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"This could be considered compromising." Adam's most sensible voice doesn't quite seem good enough but it's all he has at the minute. Bluffing has worked for him before after all.

He's almost certain Lucas will catch him at it, he doesn't think he'll hurt him for it though, no matter that he always seems tempted, and he does.

Lucas is all sharp angles and edges and it shows, when he forgets that it isn't supposed to. Adam will admit, quietly and only to himself, that Lucas's edges are part of the reason he's so hard to look away from. Sharp edges under skin that's a few shades paler and a few shades softer than it should be.

It's the sort of face that will lure you in with smiles and then tear your throat out, and Adam isn't used to trusting faces like that.

He's used to spotting them and making them disappear.

He's fairly sure Lucas doesn't mean to tear his throat out.

"Lucas -"

"Shut up," Lucas tells him, narrow cold fingers too tight where they can't quite grip in his hair, while he tilts his head, forcibly, far enough that the pointed comment he was going to make ends up crushed under Lucas's mouth.

It's not a pretty kiss by any means. If it was Adam doesn't think he would want it half as much. It's more of a dare, or brutal honesty, that this is exactly what it is and nothing more.

When Lucas mouth travels down his throat, teeth digging in, Adam rethinks his earlier certainty. Just for second it hurts, bright and real, and he hisses and Lucas breathes against his neck like he wants to hurt him, like it's something he could do, something that's there - but then he laughs, soft and throaty in a way that sounds and feels almost obscene that close to the skin.

There's a slow measured inhale and the bright sharp pieces of Lucas that are broken are packed neatly away. He twists Adam's head until he can kiss him again, less rough, more civilised, and it's clear enough that this one is the mask.

Adam thinks about protesting, he's less breakable, less clean, than everyone seems to think and he's not entirely averse to bright edges. But he only thinks it for a second, only for a brief, never entirely serious, second. Because this is a different sort of trust, painted over so many times it's ninety percent fake anyway. Maybe it's not the sort of trust that matters, maybe it's just this? It's amazing how many things in Adam's life he can file under 'things that don't matter.' It's amazing how few of them actually belong there.

He's not sure where Lucas belongs.

At the moment there's just determination and stubbornness and a genuine desire to press Lucas into the nearest surface and bruise some of his sharp edges, just to prove he can, and Adam's aware that thought isn't pretty either. But Lucas makes it alright somehow, in some way that probably isn't good for the soul. But Adam stopped counting months ago, maybe even years.

They're probably both too fucked up to do this. But it doesn't seem to matter, because they clearly are doing it. Lucas's cold fingers are dragging his shirt out of his trousers, neat lines turning to messy, loose crinkles of white, fisted in his hands and used to encourage him backwards, two steps, then three. Until Adam's back presses cold against the fridge, makes it rock on its base.

Lucas hands shove underneath his shirt, not quite as cold as the metal but only by bare degrees, he touches Adam like he thinks he'll be told to stop. Quick flashes of greed and sharp digs of fingers and Adam could protest that- it's a fierce and untidy way to be wanted, but he finds his breathing not at all steady, less so when Lucas mouth presses into his, one hand on his collar, holding him there.

"Say no now if you're going to," Lucas says harshly against the wet edge of his mouth, in that quiet uncivilised way he has that always sounds half balanced on the edge of chaos.

He makes it sound so final, so threatening, like if Adam chooses to stay he's giving permission for more than just sex.

He chooses anyway, gives Lucas nothing but silence and Lucas's stillness becomes strangely calmer. He pushes the open edges of Adam's shirt open, draws it down his arms while he leans in, expression unreadable. But it ends in another kiss, hard enough to bruise the edges of his mouth.

Adam's shirt falls, stays strewn on the kitchen floor.

He knows where Lucas's bedroom is, and he doesn't protest.

It's almost dark in the room, all shadows and half sunlight slanted all the way to yellow. But it's light enough for this, more than enough and if it was something they were going to hide they would have hidden it better. If they'd cared, or thought to.

Lucas presses him down into the bed, shoving, almost angrily, at his own clothing, face serious and hard, but once, when it tips to look at Adam, almost apologetic.

Adam pushes into him for a change, wipes the expression away and pretends he never saw it.

Lucas's elbow, at just the wrong angle, feels metal sharp. Though they're shifting boundaries too quickly for the complaint to be worthwhile. It presses into a muscle, sends it briefly numb, and moves on.

Lucas slides down, bare shoulders flexing, a flaring twist of ink and pale skin while his hands tug and dig into Adam's trousers before pushing underneath.

Adam's hand moves down the bed, but doesn't touch the curve of Lucas shoulder, or the pale skin of his neck, he makes absolutely sure he doesn't touch the impossibly dark fall of his hair. Doesn't, he makes his fingers dig into the rumpled sheets instead, when Lucas pulls at the waist of his jeans, tugs until denim shifts to his thighs, digs in tight.

Then there's just the warmth of Lucas breath, and then the heat of his mouth.