick with unspoken fear, "will that be it? Is just tonight all we'll have?"
Barry’s fingers tightened on Marcus’ hipbone beneath the rumpled blanket they’d pulled half-over themselves. He studied the flecks of sawdust still clinging to Marcus’ forearm. "Forty-six years," he said slowly, "I packed parts of myself in steel boxes. Buried ’em deep." He met Marcus’ eyes. "I don’t think I can slam that lid shut again."
Marcus exhaled – a shuddering release. He pressed his forehead to Barry’s. "My bed’s big," he offered, tentative. "The couch springs dig like hell by dawn." His thumb circled the hinge of Barry’s jaw. "Would you stay tonight? Just sleep, if that's what you want. See ..."
Barry rolled, pinning Marcus gently beneath him, their legs tangling. He kissed the pulse point hammering at Marcus’ throat. "I'll stay," he agreed, the words vibrating against warm skin. "Let's see how this plays out."
Outside, the city’s distant wail softened to a hum. Inside, the silence wrapped them – not empty, but thick with possibility. Barry’s breath evened against Marcus’ temple. Marcus turned his face into the crook of Barry’s neck, inhaling sweat, musk, Scotch ... and something new, fragile as dawn light cracking the horizon. His hand slid up Barry’s spine, fingers splaying wide between his shoulder blades – claiming, sheltering. Holding on.
Barry’s chest rumbled, a low vibration Marcus felt deep in his own sternum. Not a growl. Not this time. Approval. Relief. Calloused fingers traced the dip of Marcus’ spine, tentative at first, then bolder, mapping the hard swell of muscle above his waistband. Marcus arched instinctively into the touch, a soft sigh escaping him. The simple glide of skin on damp skin sparked heat low in his belly, a familiar ache returning – gentler now, warmer. Not frantic hunger, but a slow-burning need to reconnect, flesh to flesh, deeper than before. He pressed his lips to the salt-damp hollow beneath Barry’s jaw, a question breathed onto skin.
Barry answered by shifting, sitting up. He looked down at Marcus sprawled on the worn couch cushions, moonlight catching the silver in his beard, the dark forest across his chest. Wordlessly, Barry stood, extending a hand. His palm was broad, scarred, steady. Marcus clasped it, letting himself be pulled upright.
They moved toward the bedroom doorway, a silent current flowing between them. The frame felt like crossing a threshold. Marcus’ bedroom was simple: a wide bed under the window, flannel sheets rumpled. The faint scent of pine soap lingered, mingling with the deeper, warmer trace of themselves. Marcus paused only to brush a thumb across Claire’s photo on the nightstand – a silent acknowledgement – before turning fully to Barry.
They sank onto the mattress, springs groaning softly. Marcus rolled onto his side facing Barry, their legs tangling naturally. He leaned in, kissing Barry slowly – a deep, exploring kiss tasting of shared Scotch and salted skin. Hands roamed with unhurried purpose. Marcus slid lower, lips trailing fire down Barry’s sternum, tongue swirling around one nipple then the other, drawing ragged breaths. He dipped lower still, nuzzling the dense trail leading down Barry’s belly.
Barry gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets as Marcus’ mouth found the thick root of his cock, hot and heavy against his tongue. Marcus savored the weight, the heat, the musky tang – clean, potent, utterly male. He worshipped him slowly, thoroughly, tongue tracing veins, lips sliding down the shaft.
Encouraged by Barry’s choked groan, Marcus moved lower still, hands spreading Barry’s thighs. He pressed his face into the crease, inhaling deeply – the scent intimate, earthy. His tongue swept firm and flat against Barry’s perineum, teasing, testing. Barry shuddered violently. Then Marcus applied gentle, insistent pressure – a broad, wet stroke directly over Barry’s tight furl. Barry cried out, hips lifting off the bed.
Marcus held him firm, repeating the motion – slow circles, probing licks – until Barry’s opening softened, yielding under the insistent heat and wetness. Marcus worked him patiently, tasting him deeply, lost in the intimacy of the act, feeling Barry’s muscles tremble beneath his hands.
Finding Barry slick with spit and need, Marcus pulled back just enough to position himself. He met Barry’s eyes, dark with trust and desire. Slowly, steadily, Marcus pressed his achingly hard cock into the tight, welcoming heat. Barry gasped, head thrown back, fingers digging into Marcus’ biceps – not pushing away, anchoring.
Marcus paused, buried deep, forehead pressed to Barry’s heaving chest, breathing him in. Then he began to move – a deep, rolling rhythm, unhurried, each thrust pressing deep into Barry’s core. Barry wrapped his legs high around Marcus’ waist, meeting every slow push, drawing him deeper.
Their breathing synchronized – deep, shuddering inhales, low groans mingling. Hands clasped tight above Barry’s head, fingers interlaced. Lips met in tender kisses. There was only the glide of sweat-slicked skin, the profound connection of bodies joining, the shared pulse hammering where they were fused. Eyes locked, breaths mingling, moving together in a timeless, tender dance. No hurry. No dominance. Just mutual immersion in shared sensation.
Barry arched subtly, guiding Marcus deeper with a tilt of his hips. Marcus groaned, crumbling forward slightly, pressing his lips hard against Barry’s sternum. "God, Barry … yes," he gasped against damp skin, his thrusts losing rhythm for a moment, overwhelmed by the tight, wet heat.
Barry met him stroke for stroke, his own hard cock trapped, weeping, against Marcus’ belly. He gripped Marcus tighter, urging him closer, deeper. The shared friction, Barry’s cock trapped between their bodies and rubbed against Marcus’ stomach with every inward thrust, built a secondary coil of pleasure low in Barry’s gut.
The slow, deep rhythm intensified. Marcus nuzzled into Barry’s neck, whispering fragmented words lost against sweat-slick skin – "feel you," "so good," "mine." Barry echoed them with choked sounds, his body tightening around Marcus, drawing him impossibly deeper.
Marcus lifted his head, searching Barry’s eyes, finding raw surrender mirrored there. He kissed Barry fiercely, swallowing his groan as his thrusts grew urgent yet controlled. Barry’s legs tightened around Marcus’ waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him impossibly deeper still.
The delicious friction against Barry’s own trapped cock became unbearable. He felt Marcus swell impossibly thick inside him, heard the ragged cry torn from Marcus’ throat moments before the hot, liquid sperm surged deep within him. The visceral clench of Barry’s muscles around Marcus triggered his own explosion. He threw his head back, a strangled shout escaping as thick ropes of sperm spilled hotly between their pressed bellies, mixing with Marcus’ sweat.
Afterwards, Marcus slumped heavily onto Barry, hearts pounding violently against each other’s ribs. Barry’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close as they gasped for air. Slowly, Marcus softened and slipped free. He rolled onto his side, pulling Barry against him, spooning him tightly.
One arm draped possessively over Barry’s waist, fingers splayed wide against his damp belly. Barry nestled back into the solid warmth, Marcus’ lips brushing the nape of his neck. They stayed entwined, listening to each other’s breathing gradually calm, feeling the shared heat radiate between them. The scent of sex, sweat, and spent passion hung thick and comforting in the quiet room. Outside, the city’s hum was a distant lullaby.
Marcus traced idle patterns through the coarse hair on Barry’s chest. His touch lingered on the faint ridge of an old scar near his ribs. "This one?" he murmured, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. His breath stirred the fine hairs at Barry’s temple.
"Ford Fiesta engine block," Barry rasped, a ghost of laughter in his tone. He covered Marcus’ hand with his own, trapping it against his heartbeat. "Slipped when Brenda was yellin’ about bills. Never bled so much." The memory, once sharp, lay dulled now beneath the weight of Marcus’ palm.
Marcus pressed closer, his knees tucking behind Barry’s. "Bastard car," he whispered into Barry’s shoulder blade. His other hand slid lower, tracing the plane of Barry’s hipbone beneath the rumpled sheet. "My worst scar’s here." He guided Barry’s fingers to a knot of raised tissue low on his abdomen. "Fell timbering after Claire ... after." His voice hitched. "Splintered rib ripped through."
Barry’s thumb rubbed slow circles over the scar. He felt Marcus tense, then melt deeper into the embrace. "Stubborn bastard," Barry breathed, turning his head just enough to catch Marcus’ lips in a tender, lingering kiss. The taste was still them – salt and Scotch and homecoming.
Moonlight striped the bed through half-closed blinds. Marcus watched it glint off the silver strands in Barry’s beard. He inhaled the scent trapped in the hollow of Barry’s neck – musk, pine soap, them. His fingers drifted downwards again, calloused pad finding the soft skin of Barry’s inner thigh. A question unspoken.
Barry shifted, turning fully into Marcus’ arms. Their foreheads touched. Eyes locked in the dimness. Marcus’ hand rested heavy between Barry’s legs, fingers curling possessively. Barry’s own hand slid downward, finding Marcus already stirring against him. The silent understanding thrummed louder than words. A shared ache rekindling, slow and deep.
Marcus leaned in, his lips brushing Barry’s ear. "Again?" he breathed, the word rough velvet. Barry’s answering groan was all the permission needed.
Hands relearned each other’s terrain — Barry’s palm sliding down Marcus’ flank, tracing the knotted scar low on his belly, while Marcus’ fingers curled around Barry’s hardening length, slick with their mingled sweat. No urgency this time, only the slow, deliberate friction of skin on skin, a language deeper than speech.
Marcus’ thumb circled the crown, spreading wetness, drawing a shudder that vibrated through Barry’s chest. Barry mirrored him, his own grip firm around Marcus’ thickness, feeling heat pulse beneath his palm. They moved in tandem, strokes languid yet purposeful, a shared rhythm synced to their ragged breaths.
The silence fractured only by hitched sighs — Marcus’ forehead pressed to Barry’s shoulder, Barry’s teeth grazing Marcus’ collarbone. Moonlight caught the sweat beading in the hollow of Marcus’ throat as he arched, tendons straining. Barry watched him unravel: the flutter of lashes, the tremor in his jaw, the raw vulnerability laid bare.
When Marcus’ release came, it was a silent convulsion, warmth spilling over Barry’s fist, his body shuddering against Barry’s frame. Barry followed moments later, a guttural gasp torn loose as he spilled between them, heat slicking Marcus’ abdomen.
Later, Marcus reached blindly for the crumpled sheet, wiping them clean with clumsy tenderness. He pulled Barry back against him, chest to spine, his arm banding Barry’s waist possessively. Barry settled into the curve of Marcus’ body, the solid warmth an anchor. He traced the ridge of Marcus’ hipbone beneath the sheet, fingertips whispering over coarse hair and scar tissue.
The radiator ticked softly. Marcus’ breathing deepened, his exhale stirring Barry’s hair. Barry closed his eyes. For the first time in years, the silence didn’t echo. It held them.
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