Morning light, thin and watery, painted stripes across the rumpled flannel sheets. Marcus stirred, reaching instinctively across the mattress — fingers seeking warm skin, coarse hair, the solid anchor of Barry. Empty space. Cold linen. His heart plummeted, a stone dropped down a dry well. Gone. Of course. Just like Brenda. Just another slammed steel box. The familiar ache, sharpened by the ghost of Barry’s scent on the pillow, knotted his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut.
A muffled clatter echoed from down the hall. Metal scraping against metal. Then, the rich, dark aroma of strong coffee drifted under the bedroom door, cutting through the haze of spent bourbon and sex. Marcus sat up abruptly, sheets pooling around his waist. He strained his ears. Another clank. A low, tuneless hum. He threw back the covers, feet hitting the cool wood floor. Naked, he padded silently down the hallway, following the scent and the sounds.
He paused in the kitchen doorway. Barry stood bathed in the weak grey light from the window, equally bare, muscles shifting powerfully beneath his thick pelt of grey-flecked hair as he rummaged in a cupboard. The coffee pot gurgled, sending steam curling towards the ceiling. Bacon hissed quietly in a skillet on the stove, filling the small space with its sharp, savory perfume. Barry turned, holding two mismatched mugs. He saw Marcus. A slow, hesitant smile spread across his face, softening the weary lines.
Marcus crossed the kitchen in three strides. He didn’t hesitate. He cupped Barry’s stubbled jaw, rough skin beneath his fingers, and pulled him close. Their lips met – a soft, lingering press tasting of sleep and shared breath, chased by the bitter promise of coffee. It wasn’t tentative or questioning like the first kiss. It was confirmation. A silent sealing of something begun hours before. Barry leaned into it, his free hand settling on Marcus’ hip, thumb brushing the ridge of scar tissue low on his belly. They broke apart slowly, eyes holding.
"I found the bacon," Barry murmured, his voice morning-rough. He poured steaming coffee into a mug, the amber liquid catching the light. He slid it across the worn countertop towards Marcus. "Coffee’s strong. Figured you needed it." His gaze flickered over Marcus, taking in the unguarded relief softening the shadows beneath his eyes. "You didn’t think I’d bolt, did you?" A faint challenge, tempered by understanding, laced his words.
Marcus’ knuckles whitened on the counter’s edge. A ragged breath escaped him. "Yeah," he admitted, voice scraped raw. "For a heartbeat … when the bed was cold." His gaze traced Barry’s profile — the weathered lines softened by the steam rising from the coffee mug. "Then I heard pans clattering." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It sounded like hope." He stepped closer, invading Barry’s space deliberately, the heat radiating between their bare skin palpable even without touch. "How’s …" Marcus swallowed, rough fingertips brushing Barry’s forearm. "You? After last night? After … me?"
Barry turned fully, his hand covering Marcus’ where it rested on the counter. The contact was electric, anchoring. He looked down at their joined hands — calloused, scarred, one trembling faintly. "It feels like waking up," he said slowly, the words thick. "After years underwater." He raised his eyes, meeting Marcus’ searching gaze. The vulnerability there mirrored his own. "Raw. Peeled open." His thumb traced the ridge of Marcus’ knuckle. "But … solid. Real." He gestured vaguely toward the rumpled hallway leading to the bedroom. "I didn’t know skin could feel like that. Like … belonging." A flush crept up his neck, clashing with the grey stubble. "I knew loneliness, Marcus. I didn’t know that."
Silence stretched, filled only by the bacon’s sizzle and the gurgling coffee pot. Marcus reached out, not for the mug Barry pushed toward him, but to touch Barry’s face again. His thumb brushed the deep crease beside Barry’s mouth — a map line of past sorrows. Barry leaned into the touch, eyes closing briefly. When they opened, the guardedness was replaced by a startling openness.
"Scared?" Marcus whispered, the word barely audible over the spitting grease.
Barry’s answer was a slow nod, his jaw tightening. "Terrified," he confessed, his voice dropping low. "Like stepping onto ice you know might crack." He looked down at their hands again, his grip tightening. "But standing still … that’s cracking too." He met Marcus’ eyes, a flicker of defiance there. "I'd rather fall with you than without you." He lifted their joined hands slightly. "This … feels like bedrock."
Marcus felt the knot in his chest loosen, replaced by a swell of warmth that threatened to choke him. "Me too," he rasped, the admission raw. "Scared shitless. Feels like handing someone my last, rusted coin." He stepped fully against Barry, their bare chests pressing together, the dense hair mingling, warmth radiating. "But Barry … Christ … holding you last night? It wasn't just skin. Wasn't just … sex." His voice cracked. "It felt like …" He searched for the word, his gaze locked on Barry's. "... coming home."
He pulled Barry into a crushing embrace, burying his face in the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped tight, fingers splayed wide across Barry’s sweat-dampened back, anchoring him. Barry melted against him instantly, his own arms locking around Marcus’ waist, forehead pressed hard into Marcus’ shoulder.
They stood fused in the kitchen doorway, breathing each other in – coffee, bacon, pine soap, and the indelible scent of their joining – silent except for the ragged harmony of their breaths. The embrace spoke of shared tremors easing, of a tentative trust settling bone-deep. After a long moment, Barry gave Marcus’ flank a firm pat and gently pulled back, his eyes suspiciously bright.
"Bacon’s burning," he announced gruffly, turning swiftly back to the skillet. He expertly flipped the sizzling strips with a fork, the sharp, savory aroma intensifying. Marcus watched him for a beat, a profound tenderness softening his features, before opening the refrigerator. He pulled out a carton of eggs, a wedge of cheddar, and a green pepper resting on the shelf beneath Claire’s photo. He paused, his thumb brushing the frame’s edge almost unconsciously, then carried the ingredients to the counter beside Barry.
Marcus cracked eggs into a bowl with swift, practiced motions, the rhythm familiar, grounding. He diced pepper and grated cheese while Barry drained the bacon onto paper towels. They moved around each other in the small kitchen with surprising ease – a brush of an arm, a shared glance, Barry handing Marcus a clean knife without a word. Silence descended, comfortable and thick with unspoken communion. Marcus poured the whisked eggs into a hot, buttered pan, the hiss filling the space. Soon, two golden-brown omelets, folded over melting cheese and peppers, slid onto plates beside crispy bacon.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the small kitchen table, steam rising from the coffee cups. Barry stabbed his omelet with his fork. "You got any plans today?" he asked around a mouthful, the casualness deliberate, testing the newfound ground.
Marcus watched a drop of yolk slide down Barry’s beard. He wiped it away with his thumb, lingering for a heartbeat. "I'm supposed to help Ben finish that porch roof," he replied, his voice steady. "Rain’s coming tonight." He met Barry’s gaze. "We could use an extra pair of hands. Especially strong ones." He nudged Barry’s knee beneath the table. "If you’re … willing."
Barry paused mid-chew, fork hovering. He glanced toward the window where grey clouds bruised the horizon. The invitation hung between them — tangible as the bacon grease clinging to their plates. Not just labor. A step into Marcus’ world. Barry swallowed thickly. "Ben?" he asked cautiously.
"My neighbor," Marcus clarified. "He lost his wife same year as Claire." A pause. "He won’t ask questions." The unspoken assurance: No judgment here. Just men rebuilding. Barry’s knuckles whitened on his fork. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Alright," he rasped. "Got my boots in the truck."
They cleared the table in silence, elbows bumping. Marcus washed dishes while Barry dried, the warm water and rough towel a continuation of the morning’s fragile dance. When their hands brushed passing a wet plate, Marcus caught Barry’s wrist. "Barry," he murmured. "That bed …" He gestured down the hall. "It’s yours. Whenever." The offer wasn’t just for tonight. It was a key laid bare.
Barry’s throat worked. He squeezed Marcus’ forearm. "I know," he said softly.
Marcus’ pickup rattled down rain-slicked streets, Barry filling the passenger seat like a solid anchor. They pulled up beside Ben’s sagging farmhouse. Ben emerged — wiry, gray-haired, eyes crinkling as he took in Barry beside Marcus. A brief nod passed between them. No introductions needed. Just weathered hands gripping hammers, the scent of sawdust rising as they hauled pressure-treated lumber onto sawhorses.
Marcus guided Barry’s hands onto a beam. "Lift with your legs," he instructed, low and close, calloused palm settling briefly on Barry’s lower back. "Not that back of yours." The touch lingered — grounding, possessive. Barry felt the phantom heat through his flannel shirt, even as rain began spotting the boards. Above them, thunder rumbled, low and promising.
Ben handed Barry a nail gun. "Ever used one of these?" The old man’s gaze flicked to Marcus’ approving nod.
"Wrenched engines," Barry said, hefting the tool’s weight. "Not built houses."
"You build anything solid?" Ben asked, tapping a joist. "Same damn principles." He spat tobacco juice into the dirt. "Hold it true. Pull the trigger."
Barry braced against the porch frame. Rain slicked his beard as he sighted down the beam. The compressor hissed. He squeezed. The nail punched deep, flush and straight. Marcus’ knuckle brushed his spine — silent praise. They fell into rhythm: Marcus marking cuts with quick blue pencil lines, Barry driving nails with piston-force precision. Ben watched, eyes narrowed against the downpour. Sawdust turned to mud on their boots.
A crack split the air — rotten timber snapping under the storm’s weight. Ben cursed, scrambling back as the roof sagged. Marcus lunged, shoulder slamming a support post. "Barry! Brace!" Barry jammed a crowbar beneath the joist, muscles corded under wet cotton. Wood groaned. Rain lashed their faces. Marcus’ boot slipped. Barry caught his forearm, hauling him upright. Their eyes locked — fear and fury — before Marcus planted his feet. "Now!" Together, they heaved. The post settled. Ben slammed a temporary brace home, hammer ringing like a bell.
They retreated into Ben’s cluttered workshop, dripping onto oil-stained concrete. Ben tossed them towels. "Knew that beam was weak," he muttered, stoking a potbellied stove. "Glad you boys were here." He shot Barry a look. "You’ve got hands for this."
Barry scrubbed rainwater from his hair. Steam rose from his shoulders. Marcus leaned against the workbench beside him, hip brushing Barry’s. The storm roared outside. Inside, warmth seeped into bones. Marcus’ elbow nudged Barry’s. "You," he said quietly, "are a hell of a brace."
Later, soaked to the skin, they loaded tools into Marcus’ truck. Ben pressed a mason jar into Barry’s hand. "Applejack," he rasped. "For the help." He nodded at Marcus. "Keep this one." Barry gripped the cool glass. The unspoken welcome settled in his chest — thick and warm as the whiskey inside.
Marcus cranked the heater as they drove. Silence stretched, filled only by wipers slapping rain. Barry stared at the jar glowing amber in his lap. Marcus’ hand slid from the gearshift, settling heavy on Barry’s thigh. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The weight of it — the trust, the belonging — sang louder than words. Rain blurred the windshield. Inside, the cab hummed with heat and held breath. Barry’s hand covered Marcus’. Knuckles whitened. Held on.
The front door slammed shut behind them, echoing in the small hallway. They stood dripping on the worn linoleum, puddles forming around heavy boots. Rainwater plastered Barry’s grey-streaked hair flat, streams tracing paths down Marcus’ weathered cheeks. The chill from sodden flannel shirts leached into their bones, teeth chattering faintly.
Without a word, boots were kicked off, socks peeled away like wet skins. Shirts followed, clinging stubbornly before yielding with a wet slap against the floor. Work jeans, stiff with mud and rain, were pushed down thick thighs, kicked aside. Marcus tugged at Barry’s belt buckle, fingers numb and clumsy. Barry helped, popping the metal clasp. Jeans pooled atop the soggy pile. Briefs, damp and clinging, were the last barrier shed. They stood barefoot amidst the heap of soaked clothing, skin prickling in the cool air, the scent of wet earth and sweat thick around them.
"The laundry's in the basement," Marcus said. He gathered the pile, arms straining under the weight of saturated fabric, and kicked open the basement door, the hinge protesting.
The dank scent of concrete and detergent rose as they descended. Marcus dumped the clothes unceremoniously into the washing machine’s gaping maw, the wet slap echoing off the bare walls. Powder hissed in, a cloud of clean linen scent battling the damp. He slammed the lid shut with a decisive clank, twisting the dial with a practiced jerk. The machine shuddered to life, water gurgling deep within its belly. He turned, finding Barry watching him, shivering faintly, arms crossed over his broad, hairy chest. "Ready for a shower?" he asked.
Their eyes met across the damp gloom. "Yeah, with you," Barry nodded.
Naked, skin pebbled with gooseflesh, they went back upstairs and moved towards the bathroom. Marcus reached in first, flipping switches. Harsh light flooded the cramped space, gleaming off white tile and chrome. Steam began to curl almost instantly as he twisted the shower knobs with bone-white knuckles. Hot water roared against the porcelain tub, swirling fog onto the mirror.
Marcus stepped under the deluge first, head bowed as the scalding stream hit his shoulders, a low groan escaping him. He turned, water sluicing down his chest, rivulets tracing the coarse hair, catching in the ridges of old scars. His hand reached out through the steam, palm open.
Barry followed, stepping into the liquid heat, the sudden warmth hitting his chilled skin like a brand. He gasped. Marcus’ hand closed over his wrist, pulling him fully under the spray. Instantly, Barry tipped his head back, letting the torrent beat down on his face, plastering his hair flat. Steam enveloped them, thick and cloying.
Marcus pressed close, his body radiating furnace heat against Barry’s front. Calloused hands found Barry’s shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles beneath slick skin. Barry groaned, a deep vibration Marcus felt against his own chest. He leaned forward, forehead resting against Barry’s collarbone as those strong hands worked magic down his spine.
Water cascaded over them, washing away the grit of Ben’s porch, the storm’s chill, leaving only the thrum of shared heat and the steady drumming pulse of falling water. Marcus lifted his head, pushing Barry gently back against the cool tile wall. His gaze, intense through the steam, searched Barry’s face. Water streamed down Barry’s beard, dripped from his lashes. Marcus lifted a hand, his rough thumb wiping a droplet from Barry’s lower lip. His own lips parted. Not a word was spoken, just the relentless hiss of water and the pounding of two hearts finding their shared rhythm.
Barry leaned in, bringing his mouth close to Marcus' ear. "I want to taste you," he murmured, the sound barely audible above the spray, yet it resonated deep in Marcus’ gut. "Everywhere." His hand slid down Marcus’ wet flank, fingers tracing the dense trail leading downward.
Marcus felt a jolt of heat surge beneath the scalding water. His head thumped back against the tile as Barry’s calloused palm found the thick root of his cock, encircling it firmly. Barry sank to his knees on the shower floor, water plastering his grey-streaked hair flat against his skull. He looked up, eyes dark with intent, before lowering his head.
His tongue was a broad, hot stripe up the underside of Marcus’ shaft. Marcus groaned, fingers tangling in Barry’s wet hair. Barry took him deep, his mouth hot and wet and demanding, throat working against the thick intrusion. He worshipped Marcus slowly, thoroughly, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head, tracing veins, swallowing him down until Marcus’ thighs trembled.
Barry lingered, savoring the musky tang mixed with clean water, his lips sealed tight, sucking rhythmically, drawing ragged gasps from above. He pulled off with a slick pop, breath hot on Marcus’ wet skin. His hands slid behind Marcus’ thighs, lifting slightly.
"Hold onto me," Barry rasped, his voice thick. Marcus braced his hands against Barry’s broad shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles bunch beneath his palms. Barry leaned in, pressing his face into the crease, inhaling deeply – the scent intimate, primal. His tongue swept firm and flat against Marcus’ perineum, teasing, testing. Marcus shuddered violently, a choked sound escaping. Then Marcus applied gentle, insistent pressure – a broad, wet stroke directly over Marcus' tight anal sphincter.
Marcus cried out, hips jerking. Barry held him firm against the tile, repeating the motion – slow circles, probing licks – his tongue slick and relentless. Marcus' opening softened, yielding under the insistent heat and wetness, muscles fluttering. Barry worked him patiently, tasting him deeply, lost in the intimacy, feeling Marcus tremble violently, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Finding Marcus slick with spit and need, Barry pulled back, his own eyes burning with arousal. "Bed," he gasped, rising unsteadily. "Now."
Steam clung to them as they stumbled, dripping, down the hall, hands grasping, guiding. Barry pushed Marcus onto the tangled sheets. Moonlight filtered through rain-streaked glass, painting silver stripes across Marcus’ broad back as he knelt, ass presented high, a primal invitation. Barry knelt behind him, hands spreading Marcus’ muscular cheeks wide. The tight sphincter glistened faintly in the dim light. Barry leaned in, pressing his face deep into the cleft.
Marcus gasped, arching his back. Barry’s tongue was a firm, wet pressure circling Marcus’ hole, licking broad strokes before narrowing to probe insistently at the tight ring. Marcus moaned, low and ragged, pushing back against Barry’s face. Barry laved him deeply, tongue swirling, pushing, tasting the musky intimacy. He speared deeper, relentless, feeling Marcus shudder, hearing his choked cries turn into full-throated howls of ecstasy as the ring yielded, softening completely under the slick assault.
Barry gripped Marcus’ hips, holding him firmly open, tongue plunging deeper, fucking him with wet insistence until Marcus trembled uncontrollably, gasping, "Barry! Now! Fuck me! Please!"
Barry pulled back, slicking himself with spit and Marcus’ wetness. He positioned his thick, rigid cock at Marcus’ glistening entrance. Holding Marcus’ hips firmly, he pressed forward. Marcus cried out, a sound ripped from his chest, as Barry’s blunt head pushed past the yielding ring. Slowly, steadily, Barry sank deep into the tight, molten heat, groaning as Marcus clenched around him.
Marcus buried his face in the sheets, muffling another cry as Barry seated himself fully, balls tight against Marcus’ skin. Barry paused, buried deep, letting Marcus adjust, both trembling. Then he pulled back almost out, before driving forward again, deep and hard, setting a relentless, possessive rhythm. Marcus pushed back, meeting every thrust, his cries unfiltered now – raw, ecstatic, filling the rain-hushed room.
Barry leaned forward, blanketing Marcus’ back, his chest hair rasping against slick skin. One hand slid beneath Marcus, curling around Marcus’ thick, neglected cock, slick with pre-cum. He pumped in time with his thrusts, his grip firm. Marcus gasped, arching violently, impaled from behind and gripped from the front – stretched, filled, owned.
Barry’s breath scorched Marcus’ neck, teeth grazing the tendon. "Feel me?" Barry growled against his ear, every syllable punctuated by a deep plunge. "All of me?" Marcus could only groan, lost in the dual sensations — Barry splitting him open within and claiming him from without.
The tight heat surrounding Barry’s cock intensified, Marcus’ muscles clamping down rhythmically as pleasure spiked. Barry’s thrusts grew frantic, losing finesse, driven by primal need. He pistoned harder, deeper, the slap of wet flesh echoing off the walls. His hand tightened on Marcus’ cock, thumb smearing pre-come over the swollen head.
Marcus writhed, incoherent cries torn from him. "Close ... Barry ... God ..."
Barry felt Marcus’ cock swell impossibly hard in his fist. He hooked his chin over Marcus’ shoulder, watching his own hand work Marcus’ shaft. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt as Marcus convulsed.
Marcus’ release erupted hot and thick, pulsing ropes of sperm splattering onto the sheets beneath him, his body clamping down hard on Barry’s cock like a vice. The intense clench triggered Barry’s own climax. He roared, hips jerking erratically as he emptied his own sperm deep inside Marcus, filling him with possessive heat. Marcus shuddered violently beneath him, gasping Barry’s name.
They collapsed together, Barry’s weight pressing Marcus into the damp mattress. Barry pulled out slowly, eliciting a low gasp from Marcus. He rolled Marcus gently onto his back. Marcus’ eyes were hazy, chest heaving. Barry traced the streaks of their mingled release on Marcus’ belly before lowering his head. His tongue swept a broad path, cleaning Marcus meticulously — up the shaft, over the softening head, across the sticky mess on his stomach — each stroke reverent.
Marcus carded his fingers weakly through Barry’s wet hair, a sigh escaping his lips. Barry lifted his head, meeting Marcus’ dazed gaze. He leaned in, capturing Marcus’ lips in a deep, possessive kiss, sharing the taste of salt, musk, and completion. Outside, thunder rumbled softly — an echo of the storm they’d weathered together.
They shifted instinctively, Barry pulling Marcus against him, Marcus’ head finding its place on Barry’s shoulder. The damp sheets were forgotten beneath the radiating warmth of their tangled bodies. Barry’s arm wrapped tight around Marcus’ waist, anchoring him. Marcus draped a heavy leg over Barry’s thigh, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the coarse hair darkening Barry’s chest. Their breathing slowly synced, deep and slow.
“Forty-six years,” Barry murmured into the quiet, his voice a low rumble Marcus felt against his cheekbone. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel … held like this again. Not since before Brenda. Not ever, maybe.” His thumb rubbed slow circles on Marcus’ hip.
Marcus tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the steady pulse in Barry’s neck. “Held,” he echoed, the word thick with emotion. “A man tried holdin’ me once. Before Claire. College. He was skittish as a colt.” A soft huff of laughter escaped him. “Ran fast when I kissed him goodnight.” Fingers tightened on Barry’s skin. “You hold on tight.”
Barry chuckled, the sound vibrating through Marcus’ body. “Tight’s all I know.” He paused. “I worked salvage yards, summers, at sixteen. The boss was a brute, named Hank. I broke my thumb ‘cause I dropped a manifold.” He lifted his right hand slightly. Marcus’ fingers found the subtle twist in the knuckle. “He paid me double after,” Barry added. “Said I didn’t cry.”
“Stubborn bastard,” Marcus breathed, admiration softening the words. He traced the knuckle ridge. Silence settled again, comfortable and deep. Rain whispered against the windowpane.
Marcus sighed, his breath warm on Barry’s skin. “Claire … she wanted kids. Desperate.” His voice dropped lower. “Docs said it was my fault. Low sperm count.” He swallowed. “I never told her ... couldn’t.” Barry’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly around him. Marcus buried his face deeper into the solid warmth of Barry’s shoulder. “She died thinkin’ it was her fault.”
Barry’s hand slid up Marcus’ spine, a grounding pressure. He didn’t offer platitudes. He simply rumbled, “You been carryin' that alone too long.” His lips brushed Marcus’ hairline. “But you're not alone now.” The promise hung between them, solid as the man who spoke it.
Marcus lifted his head, seeking Barry’s eyes in the dimness. The rising moon's light caught the wet tracks, barely visible, tracing paths through Marcus’ beard. He didn’t wipe them away. Barry met his gaze steadily. Marcus nodded, once, his hand finding Barry’s over his heart. He squeezed. Held on. The rain’s soft rhythm lulled them back into the cradle of shared warmth, whispers fading into contented silence, breaths mingling, bodies perfectly entwined.
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