The porta-potty door jammed again. "Goddammit, Artie," Dale grunted, kicking the plastic wall with his boot. "I told you it leans left."
Behind him, the city sprawled out in a haze of July humidity, the distant sounds of jackhammers and traffic barely reaching the 38th floor. Artie wiped sweat from his forehead with a grease-stained forearm, squinting at the makeshift wooden brace Dale had rigged last week. "Yeah, well your goddamn MacGyver shit ain't holding. Smells like a raccoon died in there."
Dale snorted, shoving his shoulder against the door hard enough to make the whole plastic unit shudder. A screw popped loose somewhere inside, clattering against the steel frame. Neither of them moved to retrieve it. The wind picked up suddenly, carrying the sharp scent of hot tar from the roofing crew two floors below.
Artie exhaled through his nose, long and slow, the way he always did before saying something stupid. Dale recognized the sound. Twenty years of swinging hammers together had taught him the rhythm of Artie’s bad decisions. "You know," Artie said, scratching at the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw, "the foreman ain’t due back till three."
Dale paused mid-kick, boot hovering over the porta-potty’s dented side. The implication hung between them, thick as the humidity. His pulse jumped — not from exertion, but from the sudden, ridiculous clarity of what Artie wasn’t saying. The city stretched out below, all steel and glass indifference. Up here, though, it was just them, the wind, and more than a decade of sidelong glances neither had dared to acknowledge until now.
Artie shifted his weight, work boots scraping against the unfinished concrete. The sound was obscenely loud. He didn’t look at Dale when he muttered, “Christ, forget I —”, but Dale was already crossing the distance between them in two long strides. He caught Artie’s wrist, calloused fingers pressing into sun-warmed skin. The touch sent a jolt through both of them. Artie’s breath hitched audibly.
The porta-potty door creaked in the wind, forgotten. Dale could feel Artie’s pulse rabbiting under his thumb. “You meant it?” Dale asked, voice rougher than usual. Twenty years of hauling steel and shouting over power tools had sanded his words down to blunt instruments. Artie swallowed hard, his throat working. His free hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out but didn’t trust himself. The wind carried the distant clang of rebar being unloaded three floors down.
Artie wet his lips. “I've been meaning it since ‘04.” The admission hung between them, raw as the exposed rebar jutting from the concrete. Dale didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just hauled him closer by the wrist until their tool belts clanked together. Artie made a noise — half surprise, half something darker — when Dale’s free hand fumbled with the buckle at his waist. The leather slid free with a metallic clatter, hitting the deck with a thud that echoed.
Dale’s knuckles brushed the sweat-damp fabric of Artie’s jeans. “Is this what you wanted?” he growled, fingers skating higher. Artie’s hips jerked forward of their own accord. “Christ, Dale —” The rest dissolved into a groan as Dale palmed him through denim, rough and impatient. The wind snatched Artie’s hardhat off his head, sent it spinning toward the edge. Neither of them turned to watch it fall.
Up close, Artie smelled like sunbaked skin and the cheap industrial soap from the site’s wash station. Dale pressed his nose against Artie’s throat and inhaled deep. Twenty years of stolen glances in the crew cab, elbows bumping over lunch pails, Artie’s knee bouncing under the table whenever Dale stretched. All that pent-up want hit him at once — a sledgehammer to the ribs.
Artie’s fingers scrabbled at Dale’s belt buckle, knuckles knocking against the hard plastic of his safety harness. “Fuck these things,” Artie muttered, voice cracking. The harness hit the concrete with a plastic clatter. Dale kicked it aside, toe of his boot sending it skittering toward a pile of coiled electrical wire. Artie’s hands were already under his shirt, calluses catching on sweat-slick skin. The July heat had nothing on the burn of Artie’s palms skating up his sides.
Dale backed him toward the skeletal steel frame of what would eventually be a floor-to-ceiling window. The city yawned behind Artie’s shoulders, fifty stories of nothing between them and the baking pavement below. Artie’s spine hit a vertical beam with a thud that would’ve bruised if not for his thick flannel. He gasped — half pain, half want — and Dale swallowed the sound with a kiss that was more teeth than finesse. Twenty years of imagining this, and neither of them had the patience for softness now.
Artie’s hands fumbled with Dale’s fly, fingers trembling against the metal button. A gust of wind whipped between them, carrying the tang of fresh-cut copper pipes from the stack near the service elevator. Dale snagged Artie’s lower lip with his teeth, felt the shudder that racked his body. “Hurry up,” Dale growled against his mouth. Artie’s laugh was breathless, uneven. “You try undoing a fucking button with hands like yours,” he shot back, but then the denim gave way, and Dale’s cock sprang free, hot and heavy in Artie’s grip.
The contact was electric — rough fingertips against feverish skin. Dale swore, low and filthy, as Artie stroked him once, twice, his thumb smearing precome over the head. Below them, the city hummed — car horns, distant sirens, the rhythmic thud of a pile driver — but up here, it was just the ragged sound of their breathing and the creak of the steel frame under shifting weight. Artie’s hips rocked forward, seeking friction, and Dale obliged, shoving a thigh between his legs. The groan Artie let out was obscene, swallowed by another kiss.
Dale’s fingers found the waistband of Artie’s jeans, popping the button free with a practiced twist. The zipper snarled, stuck halfway down, but Dale didn’t pause, just shoved his hand inside past the resistance. Artie’s cock jumped in his grip, hot and thick against his palm. “Fuck,” Artie gasped, forehead dropping onto Dale’s shoulder. His breath scorched Dale’s neck, uneven puffs of air that hitched when Dale twisted his wrist just so.
The steel beam dug into Artie’s back, but he didn’t pull away — if anything, he ground into it, using the bite of metal to anchor himself as Dale worked him over. His fingers scrabbled at Dale’s shoulders, blunt fingernails catching on sunburnt skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. The fabric was damp with sweat, clinging to Dale’s chest where Artie had rucked it up.
Dale’s thumb swiped over the head of Artie’s cock, smearing wetness down the shaft, and Artie swore, hips jerking forward. “Jesus — fuck —” His voice cracked, lost to the wind whipping around them. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, the heat of skin on skin, the rasp of denim shoved halfway down thick thighs.
Dale’s grip tightened, twisting just enough to pull a strangled noise from Artie’s throat. He could feel Artie’s pulse hammering under his fingers, the way his breath hitched when Dale’s calluses dragged over sensitive skin. Twenty years of side-eyeing each other across job sites, of lingering touches that could’ve been accidents, of Artie’s knee pressing against his under the rickety break room table — and now this. Artie’s cock heavy in his hand, his breath hot against Dale’s neck, his fingers digging into Dale’s shoulders like he was afraid he’d float away if he let go.
Artie’s hips jerked forward, fucking into Dale’s fist with a desperation that made Dale’s own cock ache. “Fuck, Dale —” Artie gasped, voice raw. His forehead pressed against Dale’s, sweat-slick skin sticking together. The wind snatched at their clothes, fluttering the hem of Dale’s shirt where it was rucked up around his ribs. The air was thick with the sounds of their breathing, the wet slide of skin on skin, the creak of the steel frame under their shifting weight.
Dale’s thumb circled Artie’s slit, smearing the slickness down his shaft, and Artie groaned, hips stuttering. His fingers dug into Dale’s shoulders, blunt nails biting through the fabric. “Gonna — fuck —” Artie’s warning was cut off as Dale tightened his grip, twisting his wrist just enough to pull a ragged cry from Artie’s throat. His cock pulsed in Dale’s hand, spilling hot, thick sperm over his fingers, streaking his own jeans where they were bunched around his thighs.
Artie sagged against the steel beam, panting, his forehead pressed to Dale’s shoulder. The wind cooled the sweat on his neck, carrying the distant scent of diesel from the crane idling below. Dale wiped his hand on Artie’s shirt, grinning when Artie huffed a laugh against his skin. “Asshole,” Artie muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a breathless fondness that made Dale’s chest tighten.
Dale’s own cock ached, neglected and heavy against his thigh. Artie’s fingers, still trembling, found the hem of Dale’s jeans, tugging insistently. “Your turn,” he rasped, voice shot. Dale didn’t need convincing. He guided Artie’s hand to his fly, watching the way Artie’s knuckles, scuffed and scarred from decades of labor, flexed as he worked the button free. The zipper snarled, caught on fabric, but Artie just shoved his hand in anyway, his calloused palm rough and perfect against Dale’s bare skin.
The groan Dale let out was swallowed by the wind, lost in the vast expanse of the unfinished high-rise. Artie’s grip was clumsy but eager, his thumb dragging over the head of Dale’s cock with a reverence that belied their rough surroundings. Dale’s hips jerked forward, seeking more, and Artie obliged, twisting his wrist in a way that made Dale’s knees buckle. “Fuck,” Dale gritted out, fingers tangling in Artie’s sweat-damp shirt. “Just like that.”
Artie’s lips curled into a smirk, his free hand gripping Dale’s hip to steady him. “You been thinkin’ about this too?” he rasped, his breath hot against Dale’s throat. Dale didn’t answer — couldn’t, not with Artie’s calloused fingers working him over, rough and perfect. Instead, he dragged Artie closer, their bodies pressed together, the heat between them stifling even in the open air.
The wind whipped around them, carrying the distant clatter of tools from the lower floors, but neither cared. Artie’s thumb circled Dale’s slit, smearing precome down his shaft, and Dale swore, hips bucking forward. His fingers tangled in Artie’s hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Christ, Dale —” Artie’s voice was wrecked, but his grip tightened, his strokes growing more insistent.
Dale’s breath came in ragged bursts, his body coiled tight as a spring. Artie’s free hand slid under his shirt, rough palms scraping over his ribs, and the dual sensation — Artie’s hand on his cock, his fingers digging into Dale’s side — was too much. Dale’s vision whited out for a second as he came, hips jerking uncontrollably, his belches of cum streaking Artie’s wrist and the crumpled fabric of his jeans.
For a long moment, neither moved. Dale’s pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the distant jackhammers. Artie’s hand stayed where it was, fingers softening but not pulling away, his thumb idly tracing the vein along Dale’s shaft as he caught his breath. The wind had died down, leaving behind the smell of sun-warmed concrete and their own sweat.
Artie cleared his throat first, wiping his hand on his jeans with a grimace. “Well,” he muttered, “that’s one way to fix a porta-potty door.” Dale barked a laugh, sudden and surprised, the sound echoing off the steel beams. He hooked a finger in Artie’s belt loop, tugging him close enough to feel the heat still radiating between them.
“We should’ve done this years ago,” Dale said, quieter now, his voice rough.
Artie’s smile faded into something more vulnerable. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess we’re both dumbasses.”
The afternoon sun slanted across the site, casting long shadows from the steel beams. Dale cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the elevator shaft. “The foreman’ll be back soon,” he muttered. But instead of stepping away, his fingers lingered on Artie’s belt loop. “You ... uh ... got plans tonight?”
Artie’s heartbeat kicked up again. Twenty years of stolen glances, and now Dale was asking him out like some nervous kid. “Depends,” he said, scratching at his stubble to hide the way his mouth wanted to twitch. “Are you cooking?”
Dale snorted. “Frozen pizza and whatever’s left in the six-pack from Tuesday.” He paused, then added, quieter, “If you’re into that.”
Artie’s chest tightened. The wind picked up again, fluttering the loose pages of the construction plans tacked to a nearby beam. “Better than my place,” he said. “The landlord turned off my hot water again.”
Dale’s eyes darkened. “Goddamn leech.” Then, before Artie could react, he leaned in and sucked lightly at his lower lip. “I got a nice big shower at mine,” he said against Artie’s mouth. “Long as you want.”
Artie’s breath hitched. The implication hung between them — hot water, soap, slick skin. His fingers dug into Dale’s hips. “I'm gonna hold you to that,” he murmured.
A shout echoed from three floors below — the foreman’s voice, sharp with irritation. They jumped apart like teenagers caught necking. Dale snatched up his discarded harness, buckling it with shaking hands. Artie adjusted himself hastily, his jeans still half-unbuttoned.
Dale shot him a look — half amusement, half heat. “Six o’clock,” he said under his breath. “Don’t be late.”
Artie grinned, swiping his hardhat from where it had rolled against a stack of drywall. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He hesitated, then added, “Bring the good pizza.”
Dale’s laughter followed him all the way to the service elevator.
"Pepperoni and jalapeños," Dale called after him, fingers tapping against his tool belt like he was already counting down the hours. Artie threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around, but his chest felt too big for his ribs. The elevator cables groaned as he yanked the gate shut behind him, the metal cool against his palm. Friday. They had Friday night, Saturday, Sunday — Christ, maybe longer if neither of them fucked this up.
Artie’s phone buzzed in his pocket as the elevator lurched downward. He fished it out one-handed, squinting at the cracked screen. A text from Dale, sent thirty seconds ago: Don’t forget your toothbrush. Artie snorted. Like he’d need reminding. His toothbrush had been wedged in his lunch pail since Tuesday, plastic handle digging into his ham sandwich. He thumbed back a reply: You supplying the mouthwash too, princess? The three dots danced, then Dale’s answer popped up: Only the good stuff. The kind that burns.
The foreman’s voice cut through the site noise as Artie stepped off the elevator. "Double time, Kowalski! Those I-beams won’t walk themselves up to 42!" Artie flipped him off too, but there was no heat in it. His mind was already miles ahead, in Dale’s cramped third-floor walk-up with the busted AC and the shower that ran hot for exactly seven minutes. He’d timed it once, years ago, when Dale had patched him up after a nail gun incident. Back then, he’d blamed the way his hands shook on blood loss.
The crew cab was still warm from the afternoon sun when Artie climbed in at quitting time. Dale’s truck was already gone — he’d pulled some bullshit about a dentist appointment to duck out early. Artie smirked, picturing him elbow-deep in frozen pizza boxes, scrubbing the apartment with the kind of frantic energy usually reserved for OSHA inspections. His own place was a disaster, but he’d still swing by to grab a clean shirt. Maybe that cologne his sister had given him for Christmas. The one that smelled like a forest fire. Dale would probably laugh, but Artie wanted to give him a reason to.
His phone buzzed against his thigh as he merged onto the freeway. A photo from Dale: the showerhead in his bathroom, crusted with lime scale but mercifully intact. Hot water’s holding at 108 degrees, the text read. Bring your back brush.
Artie’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Twenty years of shared job sites, and they’d never once talked about back brushes. The implication made his stomach swoop like he’d missed a step. He thumbed back: Only if you promise not to use that sandpaper you call a washcloth.
Three dots danced. Dale’s reply was a single knife emoji.
Artie’s apartment smelled like stale coffee and the ghost of last week’s stir-fry. He kicked a laundry pile aside to get to his dresser, yanking open the top drawer. The toothbrush tumbled out, still wrapped in the deli napkin he’d swiped from the jobsite lunch truck. Behind it, half-buried under mismatched socks, was the unopened cologne. He hesitated, then spritzed it once into the air and walked through the mist like his dad had taught him in high school. The scent hit him — woodsmoke and something citrusy. Not terrible. Definitely better than concrete dust and sweat.
His phone buzzed again. Another photo: Dale’s fridge, stocked with two six-packs and a family-sized bag of pretzels. Emergency rations, the caption read.
Artie grinned. Emergency his ass. That was Dale’s idea of a gourmet spread. He snapped a picture of his own duffel bag — toothbrush poking out like a white flag — and sent it with the text: ETA 20. Don’t start without me.
The freeway stretched ahead, golden in the late afternoon light. Artie rolled the windows down, letting the wind carry away the last of the job site stink. Somewhere up ahead, Dale was probably folding towels like a nervous teenager. The thought made Artie’s chest tighten. He punched the gas. Friday night stretched before them, wide open and full of promise.
Dale’s apartment building loomed at the edge of a quiet neighborhood, its brick façade weathered but sturdy. Artie took the stairs two at a time, duffel banging against his thigh. The door was unlocked — typical Dale — and swung open to reveal a living room cleaner than Artie had ever seen it. The faint smell of bleach lingered under the usual scents of sawdust and motor oil.
Dale emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. His hair was damp, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulders where he hadn’t quite dried off. “Did you shower already?” Artie asked, toeing off his boots.
“Test run,” Dale muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulder. His eyes flicked to the duffel in Artie’s hand. “Is that all you brought?”
Artie shrugged. “Toothbrush and cologne. Didn’t figure you’d wanna share your beauty products.” He held up the bottle, still half-wrapped in its Christmas ribbon, and watched Dale’s nostrils flare as he caught the scent.
Dale snatched it from him, inspecting the label with exaggerated suspicion. “Woodsmoke and citrus?” He uncapped it, dabbed some on his wrist, then wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a hipster lumberjack. You wear this to impress the guys at Home Depot?”
Artie hip-checked him toward the couch. “Thought you’d appreciate the effort, princess.” He caught Dale’s wrist before he could pull away, dragging his nose along the pulse point. “Now you smell like me.”
Dale’s breath hitched. The cologne mingled with his own sweat — something dark and unexpectedly perfect. Artie’s mouth followed the scent, lips grazing skin. The dish towel hit the floor as Dale shoved him backward onto the couch, knees bracketing Artie’s thighs. “Fuckin’ show-off,” Dale growled, but his hands were already under Artie’s shirt, mapping old scars and new sunburns.
Artie arched into the touch, fingers tangling in Dale’s damp hair. The couch springs groaned under their weight. In the kitchen, the fridge kicked on with a hum. Dale’s mouth grazed Artie’s collarbone, drawing a ragged noise from his throat. “Shower,” Artie managed, hips bucking. “You promised —”
Dale nipped his jaw. “Impatient bastard.” He stood abruptly, hauling Artie up by the belt loops. The duffel tumbled forgotten as they stumbled down the hallway, peeling off shirts that smelled of sweat and something citrusy.
The bathroom was small, steam curling from the shower stall. Dale shoved Artie against the sink, turning the faucet with one hand while the other popped Artie’s jeans open. Hot water gushed into the basin. “Hands,” Dale ordered, squeezing soap onto Artie’s palms. Their fingers tangled under the spray — work-roughened knuckles, half-healed nicks from yesterday’s wiring. Artie watched Dale’s throat bob as he scrubbed Artie’s nails clean. Methodical. Thorough. Like prepping a joint for welding.
The shower stall fogged up fast. Dale stepped in first, water sluicing down his shoulders. Artie followed, crowding him against the tile. The spray hit his back — hot enough to pinken skin — but Dale’s mouth was hotter, biting at his lower lip. Artie groaned, hands sliding down Dale’s ribs to grip his hips. “Thought you wanted me clean,” he muttered against Dale’s mouth.
Dale grabbed the soap, lathering it between his palms. His hands were everywhere at once — scrubbing Artie’s chest, his shoulders, dipping lower with deliberate slowness. Artie’s breath hitched when calloused fingers grazed his cock, soap making the slide obscenely slick. “Fuck, Dale —”
“Cleaning you up,” Dale rumbled, his voice rough with want. He turned Artie around, pressing him against the wet tile. The shower spray hit Artie’s back as Dale’s hands worked down his spine, kneading knots from decades of hauling steel. When his thumbs dug into the dip above Artie’s ass, Artie groaned, forehead dropping against the tile. “Christ, you’re tight,” Dale muttered, his fingers skating lower.
Artie braced his hands against the wall, water sluicing between his shoulder blades. Dale’s soap-slick grip wrapped around him from behind, stroking slow and maddening. The scent of cheap body wash mixed with steam, the citrus from Artie’s cologne long since washed away. Dale’s mouth grazed his neck as his fist twisted just right, pulling a broken noise from Artie’s throat.
“Still impatient?” Dale murmured against his damp skin. His free hand slid around Artie’s hip, his calloused fingertips digging into the softness of his belly. Artie’s hips jerked forward, seeking friction, but Dale just tightened his hold, keeping him pinned against the tile.
Artie groaned, fingers scrabbling against wet porcelain. “Fucking tease,” he gritted out, but Dale just chuckled, his breath hot against Artie’s shoulder. He dragged his lips over the tendon there, then licked it with his tongue. Artie shuddered, his cock throbbing in Dale’s grip. The water sluiced over them both, hot enough to redden skin, but Artie barely felt it — not with Dale’s body pressed against his back, his thighs bracketing Artie’s, his cock a hard line against his ass.
Dale’s fingers tightened around the length of Artie’s thick boner, twisting just enough to pull a ragged gasp from him. “Gonna cum?” Dale murmured, his voice rough against Artie’s ear. Artie clenched his teeth, shaking his head even as his hips jerked forward into the slick heat of Dale’s fist. Dale laughed, low and dark. “Liar.” He sped up his strokes, his grip tightening just shy of painful, and Artie’s knees buckled. He climaxed with a shout, hot spurts of sperm painting the tile in front of him, his body shuddering under Dale’s touch.
Before Artie could catch his breath, Dale spun him around, pressing their wet bodies together. Artie reached for Dale’s cock — hard and flushed against his stomach — but Dale caught his wrist, pinning it against the shower wall. “Mine,” he growled, and Artie didn’t argue, his chest heaving as Dale fucked into his own fist with rough, urgent strokes. Steam curled around them, thick with the scent of soap and sweat, and Dale’s hips stuttered as he came, his sperm splattering against Artie’s thigh.
The water began to cool. Dale reached past Artie to turn it off, his arm trembling slightly from exertion. They stood there for a moment, breathing hard, droplets falling from their skin onto the porcelain. Artie swiped a thumb through the mess on his leg, then smeared it across Dale’s chest with a grin. “That’s what you get for being a show-off.”
Dale caught his wrist, licking the last traces from Artie’s thumb with a slow drag of his tongue. “Worth it.” His voice was gravel. Steam curled between them as they stepped out onto the bathmat with still-shaking hands.
Artie watched water droplets trail down Dale’s chest, disappearing into the coarse hair below his navel. His own reflection in the fogged mirror looked wrecked — lips swollen, hair plastered to his forehead. Dale threw a towel at him, the terrycloth rough against his oversensitive skin. “You’re staring,” Dale muttered, scrubbing at his own chest.
“I've just never seen you clean before,” Artie joked, toweling off his arms. The bathroom smelled like steam and sex, the shower drain swirling with their mess. Dale’s fingers brushed his hip as they maneuvered in the cramped space, the contact deliberate now where before it would’ve been accidental.
Dale snorted, wiping fog from the mirror with a corner of his towel. “Bullshit. You watched me hose off after the acid spill at the chemical plant.” He turned, catching Artie’s wrist before he could pull his boxers on. “It's different now though, ain’t it?”
Artie’s pulse jumped under Dale’s fingers. The memory of that day flashed between them — Dale shirtless under the emergency shower, Artie pretending not to stare while handing him a spare work shirt that’d been two sizes too small. He swallowed. “Yeah. Different.”
Dale’s thumb traced the tendon in Artie’s wrist before releasing him. “Pizza’s getting cold.” He shouldered past, leaving Artie standing there with his boxers half-up and his chest tight. The bathroom’s humidity clung to his skin as he followed, the woodsmoke cologne long since washed away.
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