Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His fingers are shaking with two colds, one within, one without. He’s half dazed, half empty, and completely nauseous. It takes him a few tries, including one spectacular failure that ends in him inching across the kitchen floor after it like an inebriated caterpillar, but he finally gets his phone unlocked and the number dialed.

The call connects. It rings. It rings. It stops ringing.

“Lee?” says a voice that he absolutely hasn’t thought of while masturbating.

“Nigel,” Lee manages. He can’t even recognize himself. His throat sounds too fucked out to be his, and isn’t that a sobering thought. “It’s--it’s me, yeah.”

“Me being Lee?” Nigel’s vowels melt into one another. Lee doesn’t know exactly where in eastern Europe he hails from, but he’s thankful that place exists. Sexvoiceistan, maybe, or else Sexvoiceania. Geography was never his strong suit.

“Lee being me.” He presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I--I--Nigel,” Lee stammers out, and the muscles in his face even ache, “Nigel, I need you to do me a solid.”

“Which would be what?” Lee can’t decide if Nigel sounds bored or annoyed or stoned or asleep or some amalgamate of the four.

“Look,” he begins, “I know you’re a dealer and not a delivery service, but I need to vape. As in it is vital to my physical health to burn pot into a fine mist and inject it into my lungs.”

“Isus,” and that is definitely a combination of annoyed and asleep. “Set the request aside for a moment. Have you fucking looked outside recently?”

“I walked home in it,” says Lee, repressing his primal urge to whimper until taken care of. “I walked home, and into my apartment, and I had green, but then I--I dumped it into the carpet trying to load the vape because the muscles in my hands hurt like I’m eighty-four and arthritic.” Silence on the other end, so Lee presses on before he can come to his senses, hang up, and spend the holidays crashing next to the trash can in the kitchen. “I thought maybe I could sleep it off, but...I mean, I’ve had bad days before, but not like this.”

“Lee.”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Ah. Right. Because Nigel isn’t actually his friend, because dealers can’t be friends with their customers, not really, so he doesn’t know. Not that Lee has any friends to tell, at all. Not anymore. Even his chemo buddies have drifted away, either by getting better or dying off.

He huffs a self-deprecating laugh at himself. To think Cathy was the one afraid of going alone.

“Lee?”

“Can you hook me up or not?”

Nigel sighs, which isn’t a good sign. “This isn’t exactly a life or death situation.”

“Of course you’d use that line.”

“Look, you can’t just call up out of the fucking blue in the middle of a heavy snow and expect--”

“I have cancer,” Lee says through gritted teeth, all in a rush, because fuck it, he’s desperate. “I have cancer, and I am actually, legitimately dying, so it kind of is a life or death situation. Death or death situation, really. Avoiding one death sooner for another one later.”

He shakes his head to clear the static, but only makes himself feel sick. “I had chemo today to try and postpone aforementioned death or death, and now I am sitting here freezing my balls off on the kitchen floor of my apartment and the neighbors have been listening to Mariah Carey sing about Christmas for the past hour.” He takes another breath; even his lungs feel cold. “I am dying,” he repeats, because it’s honestly, surprisingly good to say out loud to someone new, “and I would really appreciate it if you could get me high right now.”

There’s silence again, but it feels different this time, heavier. Finally, Nigel asks, “Do you live somewhere with an elevator?”

Lee tilts his head back against the cabinet. “No, but I live on the ground floor.”

“Good.” Lee hears Nigel rifling through papers as he says, “Give me your address.”

Time passes, as it does, though Lee’s done his best to learn how to tune it out. He’s not sure how long it is before Nigel knocks on his door, but it’s long enough for Lee to feel awful about pulling the cancer card. Manipulation isn’t his forte. Insistence and suggestion, yes, but not blatant emotional exploitation.

“It’s unlocked,” he calls out, and Lee hears the door open immediately.

“Where are you?” Lee throws out an arm and hopes his hand shows around the corner of the wall. Sure enough, he hears Nigel’s wheels cross onto the vinyl floor. “Cavalry’s here.”

Lee smiles. “My hero.”

He risks opening his eyes to look up at Nigel. The man’s art, a living Picasso, Lee decided a while back--not that he has a nose on his chin or an inexplicable boob for a third eye, but that he somehow manages to be all sharp lines and soft edges at the same time. Nigel has worn something wholly ridiculous every time Lee’s seen him before, but there’s no oddly-patterned shirt to be found today. In fact, this is the least put-together Nigel’s ever been in front of Lee. Track pants and sneakers; a sleeveless white undershirt that has clearly seen itself through the lifecycles of at least two bongs; an impeccable leather jacket.

It’s funny that Lee is the one accused of dressing like a grandpa on laundry day, but Nigel is the one with the silver hair and the deep eye wrinkles. Not that he’s ever been able to pin an age down on Nigel besides, “was born at one point.”

“You look fucking terrible.”

“If by terrible you mean ‘terribly handsome’ then yes,” says Lee, “I do.”

Nigel’s smile is lopsided. “So what can I do for you?”

“Might as well re-up while you’re here. My wallet is--” Lee turns his head to look, because he isn’t precisely sure where he left it, but his stomach keeps turning. “Oh shit.”

“Look, don’t worry about it,” says Nigel. “I’ve been selling at cost to you for a while now, anyway.”

“Can you--” and Lee makes a grabbing motion with the hand nearest the trash can. He thinks maybe Nigel will just push it closer to his hand so that Lee can drag it around to his other side. What he doesn’t expect is for Nigel to show up in front of him, can in tow. “Than--”

“Don’t mention it,” Nigel tells Lee quietly as he hurls. “You have any cups on my level? Or a bottle of water I can get you? Something?”

“I am--ugh, gross--I unfortunately do not maintain a chair-friendly environment.” He wipes his mouth off with the bedraggled Kleenex he’d been lucky enough to find stuffed in his jeans pocket the first time he threw up. “There’re some bottles of wine in the pantry.”

“That’s a patently awful idea.”

“Also unfortunate.”

“What about your vaporizer?” asks Nigel.

Lee shakes his head gingerly. “On a shelf.”

“Well shit.”

“Listen,” says Lee, “you’ve done enough already just by showing up. I’m sorry for the sob story. I hate that I used it to get my way, but I wasn’t thinking much beyond ‘must find smoke.’”

“Just glad you told it to new Nigel.” He does that often, Lee’s noticed--at least, often enough; he only ever sees Nigel when he’s buying--refer to old and new Nigel. “We’ll improvise. Can you stand?”

“That entirely depends on how you define standing.”

He can hear Nigel staring at him. “Fine. Can you pull yourself into an approximation of vertical long enough to get on my lap?”

And there are a few other traits of Nigel’s that Lee does his best to forget about, because Nigel is all kinds of Lee’s type. His arms are strong and muscular from using his chair, for one. Lee’s watched his hands enough to know that he is extremely good at delicate tasks. When Lee does business with Nigel at the closest diner, he spends most of his time focused on his coffee desperately trying to look anywhere but Nigel’s furred chest, or his hairy arms, or his stubbled face.

Now, Nigel wants Lee to hop into his lap, and Lee is approximately nine seconds away from having an aneurysm. The man doesn’t scream bear; he screams grizzly.

“Not that I’m opposed,” Lee says, glad to be sick enough to not immediately be popping wood, “but why, exactly?”

“How else am I supposed to get you to the van?”

Lee blinks. “Your van?”

“No,” Nigel deadpans, “your mother’s.”

“But why--”

“You really think you can call me up begging for weed and vomiting up your fucking innards from chemotherapy and not have me cart you the fuck home?”

“I don’t need pity,” says Lee quietly. This is precisely why he never brings up that he’s sick.

“No, you don’t,” Nigel snaps, “but you don’t need to be suffering alone, either.”

“I’ll be fine.” Honestly, Lee isn’t sure why he’s fighting this beyond keeping his dignity intact.

“So I should just leave you with a thirty-sack in the fucking dark with no way of using it?” A pause. “Unless you actually want me to abandon you in your kitchen floor.”

Lee’s hard-pressed to lie and say that he does. Instead, he says, “Can you give me a hand?”

Chapter Text

They make it to the van with surprising ease and only two comments about Nigel’s strong muscles and physical prowess. Nigel, unfortunately, isn’t so easily baited, but Lee’s innuendo tank is running on empty, anyway, so it’s probably for the best.

The van is nice, as far as vans go. It looks like it got out of the eighties mostly unscathed, though Lee is certain it’s seen at least one overdose in its time. Long and tan with a red running stripe, it might even have Mr. T hiding in the back. Lee is okay with that.

“You’re on your own getting in,” says Nigel, opening the back and pulling out the ramp. “I can’t propel us both up at that angle.” So Lee stands up, then promptly clutches the edge of the van and dry heaves onto the pavement.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, wincing with every word. “I’ve been doing this for twelve years and never been this sick.”

“You missed my kicks,” says Nigel. “We’re good.”

“And you don’t even have to worry about stepping in it,” Lee adds, and then blanches. “Oh shit. That--”

But Nigel’s crooked grin is back. “New Nigel. And you’re not wrong.”

Lee finally manages to pull himself together and into the back of the van. “Still. I’ll try and keep the dark humor to my cancer and not your wheels.”

Nigel rolls in and bumps into Lee’s leg purposefully. “Need you to either move on up or prepare to be run over.”

“I’m tempted to play speed bump because moving sucks right now,” says Lee as Nigel reels the ramp back in and shuts the door. “You’re lucky I like my ass.”

“You’ve got a lot to be proud of back there,” Nigel says, chuckling. Lee pushes himself off of the one mid-row chair and collapses pathetically into the passenger seat, breathless. “Hristos, you need wheels more than I do.”

Lee smiles, one hand over his heart, slumped back against the window. “Here I am, a damsel in distress, and you’re picking on me! Some rescue this is.”

“Hey, this is what you fucking get when you wake me up dying, yeah?”

“And you’re a gem for even picking up the phone.”

Nigel nods. “Fucking right I am.” He docks his chair, and pulls over the safety belt. “Open up the dash.” Lee does--it’s stuck, so he has to pull on it a few times, and he’s out of breath again by the time it opens. “Now can you not smoke, at all? Because I don’t vape; makes me fucking sick and I don’t get anything out of it.”

“I can. Just--Nigel, what am I looking for?”

“Altoids tin.”

“I try to avoid it because my lungs are shit.” He rifles through various papers--license, insurance, registration, rolling--and has to avoid a clip for an actual gun, which confirms Lee’s suspicions about Nigel’s self-employment status.

“Right,” says Nigel. “Well there’s a joint and a lighter in the tin, to hold you over until we hit my place. I’ve got the bubbler there; we’ll get you fixed up.”

“Does the ‘C’ in THC stand for chemo?”

Nigel stares at him, eyes searching. “You got a smart fucking mouth on you.”

“One can only hope.” He licks his lips, joint between forefingers and thumb, trying to remember how to hold it without pinching it shut, and how to light it without setting it on fire.

Nigel sighs. “Hand it here, I’ll get you started--and don’t fucking apologize, you’re excused from etiquette.” Nigel takes it, and his form is perfect, hands large and expressive, fingers gentle enough to keep the joint formed. He flicks the lighter and holds the flame as far away as practical before inhaling. Nigel’s cheeks hollow as he pulls off the joint, and he glances over at Lee like he knows what he’s thinking, watching Nigel suck smoke. Sufficiently lit, he takes the joint with his other hand, then leans across toward Lee.

“Here, gorgeous,” Nigel says without exhaling, and next thing Lee knows, he’s been pulled over by the front of his winter coat and is kissing Nigel. Lee parts his lips for Nigel’s insistent tongue, and there’s surprisingly little finesse to the whole endeavor. When Nigel begins to exhale into his mouth, Lee realizes it wasn’t meant to be a kiss, at all, but the smoke is sweet enough to make up for the disappointment.

Lee closes his mouth, holding his hit as long as he can. “Breathe out,” says Nigel, “there’s more where that came from,” and Lee watches him take another drag. He exhales right into a coughing fit, but Nigel doesn’t baby him through it, thank God, just waits for Lee to clear his throat and wipe the tears out of his eyes, and then begins the cycle all over again.

Two shotguns later, Nigel’s passing him the joint. “Better?” he asks, and Lee thinks he nods. “Good,” and Nigel starts up the van.

Lee takes another hit off the joint reflexively, because it’s there in his fingers and the smoke is curling into his nostrils. He still feels like shit, but his stomach seems to be less irritable already. Getting stoned is always an odd process for him, primarily because Lee would much rather be loose-limbed from an abundance of wine then hazed and dazed. Unfortunately, wine doesn’t stimulate his appetite, but pot? Oh, that definitely does.

“I’m going to be hungry,” he says, angling his exhalation toward the back of the van.

“Which is half the reason I’m taking you back to my place.” Nigel keeps glancing over at Lee, not so much amused as he is...that other one. Lee squints to see if he find the word better that way. “You seem to be having a good time over there.”

“Not having a bad one.” Lee offers the joint back to Nigel, who just shakes his head.

“No, no, no, that’s all you. I only smoke and drive when I have to.” He looks Lee up and down and adds, “Or when I have to play nurse.”

“And when is that?” Lee asks. “Not mine, the other ‘when you have to.’”

“If I feel itchy,” explains Nigel. “Like a crawl of electricity under my skin. So I pull over, take a toke from the emergency box, wait for it to pass, and drive on home.”

“So...medicinal marijuana?”

“Yeah, sort of. Except I’m the doctor.”

“Oh.” Lee tilts his head to stare up and out of the window. The white lights of snowflakes on lamp posts flicker through his eyelashes. Each bulb is a tiny star, reflected, magnified. “Why do you have to smoke?”

Nigel snickers. “Fucking curious little thing, you are.” He pushes forward on the hand pedal as they approach a traffic light. It’s big and bright and red, like a reindeer nose. “I smoke so I don’t have a seizure,” Nigel says. “I get those sometimes, but I don’t want to report them and maybe lose my license, yeah? So I self-medicate.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“Life is fucking dangerous.”

“What about other cars?”

“Fuck those guys.”

Lee knows he shouldn’t laugh, that there’s an irate mothers’ group somewhere listening in right now thinking he should be ashamed of himself, but it’s just so funny. “Fuck us guys, too,” he says, and the corners of his mouth hurt from smiling.

Chapter Text

Nigel’s house is one of those mass-produced deals, like a post-WWII suburban piece updated for modern times--a cookie cutter construction. The only noticeable difference Lee’s spied so far is the concrete ramp up to the porch instead of stairs. He thinks about asking Nigel for a ride up as an excuse to get back on his lap, but then thinks better, and just follows along behind him on his own feet.

The front door has an extra handle directly across from the lock, like the kind Lee’s seen on pull-out drawers. It’s also incrementally wider than Lee expected, as is the entryway, and the halls, and the bathroom door. Probably the bedrooms, too, but he’s not one to snoop. Lee doesn’t think he would have even noticed the spatial differences if he wasn’t so hyperfocused on details right now.

“Flip on a light, will you?” Nigel asks, rolling off with Lee’s coat. “Switch is next to you.”

Lee automatically puts his hand to the wall on the universally-agreed spot for light switches, convened by a mysterious council with an unseen hand. But there’s no switch. He turns to look, which is when he discovers that it’s been lowered by six inches.

“Huh,” he says.

“What?” Nigel’s voice echoes in the kitchen.

“I never really thought about how inaccessible everything is.”

“Welcome to my world.” He settles in front of the kitchen entryway, a large popcorn tin in his lap. Lee suspects that it does not contain popcorn, and can’t decide if that’s disappointing or not. “You have a snack preference?”

“Granola bars.”

“Do I fucking look like someone who keeps around granola bars?”

Lee shrugs. “You did ask.”

Nigel rolls back into the kitchen. “What about Captain Crunch? That’s like granola, yeah?”

“Not really, no.”

“Oh, hey, what about oranges?” he suggests. “Got a fucking huge fruit basket from my supplier for Christmas. She’s a goddamn hippie, too.” Nigel pauses. “You can come into the house, Lee, you know that, right?”

Lee had honestly forgotten. “Little bit stoned.”

“You’re a lotta bit stoned,” says Nigel, “and about to be moreso.”

“I’m feeling better.” The kitchen is large, counters and floors spotless. There’s a large concave space beneath the sink and, just like the light switches, the counters have been slightly lowered. Nigel glides past him with a lap full of oranges and water bottles.

“Well then we’re gonna get you beyond better,” Nigel vows. “I don’t do anything by halves.”

Lee follows him into the living room. It’s laid out like the kitchen; instead of counters and appliances along the walls, however, it’s couches. And a loveseat, Lee notes. He wonders how obvious it would be for him to sit down there.

Pot apparently makes him two kinds of thirstier.

“Hey, can I ask some more stupid questions?”

“Does that count as question number one?” Nigel’s looking around his living room as though it’s the first time he’s seen it, the cream walls and plush blue furniture. “And yeah, only if I get to ask some in return.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, immediately asking, “You see a mat rolled up anywhere? I don’t fucking see it. Usually put shit back in its place.”

“Like a yoga mat?”

“No, like something Nadia would tumble around on. Of course it's a fucking yoga mat.”

Lee frowns. “You need a chair for your attitude.”

“I thought you were only gonna poke fun at your tumor-riddled organs,” replies Nigel. There’s no malice behind his words, only a strangely sinister amusement. Lee welcomes his odd humor; it compliments his own.

“That was before your mood handicapped itself.”

“I’ve never not been an asshole.”

Lee gets down on his hands and knees to look under one of the couches. The floor is unforgiving; he’d hate to be down here for long. “So that’s naturally prolapsed then,” he says, and his stomach is beginning to churn again.

“Isus, but I like you,” says Nigel, chuckling. “How’ve we never spent time together outside of deals?”

“I try not to make friends anymore.” Lee takes a peek under the loveseat--there seems to be something rolled up underneath. “What with the whole I could drop dead at any minute thing.” He lies down on the hardwood, fishing for what’s beneath the loveseat.

“Well that’s fucking stupid. Thought you were smarter than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, we could all drop dead at any minute,” he says. “So you’ve got a better idea of what your clock looks like. Any one of us could nod off and not nod back on.”

Lee stretches his arm as far as it will go and tries not to think about how much sense that makes. That he’s made himself lonely for no reason.

“Think I’ve got it,” says Lee. Sure enough, there’s thin foam grasped in his hand.

“Does that mean I have to stop silently ogling you?”

He looks up at Nigel, sitting in the chair with his arms crossed and his bangs in his eyes and his lips parted just enough to show his teeth and oh God, Lee is so fucked. Hopefully. “By all means,” he says, “don’t stop on my account.” Lee pulls the yoga mat out from under the couch, sits up, and his stomach is apparently very opposed to being ogled, after all.

“Garbage can?” asks Nigel, and it’s not fair that Lee’s voice kink makes those two words sound lewd.

“No,” Lee says, “I’ll just…” He sits down in the floor, back against the couch, clutching the rolled up mat for moral support. “I’ll just stay down here for a minute.”

“Lay that thing out and I’ll join you.”

Lee puts it right next to him, then flips it over when it tries to curl up on the ends. Nigel clears his throat, and Lee gets handed everything that was in his lap. He watches Nigel lock his chair, then scoot to the edge; with one fist on the ground and the other on the chair, he transfers to the mat with upper body strength only. Lee wonders if he’s allowed to find that hot, given the circumstances, then realizes it shouldn’t matter to him.

“You work out?” he quips, and Nigel grins.

“Yeah,” says Nigel, “I do squats,” and Lee barks so loud of a laugh that he almost feels embarrassed. He hands the popcorn tin back to Nigel, and watches him work. “You have a preference?” Nigel asks.

“Regarding?”

“Strain, taste, hair colors.”

Lee shrugs, oranges and water bottles alternating in a neat little row beside him. “Dealer’s choice.”

Nigel digs around in the tin for a minute. “Purple Candy, it is,” he says, pulling out a small poly bag with whole buds inside. “You okay with the taste of artificial grape?”

“Sure. Why not?”

The dealer side of Nigel seems to be natural, something he can’t turn off, because he immediately jumps into his sales routine. Nigel opens the bag, and Lee can already smell it, sugar-sweet. “Here,” he says, handing one of the buds to Lee, “check that out.”

It’s deceptively dense, a tangible weight in Lee’s hand. He pinches it between his fingers, and it’s sticky--not like gum, but it kind of smells like grape bubble gum to Lee, anyway. The bud is bright green, frosted like the grass outside--though certainly not with ice and snow--with what look like little red threads running through it. Toward the tip, the leaves turn violet; it seems less like weed and more like a miniature floral arrangement.

“Gorgeous, yeah?”

Lee looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You called me that earlier.”

“You can both be beautiful,” Nigel tells him, and Lee feels his neck flush. “How you want to do this?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“Alright, fine,” says Nigel, “since you want to be fucking literal. How should we partake of this high-quality marijuana?”

Lee licks his lips. “I think you should roll it up--” Lee gives him as sly of a smile as he can manage feeling as poorly as he does. “--and shotgun me again.”

“Hmm.” Nigel pretends to consider it. “The crystals on this would be wasted on a joint, so I’ll pack up a bowl,” and he looks Lee up and down like he wants to eat him alive; Lee is beyond amenable. “And then I’ll give it to you.”

Lee swallows hard. This is absolutely not how he expected this night to go. Still, he’s somewhat hesitant because--and he hates himself for it--Lee honestly has no idea how sex with Nigel would work, and it makes him...well, nervous as fuck. He knows he needs to decide now, while he’s coming down and relatively sober. Meditating is more his style, but Lee’s honestly praying to the universe at large that Nigel can’t read his inner turmoil on his face.

One of those strong, sure hands finds its way to the side of Lee’s face; Nigel’s thumb traces the downward arc of his cheek, past Lee’s lips and softly toward his chin. “It’s okay,” he says. “I get it. I’m not insulted.”

“New Nigel,” says Lee, and he feels weak, like all the fight’s drained out of him at once. Before he even realizes it’s happening, Lee’s leaned into Nigel’s hand.

“Yeah,” Nigel murmurs. “Fucking hell, you look like someone hit you with a truck. And I mean that in the best possible way.”

“It’s almost as if all of my cells are engaged in chemical warfare,” says Lee. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Me, either.” Nigel’s eyes are warm. Lee could grow dangerously attached to looking into them.

His high is almost completely gone, though; he’s started to notice how awful his mouth feels and tastes. “How on earth did you shotgun me earlier?”

“With my mouth.” Nigel huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no, you tasted like fucking shit, but I’ve had worse.”

“My condolences to your taste buds.”

Nigel tilts his head to one side, propping his other arm on the couch with his elbow, pressing into his palm. “They’re half gone most of the time,” he tells Lee. “Brain damage’ll fuck up a lot of everything.”

Lee knows he’ll need to ask about that. For now, though, “I’m gonna go rinse my mouth out in the bathroom sink.”

“Do you one better: there’s a new toothbrush in the right-hand drawer. Hadn’t gotten around to opening it yet.” He winks at Lee. “Or maybe it was just waiting for you.”

“Who am I to question fate?” Lee calls out over his shoulder, and that’s when he knows his decision is already made.

Chapter Text

Lee winds up brushing his teeth twice. The first time, he was overeager, rushed through it to get back out to Nigel that much faster. While he was rinsing out the toothbrush serendipity left for him, however, it occurred to Lee that it would be better to insure that all of the stomach acid and general grossness was gone. Nigel might have impaired taste buds, but Lee has standards.

He takes a painfully long time on the second go, trying to be gentle now, as bleeding gums aren’t sexy, either. At least, not to Lee; he can’t speak for Nigel.

Jesus. He barely knows Nigel. That usually wouldn’t bother Lee--he’s had enough sex that, were he straight, would warrant being worried about random progeny--but Nigel feels different, somehow, and not simply because Lee’s been harboring whatever the lustful equivalent of a crush is for him. And that should definitely bother him.

Lee had told his chemo friend Cathy, once upon a time, that it was futile to rail against the will of the universe. By some stroke of unfathomable luck, Nigel not only came through for Lee on smoke, but took him home to take care of him. It’s like a stoner’s pornographic take on the parable of the Good Samaritan.

There is, Lee believes, a significant difference between fighting for control of one’s own body and fighting for control of the path one is given to walk that same body along. So, in spite of any socially-entrenched misgivings, Lee is going to take fate up on that fucking.

Obviously, the second time Lee brushes his teeth takes much longer, but he makes it out of the bathroom eventually.

Nigel has three different pieces out in front of him as Lee walks back into the living room. “Hey, stranger,” he says. “Started to wonder if you fell in.”

“Had to powder my nose.”

“And now that you’re back, I’m going to excuse myself to my bedroom for a jacket, because I am fucking cold.”

Reflexively, Lee asks, “You want me to grab one for you?” He feels his eyes widen in immediate realization of what he’s said, what he’s accidentally implied, but Lee doesn’t break eye contact or even apologize. “I’m already up,” he explains. “Figured I’d offer,” which is the absolute truth.

Nigel narrows his eyes, and Lee knows this is some unspoken test, one he’s not certain he’ll pass. But then Nigel nods. “Should be a clean hoodie on top of the laundry basket. Room’s just across the hall there.”

Lee goes to get it, relieved, and then amused as soon as he looks in the basket. “Didn’t take you for a pastel pink man,” he calls out.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that an offer?” Lee nearly throws it at him, then remembers the terrific amount of weed and paraphernalia in Nigel’s immediate vicinity, and walks it over to him, instead. Nigel snatches it out of his hand, smirk playing on his lips, but he doesn’t take the bait. “So which of these are you going to use?” asks Lee as he takes back his spot on the floor. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and scoots closer to Nigel.

“All three.”

Lee blinks. “You’ve gotta be joking.” His upset stomach hopes not.

“Serious as a grave,” says Nigel. “See, I had this idea for a game we could play.”

“What kind?” It isn’t Lee’s weed, so he won’t ask to just smoke it already, but he is starting to get entirely too nauseous again.

“You said you had more stupid questions, so I’m going to give you a chance to ask them,” Nigel explains. His whiskey eyes are more devious than warm now.

“And what’s the catch?”

“We take a hit for every question. And when that piece runs out, I get to ask questions until we light up the next.”

Lee grins. “So every time I ask something, I get the reward of your mouth on mine?” He scoffs. “How terrible.”

“You accept the terms?” It sounds so innocent. Lee wonders how Nigel manages that.

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” Nigel says. “I’ll give you a freebie while I pack up the mini bong.”

“That’s where you’re starting?” asks Lee, incredulous.

Nigel glances over at Lee. “Is that your question?”

Rolling his eyes, Lee says, “No.”

“Then what do you want to know?”

Lee hesitates before asking, “How did it happen?”

“Big guns first,” muses Nigel. “Here, hand me one of the little screens--”

“These?”

“Yeah, those,” and Nigel picks up a pair of scissors and begins trimming the wire mesh to size. “I made a stupid decision.”

“Well, that was certainly informative.”

“Isus fuck, Lee,” says Nigel. “Smart guy like you doesn’t know how to ask a follow-up?”

“You never said it was in the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.”

You could fuck me, instead, thinks Lee, but it doesn’t especially feel like a time for banter. “Fine. What made you decide so stupidly?”

The screen fits snugly into the bottom of the bowl. “My ex-wife left me for a real cunt,” Nigel tells him, carefully pinching up some of the broken bud. “But Gabi looked at him in a way she never looked at me, because I was a possessive, violent son of a bitch.”

“Are you now?”

Nigel smiles at him sideways. The crystals from the weed stick to the pads of his fingertips. “Anyway,” he continues, “one thing led to another and I might have tried to kill the cunt--”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

It probably should, but Lee’s been living at the edge of life for so long, the discussion feels more adventurous than dangerous. “I figured I ought to know the fates of people you sleep with,” he says. “Just in case.”

“The real one, not the actual one. Either way, the cops showed up, and it sort of dawned on me that maybe making her kill her lover wasn’t the best way to win back her heart, so I decided to make the cops shoot me. Suicide by cop, like a fucking coward. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a fucking hospital, she’s locked up for attempted murder, the cunt is who the fuck knows where, and my legs are goddamn useless.”

“Traumatic brain injury.”

Nigel closes his eyes briefly. “Yeah.” He shakes his head, then blinks them back open rapidly, tamping down what’s in the bowl. “You know, doctors don’t know all that much about the insides of our skulls--not as much as they’d like you to think, at least. I got the gun possession dropped, and shipped over here to Mayo. They wanted to run diagnostic tests on my brain.”

“Why?”

“Because I shouldn’t be awake,” says Nigel. “I have literal goddamn holes in my brain. It crossed hemispheres, yeah? Just electrical fires fucking everywhere in my gray matter. I get seizures at random. I hibernate like a bear,” and Lee tries not to react to the word ‘bear’ the way Pavlov wants him to, “My legs think I have a fucked up spinal cord. Neuros can’t figure out why, either.”

“Shit,” Lee replies, unsure of what else to say.

But Nigel only chuckles and adds, “I’m an anomaly, darling. Rare. One-of-a-kind.”

It puts Lee strangely at ease. Then again, Nigel’s presence alone seems to put him at ease; that’s unique, too. “Can’t argue with that.”

Nigel slips the slide into the bong. “Good to go,” and Nigel goes right on ahead and lights it up. He’s careful with the lighter, makes sure only to catch the edge of the weed, doesn’t hold it there any longer than he has to. All in all, a far more practiced hand than Lee has ever been.

Lee watches the chamber fill up with smoke, entranced, enthralled and in basic disbelief that Nigel’s cloud of a hit is going to end up in his lungs, too. Nigel pulls out the slide, and pulls in the smoke, clears the whole chamber. He holds it in for a few seconds, sets down the mini bong, then motions back and forth between Lee and himself.

It’s better this time, the way the smoke passes between them. Lee’s body is twisted to the side toward Nigel, and his hand is back on Lee’s cheek. Now that Lee is prepared for it, their mouths form more of a seal and less of a kiss. It makes Lee’s gut ache in the best way, as opposed to the worst way, which is how it’s felt for the majority of the day.

The smoke, itself, is different, as well, tempered by the water. Where the joint had burned hot and acrid, still made Lee’s lungs and throat ache even when filtered through Nigel, this is cool and smooth, like breathing in humid morning air.

Even so, Lee can’t take the whole hit--he’s not used to doing more than a small puff at a time from his vape. He pulls away from Nigel’s mouth, face tilted up toward the ceiling, trying desperately to hold it in, to not waste it. Lee isn’t sure why it matters so much.

Nigel’s hand strokes down the side of his neck, and Lee finally exhales. He’s hard-pressed to move, though. When he finally does look at Nigel again, Nigel’s already taken the bong up and is lighting it.

They share once more, and Lee struggles with it less this time though he still can’t hold it all. He keeps his eyes trained on Nigel, watches mesmerized as Nigel exhales through his mouth as he inhales through his nose. Smoke in; smoke out; smoke in.

“I will never be that coordinated,” Lee says after he’s let out his hit.

“French inhale’s not hard once you figure it out.” Nigel looks over at him, mouthpiece near his lips. “Or are you not good with your mouth, after all?”

“I’ve never heard any complaints.”

“What a coincidence,” says Nigel. “Neither have I.”

Lee furrows his brow as Nigel flicks the lighter again. “That’s two questions. You owe me two answ--Nigel, are you trying to get me baked before I remember to ask you anything?”

In lieu of answering, Nigel pulls from the mini bong.

“That’s not fair!” says Lee, laughing breathily.

Nigel sucks in a quick breath through his teeth after his hit to keep in the smoke. “Oh darling,” he says, words stilted as he holds his breath, “I never play fair.”

Chapter Text

Nigel hasn’t even cashed the bowl and Lee is flying. He’s slumped back against the edge of the couch, limbs loose, stomach calm instead of swimming. Lee knows his head is attached to his neck, but that doesn’t mean he has control over either. He still has dominion over his mouth, though, and it’s currently stretched wide.

There’s the tell-tale clink of triple-blown glass against the floor, letting Lee know Nigel’s set down the mini bong. “I’d ask how you are,” says Nigel, lips close enough to Lee’s ear to feel the warmth of his breath, “but that would be a waste of my question.”

“You know--you know the steam that comes out of a whistling teakettle? When it first goes off?” Lee turns his eyes toward Nigel. “Jesus Christ, Nigel,” and he turns his whole head now, settles his cheek into the couch cushion. “You’re perfect,” he says, eyes to eyes, nose to nose. “Fucking perfect.”

“Not precisely.” It doesn’t come through in his voice, but there’s a hesitancy in his eyes.

“Well, I think you are.”

“You’re the only one.”

“Then I’m the only one who matters,” Lee says matter-of-factly. He pokes the tip of Nigel’s nose with his own. “Come on, Debbie Downer, ask me something.”

Nigel tilts his head away from the couch, like he’s sizing Lee up. “How long do you have?”

“Wooooo.” Lee feels himself float back down and settle into his gut. His body still feels soft all over, but the question’s cleared his mind. “You don’t pull punches, either.”

“Do you know?”

Lee licks his lips, then laughs, once. “I stopped asking when they gave me two months. That was seventeen months ago.”

“Hmm.” Nigel runs a hand over the stubble of Lee’s hair. “You keep it short because you lose it with the chemo?”

“It’s easier to take care of on bad days,” he says, shrugging. “And...aerodynamics.”

Nigel takes his hand and makes a fwoosh motion over Lee’s head. The tiny breeze tickles his scalp, and Lee giggles. “For running?”

“Yeah. Running’s everything to me. Well, running and wine.” Lee’s eyes fall to Nigel’s chest. “Damn.”

“What?”

He caresses the pink hoodie with his fingertips, just below the neckline. “You’re all covered up.”

“You like your men hairy, gorgeous?”

Lee grins, now winding one of the strings around his finger. “No,” he says, “I like them fuzzy.” He giggles and adds, “Fuzzy wuzzy.”

“You’re fucking adorable.”

“Aren’t I just?”

Nigel grabs Lee’s hand, string and all. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“You make a lot of deals.” Lee stretches his legs and looks down the long mile to his feet, flexing his toes. “God, I love shoes, but they’re terrible. Dark, smelly little callus caves.”

“I’m good at deals.” He snaps his teeth at Lee’s ear, and Lee can’t help the quick breath he takes. Fuck but he wants those teeth on his neck, his shoulder, his chest.

“Like the devil?” Lee feels his voice shake all the way up and out of his throat.

Nigel whispers into his ear, “Who says I’m not?” and Lee starts giggling again. “You hungry?”

“I thought we were making a deal.”

“Shit,” says Nigel, snapping his fingers. “I was trying to trick you, Persephone.”

Lee remembers that he doesn’t have to watch his feet, deciding to watch Nigel instead. “Feminization? That your thing?”

“Kind of a default,” and Lee imagines this is as chastised as Nigel ever looks. “Bucharest? Not a great fucking place to be attracted to men.”

“So you suppressed it?”

He nods. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Nothing like a nice pussy. They get themselves wet, yeah? And you play it just right, make a girl sing for hours. A man will eventually run out of kids to spill.”

“Oh my God,” says Lee, snickering, “please tell me you don’t say that in the bedroom. That last bit,” he clarifies, “I’m all for some night music.”

“Haven’t exactly had a lot of boys to try my slang out on. But, since you object, I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

“We can share my boundless experience,” Lee tells him. “I’ve spilt kids all over various people, places, and things.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow. “Actual kids?”

“Uh-uh. That would require getting within five-hundred yards of an uncovered vagina.”

“Not a fan of the ladies?”

“Only when they keep their clothes on.”

Nigel shakes his head. “But yeah,” he continues, “there was a lot of...pejorative? No, fuck. Perfarm--performance! A lot of performance on my part. Survival, you know, and then business. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t regret it. Was what it was. Still, of all the things I’m not proud of doing,” he says, “being a coward’s near the top of the fucking list.”

Lee smiles. “Above or below killing people?”

“Depends on the person in question,” Nigel replies, and winks.

It isn’t even that Lee is high enough not to care; he legitimately just doesn’t give a shit about Nigel’s past. For all he knows, Nigel still plays the heavy. And Lee’s never rode on Nigel’s wheels--well, except for that brief stint earlier, but that’s reality and not metaphorical. Regardless of existential condition, Lee can’t say with certainty whether he might have made the same choices as Nigel, lived a similar life.

When overt acts of machismo and outstanding heterosexuality make the man, and said man wants to make a name for himself, what else could Nigel have possibly been but a thug?

“That bother you?” asks Nigel. If Lee didn’t already know better, he might think that Nigel was concerned.

“Your karma,” Lee says. “Or maybe you are the agent of theirs. Either way, not mine. My predestined suffering has already come to pass.”

Nigel scoffs. “Cancer is fate? Hristos, no wonder I don’t fucking believe in it.” Lee finally notices that Nigel’s still holding his hand, now between both of his own, and he wiggles his fingers. Nigel squeezes tighter. “Am I supposed to let go?”

“I’d much prefer if you didn’t. Although your initial question was something of a buzzkill, in which case I’ll be forced to return your hands to you.”

“I’ll give you that.” Nigel’s giving Lee that look again, the one that veers too closely to his heart. “So the deal I was gonna make you,” and Lee hmms in reply. “I will take off this hoodie, and take off my shirt, and you can dance your little fingers through as much chest hair as you want, but you have to answer my next three questions.”

“Nigel,” says Lee in complete seriousness, “I will figure out how to build you a jet pack in exchange for free reign on your chest.”

“You know, I think you actually would, too.”

“Never know with me. That’s why I’m so much fun.” He thinks for a few seconds that Nigel’s going to kiss him, which would be a wonderful way of avoiding his questions three-- When did this turn into a fairy tale, anyway? Lee wonders--but no such luck. Nigel apparently looks hungry when it comes to backstory, as well. Or maybe he’s just starving for Lee in general, which is fine by him.

“You on regular chemo?”

“No,” Lee answers. He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’m here at Mayo for this clinical trial they’re running. Most everyone I know--well, knew, I guess--either died or got miraculously better. Went back to your everyday, run-of-the-mill chemical cocktail.”

“And you?”

Lee sighs. “No better, no worse. I’m apparently a great control group, which is frustrating, since there is no control group. So I’m just in a weird…” He waves his hand around uselessly. “I don’t know, melanoma limbo.”

And Nigel doesn’t react. Lee isn’t sure what to do with that. Then again, he’s not certain what kind of reaction he was expecting, either.

“I go twice a week,” he continues. “Almost a year now. I get to decide next month if I want to continue with the trial or not.”

“Do you want to?”

Lee can’t look at Nigel anymore, so he stares at the pink hoodie, tries to think about how tight it seems to be, about how it clings in all of the places that drive Lee up the wall. “I don’t know,” he says after the silence becomes too much. “I’m...I’m very tired, Nigel.” He braces himself for the inevitable “but you have so much to live for” speech, or maybe a guilt trip about how so many other people have it worse than he does, and all of the other trite bullshit healthy people are liable to spew.

But all Nigel says is, “I imagine you are,” and then, “I know I am.” Lee’s lip starts to wobble--he can feel it tremble, and that hasn’t happened since Cathy made such a big deal about how awful it would be to not be surrounded by friends and family when she died. Nigel takes back one of his hands, runs his thumb across Lee’s lip, mumbles something in that wonderful tongue of his with that wonderful tongue of his.

“What do you get out of this?” Lee asks in a rush. “I know I’m not here out of pity, but I can’t--” He takes a steadying breath, then meets Nigel’s gaze again. “Why?”

Nigel’s hand moves, and he strokes down the side of Lee’s neck again, down his shoulder, down his arm, and now Nigel has both of Lee’s too-thin hands in his. “Because you’re a good person,” he says. “Because I know what it’s like to think you’re gonna die alone, because I’ve done that twice now. And nobody fucking deserves that, Lee, and least of all you.”

Lee can’t even begin to process any of that right now. He just leans forward until his forehead bumps against Nigel’s, and they’re looking at each other from too close an angle. Nigel’s eyes merge together, and that feels better.

“So you bring me home and play nurse?”

Nigel shakes his head. “I’ve never been one for fucking roleplay.”

And Lee laughs, and his cheeks are wet, and he needs to know, “Nigel, how long have you wanted to fuck me?”

“How long have we known each other?” He says more quietly, “And I’d like to do more than that, if you’d let me. Third question.”

“Why tonight?” Lee cuts Nigel off before he can answer. “I know why you brought me over, because I pulled my get-out-of-jail-free card, but you could have asked me to hop in your van and onto your dick long before now.”

“Didn’t know you were on the clock,” says Nigel. “Right out of time to keep it to my fucking self, yeah?”

Lee laces their fingers together and pulls Nigel’s hand up so that everything’s between them--words, appendages, faces, nearly all of the important parts. “Are you gonna try and convince me to hang around? Not to give up and all of that Hallmark card nonsense?”

“I respect you too fucking much to try. Although,” and Nigel smirks, “I will ask you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t die before I get to fuck that perfect little ass of yours.”

Lee cracks up completely, falls forward with his shoulders shaking and the most ridiculous noises coming out of his mouth. He tucks his face into the curve of Nigel’s neck and tries to breathe around what might as well be braying. “I’ll see what I can do,” he manages.

“Very kind of you.” Nigel pecks the side of Lee’s head, and it might be one of the nicest kisses Lee’s ever had. “Relight and then repack?”

“Yes, please.”

Chapter Text

Nigel takes the next hit easier, makes it smaller; he breathes it into Lee’s waiting mouth, and Lee can handle them now, is able to receive the whole hit. The smoke is slow and thick. It tastes a little ashy, the end of the bowl in sight, but the hit’s enough to reignite Lee’s earlier high.

“Oh,” he says as he exhales.

“And here I was worried I had ruined it for you.”

“I guess my body just needed a reminder.” Lee melts back into the couch. “You’re going to turn me into a stoner.”

Nigel chuckles lowly. “I’m a terrible influence, darling.” He pulls out the slide and pokes around in the bowl with his pinky finger. “Rest in peace, this bowl.”

“And long live the next.” Nigel’s tapping the ash out into his hand, into his strong, beautiful hands, hands Lee wants to feel underneath his sweater and on his skin. “Can already feel them on me,” he hears himself say.

“What can you feel?” asks Nigel before putting the end of the slide to his lips and blowing out the burnt weed clinging to the glass.

“I was told,” begins Lee, “that you were going to bare yourself to me.” Nigel practically snorts, but Lee’s too comfortable to giggle, so he doesn’t. “I bared my soul, Nigel,” and Lee prods him in the chest, then pinches up the material under his fingertip and tugs. “My soul.”

“You know that I only put up with your impatience because you’re a pretty little thing, don’t you?”

Lee lays his head on Nigel’s shoulder, smiling. “If you’re cold, I could go get us a blanket.”

“Us, huh?”

“Only fair,” says Lee with a nonchalant shrug. “Can’t let you get half-naked by yourself.”

Nigel nuzzles the top of Lee’s head as much as he’s able. “I’m already letting you get away with murder.”

Lee hums. “And here I thought that was you.”

“No one lets me get away with murder,” Nigel says. “You have to find a person dead to declare him murdered.”

“I never thought I’d be an accessory to anything, but here I am.”

“You dislike where you are?” Lee flicks his gaze upward--he was still mesmerized by Nigel’s hands, tracking the veins and the movements of each tendon--

“You’re like a dragonfly in amber,” he tells Nigel, then wrinkles his nose and squints. “Or maybe like the mosquito rock from the walking stick in Jurassic Park.” Lee nods sagely. “Yeah. Old blood and resin. That’s your eyes, I think.”

Nigel stares at him, and Lee’s fine with that. He’s currently doing an artistic study of Nigel’s eyes. Of particular interest is the crimson that fans out from around his pupils, the way it flows into an iris of raw honey pooled around it.

“Fuck,” Nigel says. “You make me almost believe I’m still attractive.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lee has never been so incredulous in his life; his eyelashes are certain of it. “Nigel--” And Lee realizes he doesn’t have the words, that he’s blown them all out with the smoke, so he traces along Nigel’s cheekbones with the tip of his middle finger. “I don’t dislike where I am, at all.”

Nigel makes a quiet sound, like he’s trying to hide that he’s choking. The slide clatters to the floor between them. There’s a big, gentle hand on Lee's jaw, and the fingers of another under his chin, and then Nigel’s lips are on his--closed, no smoke, no pretense or point beyond shared pressure. Just two mouths, grounding each other, keeping the other from breaking with gravity and falling straight up.

Or else, curved up. Lee’s never done a damn thing straight in his life.

He’s high enough to be thinking too much, and he can’t concentrate on kissing properly. It doesn’t matter though, because Nigel back off too soon, but Lee is still breathless.

“I think I’m gonna die when you actually, one-hundred-percent kiss me,” says Lee.

“Don’t worry too much,” Nigel replies. “You’re already dying, remember?”

“So I am,” and Lee searches Nigel’s face, looking for resentment or worry or sadness or literally any emotion besides the possessive adoration that threatens to drag him under. “It really doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, gorgeous.”

“No, I mean, like, beyond anyone else dying,” Lee attempts to clarify, but it isn’t coming out right. “I mean, like...everyone’s dying, but I’m definitely dying, and my sped-up dying doesn’t bother you because you realize life is a downhill slide, too.”

“What are you,” asks Nigel, “a fucking Nihilist?”

“Just someone who thinks life is too short to spend bullshitting yourself.”

Nigel’s grin is sweet as Purple Candy. “Can’t disagree with that.” He pats the side of Lee’s face and says, “I’m gonna kiss you properly one of these minutes.”

“Make it soon,” Lee tells him, and Nigel looks goofy with so many teeth showing, but Lee loves it. He’s glad Nigel isn’t hiding it anymore. “You’re entirely too stoic to be high.”

“I’m one of the lucky few who can pull off sober when necessary.”

“Why is it necessary now?”

Nigel glances back over, fingers busy as he breaks up more weed over a rolling paper on top of the green plastic case of a first-person shooter. “It isn’t now.”.

“Then why was it then?”

“Because that was then,” Nigel says, and Lee splutters like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever been told. “I forgot to tell you this shit creeps up on you.”

“What about the blanket?”

“Are we building a fort?”

Lee’s eyes expand--comically, he thinks, but he can’t see himself. “No,” he says, “but we should. I’ve never been fucked in a--” Lee stops, letting his side sink back into the couch. “I still can’t see your chest hair.”

Nigel casts his gaze heavenward. “Fucking fuck, Lee. At least let me pack. Which piece?”

Biting his lip, Lee carefully scrambles over Nigel’s legs, not-so-deftly avoiding the wheelchair, and looms over the two pipes. “What about this one?” he suggests, pointing at a long curved piece. “The one that looks like Sherlock Holmes traded in his cocaine for something better.”

“You’ve obviously never had cocaine.”

“Because I respect the inner lining of my nostrils, thank you.”

“Sure, fine, just pass it here.” Lee does, and now he’s tracking the movement of Nigel’s hands again. “Fuck, got to cut another screen--wait, no, I can use the other--pick the screen out of this, would you?” Nigel waves the slide bowl at Lee. “Just use your nail.”

“What about the blanket?”

“God-fucking...Okay, here’s what’s going to happen.” Nigel sets down the case carefully as soon as Lee takes the slide from him. “You are going to go pull the blanket off my bed,” he says, using his finger to indicate Lee. “I am going to pack this fucking bowl before you completely distract me, you goddamn fairy.”

Lee snickers. “I can’t even deny that right now.”

“Then you are going to come back here--”

“With the blanket. The blanket is important.”

“--with the blanket, right. Then I am going to light up the bowl which I will have packed and we are going to get fucking shit-ripped and I am going to kiss you within an inch of your life and you--” He points back to Lee. “--You are going to let me.”

“What about the shirts?” asks Lee.

“What about the shirts?”

“They have to come off, is all.”

Nigel sighs, and Lee can’t decide if he’s amused or exasperated. “Just go get the fucking blanket.”

Lee gets up, but not before he has the insane idea to kiss Nigel’s exposed ankle, then just as suddenly realizes how horribly pointless it would be, then does it all the same, lips pressed to knobby bone. He watches Nigel’s face as he does; Nigel seems amused, so Lee counts it as a win, though he’s not sure what game’s being played.

The blanket is big and warm and soft, just like Nigel must be. Lee can’t wait to find out. For now, he carefully untucks the blanket, trying to leave the sheets in place. He figures the bed must be made for a reason. Most are, except for the ones that aren’t.

Nigel’s already got the pipe packed and waiting. “First you get lost in the bathroom, now on the way to my bedroom.” He raises his eyebrows, dipping his head forward as he levels with Lee. “My house isn’t that fucking big.”

“How long was I gone?”

“Ten minutes.”

“I promise I wasn’t snooping,” says Lee. “Your bed was made, though.”

Nigel shakes his head and laughs. “Just get over here, will you?”

“Can we sit on the couch?” Lee asks as he plops down on it. “My ass was falling asleep.”

“Sure,” Nigel says. “Go for it. I’m going to hang out in the floor, though, which will make it hard to shotgun you.”

Lee puts down the blanket before sliding his way down off the couch and back next to Nigel. “You drive a hard bargain.” Nigel smiles with his eyes as he lights the edge of the weed and takes the first hit. Smoke plumes up the stem of the pipe, a car slowly snaking around a curve on a back country road. Nigel thumbs the carb, sucking up all the smoke; the stem’s glass shifts color from a clear striped green to light blue. When Nigel’s finished, he presses the pad of his thumb over the bowl to smother the cherry.

Instead of waiting on Nigel to turn his head to shotgun him, Lee gets up on his knees, braces his hands on Nigel’s shoulders, and moves to straddle his lap. Nigel’s surprised enough to let out a tiny puff of smoke, like a shocked dragon. Lee smirks, tilts his head, and brings their lips together.

It’s still not a kiss--and Lee’s starting to wonder how many times they can meet in the middle without truly meeting--but this is easily the most intimate mingling of breath they’ve shared yet. Lee stretches his arms out behind Nigel’s head, planting his palms on the couch. He could give a lap dance like this, and the thought makes his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. Nigel’s free hand runs down the side of Lee’s thigh, so Lee seats himself more fully in his lap.

Lee closes his eyes, turns his head, and exhales through his nose; now he feels like a dragon, too. There’s a hand still stroking his thigh, up and down, back and forth, darting over, teasing up the inner seam of his jeans.

“I’m sorry,” says Lee, “is the goddamn fairy distracting you?”

“He’s about to fucking kill me,” Nigel murmurs. Lee looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, watches the lady on Nigel’s neck undulate as he swallows.

“Are we going to finish the pipe, or should I just go ahead and ride you right here in the floor?” and Nigel says something likely profound and probably profane and definitely not in English. Lee groans and grinds down into Nigel’s lap, his growing hardness pushing up against… “Or am I the only one getting anything out of this?”

“Lee, my brain is so turned on right now that it’s liable to start running out my fucking ears.” Nigel’s hand clutches the back of Lee’s head, and touching foreheads quickly seems to be becoming their thing. “You know how married couples have to fucking pencil in appointments to fuck each other?”

“Yeah?”

“So do I.” Nigel’s breathing hard, and he pulls down Lee’s head just as hard, and his lips are pressed against his temple as hard as that. “You give me sobriety and an hour’s notice,” he says, mouth moving against Lee’s skin, “and I can fuck you longer and harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life, baby darling, I promise. But I can’t do it now, no matter how much I want to.”

It doesn’t make Lee’s cock any less interested, but he nods shakily. “Little blue pill?”

“Me and Bob Dole, gorgeous.”

Lee makes a face. “I’m not that easy,” and Nigel’s smiling again, teeth making the slightest impression against Lee’s skull. “New plan,” he says. “You get me so stoned I can’t move, and then--”

“Shirts off and blanket on, Lee. I know.”

“--And we’ll make out until I can, and then we’ll go from there.”

“I can live with that,” so Lee grabs for the lighter, and they pick up right where they left off.

Chapter Text

The Sherlock smokes faster than the bong had--at least, Lee thinks it burns more quickly. Then again, this could be either the third or fifth hit Nigel’s taken, or perhaps the second, or maybe the last. All Lee knows is that when Nigel’s hand fits itself to the back of his skull, he lets himself be pulled to Nigel’s mouth like a hungry baby bird. Sometimes they pass the smoke back and forth until the smoke dissipates; Lee doesn’t know if that should count as a hit or not, but it’s a wonderful excuse to make their lips move together.

It’s easy to be distracted from counting tokes, though, easy to watch Nigel dissolve from softly serious to seriously soft. Sometimes, when they meet over pancakes to deal, Nigel doesn’t seem like a real person, more haunted than he is human. He always has character--a grown man can’t wear a shirt with cartoon dachshunds and not have character--but Nigel is reserved, steady, some talk, but mostly business.

Lee was fine with that; the less he got to know Nigel, the better for both of them. He’d already tried making friends beyond being friendly with the oncology nurses and even friendlier with wildlife at the bars. The nurses liked him, and he got laid enough, but after Cathy, Lee’d decided one almost-friend had been enough.

But now, here’s Nigel, silver and twinkling and giggling, and Lee doesn’t think he can give up what they don’t even have yet. It’s a dangerous thought, which fits, since Nigel seems to be a dangerous man.

“What do you even do, Nigel?” and Lee starts laughing halfway through the question, because Nigel is smiling so much that his eyes are half-shut. “I mean besides propelling yourself from door to door like the marijuana Boy Scout that you are.”

Nigel hums an unfamiliar tune, and Lee wonders if it’s something from home, wherever that is. “I like video games,” he eventually answers. “Americans are fucking obsessed with committing crimes and getting away with them. Great games.” Nigel sighs and picks the lighter back up. “Makes me nostalgic.”

“The good old days of Grand Theft Auto?”

“Never killed anyone who didn’t fucking deserve it.” Nigel glances into the bowl. “We finished this.”

“I’d been wondering if we had.”

“Can you still move?” asks Nigel, so Lee wiggles on his lap. “Damn. I’m not trying hard enough.” Lee snickers, and Nigel does his best to glare at him.

“I think I’m hungry, anyway.” Lee reaches over for an orange--why had he thought putting them so far away was a good plan? “Do I need to get off?”

“I don’t know, gorgeous. Do you?”

“I meant to eat the orange.”

“Do you always need to rub one out before you eat an orange?”

Lee trips and falls into another pit of giggles. “That’s what I need,” he says, turning the orange over and over in his hands.

“What’s that?” Nigel’s emptied his own hands in favor of skimming his palms up and down Lee’s sweater-clad sides.

“Enough men to keep me well-fucked and well-fed so that I don’t have to do my own pre-meal masturbating.”

Nigel laughs again, but it’s the quiet one that Lee’s decided he likes best. It starts in the nasal cavity and spreads out through Nigel’s face, hushed tones through his teeth, two sets of crow’s feet and double the dimples. Easy and comfortable and warm.

“Sounds like the dream to me,” says Lee, “but I don’t know about you.” He watches himself roll the orange against the floor, leaning on it slightly. “You’re the least bottomy man I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t share well with others, either.”

“I feel like that’s an understatement.” Lee plucks his orange from the floor, his eyes meeting Nigel’s.

“Don’t want to scare you off too soon.”

“Nigel,” begins Lee, “I already know you have killed, may kill, and probably will kill people. If that hasn’t scared me off, I can’t really think of much that would.” The peel yields to his thumbnail, and the scent of fresh ripe orange rushes into his nostrils as he breathes. “God, that’s good.”

“What’s the last thing you ate?” Nigel asks. His words are almost lost beneath how loud the orange smells. Lee watches himself slide his thumb beneath the peel.

“It’s like fucking.”

“What is?”

“Peeling an orange,” Lee explains. “You get the juice flowing, you make initial penetration, you ease yourself in--gently, gently--and then the world opens up for plundering.” Lee pulls out, then pushes back in, then takes off the rind a piece at a time.

“Do you always use your friends’ floors as a compost pile?”

Lee shakes his head and very pointedly drops a hunk of peel on the other side of Nigel. “I don’t have friends, remember?”

“Ah,” says Nigel as he links his fingers together at the small of Lee’s back, “so that would be a yes.” Lee can feel his eyes trained on him, so he stays focused on his orange. “Breakfast?”

“This orange is fighting back--Nigel, why didn’t you tell me you had militant fruit?” He swallows. “Toast. Dry toast. I try not to eat too much on chemo days. Just comes back up.” The bit of rind finally stops struggling and comes off like a zipper, bringing some of the thin white membrane with it. “I’ll vape,” Lee continues, “and then hopefully feel like eating. Sometimes not, and then I have toast two days in a row.”

Nigel’s hands frame Lee’s framing the orange. Lee didn’t even know his fingers were shaking. “Let me,” says Nigel. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t offer, only demands, and Lee thinks relief must taste like citrus, too. Lee opens up his hands enough for Nigel to pluck the orange out. “Good,” he says, and it makes the bottom of Lee’s gut drop, tumbles him head-first into arousal all over again.

Lee feels like he should say more than the “Thank you,” he mumbles, but he’s too distracted by Nigel. His fingers make quick work of the peel, barely a speck of juice left behind on his skin. Nigel splits it neatly in half, then in quarters; he hands a quarter to Lee, hanging onto the rest. “And again.” He peels off a segment and pops the whole piece in his mouth--no finesse, no teasing ploy to it, but Nigel’s eyes still darken.

“So does Charlene get a thank-you card or no?”

“It’s a nice orange,” says Lee from behind his free hand. “You should have some.”

“I’ll plan for one tomorrow,” he says. “Out of calories for the day.”

Lee nods and eats a second segment. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this hungry. When he vapes, Lee gets the munchies, sure, but not to this extreme. Nigel seems content to simply hold the orange for him; Lee has the hilarious mental image of himself as a squirrel perched at a bird feeder, but can’t get the picture across, so he tries very hard not to laugh so he doesn’t have to explain that he doesn’t know how to explain.

“It’s a really nice orange.”

Nigel chuckles. “So it would seem.”

“You should have som--oh, wait, we went over that already.”

“Yeah, but I changed my mind,” says Nigel. “I think I want to try some now.”

That guiding hand returns to the back of Lee’s head, and he lets himself be pulled toward Nigel, toward his mouth, his lips. Nigel kisses the corner of Lee’s mouth, and then the bottom lip all on its own, like testing water before taking the plunge entirely. Lee holds still and lets Nigel have his way, because he’s quickly learning it’s for the best where Nigel’s concerned. It’s not that Lee’s unused to yielding; it’s that no one he’s ever been fucked by has ever been so careful about taking.

Still, there’s no disputing that’s what this is, Nigel taking. It may be a soothing, melting claim, but it’s a claim nonetheless. Lee may decline treatment and die faster, or he may find better treatment and linger on; either way, Nigel’s going to be on his lips for the rest of his life, be it physically or mentally. Knowing Nigel, both options are acceptable, so long as he’s there in some capacity.

Lee’s hands are empty, so he slides his fingers up over the back of Nigel’s skull and into his hair. If Nigel wants to explore his lips, then he can do this. Nigel’s hair is sleek and silky enough to spend hours playing with, anyway, and Nigel’s scalp is remarkably sensitive. All it takes to make him swear is for Lee to drag his nails a little.

“You gonna try the orange or just play with it all day?” Lee murmurs. Nigel nips at his lower lip in retaliation--and Lee swears he hears him growl--then licks over where he’s bitten with the tip of his tongue, then finally kisses him for real.

It’s less like a first kiss and more like two lovers coming together again after a long absence. They already know how their lips fit together, how best to tilt and angle their heads. Nigel’s mouth presses hot against Lee’s, insistent, but it’s Lee’s tongue that darts out first. Their tongues stroke against each other, and those fit, too, smooth and slick. The points of Nigel’s teeth feel deadly; it’s heady, being entwined with all that power.

Lee breaks the kiss, panting. “I bet you’ve torn someone’s throat out with those. Like Roadhouse.”

Nigel just grins, and Lee thinks he’s going to need a bigger boat. “You like to play with fire, baby darling?” He sounds just as breathless, tugging on Lee’s sweater like he’s ready to rip it off of him. Lee is four-hundred percent on board with that.

“Depends on if I’m gonna get burned.” Lee takes Nigel’s hands and slips them underneath his shirt. “You gonna burn me, Nigel?”

“Right up.” Nigel slides his hands up Lee’s sides, callused fingers dragging against sensitive skin, forearms pulling up Lee’s clothes as he goes. Lee grabs the hems and pulls his shirts off--he thinks they land on an orange, but he can’t be sure. “Fuck,” says Nigel, “look at you. Pale and pretty.” He hums appreciatively, and Lee doesn’t remember the last time someone stopped long enough to do this, to do more than take him as hard as he asked for. Nigel thumbs at his nipples, and Lee hisses and arches into his touch. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?”

“Shit, yes,” and Nigel smirks at that, keeps rolling the buds between his fingers. “You still haven’t taken off yours.”

“Take it off me,” Nigel tells him, and as Lee does, he asks, “You like that, too, yeah?”

“Like what?”

“Being told.”

Lee shivers, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s finally hit chest hair, or because Nigel’s already got him pegged. He just nods and lifts Nigel’s hoodie and undershirt. “Oh my God, you’re just bear all over,” because oh, Nigel is. Silver-gray hair across his chest and down his sternum and over the swell of his belly. Lee can’t keep his fingers off him, just keeps following the trail of hair up and down, rubs across his stomach to Nigel’s sides and grips. “You’re a handful,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak, but he’s too turned on to be embarrassed.

And then Nigel grabs his wrists and Lee wants to fucking melt. “You know what I want to do?”

“I will let you do just about anything right now.”

“I want to smoke you back up,” Nigel says, “get you that nice body buzz going, make your skin electric, put my mouth all over every inch of you I can reach.”

Lee’s squirming, but Nigel’s so much stronger and, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Gonna lay you down here, right here between my legs, finger you open nice and slow until you can’t stand it, until you’re begging me, Lee.” Nigel’s face softens and he asks, “You want that?”

“Absolutely,” says Lee, dizzy with how much he does. “But I have to know--Nigel, what do you get out of this?”

Nigel pulls Lee back to him and pecks him on the lips. “Baby darling, I get to know that I’m the best you’ll ever have.”

Chapter Text

The third bowl takes an excessively long time to pack, mainly because they can’t manage to keep their hands off of each other. Lee’s beginning to feel sick to his stomach again, yes, but he’s also hit the bear jackpot as far as he’s concerned. Best to reap the benefits as long as he can.

Nigel isn’t fat--not by a long shot, though Lee would be okay with that, too. His type might be bears, but Lee would never turn down a chub. Lee’s discriminated on size before, but always in the opposite direction. There’s more than one otter in the river that he’s snubbed. But Nigel? No such chance. Lee’s always wanted his very own polar bear, and now, he has one.

So while Nigel breaks up more Purple Candy with one hand, Lee is running his fingers through every inch of hair he can reach. It’s as soothing as it is exciting.

“Can I ask another dumb question?” he asks, passing over Nigel’s arms for the fourth, maybe fifth time.

“I don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to.”

“If I wanted you to hold me down,” Lee muses, “how would that work?”

Nigel licks his lips. “You know what the most common question I got asked when I still went to bars was?” Lee doesn’t answer, just places his palms on Nigel’s chest. It’s the only place they both have warm skin; that feels right, that warmth should only exist between them. “‘How do you have sex?’ Hello, how are you, how do you fuck.”

“In that order?”

“That exact fucking order.”

“Good thing they met new Nigel.” A pause. “So…?”

Nigel glances at him; he doesn’t seem offended by Lee asking. Lee’s grateful to have earned his pretty face by whatever good he did in a previous life. “You’ll have to make an appointment and find out.”

“I’d probably get laid less if people could see my cancer, for what it’s worth.” Lee plays back what he’s just said. “That came out completely wrong.”

“You get laid often?” Nigel’s jaw tenses ever so slightly.

“Why? You jealous?”

Nigel rubs his thumb and forefinger together quickly, trying to dislodge crystals from the whorls of his prints. “Honestly? Up until a few hours ago, I wasn’t sure you’d give me the time of day unless you were buying off me.”

Lee splutters. That sounds like an entirely different person. “Nigel, I was amazingly, astoundingly, and--dare I say-- thrillingly intimidated by you.”

“I thought…” Nigel stops petting Lee’s waist, running his hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “I thought the fucking chair put you off.”

“I have never once let ambulatory condition get in the way of me having a good time.”

“Then why’d you never say anything?”

Lee taps his thumbs against Nigel’s chest. “There was this woman in one of my meditation classes,” he begins. “She was paralyzed, chest down. And I--I don’t even remember how the topic came up, but we were...It was probably my fault, we were talking about sex, and she says that she can’t feel anything, Nigel. Like it’s the weather or something, ‘Give my clit a wiggle, would you, I have no idea if it’s still there.’”

Nigel cracks up. “Did she actually fucking say that?”

“No, but that was the general impression.” Lee smooths his hands up Nigel’s shoulders, lets his wrists rest there, fingers dangling onto his back. “Anyway, I was horrified, and I didn’t want to proposition you and...fuck, make you feel bad, I guess?”

“Here, hold this steady for me.” Nigel hands Lee the pipe--it looks like a bit like a hammer, double-chambered, the bottom half-full of water--and Lee takes it very solemnly between both hands. “I’ve got partial feeling until you hit mid-thigh,” he explains. “Then it all goes fucking dead. It’s good, because I don’t have to cath regularly or schedule a fucking shit. Just need to nudge my dick to remind it how to stand up.”

“Well, now I know. And now you know. Seriously, Nigel, you are the universe’s gift to Lee Fallon. I just had to spend several hours reminding you to unwrap yourself.”

And on it went as Nigel manages to get the bowl put together, Lee holding it, and Nigel holding Lee, and Nigel’s other hand holding the weed. When it becomes apparent that Nigel has no intention of letting go of Lee ever, ever again, Lee holds the pipe to Nigel’s lips while Nigel lights it. He can’t decide if they’re too stoned or too attached or simultaneously too addicted to the weed and each other--

“You can’t get addicted to weed, Lee.”

“What about to Nigels?”

“I can only fucking hope.”

--but either way, they likely have no business smoking more, so they smoke the whole bowl. Lee doesn’t even remember setting the bubbler down; he certainly doesn’t recall when he began kissing and nipping along the corded muscles of Nigel’s neck. His fingers are back in Nigel’s chest hair, though, and that’s hardly a surprise.

“Is teasing you too much of a tease?” Lee asks. He moves his hands so he can lean in closer and press their chests together. Each individual hair of Nigel’s has apparently chosen a specific skin cell to caress and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Lee in the history of things that have happened to him. Top three, at least. Hard to beat getting fucked by a mall Santa after hours in the backseat of his sleigh.

“I don’t care as long as you’re touching me.”

Lee rubs his nipples back and forth, making the hair tickle, shameless, wanton. “It does feel good, doesn’t it?” Nigel reaches behind him and grabs the blanket and starts to wrap it around them, but Lee protests, a purposefully-pathetic little whine. “Let me get my jeans off. If we’re cuddling, then I wanna be comfy.”

Nigel snorts. “You just want my hand on your cock.”

“I can want more than one thing,” says Lee, and he’s already pushing himself to crouch with one hand, unbuttoning and unzipping his fly with the other. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he shimmies out of his jeans. “Look, I’ll even leave my underwear on since you’re going to be such a prude.”

“Fuck that,” Nigel says. “Let me see you, gorgeous.” But Lee’s settling himself back on Nigel’s lap, even closer than before, now that there aren’t pants in the way. He’s still got his beat-up racing flats on, but Lee’s feet are cold, and he’s nestled up against Nigel’s chest again with no intention of moving. “How are you feeling?”

“Euphoric,” Lee tells him, sighing happily. Nigel drapes the blanket around Lee’s shoulders and over them both; Lee’s mouth finds its way back to Nigel’s neck. He’s sucking at the tattoo there, which makes it the first time he’s ever gone down on a woman.

Nigel runs a thumb down the ridges of Lee’s spine-- bump, bump, bump --and then rubs at the small of his back. “Isus. I could break you in half if I’m not careful.”

“Occupational hazard,” he mumbles. Lee’s loathe to move his mouth, at all. “Does this make me bisexual?”

“Fuck labels,” says Nigel. “There’s too much fucked up in life to worry about what hole goes where.”

“I mostly just worry about the presence of cock and whether I will be the recipient thereof.” Nigel’s hand becomes Nigel’s arm, holding Lee close and safe and secure. “Oh, and don’t be careful on my account.”

“Maybe I want to be careful for a little while.”

“Just sit and enjoy our cocoon?”

Nigel nuzzles against Lee’s neck; he’s made of stubble, glorious stubble. “No need to rush, that’s all.”

And Lee doesn’t know why he says it, but that’s part of the magic of being blazed beyond reason, he supposes, but he quietly happens to mention, “I’m not used to not needing to.”

“What do you mean?” The tip of Nigel’s tongue is hot on Lee’s pulse, like he’s tasting the speed of his blood. Lee wonders what his slightly radioactive blood might taste like, then wonders where the hell that thought came from.

“Not a lot of cuddling on one-night stands,” he replies. “Or one-stall stands, I guess. Most of my action doesn’t leave the bar bathroom these days.”

“Fucking deserve better.” Teeth now, grazing at Lee’s collarbone; he extends his neck to give Nigel more room.

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Does this--” Lee hesitates, licking the backs of his teeth. “Does this feel significant because it is significant, or significant because I’m high, or is it significantly-significant but also stoned significant?”

Nigel kisses his shoulder; it’s strange, this slow process of stoking arousal, of letting it build and not chasing the instant gratification of a quick impersonal fuck. “I’m not even sure what you just fucking asked me.”

Lee giggles, and supposes that might be a good answer in and of itself. “Never mind,” he says, humming as static builds under his skin, tiny iron filings that follow the magnetized tips of Nigel’s fingers. “If it’s important, I’ll think of it later.”

All that truly matters to Lee right now is Nigel, and Nigel’s touch, and how he’s completely surrounded by Nigel. His arms are as hairy as his chest, and they’re both brushing against Lee’s skin as Nigel utterly lavishes him with affection. He pulls Lee up to kneel between his legs, and Lee pillows his head on his arms on the couch, forearm against Nigel’s throat. Lee’s shoulders are being kissed again, and then Nigel’s licking his way up to Lee’s neck, and now he’s sucking possessive bruises into the tender skin there, and Lee moans quietly for the first time.

Nigel doesn’t pick up speed though, not the way Lee’s used to, not the perfunctory grazes and bites and scratches-cum-welts the next morning. He uses his nails, yes, but it’s a slow barely-there drag down Lee’s spine, and then up his sides and across his shoulder blades in swirling patterns he can’t follow. Lee feels like he’s drowning in sensation--it’s almost too much, but he can’t bring himself to ask Nigel to stop. He’s a chorus of ah and yes and oh, and Nigel smiles triumphant against his jaw.

“You sound like you’re having a good time, gorgeous,” he says.

Lee hums as Nigel’s fingertips hit the waistband of his too-big boxers. “Are you?”

Nigel nibbles on the lobe of Lee’s ear. “You know I fucking am,” and his whisper is harsh, glottal, hot and hungry and heavy with desire. “I have a beautiful man in my arms and his skin even aches for me. He’s already starting to writhe and pant and I’ve hardly even gotten started with him.”

“How do you know all of my buttons already?”

“You like it when I talk about you like that, yeah?” Nigel’s chuckle is dark. “Oh, Lee. I do so enjoy talking about my intentions.”

Lee is going to spontaneously combust. “And what do you intend to do?”

“Besides what I already promised?”

“Mmhmm.”

Nigel drags the tip of his tongue along the shell of Lee’s ear. “Well, let’s see. He seems to like having his chest played with.” Nigel grips the back of Lee’s neck and pulls him back up; with his other hand, he begins to toy with Lee’s nipples, pulling the hard little nubs and then rubbing on them gently with the pad of his thumb. He alternates, back and forth, rough and soft.

Lee doesn’t even recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth. When Nigel leans ever-so-slightly forward and begins to lick and suck and bite, Lee isn’t even sure they’re sounds anymore. Nigel’s tongue is flicking against a nipple as he lightly scratches over the other with a fingernail, and Lee’s already so hard that it hurts.

Nigel finally gives him a chance to catch his breath, kissing all over every bit of his chest he can reach, just like he said he would. “Hristos,” he says, breath warm on Lee’s skin, “he’s perfect. Want to bind him to me and hide him away and fucking keep him. I’m good at torture, and not just pain. Bet he’d be so pretty when he cried. Gonna fucking ruin him for anyone else, aren’t I?”

All Lee can do is nod furiously. He can do attachments. Attachments are fine. They’re great. Old Lee had no idea what he was thinking.

The death grip on Lee’s neck eases up, and Nigel pets his way down Lee’s spine. “Here’s what you’ll do,” Nigel begins. “There’s a bottle of lube on my dresser, and a wedge pillow in the floor of my closet. Go get them,” and he punctuates with a slap to Lee’s ass.

This noise is a whine, and Lee’s grateful to his synapses for remembering. “Kiss me first,” he says.

“Sweet baby darling,” Nigel murmurs before he cradles the back of Lee’s head with both hands, pulling him into a kiss. It’s much more chaste than Lee expected, but it’s still good, still grounding, still soothing. “Go on then,” he says against Lee’s mouth, and Lee is stumbling all over himself trying to get up.

He finds everything he’s looking for, but it takes Lee longer than he thought he would. His body forgot how much they’d smoked, and it’s hitting Lee all at once. Lee’s hands find their way to his skin, and it feels so good to touch himself, arms and stomach, over and over, like his skin is all new, unexplored territory.

“You alright?” asks Nigel.

“I just...fuck, Nigel, I’m on fire. It’s--” Lee gasps as his fingers find a nipple all on their own.

Back in the living room, Nigel’s laughing. “How about I just come in there?”

Lee’s eyes are closed. He’s already overwhelmed and neither of them have even touched his cock--oh God, he has a cock. How did he forget about that? Lee palms himself through his boxers and his knees nearly buckle.

“Sit on the fucking bed before you topple over.”

“I’m going to explode.”

“No, you’re not,” says Nigel, taking Lee’s hand away from his fly.

Lee blinks. “How did you get here?”

“Took the bus.” Nigel shakes his head. “On the bed, gorgeous. Far side. I’ll follow. And for fuck’s sake, stop touching yourself. Driving me fucking crazy.”

So Lee does, and he hears the click of the locks on Nigel’s chair, and then Nigel’s there, sitting on the bed next to him. “What do I do now?” Nigel is arranging his legs; he literally picks them up and throws them down the bed, and Lee giggles in spite of himself.

“You laughing at me?”

“I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

Nigel scoffs as he pulls his thighs open, knees bending out to either side. “I’m going to follow you to chemo and point and yell.” But he’s smiling, and Lee’s smiling, and everything is buzzing and wonderful. “Here, be a doll and pull my calves out straight. Make some room for yourself.”

Lee does that, too. “Should I go ahead and lie down?”

“Yeah, go for it.” Once he’s situated, Nigel grabs a pillow. “Lift up your hips,” and he slides the pillow under Lee’s ass.

And then there they are, staring at each other. Lee moves to take off his underwear, but Nigel stills his hands, then does it himself. It’s all in slow-motion for Lee, watching Nigel peel his boxers down and over his ass, seeing his cock bounce up and hit just below his stomach.

“So fucking wet for me,” Nigel muses, pushing Lee’s legs up one foot at a time to get his boxers completely off. Nigel sets one foot on each side of his hips “Wet as a girl. Not gonna last long, are you?”

“All your fault if I don’t.”

“And I will happily take that blame.” He licks his lips, looking thoughtful. “Got an idea,” he says. “Put your arms under my knees.” Lee eyes him, confused, but does it, anyway. Nigel’s legs are thin from disuse; it’s disconcerting, at first, until Lee tells himself it’s just a new kind of normal, like his own uncontrollable skinniness. “Right, and now your hands over and up on my thighs.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah,” confirms Nigel. “And don’t move them from there, alright? Gonna be good for me?”

Lee’s bronchi vibrate. “I can be good.”

“I know you can.” The cap of the bottle of lube flips up with a tiny pop, and before Lee can process exactly what’s happening, there’s a cold, wet thumb circling his entrance. Nigel presses at it, not to breach, only to stimulate, and Lee’s already wiggling his hips. “Got to hold still for me now,” Nigel tells him. He puts a hand on one of Lee’s hip bones, rubs the thumb of that hand along it as softly as the one pushing at his hole.

Lee feels lost, hypersensitive in the best way, aware of every part of his body. His blood rushes in his ears, and Lee can follow it down his veins and to his groin. He tosses his head to one side, and every fiber of the sheet makes itself known to his cheek. “Nigel?”

“Yeah?”

“I am so incredibly stoned.”

Nigel snickers, but doesn’t stop, now barely dipping his thumb into Lee, only pressing as far as the end of the nail bed. “I know. Me too. But we’ve got to focus here, alright?”

Lee nods lazily. “Talk to me,” he says.

“Dirty?”

“Anything. Love your voice and your words and your...did I say voice?”

Nigel doesn’t say. Instead, he tells Lee, “Relax a little more for me.” Lee squeezes his eyes shut and remembers how the muscles in his ass work. “There you go, that’s good,” and Nigel eases his finger inside. He takes his time, goes in one knuckle at a time, pulling out and pushing back in, makes Lee sigh with it, makes him tilt his hips up to meet Nigel’s hand. “You know what I want to do?”

“I’m good with whatever you’re into,” Lee says, and he laughs because he means it.

“Fuck, you’re so warm. So hot, Lee, burning my hand like a fever. And you’ve got the tightest, sweetest little pussy--”

Lee shudders and exhales and flutters his eyes back open. That’s new, because he’d never once thought about feminization before Nigel. Maybe it’s just because it’s Nigel, and Nigel’s way of coping with himself, and Lee understands that perfectly. “Okay,” he says, giggling again, “I’m apparently more into that than I thought. Holy--holy shit.”

Nigel just grins down at him. “I want to lick you open,” he continues. “Go down on you until you’re dripping with spit. Eat out this pretty pussy of yours and watch you make a mess of yourself and then keep going.” Lee thinks Nigel’s moved to two fingers now, but it really doesn’t matter; he could be using his pinky right now and Lee would try to fuck himself on it, anyway.

“Look at you, baby darling,” says Nigel. He’s rubbing along Lee’s inner walls, stretching one side and then the other. No one’s opened Lee like this before, made him feel so dirty-sexy-good without calling him names. He’s not a slut or a bitch or a whore; he’s just Lee, and right now, he feels so much like a Lee that he wants to sing it at the top of his lungs. “Want it so bad you’ll do all the work yourself, won’t you?”

“Fuck, yes.” Lee tries to angle himself to force Nigel to hit his prostate, grips Nigel’s sweatpants in his fists to pull and give himself momentum. All it does is make Nigel lean on him with all of his weight, pressing his hips down into the pillow, and then he fucks Lee with his fingers faster. He doesn’t know how long Nigel teases him like that, going quick and hard and avoiding his prostate with every thrust--time doesn’t seem to mean much like this, fucked in Nigel’s bed, fucked up on Nigel’s weed.

“See? Told you I was good at torture, didn’t I?” Before Lee can answer, Nigel rubs him just the right way, and Lee shouts. “There you go, there’s the right spot, yeah?”

His chest heaves with his breath, and Lee chases every molecule of oxygen into his lungs. “Think I’m gonna come.”

“Just from me touching your pussy? Just from me fucking this wet little cunt?”

“Oh God--”

There are sparks beneath Lee’s skin, heat from the fire in his gut that spreads and consumes and burns. He’s weightless and boneless and screaming and crying. There’s no way up or down or out except through his cock and Lee’s never wanted to beg to come but he’s damn close to pleading.

Nigel shushes him, “Fuck, you even beg pretty,” so Lee supposes he wound up saying please, after all. “No shame in not being able to come without a helping hand,” continues Nigel. “Been wanting to suck the life out of you for hours now, anyway.” He licks a slow, teasing stripe up Lee’s cock, and Lee sobs. “Want me to suck on your clit, gorgeous? Need your Nigel to taste your come?”

Just like always, Nigel doesn’t wait for an answer, simply barrels ahead and does what he wants. Nigel’s mouth is perfect, mouthing up the underside of Lee’s cock; he’s barely created suction on the head, only managed to stroke it once with his tongue, grazed it with a hint of teeth that he can’t hide, and Lee comes, writhing and pulsing, pinned between Nigel’s fingers and mouth.

Fly

ing and fly

ing and flying.

He doesn’t remember the transition from lying between Nigel’s legs to resting in Nigel’s arms, head on his shoulder. Lee’s clean and comfortable, both of them tucked in beneath the sheets, cozy. Lee opens his eyes, and there are Nigel’s, looking back.

“Hey,” Nigel says quietly. He puts his hand against Lee’s face, rubbing along his cheek with his thumb.

“Hmm,” is the only greeting Lee can manage.

“Feel good, baby darling?”

“Mmhmm,” and Nigel chuckles. Lee lets his eyes flutter closed as Nigel kisses him again. One of them licks into the other’s mouth--Lee isn’t sure who; they’re basically the same person right now, anyway, both of them existing in the same segment of the vast everything--and it’s the most welcome weight Lee’s ever known.

But Nigel breaks it, then pulls up a corner of the sheet and wipes under Lee’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Significant,” he says. “I said this felt significant earlier, this--this--this whatever-it-is between us. Like somewhere in space I was already attached to you. Like I couldn’t stop the madness if I tried. If I even wanted to.”

Nigel’s quiet for a while, or maybe several seconds. Slowly, carefully, he tells Lee, “I think I could fall in love with you.”

Lee expects to feel smothered, anticipates wanting to push Nigel away. But he doesn’t. “I think it’s inevitable,” he confesses.

“Love makes me crazy.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love.”

Nigel seems almost ashamed. “I mean, crazier than most lovesick fools. I’m not safe; I’m not healthy; I’m no good, Lee. Learned that the hardest way possible.”

Lee sighs--he’s still too ecstatic and orgasmic to think about the two of them in all their possible permutations. It’s a topic to meditate on later. “Learning’s important. You have practical life experience. And we can talk about it some other time, when we’re sober. Maybe next week,” suggests Lee, “or the week after that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m rushing.”

“I brought it up.”

Nigel smiles, smaller, sheepish. “So you did.”

“How about a nap?” Lee suggests. He shifts and stretches his arm across Nigel, rubbing his back. It’s bare now, as are his legs, Lee discovers, so he rubs his own legs against them. “Mmm, a hairy nap.”

“Wake and bake and breakfast?” Nigel kisses his forehead, then his closed eyelids.

“And then sex.”

“For you,” says Nigel, “I’ll try to make my dick drive under the influence.”

Chapter Text

Lee blinks awake the first time when Nigel’s alarm goes off. Nigel groans and swears in Sexvoiceanian, and it makes Lee giggle. If not for the incessant beeping, this might be the nicest wake-up Lee’s had in years. He leans up enough for Nigel to slide his arm out from underneath Lee’s head unimpeded, and then snuggles into Nigel’s pillow.

There’s a long, jagged scar that covers almost half of Nigel’s side--he guesses he was too high to notice yesterday when he was actively exploring Nigel’s skin. Lee is still too close to sleep to be able to keep himself from reaching out and touching it, to stop his fingers from trailing along each raised and puckered bit of skin.

Nigel curses again, and Lee glances down just in time to watch Nigel’s dick twitch.

“What’s that all about?” Lee asks, half mumbling.

“Reflex,” says Nigel, eyes closed again.

“Does it--” He yawns; according to the clock on the dresser, they’ve been asleep about five hours, so he doesn’t excuse himself for it. “Does it feel good?”

“Your hand on my scar does.” Nigel reaches across his body to take Lee’s hand. Lee assumes it’s to move it away; instead, Nigel pulls Lee’s fingers up and down his side. “Erogenous zones are a little fucked up these days,” he explains. “Some nerves turn up when the others flip off.”

“Can you get an erection like this?” Lee wishes he could avert his eyes from Nigel’s cock, but it’s too late--he’s genuinely fascinated.

“Maybe?”

“You wanna find out?”

Nigel opens one eye. He looks back and forth between Lee and the still-blaring alarm clock. One hand idly moves to scratch at his chest, and it might be the most blatantly hetero alpha male gesture Nigel’s done so far. Lee’s concerned at how much he likes it, likes the way Nigel toes the line between probably pan and audibly straight, making the proverbial closet more of a revolving door.

Then again, that’s just Nigel. Lee thinks he could make anything sickeningly complex if he tried hard enough.

The alarm clock snoozes itself, and Nigel says, “Knock yourself out, gorgeous.”

Lee’s curious as to what, precisely, Nigel is expecting him to do. Then again, Lee isn’t sure of what he’s going to do, either. All he know is that he wants Nigel to feel as good as he did last night, or at least as close to it as physically possible for him.

They maintain eye contact, Lee’s sleepy and half-closed, and Nigel’s unfairly intense for how early it is. Lee trails his hand away from the scar and over Nigel’s chest, letting his chemo-ridged nails trail gently. “Tell me what you like,” he says.

Nigel only stares at him, like he’s lost, and Lee wonders if he might be going about this the wrong way. He switches to using the palm of his hand, doing nothing more than exploring the planes of Nigel’s chest. Maybe that’s enough, just appreciating his body; maybe acceptance is what’s arousing now. It’s not like Lee isn’t enjoying himself, smoothing his way through Nigel’s chest hair and stopping to rub at little spots that seem tense.

The alarm has started to sound again when Nigel says, “I like this.” Lee smiles and lets his hand wander a little lower. “No one really asks. They just fucking assume things feel good because things react the right way, yeah?”

And Lee had noticed Nigel’s nipples perking up, just as he’d noticed that Nigel didn’t really respond to having them touched. “Why don’t you say something?”

Nigel sighs as he turns his head and finds a very interesting spot of ceiling. “The best fucking part of sex for me has always been getting the other person off,” explains Nigel. “Guess I got lucky in that respect. So back when I went out and picked someone up, I always got what I wanted out of it.” He blinks a few times. “The problem is knowing what they really wanted out of it.”

“Beyond being fucked six ways from Sunday?”

Lee’s hand moves along with Nigel’s abs. “They get to feel good about themselves for fucking a guy in a chair. Or worse--”

“God, is there worse?” because Lee is horrified. It reminds him of the unspoken, underlying reason he was happy to give up acquaintanceship: healthy people are, generally speaking, all kinds of awful.

“Chair chasers.”

His hand rests over Nigel’s navel. “You mean--”

“People that get off on you being in a chair, yeah. Don’t get me wrong,” begins Nigel, glancing back over at Lee, “I won’t fucking shame someone for what gets them off. Not anymore, not new Nigel. But it’s fucking weird, knowing you’re nothing more than someone else’s fetish.”

“Objectifying.” And he nods at that. “Christ, Nigel. No wonder you stopped going out.”

“Last person I fucked was my physical therapist.”

“Because she was more understanding?”

Nigel laughs, but it’s thankfully genuine. “Because she was curious.” He winks at Lee and adds, “Like you.”

The alarm starts up; Lee hadn’t even heard it snooze the second time. “Is that why you think I’m here?”

“Alright,” Nigel concedes. “Only a little like you.” He pauses--it’s strange, seeing someone’s internal struggle written in every line of their face. “Your hand feels good.”

“That seemed hard to say.” Lee doesn’t deprive him, though, simply goes ahead and starts caressing him again. Nigel makes a pleased-sounding hum in the back of his throat and does nothing less than melt under Lee’s fingers. “You know, I am more than happy to do this literally whenever you ask.”

“Think the diner might be fucking pissed if you did this in the middle of pancakes.”

Lee’s hand makes its way back up to Nigel’s neck, because he seemed to enjoy that last night. On a whim, Lee moves down the mattress--he has to switch sides of Nigel’s neck, switch hands even--and puts his lips on Nigel’s scar. Lee’s rewarded for his effort; Nigel inhales quickly through his teeth, then exhales just as fast into a shuddering moan.

It’s awkward, trying to pull the blankets off of them both without taking his mouth from Nigel’s side, but Lee manages, encouraged by the helpless gasps and oh fuck s he’s pulling out of Nigel. He moves Nigel’s legs apart--above him, Nigel says, “Just throw those wherever, I don’t even care,” and Lee does nothing short of guffaw against his skin. But Lee eventually gets Nigel’s legs approximately where he wants them, so he moves himself in between on his knees, just lies down on top of Nigel’s cock and goes back to mouthing at his scar.

Nigel’s hands find their way to Lee’s hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders and upper back. He’s pleading with his fingertips, and Lee knows that this is a man unused to begging. Thinking about how utterly deprived of touch Nigel’s felt, how easily he’s able to hide that ache--well, Lee stops thinking about it because it’s too depressing, and there isn’t anything right now to be depressed about.

He licks down the length of the scar with the tip of his tongue, and Lee thinks this must be how the Ineffable feels when it touches the debris-mottled landscapes of planets, except the planet doesn’t groan--unless, of course, it does. But Lee can’t decide if he feels powerful in this situation or not; to be honest, it’s like he’s surrendering something of himself more than he is taking something from Nigel. He just can’t decide exactly what the something might be, probably because being witness to Nigel unravelling might be the hottest fucking part of the past twelve hours, and Lee is still recovering from the best finger-fucking of his life.

It moves from licking to sucking to licking to kissing, over and over, up and down, and Lee is ecstatic to be a champion cocksucker and be gifted with such jaw stamina--

Which is exactly when Nigel’s cock twitches again.

“Did you feel that?” Lee asks. He probably shouldn’t react like a small child at Christmas; it’s probably weird that he just made that analogy.

Nigel’s chest heaves with his breath; he looks blissed out already. “Don’t get your hopes up,” says Nigel, “but yeah, I fucking felt that.”

So Lee doesn’t even warn him. He pushes himself further down the bed, fingers still playing over the scar, and takes Nigel into his mouth.

It’s different, giving head to a soft cock, though the noises coming from the head of the bed are familiar enough. Lee isn’t sure what to do besides hold it in his mouth, like the one and only time he played cockwarmer for someone. But this doesn’t feel like being used, and Lee seriously doubts that Nigel feels like he’s being used. It’s not humiliating for anyone involved--it simply is.

Lee suckles on it gently, since that seems to be the sort of touch Nigel likes best. He has to use his unoccupied hand to help hold onto it, which is actually the strangest part of this whole endeavor: not being able to fuck it down into his throat. None of this is particularly arousing for Lee--the warmth settling low in his gut is happiness, not an urge to get off.

Cock cuddling, thinks Lee. This is cock cuddling, and he vows to never, ever say that to Nigel.

Unless he’s too stoned to keep it to himself. In which case, God help him.

Lee pulls it out of his mouth long enough to push the foreskin back with his lips, just enough to be able to lave the glans with his tongue. There’s precome collected at the tip; it tastes as unappealing as anyone else’s, but Lee’s still strangely glad to know it exists.

In any other situation, Lee would be getting insulted right now, that his frankly talented mouth wasn’t yielding any results. He’s been watching Nigel’s hands on the top sheet, though, how they tense and relax, and Lee’s been listening to his pleasured sighs. Astoundingly, Lee’s starting to see the appeal to cockwarming--at least, he’s starting to think about just lying around with his head in Nigel’s lap and his mouth wrapped around Nigel’s cock, because he’s developing an oral fixation very, very quickly.

That gives him an idea, so Lee pulls off long enough to lie down on his side, positioned so he can put Nigel’s leg over his shoulder. Lee can pet at Nigel’s scar more easily now, and he can rest the side of his head on his arm. He sucks Nigel’s cock back into his mouth, and gets comfortable, and then just...holds it. Occasionally, Lee will stroke his tongue over it or hollow his cheeks and press the head up against the roof of his mouth, but mostly he lies there, letting spit slide out the corner of his lips, mind blissfully blank.

Unexpectedly, Nigel runs a fingertip up Lee’s erection. He hadn’t even noticed his own dick filling, too engrossed in how nice it was to mouth at Nigel’s. Lee moans, and his hips jerk toward Nigel’s waiting hand.

“Fuck,” says Nigel. “Can’t believe you got so hard just warming me up. You like that, baby darling? You like making me feel good?”

Nigel’s pumping his cock, and this would be the point where Lee starts thrusting to meet the fist in question stroke for stroke. Not now, though. Right now, all Lee wants is Nigel’s cock soft on his tongue and Nigel’s hand giving him only as much as Nigel wants to give him--

Lee shouts, strangled, deep in his throat as he comes. His mouth squeezes around Nigel’s cock involuntarily, but it feels too good to stop, so Lee keeps it up, undulating his tongue and sucking and pressing and--

“Hristos, oh fuck.” Nigel loses hold of Lee’s cock as his own spurts into Lee’s mouth.

They both lie there, catching their breath. Lee lets Nigel slip from his mouth and swallows his spend. It tastes strangely like victory.

The alarm goes off again.

Neither of them move to get it.

Nigel’s still-sticky hand closes around Lee’s wrist and pulls, so Lee extricates himself from the modern art he’d made of Nigel’s legs and lets himself be led back up the bed. “I didn’t--fucking--Lee, how the fuck did you do that?”

Lee leans down to kiss his cheeks, because Nigel’s grinning too hard to kiss his mouth. “Don’t have to have an erection to come,” he tells Nigel. “I knew it in theory, not practice.”

“I’m gonna hunt down and murder every fucking urologist I’ve ever gone to see.”

“No, no, don’t,” says Lee, feigning hurt, “I’ll feel so much less spectacular and talented and brilliant if you do.”

Nigel snorts. “Can’t have that.”

“Can we have breakfast?” Lee asks, rubbing Nigel’s belly again.

“After we shower.”

Lee sighs dramatically. “If we must.” Nigel pinches his ass while he isn’t looking, and Lee yelps.

Chapter Text

They quickly discovered that sharing a shower was entirely too complicated to figure out first thing--well, second thing--in the morning. It wasn’t that the shower, itself, was too small; Lee has shared dorm showers that were much smaller. Most showers, however, weren’t half full of padded bench.

“I could sit in your lap,” Lee suggested.

“Maybe another time,” said Nigel, “when we aren’t actually trying to get clean.”

So Lee went back out to the living room to pack a bowl, and tidied up from the previous night while he was at it, though bending over turned out to be a terrible idea. When Nigel rolls back out, Lee’s lying on the yoga mat, one arm over his eyes and the other clutching his stomach.

“Does the nausea usually last this long?” he asks.

Lee shrugs, shoulders still flat against the floor. “It depends. Sometimes, I don’t get sick at all; other times, I’ll be sick right up to the next appointment.” Lee gingerly pulls himself down the mat with his feet, planted against the floor, legs bent at the knee. “Enough room?”

“If you sit up for a minute, yeah.” Lee grabs the edge of the couch beneath the cushion and eases himself up. He hears the soft sound of Nigel transferring down to the mat, and then there’s a hand on Lee’s shoulder pulling him back down. Lee’s head ends up resting on Nigel’s thigh, and Lee can’t help but remember his thoughts of not even an hour ago.

There’s the sound of a zipper, and Lee wonders if Nigel can read his mind until he remembers that he’s wearing sweat pants. He moves his arm and opens his eyes; Nigel’s on his phone, tapping away with one thumb.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just asking Charlene about a certain strain before we smoke up and I fucking forget.” He tosses his phone behind him onto the couch, then starts digging around in the popcorn tin again. There’s aborted half-cursing above Lee--though the curses may actually finish themselves; Lee isn’t paying as much attention as he’d like to be. Too busy wincing as the muscle cramps creep their way down his arms again.

Usually, Lee suffers in silence. There’s no time in life for self-pity, not when there’s hardly time left, at all. Now, though, with another human who gives a damn about him, Lee doesn’t find a single whimper so undignified. Nigel runs a hand over Lee’s head, and that’s really all he needed; not coddling, only recognition.

It’s beyond odd, how well Nigel seems to understand Lee already. Maybe their needs aren’t so different; they’ve simply both been waiting for someone to be vulnerable with.

“Gotta sit up to smoke,” Nigel says. Lee repeats the process of sitting up a few minutes ago, bites his lip and pushes through, back still to Nigel. “Want to sit in my lap? You did in the shower, but thought I’d ask again.”

Lee smiles. “Sounds like you want me to.”

“Wouldn’t be averse to holding you,” admits Nigel, “if you’d let me.”

“Wouldn’t be averse to that either,” and Lee tries not be surprised at Nigel bodily hauling him over to sit on his lap. “You’re going to make me swoon one of these minutes.”

“How terrible,” Nigel mutters, then hands Lee the creamsicle-colored bubble from last night. The weed looks different, more green and dense and fuzzy. It’s bursting with little orange hairs, dusted as heavily with crystals as the street outside.

“What’s this one?” he asks.

“GDP.”

“Gross domestic product?”

Nigel looks pained. “It’s the dumbest name of dumb names. Don’t make me tell you.”

“Oh, now you’ve gone and made it a game,” says Lee. Grinning does nothing for his nausea, but being a smartass is always a nice distraction. “Green dappled penguin? Grungy dirty parkway? Gobbled down penis?”

“You wish it was called gobbled down penis.” Nigel takes back the bowl and lights it. The smoke smells like pine, like Christmas, and Lee has a clear picture of a mantle festooned with stalks of marijuana instead of evergreen boughs.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Lee happily goes along with Nigel’s hand, takes the smoke as it is given, relaxes into the inhale. It tastes like pine, too, especially as he lets it slowly drift out his nostrils. The effect is near immediate, no creeping like the Purple Candy; he feels like his body is sinking into Nigel’s legs, and now Nigel is easing him back to lie against his chest, face tucked into the side of his neck. There’s no pin-up girl tattooed to this side, and Lee’s grateful that he won’t have to question his sexuality a second time.

“It’s Granddaddy Purp,” says Nigel. His voice even rolls its eyes.

Lee nuzzles against Nigel’s collarbone. He’s still warm and slightly damp from the shower, smelling like oatmeal, maybe orange--it’s definitely a smell that starts with the fifteenth letter of the alphabet. “That is an incredibly unfortunate name.”

“But it’s fucking great for nausea and pain.” Nigel runs his hand down Lee’s bare arm; Lee feels his muscles roll with him, like the tide. “It’ll make you sleepy, too.”

“Why would I want to go back to sleep when everything feels close enough to touch?”

Nigel’s chest shakes and rumbles beneath Lee’s side. “Because you feel like shit and I want you to feel better?”

Lee nods sleepily. “That’s a good argument.”

“Just while I make breakfast and talk to Charlene,” promises Nigel. “I’ll wake you up for food. Couch is pretty comfortable for a short nap.” But Lee’s already climbing over Nigel and onto the sofa, curling up with his nose buried in the cushion.

“Isn’t this wasteful?” Nigel bites at the cheek of Lee’s ass, and Lee giggles, swatting down at his face playfully.

“Not if it keeps you from feeling like a fucking invalid,” Nigel says, then kisses where he bit. “Sleep, gorgeous. And then go put on some pants so I can concentrate.”

Lee hums his assent, and passes out thinking about nudist colonies.

It isn’t Nigel that wakes Lee up; instead, it’s the smell of obscenely-strong coffee. Lee is a little baffled--he doesn’t remember seeing a coffee pot last night--so he decides to spy. Literally, because he is dead certain that he’s never done it before.

Getting up takes an absurd amount of effort, because Lee has woken up blazed beyond reason. He tiptoes over, and his legs feel heavy, and he can’t stop snickering. Lee is a terrible spy. He would be captured by the super villain immediately and it’s probably for the best that Lee has come twice in less than twenty-four hours because he’d be willing to give that roleplay a go.

“Have you ever thought in italics before, Nigel?” Lee asks, poking his head into the kitchen, hands wrapped around the entryway.

Nigel cranes his head to look at Lee. There’s a towel over his lap and a wooden spatula in his hand. “That would...no, Lee. No, and I think you’re having more fun than I am.” He shakes his head and goes back to stirring food stuffs in a skillet.

Lee moseys into the kitchen, bare feet sticking slightly to the tile, peeling up and off like window clings with every step. There’s a metal cart sitting next to Nigel with various accoutrements--a whisk, a bowl, a carton of eggs, a cutting board and knife. He’s a veritable traveling cooking program.

“Are you supposed to cook after smoking?”

“I didn’t smoke enough to impair,” and he pulls the skillet off the heat. Nigel looks for somewhere to put the spatula before giving up and just leaving it in the skillet. There’s a glass casserole dish on Nigel’s cart; he turns his chair and pulls the cart over. The skillet produces peppers and onions and mushrooms, which Nigel sort of unceremoniously plops into the dish, and then he turns a wheel with one hand and nudges the cart with the skillet, and he’s suddenly back where he started.

It’s a strangely beautiful dance, Lee thinks, perfectly coordinated in a completely uncoordinated way.

“Besides,” says Nigel, setting the skillet back on the eye, “I’m not supposed to cook, at all.” There’s a one-handed exchange of the spatula for a spatter shield, and then Nigel produces butter from somewhere in the void. “Could have a seizure and...I don’t fucking know, ask my neurologist. I think abled people just make shit up half the time.”

Lee goes to stuff his hands in his pockets, then realizes he’s still naked. “I’m not supposed to have anything up my ass. ‘Fear of infection.’ But vaginas are still mysteriously unaffected by putting dicks in them.”

“Homophobic motherfuckers.”

“We continue to baffle the medical-industrial complex.” Lee looks down again. “I’m going to put on pants.” Nigel just grunts and empties a bowl of eggs into the skillet, and Lee doesn’t skip off to the bathroom, because that would be ridiculous. He’s feeling good enough to, though, and he’s starving, which is an enormous improvement. “I was scared it was gonna be a dry toast day.”

“Speak up, Lee, you’re five fucking miles away.”

“I thought I was going to be living on dry toast today,” he shouts, tugging on the pair of drawstring pants Nigel left out for him. Lee stops halfway, then follows up with, “I’m taking a shower, I think.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just steps on into the shower stall and prepares himself to be confused.

It’s--thankfully--much less complicated than he expected. Lee considers sitting on the nice padded bench for exactly three-and-a-half seconds, then decides it isn’t his to sit on. Sure, the toilet seat was just as cushy, albeit disconcertingly high off the ground; yes, Nigel has been two-fingers deep in his ass. There’s something inexplicably wrong with rubbing one’s testicles on another man’s possessions without asking for permission to do so, though. Some codes simply shouldn’t be broken.

The handheld shower head is problematic until Lee discovers a switch-off valve on the side. He discovers that he dislikes not having the water running down his body at all points during the shower, and spends the rest of the time using the liquid soap sponge-free trying to figure out how to give Nigel a proper shower. Not that Nigel isn’t clean enough; it simply doesn’t seem right.

Lee pats himself mostly dry with a towel that hopefully was there for him to use and slips on the pants--no underwear, but his balls have been invited to the pants party, so it’s fine. He flips on the switch for the vent almost as an afterthought; what if he ran the water too hot and the condensation makes the tiles slippery and then Nigel goes careening into the hamper--

“Nigel?”

A cough from the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“Tell me I’m thinking too hard.”

“Alright. Lee?” Another cough, and Lee smells what can only be defined as “skunky”. He wrinkles his nose, trying to reconcile Nigel and smoking and coughing all with each other.

“Yeah?”

“You’re thinking too fucking hard.”

Lee lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. That was perfect.” Nigel’s rolled over to the table by the time Lee emerges and there is breakfast, and a coffee cup with a yet-to-be-explained metal funnel over it, and an Altoids tin full of joints that needs no explanation whatsoever.

“Do you just have hidden paraphernalia all over your house?”

“It’s only hidden when I forget where the fuck I put it.” Nigel grins before turning to cough into his elbow.

Lee tsk s him as he pulls out the adjacent chair. “I thought you were a consummate professional, yet you’re in here trying to evict your lungs.”

“These have been rolled for a while,” he says, and Nigel looks unfairly attractive like this, relaxed back in his chair, elbow on the table, joint held between two fingers like a cigarette. Nigel still hasn’t put on a shirt, another sign that the universe is continuing to smile on Lee. “You want a hit?”

“Maybe after breakfast. Don’t want to eat it away.”

Nigel’s shoulders raise once. “Suit yourself. There’s plenty here if you change your mind.” He tilts his head to the side, regarding Lee. “You know it isn’t a waste if you’re enjoying yourself, yeah? I meant what I told you earlier: it’s only wasteful if you let it mean nothing.”

Lee admits, “I’m not great at debauchery unless wine’s involved.”

“Gotta seize the world by the balls and not let it go.”

“Let’s seize food first?”

Nigel chuckles loudly--the weed has already loosened him up, and Lee can’t help but wonder what strain it is now. “You do get the munchies hard.” He leans over enough to push the casserole dish in Lee’s direction. “Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.”

“Fish for breakfast?” It smells delicious, but Lee’s raising his eyebrows, anyway.

“I had to give up grease and bad fat,” says Nigel, sighing. “No bacon, no sausage--I’m supposed to use fucking egg substitute, but no fucking way.”

Lee lets his eyes drift down to Nigel’s belly and hopes his mouth isn’t watering too obviously. “I hope you aren’t dieting.”

“Nah, but I’ve gotta watch my figure for the chair’s sake.” He taps Lee’s plate with his own fork. “Go on, eat up.”

“I smelled coffee?”

Nigel nods and pinches out the joint with a callused thumb and finger. “Yeah, got a pour over there on your mug, and there’s the teap--actually, here,” and Nigel grabs the pot himself and pours the water over the coffee and filter. It smells divine. “Veggies,” he adds, “if you’re so inclined.” Lee nods, and Nigel serves him that, and then dips out some of the eggs and salmon while he’s at it.

This is nice. Domestic. Absolutely everything Lee isn’t used to anymore, and he had no idea how much he missed it. “You make food for every lucky partner you bring to your bed?” he asks flirtatiously, though Lee feels a touch of jealousy that he didn’t know he was capable of.

Nigel gives Lee a serious look, almost chastising. “Only you, baby darling.”

Lee licks his lips. He could get used to it being only him.

Chapter Text

They spend the rest of the morning and afternoon wrapped up in each other, lazily making out. Nigel fingers Lee idly for much of it, possessively, not to lead anywhere but because, “I like feeling you squirm on top of me.” Lee would be shocked by how much he liked the tease if it didn’t make such sense; Nigel can’t take him with his cock, can’t own him the way Lee likes to feel after sex. This is basically the same.

Better, even. Lee knew he was subby, regardless of his power-bottoming ways, but Nigel brings it out on a completely different level. Nigel’s giving Lee a great deal to meditate on later.

Eventually, Lee does come, with a content little sigh and a snuggle into Nigel’s chest. Neither of them make a deal out of it.

The day does have to end, unfortunately. Lee can’t deal with Nigel’s shower forever.

Nigel drives him back, and it’s as nice of a drive as the one before. They share yet another joint, and Lee tries not to think about the possibility of a DWI charge.

“I’ve been pulled over before,” Nigel says, “when I’m sober. Cops don’t like to arrest a nice guy in a chair and conversion van.”

Lee blows smoke down toward the floorboard; it filters back up like mist. “You’ve sold to them, haven’t you?”

Nigel only shrugs. “I’m a good businessman.”

He does more than drop Lee off--Nigel sees him to his front door, like it’s a proper first date and Lee hasn’t put out for most of the past twenty-four hours. It’s hard, trying to decide if he should lean down and give Nigel a kiss goodbye, or if that might come off as insulting. Luckily, Nigel makes the decision for both of them, pulling Lee down by the sleeve of his coat with a, “Come here, gorgeous.”

Lee thinks he could follow that phrase forever. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and Lee will have to examine that more closely at some point, but that point is not now. The way Nigel stares at him, however, makes Lee believe that he’s feeling just as conflicted.

This is what Lee has avoided since he was a teenager--the awkward post-date goodbye. “I had a great time?” he tries as he also tries to stand back up.

“Are you sure about that?” asks Nigel teasingly, and he tugs on Lee’s sleeve hard enough to topple him down into his lap. “You seemed like you were having a fucking fantastic time to me.”

“I did,” Lee says, laughing. “I’m terrible at partings unless I’m literally running off. Or else, sneaking out.”

“Not much better at it, myself.” Nigel nudges Lee’s cheek with his nose. “I did say I might just keep you under lock and key. Still an option.” Lee bites his lip and shifts in Nigel’s lap. “Oh, baby darling. We’re going to have fun, you and I.”

“Of that,” says Lee, “I have no doubt.” He extricates himself from Nigel’s lap. “Should I wait three days before I call you, or wait next to the phone like a forlorn lover?”

“I could just meet you for Chinese food for Christmas,” Nigel suggests. “Been ages since I got fucked up and hit a buffet.” He averts his eyes, smiling, and adds, “And I could use some company next time I drive to Charlene’s, if you’ve got the time.”

That phrase is so rife with double meanings that it makes Lee’s chest hurt. “If I’m not in treatment, or else in the middle of the downtime between sessions.”

“Keep me posted on that?” Nigel’s eyes are so soft, so kind. Understanding.

Lee knows what he has to do in January, when the question of continuing chemotherapy comes back up. He’s gone and gotten himself attached, and he only has himself to blame.

That’s okay. Lee will take the blame on this one.

He does lean down now, kisses Nigel as sweet as his gaze is, on the lips and then his cheek. “Absolutely,” he says. “I promise.”

“But we’re on for Christmas lunch, yeah?”

Lee grins, wider and wider. “Wouldn’t miss it.”