Archive of Our Own

You can fit over a hundred pounds of cheese into a standard carry on bag. Hank knows this because that's what he's fucking done. It cost nearly seven hundred dollars, which was also exactly how much money he’d had left in his bank account.

He needs Ashley to pay him back, or he's gonna get to Detroit airport and have to walk home with a hundred pounds of fucking cheese strapped to his back. He hadn't sprung for airport parking on his way out. It's a cab home, or walk.

He drops the bag on the floor. Gently, because seven hundred dollars in fucking cheese is a lot, and he doesn't want to damage any of it and have Ash bitch that he ruined them.

The waiting area outside the gate is populated by your standard collection of Detroit-bound freaks. There's someone with a fuzzball of a dog in a service animal vest, a couple of kids, one of them wearing a onesie, a lady on her phone, and a guy trussed up like he's just stepped off the Paris runway and got lost.

A guy carrying half his body weight in fucking cheese fits right in.

Hank pulls out his phone and calls Ash. She wants her damn cheese for this weekend and Hank, well he's always been a soft touch where his sister's concerned, and she's always been a bit of a flake. So he agreed to help her out and get her damn cheese, except she didn't have the money on her at the time so they'd agreed she was gonna pay him back.

If she really wants her cheese for this weekend, she's gonna have to pay him back now. He is not carting a hundred goddamn pounds of cheese through Detroit on foot.

“Hey, Hank,” she answers cheerily, on the fourth ring. There's a television playing a little too loud in the background.

“Hey,” he says, because leaping immediately into the demand for money would probably be rude. “I got your cheese.”

“Oh wonderful!” Ash declares, and she sounds like he's just made her week.

On cue, the board with the departure time for his flight flickers and changes. A big red delayed hangs in his vision. Great.

“Did you get the blue?” Ashley asks, oblivious.

“Yeah, I got the blue,” Hank answers, glancing down at his bag, and the hundred pounds of goddamn fucking cheese in it. He'd trekked six hours out of his fucking way specifically to go to the place that sold Blue Jay cheese.

“I gave you a very specific list,” Ash says, because she's not listening. Because she never does. Because she's already forgotten that Hank is doing this for her as a favor, and his day is going downhill fast. He's got no money, a backpack full of cheese that probably shouldn't be kept at room temperature for too long, and a delayed flight.

“I handed your list to the lady,” he replies, knowing he sounds short and not really caring, “'cause I don't know any fucking cheese but orange, and then I went halfway across fucking Wisconsin to get the ones she didn't have. I got your damn cheese.” The lady with her eyes on her phone isn't really looking at her phone. The person with the service animal is paying attention too. Hank can see it in their body language; his conversation has become their moment's entertainment. The pressure of a dozen eyes does nothing good for his mood.

“I hope you did,” Ash answers, picking up exactly zero clues about Hank's souring mood. He reminds himself to breathe.

“So do I,” he answers, trying not to grit his teeth around the words, “because it cost me a fucking fortune.” He tries to pivot the topic to the money. To the fact he needs paying. He tries to ignore the way everybody but the damn dog is trying to pretend that they're not staring. “It wiped me out,” he adds, for emphasis, “so I need you to send over some of the money for this shit so I can get a cab back from the airport.”

“What do you mean?”

His chest goes hollow. He knows what's coming next. Ash has done it a dozen times before.

“I don't have the money for that.”

Yep. There it is.

Fuck his life. Fuck his life. He's got a bag full of stupidly expensive cheese and no way home.

“I know you can't pay for it all right now,” he hisses, leaning in towards his phone because it's that, or start shouting, “but you said you'd pay me back, and cover the extra expenses. I just need you to send enough for me to get a cab.”

“I thought you were buying the cheese?” Ash asks. Her confusion is genuine, or at least sounds it. Hank's heart rattles his entire chest.

“And you were gonna pay me back,” he repeats, seething.

“No I didn't.”

Hank explodes. “Yes you did! Yes you fucking did! You always fucking do this, that's why I fucking recorded you saying it!” Everyone is staring now. Nobody is trying to pretend they aren't. The kid in the onesie shuffles awkwardly. The lady on her phone is frantically typing away. The model sits, one seat down, his perfectly manicured hands folded in his lap, still as stone, but he's listening. Everybody is listening. They can't help but listen.

Hank takes a deep breath through his nose. His heart pounds against the inside of his ribs. His skin burns. And inside, his stomach rolls with empty horror.

What the fuck is he supposed to do if she doesn't give him the money for a cab. He's got seven hundred fucking dollars in fucking cheese, and what can he even do with it?

“I wouldn't have bought this much cheese if you weren't gonna pay me back,” he insists, trying, desperately to reason with her. “I went six hours out of my fucking way to get this bullshit cheese you wanted. You always do this. And I always fucking fall for it!”

“Well it's for Monica's baby shower,” Ashley defends. “I thought you were providing the cheese.”

“Monica can't even have this cheese!” Hank explodes again. He'd do anything for his eldest niece, but he might, actually, have to draw the line at seven hundred dollars of fucking cheese she can't even eat. He should have asked. He should have asked what event, exactly, Ashley was putting together that required this much fucking cheese. But he didn't, because he's an idiot, and he's soft, and when she promised she'd pay him back if he just went a little out of his way to pick up this one specific cheese for her, and actually this one too, and also this one, and oh, make sure you get a couple of each, because we don't want to run out, and this one, and this other one, and actually here's a list, he didn't fucking question it enough.

“Why not?”

“Because she's fucking pregnant,” Hank hisses. He knows he's not all the way up on modern advice about what pregnant women can and can't have, but he's pretty sure soft cheeses have been off the list since before he was born.

“Well I ate blue cheese just fine when I was pregnant,” Ashley insists. Hank's grip tightens on his phone. Right now he'd like to beat his sister with a backpack full of expensive cheese.

“Well thank fuck Monica's smarter than you,” he snaps back.

“Do you actually have the cheese?” Ashley demands, ignoring him.

“Of course I have the fucking cheese!” Hank screams. “That's why I've got no fucking money!”

“Then,” Ashley begins, and huffs, and tries to play diplomatic. “Look. I'll just pick up the cheese from you when you get home and maybe I can go halves with you. Okay?”

She sounded like she was genuinely pushing to be the magnanimous one by offering Hank maybe half of what he'd paid. But getting home from the airport with a hundred pounds of cheese was still gonna be his problem.

The world clouded with red.

“No. No, fuck you,” he spits. “You don't pay me back, you don't get fancy cheese!”

“Hank you can't just expect me to pay you like that!”

“So it's alright for you to expect me to pay for it, but not the other way round?” he snaps back. There were eyes on him, taking notes. He couldn't see faces. Nobody was daring to look. His life was a fucking comedy footnote in other people's journeys.

“Well fine,” Ashley shouts, finally breaking, “I'm going to tell momma that you're ruining the baby shower for her first great grandchild.”

It’s like waving a flag in front of a bull. Rage pours up, through his chest and out of his throat. “You do that!” he cries, losing control of his volume. People two gates away look around. “You run and tell mom that I won't let you poison Monica or the baby!”

He hits the end call button. His breathing is ragged. His throat and eyes burn. He has seven hundred dollars in cheese and no fucking money. What the fuck did he do now?

Fingers press delicately against his shoulder. Hank snaps up, and looks directly into the soft brown eyes of the man in the good suit. “If your friend doesn't want the cheese,” he offers, drawing a bottle of pinot blanc from inside his neat little hardcase carry on, “would you be amenable to having it now?”

The man's eyes are a deep chocolate brown. A stray lock of hair hangs stubbornly over his forehead. Freckles dot his pale skin. He looks like he'd shaved just before coming to the airport, because it hasn't grown into a proper five o'clock shadow yet. His clothes are still crisply pressed.

He's cute. And his lips look soft.

Hank shrugs as his anger bleeds away and despair moves into its place. “Why the fuck not?” he mutters.

The corner of the man's mouth twists upwards in a gently crooked smile that sends a shiver all the way down Hank's spine. “My name's Connor,” he says, as Hank stares. His suit is a deep, dark blue. His tie pin is gold.

A perfectly manicured hand, with long fingers hovers in front of him. It takes Hank too long to realize he's supposed to shake it. He mentally kicks himself. Now isn't a good time to get his head turned by a cute guy with brown eyes.

Connor's hand is cool and pale in Hank's ruddy palm. “Hank,” he answers.

Connor's grip is firm. Perfect white teeth flash in his smile. “I'll get us something to drink from,” he says, before his hand slips from Hank's grasp. Hank almost holds onto him.

“I have some wheat thins?” the lady with the phone offers. Of course she's been listening. Everyone has been listening. It makes Hank want to sink into a black hole, or it would if he was ever going to see any of these people again.

“Well then, we're crowdsourcing dinner tonight,” Connor replies. He's a little bit too smooth, and a little bit too charming, but Hank finds it easy to be swept up in the moment. It's easier than thinking, right now. Connor stands, unfolding from the chair like he's practiced the motion until it's flawless, and heads in the direction of the bar.

“If you'd be willing to sell some of those cheeses, I might take a couple off your hands?” Phone lady offers.

Hank blinks. They were expensive fucking cheeses. He could sell them. It might help him scrape together enough for a cab home, at least.

“Sure,” he says, offering the bag towards her like a kid showing their Halloween haul to their mom. “It's not like I've got anything else to do with it.”

She approaches, and pores through the cheese in his bag with delicate curiosity. The kid in the onesie gets closer too, and Hank reevaluates his age from late teens or early twenties to late twenties or maybe a well moisturized early thirties. “Mind if I look, too?” he asks.

Hank shrugs. “It's more cheese than I could eat. If you wanna take some off my hands, go ahead.”

Phone lady sets some of the cheeses out on the seats. She makes two piles. At first Hank thinks she's separating them into ones she wants and ones she doesn't, but as both piles grow his doubts creep in.

Connor returns with a stack of clear plastic cups that it looks like he convinced the starbucks barista to hand over. His eyes fall on one of the stacks of cheese and he breathes with quiet awe. “You got the indigo bunting.”

Hank has no clue what he's talking about until he picks up a small package of cheese wrapped in blue foil. The label has a bird on the front. “Oh,” he says, feeling the pieces clicking into place one by agonizingly slow one. “Yeah, that was on my sister's list.”

“The woman on the phone was your sister?” phone lady asks. She's got auburn hair, and dark eyes with a sharpness to them that would put Hank on edge if he cared.

“Yeah,” Hank confesses, because what the fuck does it matter if he tells these people anything? He'll never see them again anyway, unless he's really unlucky. “She always fucking does this. I should have known it was coming.”

Connor sits beside Hank, on the opposite side of him to the slowly growing piles of cheese. The blue wrapped round of indigo bunting sits guarded in his lap. “Does what?”

Hank sinks into his seat. The weight of the last minute presses on him. “Says she'll pay me back for something and then doesn't,” he explains, wearily. Connor's dark eyes are fixed on his face, dragging the words out of him. He's easy to talk to, somehow. There's a compelling patience in his expression that invites you to elaborate. Maybe he's a lawyer. “Last time I covered a car payment for her. I never got that back. And another time she borrowed a hundred and fifty dollars off me for some bill or other and then claimed she never did.”

“That's gaslighting,” phone lady declares, picking up three cheeses from one of the two piles she's made. “How much for these?”

Hank shrugs. “I have no fucking idea.” He knew how much he'd spent overall. He didn't have a goddamn clue what each individual cheese had cost. “Twenty bucks?”

Phone lady looks at him. Her mouth hangs open for a moment, until she frowns. “Let's say thirty each,” she says, sympathetically. “I'm still getting a bargain.”

For a moment Hank feels dumb, because this random lady knows more about what he's bought than he does. Then he remembers that he doesn't give a fuck because he only bought it because Ashley asked him to, and twenty bucks is more money than he had fifteen minutes ago. “Okay.”

She smiles. It's lopsided, and says, very clearly, that she knows Hank doesn't give a fuck about cheese right now. “My name's North.”

She hands him a hundred in cash. Hank doesn't ask why she's carrying that much on her.

A faint, firm thud reverberates through the seat. Hank turns to see Connor, with one black socked foot, and the bottle of wine set inside the shoe slowly using physics to tease the cork out of the bottle. He thumps the bottle and shoe against the hard metal edge of their seat again. The cork projects out by half an inch.

“You've done that before,” North comments. She sounds impressed.

Connor's face is a mask of determined concentration. “Even I can't bring a corkscrew through security,” he answers. He thumps the base of the bottle one more time, and then grips the protruding cork in his hand, twisting and working at it.

Hank holds his hand out for the bottle. “Let me get that,” he offers.

Connor pauses, and then hands the bottle to Hank.

The cork is stiff, and too soft in Hank's palm. It's actual cork, not the cheap plastic imitations, and for a moment Hank wonders how expensive this bottle of wine is. He wraps his fingers and thumb around the base of it, gripping as much of the cork as he can, and slowly works it back and forth, twisting and easing it out.

It releases suddenly, but Hank's ready for it, and he offers the bottle back to Connor with a victorious grin. Connor's eyes slide over him before he takes the bottle back. Soft fingers brush against Hank's own. “Thanks.”

Hank does his best not to preen. He's not sure he manages it.

“North's right,” Connor says, pouring some of the wine into the first cup. It's a pale gold. The sort of color that gives renal doctors a hard on. “And if she's doing it often enough that you're recording conversations with her, you're not the only person she'll be doing it to. Does anyone else give her money for things?”

The first cup of wine comes to Hank. He accepts it graciously. “I don't know,” he answers, honestly. He'd never thought about Ashley's flakiness with money as part of a wider picture, but he's got to admit, they've got a point.

“You should ask your mom,” North says. Connor hands the second glass to her, and she takes it with a smile but sets it down without trying it. “She probably hits her up for help with bills and groceries, too.”

“When my younger brother was in trouble,” Connor says, pouring the rest of the wine into the last cup, “he was taking money off all of us.”

This information lands in Hank's mind and files itself as important. “You have a younger brother?”

Connor's smile is gentle, and crooked. “A younger, and a youngest,” he answers. His eyes flicker to Hank's making direct contact. Hank's skin prickles. “I'm the eldest of three.”

“Thirty each, right?” the kid in the onesie interrupts.

Hank shrugs. The hundred from North is already enough to get him back home. Anything else is a bonus. He doesn't even care about making his money back any more, but it would be nice to lighten the load. “Sure.”

The guy fishes in his wallet and produces a couple of twenties. Hank makes change out of the money North gave him. “Thanks,” he adds, because he's pretty sure the guy is only buying cheese to try and help Hank out.

The guy smiles, awkwardly. “No problem.”

“Anyone else?” North calls, scanning the assembled watchers. People from other gates are eyeing them too.

A soft fingered hand brushes his wrist. Hank looks down at it, and follows it up to captivating brown eyes. Connor offers him a slice of soft blue cheese on a wheat thin. “Have you ever tried this sort of cheese before?”

Hank's chest is warm. Connor's touch is warmer, and it lingers until Hank takes the cracker from him. “I'm not much of an aficionado,” he says, evasively. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he didn't know any cheese but orange. He liked his cheese on a burger, or a pizza, or in a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Eat it slowly,” Connor advises. His teeth are perfect. His lips look soft as they shift around the sounds. “Let yourself feel the creaminess and the flavors.” Hank is fascinated by the brief glimpses of pink tongue that moves in and out of sight as Connor talks. “Then take a sip of wine after you've swallowed.”

Connor's eyes flicker to Hank's lips and then back up. Hank swallows even though he isn't eating the cheese yet. “You a big cheese guy?” he asks, and then hates the sound of the words in his own ears. He must seem like such a blundering idiot to this guy.

Connor's eyelids lower as he glances down at the cheese held between hank's finger and thumb. “I travel a lot,” he answers. His eyes flit back up to Hank's and it's like being nailed, right through the brain, to his seat. “Everything is fleeting. I have to take what chances I get to enjoy myself.”

Hank's mouth hangs open, uselessly. He wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. His head is filled with useless fuzz. The rest of the airport doesn't exist. There's just brown eyes and long fingers and words that sound a hell of a lot like a good excuse for a one night stand.

Maybe a one night stand with Hank.

Connor pulls his face away, turning to carefully cut another piece of cheese from the block and settle it on another cracker. He holds it up, like he's offering a toast. “Ready?”

Hank swallows again. His throat and pants are uncomfortable. He nods.

“To troublesome siblings,” Connor says.

It drags a short laugh from Hank, and then Connor is sliding the cracker and cheese past his lips and biting down with calculated care. Hank has never been so fascinated by watching another person eat before.

He remembers himself a moment later and takes a bite from his own cheese and cracker. Flavor floods his mouth. There's a dark, heavy bitterness that coats his tongue, paired with the gentle, sour tang of the soft cheese. The cracker is dry, and hard, and lightly salted, balancing the other flavors out.

Hank's palate isn't the most sophisticated. He's spent too many years dulling his senses with cigarettes and alcohol and junk food. There are probably a hundred subtleties to the flavor of the cheese that he can't pick up on because his tastebuds have been trained on pizza and soda, but he thinks he likes what he can taste anyway. It isn't like any other cheese he's ever tried, that's for sure.

Connor's eyes are gently closed. Dark lashes settle against pale cheeks. Hank notices the lines etched into his forehead, and the beginnings of crows feet at the corners of his eyes. They put Connor's age at anywhere from his early thirties to his mid forties. His throat works as he swallows, Adam's apple rising and falling in his throat, and he gives a soft, wordless murmur of pleasure.

Hank swallows too, and washes the cheese down with a sip of wine. Like the cheese it has a gently bitter sharpness to it. It floods his mouth, washing away the creaminess and cracker crumbs.

“Good?” Connor asks, lifting the plastic cup to his own lips.

Hank nods, dumbly. It was good.

Connor's mouth pulls into a warm, indulgent smile, and he turns away to cut more of the cheese. Hank lets his gaze drift. North is talking to the guy in a onesie and his partner. The service fuzzball stares at them with the intense alertness of a K9 unit watching the guy in padded limb guards get a head start. The owner hasn't come over for cheese, but at least three other people are picking through the stacks, and there's a growing pile of cash beside them.

“I think we're gonna be here for a while,” Hank says. Theirs isn't the only flight delayed, and the thing with delays is that they cause more delays because planes aren't at the airports they were supposed to be at, at the times they were supposed to be there.

Connor follows Hank's gaze around the terminal. “I think you're probably right,” he agrees. His eyes slide to glance sidelong at Hank. The quirk of his mouth is amused and indulgent, and travels directly down Hank's spine to curl up in his groin. He shouldn't be looking at Connor like this, but the rebellious part of his brain declares, stubbornly, that Connor started it. “At least we're in good company.”

Half the cheese is gone. In its place is a stack of bills amounting to almost four hundred dollars, accumulated via the honor system and the frankly terrifying idea of crossing North, who is enforcing that honor system with the look in her eyes alone.

She returns to her phone from time to time, frantically typing. Hank hasn't asked who she's messaging. Their flight has been delayed by four hours now. Whoever she's meeting at the other end is probably getting antsy. Hank feels like he's probably the only person that isn't eager for their plane to whisk them away.

They've developed a strange camaraderie. The guy in the onesie is Josh, a history professor who believes that comfort is king when traveling. His partner Simon is with him, wearing a Wayne State sweater that Hank thinks is probably Josh's.

The fuzzball is Coco, and his owner is Lucy. “I can get around better with my cane,” she explains, “but Coco puts people off trying their luck with the blind lady.”

“He keeps staring at me,” Josh ventures, with a hint of nervousness. “Should I--”

Lucy laughs. “He's just trying to avoid staring at the cheese,” she answers. “He knows he's not allowed to beg.”

Hank glances at the pile of cheese that is still being picked over by people from other terminals who've heard about the one night only sale and come to take a look. “Does he want some cheese?” he asks. “There's still a lot of fucking cheese.”

“He can't have it while he's working,” Lucy replies. She doesn't quite look at Hank. “I don't want to confuse him.”

Hank turns and sifts through the dwindling pile of cheese. Dwindling in the sense that it's now around fifty pounds of cheese, not a hundred. Hank still isn't looking forward to transporting it home, and he has no idea what the fuck he's gonna do with all of it. “He can have it later,” he answers, picking out a plain cheddar, “for being a good boy.”

Lucy accepts the cheese graciously. Coco looks so hard in the other direction that a lady in the next terminal turns around and searches for the source of the eyes boring into the back of her head.

Five hours into the delay someone comes around to offer meal vouchers and apologies. Hank doesn't bother. Cheese is surprisingly filling, even if the wine ran out a while ago. Connor was only carrying one bottle. “For my mother,” he says, when Hank asks about it. “I like to bring her things from my travels.”

You travel a lot? is a stupid question when Connor has TSA pre-check stickers on his stuff. So instead Hank asks, “Where have you been?”

“Wisconsin, just now,” Connor answers, with a flash of humor in his eyes. The response makes Hank simultaneously want to smack him upside the head and laugh. “But I've been almost everywhere.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds, “Except Alaska. And Russia. I spent most of last year in Europe.”

“Sounds glamorous.”

Connor's face falls. “It's really not,” he admits with a grimace. “I spend most of my time in conferences and meetings, living out of a suitcase and going from one budget hotel to the next.”

Hank wants to argue. He wants to point out to Connor that he still got to spend time in countries most Americans couldn't place on a map, let alone dream of visiting. But he thinks about how much he'd miss Sumo, and how Connor latched on to the opportunity to talk to him, and he starts to wonder if Connor isn't actually pretty lonely. “Okay, maybe not,” he agrees. “What is it you do?”

Connor takes a deep breath, and lets it go in a heavy sigh. “I'm a rep,” he says, wearily. “Have you heard of Cyberlife? Our tech is in 90% of commercial software.”

Hank shakes his head. Modern technology isn't his strong suit, except that he knows that he hates a lot of it and it makes life worse. Connor shrugs one shoulder, as if he hadn't expected a different response.

“My job is to demonstrate our latest products to high expenditure clients, and show them how valued they are by the company.” His nose wrinkles. It's hilariously judgemental. “Which means that I spend half my time wining and dining some of the most obnoxious people on the planet, and a hundred percent of it being a company shill.”

Puzzle pieces click into place. The trusted flier status. The fact he's wearing a fucking designer suit in an airport. Can't risk it getting lost or too creased to wear, right? And he’s gotta look good if anyone’s picking him up. “Sounds like you don't like it,” Hank points out.

Connor's shoulders droop. “It pays well,” he says, softly. “And sometimes I get to eat good food in beautiful cities.” But with shitty company, he doesn't say. Hank hears it regardless. “What about you?” Connor shifts the attention to Hank, and Hank lets him. Talking about his job seems to be getting Connor down.

“I used to be a cop,” Hank answers. “Now I restore shit I'm too old to think of as retro.” He grins, awkwardly.

Connor's eyes light up. “Like what?”

“Right now I'm working on a first gen gameboy,” Hank says. Connor's whole body is turned towards him as if this is the most interesting thing Hank could possibly be spending his time doing. “But I've done radios, record players, VHS players, a couple of SNESes.”

“I play videos of people restoring old things when I need to zone out,” Connor confesses. “I love that we can repair things from thirty years ago with the right know-how.”

Hank grunts. “And yet today a shitty update can brick your car.” Which was why they were gonna have to pry his oldsmobile from his cold dead hands. At least when something went wrong with it he could pop the hood and spend half a day putting it right. With a new car he'd have to call some prick in an IT department.

“We don't make things like we used to,” Connor agrees.

Hank shakes his head. “Nope.” And it's fucking deliberate.

“That's a big change from being a cop,” Connor directs the conversation down another path.

He's easy to talk to, and Hank doesn't want to stop, so he answers. “It's got better hours.” Which was true. And he didn't have to hold his tongue around assholes that disgraced the uniform, now.

Connor recognizes the evasiveness. He laughs, white teeth on display in a charming smile that brings out the crows feet around his eyes. “I'm sure it does.” He doesn't press further. “Do you sell the things you restore or do you do it on commission?”

Hank scratches at the back of his neck. “I mostly sell them, but I was thinking of making it a real business.” His pension was good, so the restorations were mostly to keep him from losing his goddamn mind and falling back into the bottom of the bottle. Recovery was hard. Recovery fucking sucked if he was honest. And the shit he saw every day as a cop didn't help. It would be real easy to fall back into old, bad habits if he let himself sit and stare at the news, bombarded by ten new reasons to hate the world every hour. “Get some adverts out. Just make sure everyone knows I'm not touching any electronic too young to vote,” he muses.

Connor laughs again. “You could make a channel and film some of the work you do?” Hank raises an eyebrow at him. “I'd watch it,” Connor insists.

The idea seems less absurd when Connor says that. The idea of Connor watching him clean the insides of an old record player and polish her wood until she shone boils in his mind. “You wouldn't have to watch that on the internet if you wanted.” The words spill out of his mouth before he can catch them. Heat floods up the back of his neck. “You could just,” he stumbles, tongue tripping over itself in a desperate attempt to make what he'd just said better, and not worse, “come to my workshop? If you were interested, I mean.”

Something changes in Connor's expression. His eyes darken. The curve of his lips softens but becomes more indulgent. His voice becomes lower, and raspy, “I'd like that.”

Hank swallows. His throat is tight.

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. We have arranged a new plane and your flight will be boarding in twenty minutes.”

Hank is almost grateful for the distraction. Almost. The declaration cuts through the building tension.

“Finally,” Connor murmurs. His gaze flickers to the pile of money and cheese. “You should start packing.”

Hank grunts, and opens his bag. His load is down to a little over a third of what it had been, but it still looks like a fuckload of cheese. He picks the money up first, flicking through the notes and doing a quick count.

Almost five hundred dollars. Not bad. He could never make the rest back and he actually wouldn't care. Maybe he'd even let Ashley have what was left for Monica's goddamn baby shower, so long as none of it was toxic soft cheese.

Connor slips from the seat beside him to speak to the flight attendant making the announcement. Hank watches out of the corner of his eye, packing the cheese as carefully into his backpack as he can. The result is much lighter, but still fucking heavy.

After five minutes Connor returns with a triumphant smirk on his face. “You'll be sitting near me,” he announces. “I hope that's okay?”

Hank doesn't know whether to be amused at the audacity, flattered, or impressed at the presumption. Connor was good at that; crossing lines, and making you like that he was doing it. “Sounds good.”

“How much money did you make?”

Hank glances down at his bag and then shrugs. “Four seventy,” he answers. It's enough to get him home. It's enough that he won't be eating nothing but cheese for the next month. Although with the amount of cheese left, he might be anyway.

Connor's mouth pulls into a tight pout of concern. “We won't be getting into Detroit until nearly midnight.”

Hank nods. It's going to be a late one.

Connor licks his lips. His eyes drop down Hank's chest, as if he doesn't want to meet his gaze. “I'd feel better if you weren't on the streets with that much money at that hour,” he ventures. “Even if you were a cop.”

Hank's a big guy, and he can handle himself. It was mostly about how you walked, and if you looked like you knew where you were going. Opportunists like easy prey, and Hank didn't look easy. But he wants to know where this is going, so he lets Connor talk.

“Would you consider staying in my hotel for the night?” Connor looks up, and his eyes are deep dark brown, drawing Hank in. “I can try and get a twin room.”

Not a separate hotel room for Hank, of course. Although Connor probably wasn't paying for his own hotel room anyway. But there was no offer to help him get his own room. Or, for that matter, to stay with him until he safely got in a cab.

Connor's asking if Hank will do something much more specific: Spend the night with him. In his hotel room. Which will maybe have a second bed, although Hank isn't sure he wants Connor to try too hard to swing that. And he's not sure Connor wants to try that hard either.

Hank lets his eyes flicker over this pretty, weird guy, all trussed up in a smart suit to get on a cheap fucking plane. He's got freckles, and a short back and sides haircut, and soft looking lips that aren't quite closed.

“Sure,” he answers, sealing his fate. “And it's okay if you can't.”

“I'm sorry,” Connor says, opening the door to his hotel room. “It's the best I could get at this time of night.”

The best Connor could get was a king bed in the Westin. Hank hadn't stayed in anything above two stars since his honeymoon. The place is swankier than Hank's fucking house, but he isn't about to say that out loud.

“You didn't have to get anything for me,” Hank points out, dropping his bags at a corner. The huge bed dominated the room. There was an actual goddamn closet, and the requisite hotel cuck chair was a loveseat tucked against the window. “I can sleep on the fucking sofa if you like.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Connor answers, sharp as a whip, and then hesitates. Hank sees it; the way his whole body goes stiff. “I can take the sofa if you're uncomfortable sharing the bed.”

Hank's gut rebels against the offer. “No way,” he answers. “I'm perfectly comfortable.”

The words reach his own ears, and then filter into his brain.

“I mean-- I--”

Connor is close. Dark eyelashes hang heavily over his warm brown eyes. His lips were softly parted, as if he wanted to say something, but was forcing himself to hold onto the words so that they didn't jump out of his throat the way Hank's had.

“Hank--”

“That didn't--” Hank continues, trying to claw the words back into his throat. “I mean, that's not--”

“I'm only in town for a couple of days,” Connor says, across Hank's desperate attempts to unmake things awkward. Hank's brain falls into muzzy silence. “If you didn't want to see me again after tonight, you wouldn't have to.”

His eyes are downturned. Hank finds himself drawn to their gentle flutter, and the nervous way Connor's mouth closes when he swallows, only to hang open again.

“And what if I wanted to?” Hank replies. It was the only response his brain could come up with. His skin tingles. The air is heavy in his lungs. “See you again, I mean?”

Connor's eyes lift, stealing Hank's breath. The quiet intensity sends electricity arcing over every hair on Hank's body. “Then I'll be taking a lot of flights that connect in Detroit.”

Hank's stomach flips. Connor's lips invite him in, closer. Connor's chin tips upwards as Hank draws in, pulled by the weight of Connor's gravity. “I'd like that,” Hank admits. He doesn't know Connor, not really. A few hours in the weirdly liminal space that was an airport, where life beyond hung suspended, wasn't getting to know him. But there was a connection. Hank felt the world pushing him closer still.

“So would I,” Connor breathes, and then his lips find Hank's. They were every bit as soft as they looked. Hank closes his eyes. Tension bleeds out of the world, and his lungs, and his limbs, as if everything had waited for this moment.

He sighs through his nose, and kisses Connor back. The initial meeting of their lips was sudden; a grab for something they wanted, but now that they’re both clear they want it the kiss softens into something less desperate and urgent. Connor's mouth presses delicately, repeatedly against Hank's. Hank responds in kind, letting his tongue and his hands slide forwards to reach for Connor.

His waist is warm under Hank's palms. The inside of his mouth is soft, and sweet. Connor lets Hank move into him, his tongue slipping into his mouth to explore. Soft, long-fingered hands curl around either side of Hank's neck, welcoming him. Gentle murmurs, like sighs of relief, reverberate in Hank's ears. He wants to hear more of them. He wants to know what other sounds he can get Connor to make.

Hank's mouth drifts away from Connor's, pressing kisses against his cheek, and jaw, working down to his throat. Connor arches his head back, letting Hank lock his lips against his pulse point. Hands rake over Hank's shoulders, squeezing at his biceps, and drawing Connor more firmly into Hank's arms. Then they fall away, moving back behind Connor and letting his jacket slide down them to the floor.

Hank backs Connor up, feet bumping into each other until the hollow thud of one of them kicking the bed rings out into the room. Connor's hands work up beneath Hank's hoodie, exploring under his t-shirt and tangling in the hair on his chest. He gives a desperate, delighted groan as he rakes his fingers over Hank's skin. “Shit.”

Hank kisses at the front of his throat. Rough stubble scratches his lips. “Problem?” He presses more, feverish kisses to the other side of Connor's neck, indulging in a squeeze at his ass through his pristinely tailored suit.

“You're wearing too many clothes,” Connor answers, pushing Hank's hoodie up further. “I want to see you.”

Hank laughs. Stepping back makes the space between them ache like a bruise. He yanks his hoodie up over his head. Connor's hands follow it, trailing up his stomach and chest, coming to rest on his shoulders.

Hank tosses the hoodie to one side. It clatters against the night stand. Connor stares in awe, his lower lip squeezed between his teeth. A thrill courses up Hank's spine. He hasn't been looked at like this in a long time; Connor looks like a starving man being presented with an entire banquet. His eyes catch on the faded tattoo across Hank's chest, and the gray curls that cover it and drag down in a line over his gut.

He lets Connor look, enjoying the way it feels to be drunk in and revered. “Your turn,” he declares, once Connor's eyes make their way back up to Hank's face, and he moves back in to recapture Connor's mouth with his own.

Connor gives a delighted groan, melting under Hank's hands. Hank squeezes the back of Connor's neck and pins him against himself, holding him tight as he kisses him deeply. Connor is slender, and lean bodied; all slim hips and waist, long legs and broad shoulders. Hank is big, and broad, and padded. If he squeezed hard enough he could fold Connor into himself.

He lets Connor go enough to smother his throat in more kisses. Connor's fingers work quickly and neatly at his buttons, baring a beauty marked collarbone to Hank's mouth. He arches in Hank's grip, leaning back towards the bed. Hank grabs at his shirt and pulls to untuck it from his pants.

It resists. Hank tries again, but is met with the same weird elastic tug, like the shirt is caught on something. A hand presses to the tattoo on his chest and pushes, gently. Hank follows the silent command, but keeps his arms around Connor's hips.

“I need to unclip it,” Connor explains.

“Unclip?” What? Hank knew the question burned in his expression. His blood has migrated south, making his thoughts slow and his dick heavy.

Connor obviously understands, because instead of trying to explain, his hands move down and unfasten his belt and pants. The button parts, the zip peels down, and Hank is treated to a view of clingy black boxers and...

Straps. Metal clips clamped at the bottom of Connor's shirt, attached to garters of black elastic around Connor's thighs.

“I'd look a lot more creased after being on a plane without them,” Connor explains, as if it should have been obvious.

Hank takes half a step back. Connor's shirt hangs halfway open, loose across his chest. His pants bunch halfway down his thighs. And beneath his perfectly pressed suit is the most ridiculous contraption Hank has ever seen on a man.

It should not be as hot as it is.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, awed. The black elastic contrasts sharply against the milk bottle pale skin of Connor's inner thigh. Hank hooks a finger beneath and gives it a gentle tug. “Any way to get your underwear off without taking these off?”

Connor bursts into laughter. The sound is even hotter than the sight. “No,” he answers, with genuine sounding regret beneath his even more genuine amusement, “sorry.”

“Damn.”

“Next time,” Connor murmurs, with a promising look in his dark eyes. Hank swallows.

Next time. Yeah. He likes the sound of that.

He presses forward again, dragging Connor into another deep kiss. Fingers curl against his chest and stroke up to his shoulders, urging him closer. Hank obliges, leaning into Connor.

Connor folds backwards under him, dropping down to the bed with as much grace as their urgency allowed. Hank follows, setting one knee up on the mattress. It dips beneath his weight, but the springs don't creak.

They part again, for a moment. Hank kicks off his shoes and pushes his sweatpants down. He steps out of them gracelessly, wanting them gone more than he cares about looking good doing it.

When he looks back at Connor he freezes.

“Seriously?”

Connor fixes him with a defiant look. There was more elastic around his calves, and clipped to his socks. “I hate it when my socks creep down over the course of the day.”

It's not possible. This has to be some cheese induced fever dream. A man that looks this good and wore hidden contraptions of elastic that beg for Hank to snap them against his pale skin, and that also wants Hank to get in his pants?

“Jesus fuck, you're not real,” he growls. Connor's ankle fits perfectly in his grip and Hank tugs his legs apart, crawling between spread thighs.

Connor lets himself be tipped back against the bed and manhandled. He reaches for Hank's shoulders again. “I assure you I am,” he answers, spread beneath Hank with his stays clinging to the bottom of his shirt. Two buttons are all that remain fastened. Hank has a delightful view of a smooth chest and taut stomach. Milky thighs are ringed with black elastic. Connor's underwear strains at the crotch.

Hank bends over him again, pushing him back into the pillows with a hard and deep kiss. His tongue chases Connor's, following his lead, letting himself be coaxed in. Hands explore his back and pull at his hips, trying to urge them down.

Hank pulls away from Connor's intoxicating mouth to press wet, heated kisses down his throat and chest instead. His skin is warm beneath Hank's lips. He follows the line of pale flesh down, until the closed shirt gets in his way, and then he skips over the last few inches to bury his face against the clothed hardness of Connor's dick, turning more kisses to the inch of skin that shows between his shorts and the garter of his stays.

“You're a wet fucking dream,” he growls against Connor's skin.

Connor's hands sink into his hair. His hips lift towards Hank's face. The hot smell of his skin fills Hank's nose as he nuzzles and mouths at Connor's cock through his underwear.

“Hank, please?” Connor begs. His fingers tighten and tug.

Hank laughs, letting Connor feel the way it gusts hot against his skin. “You want it that bad, huh?”

The needy, frustrated little whine of complaint when Hank instead moved back up to press kisses to Connor's stomach was worth it. Connor's breath hitches as Hank drags one hand over his clothed dick, finding the waistband and sliding slowly inside. Connor's cock is hot and firm against his palm, and intoxicatingly silky as he curls his fingers around it and gives a long, firm stroke.

Connor groans with relief. Hank buries his face against Connor's chest, dropping kisses over his sternum. “Coulda done this on the plane,” he points out.

A leg wraps around Hank's back, urging him upwards. The hand in his hair tightens and tugs, guiding him back towards Connor's mouth. Hank lets himself be led. Connor's cheeks are flushed and his eyes dark. “No,” he breathes, “I needed a king size bed for all the things I want to do with you.”

Victory and desire swirl in Hank's chest. Hank laughs again, and lets himself drop down, pressing Connor into the bed. The laugh dissolves into another open mouthed kiss. His hand works, slowly and firmly over Connor's dick. His own cock strains, heavy and aching at his underwear. The friction as it drags against Connor's thigh is good, enough to ease some of his own pulsing, maddening need. Connor's hand slides between the two of them, curling around Hank's dick as if he's mapping out the veins and flare of the head with his fingers. It's better.

Connor murmurs, low and pensive into his mouth. Thinking is getting difficult. The world revolves around Hank's cock, and the feeling of Connor under him, and wrapping around him. He has to fight it and force the more thoughtful part of his brain to the surface to ask, “What?”

“I don't think my condoms will fit you,” Connor murmurs, giving Hank's cock a long, slow, firm stroke that does nothing for Hank's ability to think about anything else.

And what was the problem with that? He didn't have to fuck Connor. He didn't have to top. Actually he'd be happy if Connor just kept doing that with his hands. A few more minutes and he'd be ecstatic, even.

But maybe Connor had been looking forward to getting folded in half and railed. There was that, too.

“I can get one of those things over my head,” he grunts, “I can make it fit.”

Connor's eyebrow rose. “Do I want to know how you know that?”

Hank grins, broadly. Instead of explaining he lowers himself down again, planting kisses along Connor's neck. The fading scent of smoky cologne fills his nose, and mouth, and head, and he breathes it in, deeply. “I can suck you off instead?” he offers, stroking firmly down to the base of Connor's cock.

Connor arches and flexes under his attention. A hissed, “Fuck,” gusts past Hank's ear. Then Connor grunts, and retaliates with a firm stroke of his own. His soft palm drags against the underside of Hank's dick, fingers curled over the top, possessively. “It'd be a shame to waste this.”

Hank grunts his agreement. It did, suddenly, seem criminal to even consider doing anything but fuck Connor good and deep. But that meant tearing himself away from that delicious hand, and Connor's gasps, and his addictive fucking responsiveness.

It takes every ounce of Hank's willpower to let Connor's cock go and lift his weight up. “Okay,” he groans, reminding himself of why he was doing it, “where are your rubbers?”

Connor's hand gives Hank's cock a languid farewell stroke as it slips from his grasp. His cheeks and lips are flushed, and pupils blown wide. The shirt hangs open, stretched taut by the elastic at his thighs, and his skintight boxers strains against the firmness of his dick. Hank lets himself drink in the sight of all of Connor's pristine, pressed perfection coming apart at the seams.

“Smallest inside pocket of the carry-on bag,” he answers, curling his fingertips through Hank's chest hair one more time, as if it fascinated him. Connor's eyes flicker longingly over Hank's body before meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to keep the shirt on?”

Every cell in Hank's body wants to lurch towards Connor. He can feel it pulling at him, dick first. He wants to take him in his arms, and then take him apart piece by fucking piece until he's a mewling, sobbing, overstimulated wreck.

“Sure.”

He manages to sound casual about it. As if the idea of Connor keeping his shirt and those stupid slutty garters on for his sake doesn't make his dick ache.

Connor smirks like he isn't falling for it. Hank drags himself away before his resolve breaks. Connor had left his bag at the door, which felt five miles away from the heat and softness that called Hank back to the bed.

The carry-on bag contains more of those skimpy, tight boxers, an actual goddamn toiletry bag, Connor's laptop and associated cables, and, in the smallest internal pocket, three foil wrapped condoms and a travel tube of KY. Because of course it did. And it's in a side pocket, Hank thought, and not the toiletry bag so that an exhausted Connor wouldn't mistake it for toothpaste at 5am.

“You travel prepared,” Hank comments, flashing the lube towards Connor.

“You never know when you'll find an attractive man carrying your body weight in cheese to take back to your hotel room,” Connor answers, refastening a clip to the hem of his shirt. His underwear lies against the white sheets in a smear of black by his feet.

“Lucky for me,” Hank replies, fascinated by the sight. He tosses the lube to the bed before shoving his underwear down to the floor and stepping out of them. Connor's eyes fix on his cock, and then travel slowly upwards.

“For us both,” Connor corrects. The tip of his tongue teases against his bottom lip.

Hank brings the foil wrapper of the condom up to his mouth and rips it open with his teeth, not taking his eyes off Connor. He looks incredible stretched back against the pillows, shirt hanging open and dick stood proud and flushed against his pale belly. His chest heaves with a deep inhale as he watches Hank's hands, rapt at the sight of Hank rolling the condom onto his own cock.

“How you wanna do this?” Hank asks.

Connor shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on Hank's cock, like a predator watching its prey. “Well you can't fuck me from over there.”

Hank laughs louder than he means to as he crawls back onto the bed. There's something funny, and easy, about how blunt and straightforward Connor is about what he wants. Right now he wants Hank, or his cock, or both, and Hank is going to make damn sure he gets them.

Connor opens up and wraps around him, legs, and arms, and fingers drawing him in close. Hank kisses Connor's chest and squeezes the soft insides of his thighs. He's warm and inviting beneath Hank, and so damn tempting. The elastic of his stupid garters slide over the backs of Hank's fingers as he spreads Connor's thighs and rocks his hips down into the bed.

Connor's fingers rake down Hank's back, urging his hips in again so that his cock drags against Connor's balls and tease at the cleft of his ass. Hank drags at his thighs, tugging Connor's hips up and pressing him back. The soft skin of Connor's collarbone is cool against Hank's lips as he peppers it with kisses.

A cool, slick hand wraps around Hank's cock and glides over the length, smearing lubricant along before guiding the tip to Connor's hole. Teeth nip at Hank's earlobe. “Don't be gentle,” Connor purrs.

Hank lets Connor lead his cock to the enticing heat of his entrance. His eyes close as he feels the resistance and pushes in. Connor flexes and opens for him, velvety soft, slick heat wrapping tight around his dick. Hank's cock slips into the intimate softness inside Connor, but his whole mind is engulfed in him; in the languid groan of relief that rumbles against his ear, and the tug of legs against his thighs drawing him deeper into the intoxicating embrace of Connor's body.

He pushes his way inside until he can't reach any further, and wishes he could. He wants, so badly to keep going, to reach all the way inside Connor and make him shiver with it. A shaky exhale leaves his chest. His muscles strain as he stops himself drawing back to experience that delightful slide into Connor's depths once more. Connor's body twitches and tightens, growing used to the intrusion. One long fingered hand slides up Hank's back, curling over his neck and sinking into his hair.

“God, you feel good,” Connor sighs.

“You too,” Hank answers, kissing Connor's neck, and jaw, and cheek. “You good?”

Connor turns his face towards Hank's, capturing his mouth in an open mouthed kiss that was all tongue and breath. “Ready when you are,” he murmurs against Hank's mouth. His teeth catch at Hank's lip before his tongue leads Hank back inside.

Hank kisses him hard, dragging his tongue over Connor's own and exploring the heated softness of his mouth, so similar to the decadent luxury that wrapped around his cock. Drawing back from it is a struggle. His hips and spine and balls protest leaving the plush warmth of Connor's body. He draws back as far as he can stand, and then sinks back in quickly. His cock glides inside, enveloped once more. It was even better the second time.

Connor's fingers go tight in Hank's hair, and Hank thinks there might have been a “Yes,” in the pleasured grunt that ripped from Connor's throat as he bottomed out inside him.

He did it again, driving in deep, and hard, and slow, luxuriating in the way Connor feels and sounds, in every twitch of Connor's hips and whined gasp from his throat. His legs pull Hank in, guiding him faster, but Hank resists, favoring hard, and slow, and deep. The bed frame creaks with each thrust.

Connor's other hand sinks down between them, curling around Connor's own cock. His knuckles and the head of his dick drag against Hank's belly with each roll of Hank's hips. Hank buries his face against Connor's neck, letting the feeling of Connor sweep through him in steady, building waves. His belly tightens. His balls ache. Each push of his cock inside Connor is addictive, building into an overwhelming pressure inside.

Connor's voice dissolves into strangled gasps. Fingers grasp at his back. The slick sound of Connor's fist working over his own dick matches the rhythm of the bed's squeaks.

He could come like this. He was going to come like this. So was Connor. But--

Hank groans with frustration, fighting against the desperate urge to keep going. Connor whimpers in protest. “What's wrong?”

Hank shakes his head. It takes everything he has to pull out, and leave the delicious enveloping heat of Connor. The air is cold and lifeless against his cock.

“Need to change,” he mutters, through the fog in his own head. All he wants is to sink back into Connor. “Want you to feel me,” he explains, although the words feel a long way away. Hank hooks an arm under Connor's thigh and moves him. Connor rolls to his side, although he tries to hold onto Hank, and take him with him.

“I already can,” Connor protests.

Hank shakes his head, settling against Connor's back. “I can do better,” he promises.

Connor falls quiet and stops resisting. Hank tugs Connor's leg up, folding him against Hank's own chest and holding him open. Connor groans with relief at the return of Hank's cock. Then his pitch changes, and he arches back into Hank as Hank presses deep and hard inside him at the new angle.

“There you are,” Hank purrs. Smug satisfaction curls hot in his chest. He works his other arm under Connor's chest, pinning him into place. He can get deeper inside Connor like this, and the shift in angle meant that every movement of his dick dragged all the way against Connor's sweet spot.

He starts slow, keeping each roll of his hip steady and deep, making sure he's all the way inside before he eases back again. Connor abandons his own dick, curling his fingers tightly around Hank's arm over his chest instead, clinging to him like his life depends on it.

The sounds that come from his mouth are obscene. Music to Hank's ears. Low, inhuman groans that echo into the open air, and desperate, needy whimpers as Hank draws back. Connor begs for more with just the tone of his voice and the squeeze of his hand.

Hank growls his pleasure against Connor's ear. “You feel that, huh? You feel me all the way in there?”

Connor answers with a gasp that could have been Hank's name. Hank rewards him with a harder pulse of his hips. Connor yelps, no longer coherent. His mouth hangs open, his lashes lie heavy against his cheeks. He looks and sounds completely undone. Ruined. Beautiful.

“Fuck, you sound as good as you feel, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

Hank keeps his movements slow and deep, letting it build; Connor's rasping voice, incoherent with ecstasy in his ear; the shirt, damp with sweat and clinging to them both; the smooth warmth of Connor's skin under his hand, the tight grip around his wrist, as if Connor knows that if he lets go he'll tumble over a precipice and be lost. Connor is soft, delicious, yielding heat around his cock, squeezing and welcoming Hank in with every drive of Hank's hips, as if Connor still wants more. Hank's legs ache, his skin pricks with sweat. His chest burns and his heart pounds. And all of it swirls together into the heady pressure building up behind Hank's dick.

He lets go of Connor's leg, fumbling instead to take hold of Connor's cock. The hand at his wrist looses, shifting to sink fingers between Hank's own and cling. Connor's dick is hot and solid in Hank's palm. Another hot, slick hand closes over Hank's as he begins to stroke, guiding him to hold a little harder.

Connor cries out in a desperate sob as Hank strokes him, growling in his ear, “I wanna feel you come, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

A nod is the best answer Connor can manage. Hank pumps his cock in time with the drive of his hips, dragging Connor along with him as the edge comes inexorably closer. He holds on, gritting his teeth and burying his face in Connor's sweat soaked hair. “That's it, baby. Fuck I'm so close, I want you there with me.”

Connor gives another cry, and shudders. “Almost there,” Hank purrs, coaxing him closer, “you can do it. Let me feel it.”

Another thrust, and then another. Hank's own self control crumbles, like a dam beginning to break. The pressure builds, and pushes, almost overwhelming him.

Connor stiffens. An inhuman wail rips from his throat. His body pulses and tightens, spilling out over their joined fingers. He squeezes hard around Hank's cock, throbbing like Hank's racing heart.

Hank's hips jerk forward, hard, burying himself as deep as he can reach. The tight, aching pressure inside bursts out, sweeping out of his dick and pouring into Connor. It throbs through Hank and echoes back with each pulsing squeeze of Connor's body. Their bodies freeze, locked in a moment that lasts a lifetime. Hank's heart buzzes in his ears. Stars dance in the darkness behind his eyelids.

It ebbs away, slowly. Hank deflates, peppering Connor's skin with kisses. There's a freckle on the back of Connor's neck that draws Hank's lips to it like a magnet. He kisses at Connor's hairline, and his ear. As the tightness in his hips fades Hank draws back, giving Connor a few extra, gentle, lazy thrusts that earn him a pleasured and delirious whine.

Connor's hands fall from Hank's, both at his dick and at his chest. Hank takes it as his cue to pull out, and eases back with a sigh, careful and slow. His dick slides free, hitting the cold air, and Hank tucks himself in tight against Connor's back and wraps his arms around him, already missing his warmth. “Jesus fucking Christ that was good.”

Connor's whole body relaxes, as if every muscle calls it quits and surrenders. He lets himself be tugged back into Hank, a long sigh escaping his lungs. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, and rasping; “Yeah it was.”

Hank's chest still pounds with every thud of his heart. His lungs ache. He couldn't have been more exhausted if he'd just run a marathon.

He presses another affectionate kiss to Connor's shoulder. Connor murmurs softly, and then moves, rolling towards Hank and shuffling onto his back. Huge brown eyes framed with dark lashes fill the world.

“Hi,” Hank murmurs, looking down at Connor's flushed lips and the hair sticking to his forehead.

“Hi,” Connor answers back. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a lopsided smile.

Hank leans down and presses his mouth to Connor's, letting a soft kiss linger. Connor returns it, too exhausted and spent to chase Hank deeper. His skin is flushed pink.

A blush of warmth spreads through Hank's chest. The hope that he'd get to do this again, and see Connor looking like this again; dazed and exhausted and imperfectly gorgeous, rolls warm in his chest. “I hope the neighbors don't get us kicked out over the noise,” he says, with a grin.

Amusement crosses Connor's face. His lopsided smile breaks into a self satisfied smirk. “They won't,” he says, with alluring confidence.

“Then I need to try harder next time,” Hank answers, quick as lightning. His muscles ache, and his insides have been exchanged for warm cotton candy, but he doesn’t want to let go of the moment and surrender to sleep.

Connor laughs. It’s magical. His eyes crease with crows feet that give away his age, and his smile cuts lines into his cheeks that fill him with life. “I like the sound of that,” he murmurs, voice low, but lilting.

Fingers lift and toy with the ends of his hair, stroking against Hank’s shoulder. Hank’s heart slows, but each beat still pounds against the inside of his ribs. “Me too,” he admits. He likes the sound of next time. He likes the sound of making Connor squeal so hard they get management hammering on the door.

“What time do we have to leave?” Hank asks. He’s never been much of an early bird, but maybe he could be, for one day. For a good cause.

Connor’s eyes close slowly with his smile, as if he knows what Hank is thinking, but there’s a hint of sadness to it. “I told you,” he says, “I’m in town for a couple of days.”

Only for a couple of days, and then he’d be gone, and Hank might not see him again for weeks. Even months.

The idea makes the soft warm fuzz inside Hank shrivel. “How would you like to come and meet my dog?” he offers. The words sound ridiculous as soon as they leave his mouth, but Connor’s eyes widen and sparkle. Hank presses on, despite the way it makes him feel like a smitten idiot; “I can take you for dinner,” he adds, feeling the weight of a hundred pounds of goddamn fucking cheese in the words, “a real one, not cheese and wine. We can catch a movie if you want, or--”

“Or go back to yours?” Connor cuts in.

“Until it’s time for your flight,” Hank agrees.

Connor’s hand strokes over Hank’s cheek, curling over his beard and reaching down to his throat. It winds around the back of Hank’s neck and tugs him down towards Connor’s mouth. “I’d love to.”

Hank closes his eyes and dissolves into Connor’s mouth. His tongue sweeps forward in slow presses, reminding himself that Connor is real, and not just some bizarre and too-perfect fantasy. The wetness, the hot breath, the slide of his tongue are all real. The hand curling in his hair, and the chest moving beneath his as he settles into the bed are real. It’s been the strangest fucking day of his life, but this is how it ends; with the goddamn catwalk model wine guy wearing garters and spread beneath him on the bed, kissing him like Hank is air in his aching lungs.

That’s what Connor is to him. He needed today to end like this so badly. Maybe Connor did, too.

“Me too,” he murmurs, coiling an arm around Connor to kiss him like he means it.