Roque is stretching, carefully, when Clay leans against the doorjamb and folds his arms across his chest. "The team's got a pool going on."
Team. The word's starting to roll more naturally out of Clay's mouth. They're starting to settle again, so Roque's question feels easy as he rolls his shoulders. "On what?"
"On whether we're fucking."
Mentally, he's drawn up short, and stares at Clay, who's wearing a grin that softens up his face. Clay's eyes dart down, and Roque follows, wondering what he's looking at, notices his hand, hovering near his shoulder, and follows through with the motion, digging the heel of his palm into the knotted muscles.
"Jensen?" he asks.
Clay shakes his head, arms dropping to his sides. His suit looks like shit, dress shirt rumpled — only partially buttoned anyway — and his pants creased from whatever Clay was doing earlier. If Roque's lucky, cleaning up that front room, clearing out a few of the boxes.
"The team," Clay answers, still wearing that 'you know how it is' grin.
"Who started it?"
Clay pushes off the door jamb and straightens, takes a step into the room, his eyes on the hand Roque has wrapped around his shoulder. "Probably Jensen."
Roque nods — nothing more to say — and starts massaging his right shoulder, get the goddamn muscle to un-tense so he can take a shower, wash his dick without hurting every time he has to move his arm. He lets his head hang and shuts his eyes, breathing through the small jolts that tingle down to his fingers. "So what did you tell them?"
"Nothing." Roque opens his eyes when Clay's hands close high around his shoulders, Clay's knuckles grazing Roque's neck when their eyes meet. "Told them it was classified."
Roque drops his hands, lets them hang loose between his thighs, and leans forward, resting his head against Clay's stomach. "You mean you told them it was none of their business."
There's a soft pause — Clay's probably grinning — but Roque doesn't feel like moving to confirm that. Clay's rubbing his shoulders in slow, circular motions, nothing deliberate, just Clay tracing the scar tissue that's bundled thick around Roque's shoulder blades. It's like Clay can't stop himself — and probably can't. He follows the long ropes of the burn scars that trail down Roque's back, careful not to press too hard or linger too long.
"How're you feeling?"
"Fucking tired," Roque says, and he is. "It's been a long day."
Roque straightens when Clay lowers, sinking down to the ground between his legs and setting Roque's hands on the bed. "How tired?" Clay asks, grinning like he always is and slowly spreading Roque's legs farther apart.
There's not another answer but the one he gave, so he sticks with, "Fucking tired," just as Clay thumbs open his pants. He shakes his head and can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, the muscles in his stomach twitching from the graze of Clay's knuckles against his skin.
Clay pulls out his cock, licks the head, and doesn't give Roque a chance to get his pants off, get a little more comfortable for this until he's sucked Roque's cock half hard and Roque's pulling on his hair.
"Come on, Clay," he gasps, but doesn't stop pumping his hips, sinking deeper into Clay's mouth, the drag of Clay's tongue making him moan.
Clay pulls off of Roque's cock, still wearing that smug fucking grin, but he helps Roque get out of his pants, moves them higher on the bed and then settles between Roque's legs, fingers stroking the backs of Roque's thigh.
Roque's breath catches on a moan — he nearly chokes on it — when Clay takes him deep, all the way to the root, and starts sucking until Roque's hard enough that he can feel the clench of Clay's throat around the head of his cock.
"Easy, Clay, easy."
Clay doesn't draw back, though, just rolls his tongue, watching Roque watch him, and Roque gets twitchy with that kind of watching, gets narrow-eyed and hungry. He grabs a fistful of Clay's hair to pull him off, to pull him back, get a rhythm going with that mouth, but Clay laughs — it's the only way to interpret the rumble of sound coming from Clay's throat. He eases off and focuses on the crown, the ridge, teasing Roque's slit with short, playful flicks of tongue that make Roque fall back on the pillows and groan.
"I'm still fucking tired," he says, staring down at Clay.
"No worries." Clay drags his tongue over Roque's balls, in a straight line to the tip of Roque's cock. "I can handle this."
"Then stop fucking teasing me, man."
Clay chuckles, the puff of his breath curling warm down Roque's cock. But then there's just the heat of Clay's mouth, the damp slide of it down, the slow bob up. Roque drops his head back, breathes out only to suck that breath back in when Clay rolls his tongue and Roque can't help but arch, needing more to unknot the tension that's lodging in the base of his spine. Clay gives it, eventually, after a little bit of teasing, starts fucking himself on Roque's dick until his mouth is red and slick with spit, and Roque's meeting each bob down with a slow roll of his hips.
When he comes, it's with his cock halfway in Clay's mouth, Clay's eyes shut tight and cheeks hollowed out, Roque cataloging all of it like he did their last night in Bolivia. It's a cold thought, but it's gone, like everything else, like Max, and all Roque's left with is the warmth of Clay's tongue as Clay licks him clean, the feel of Clay's broad hands wrapped around his thighs.