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Mi casa...

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They're arguing over who's going to get food, or rather they're sort-of-arguing. It's not that the matter's not urgent — it is — but more that they're so depleted of energy that neither of them seems able to get worked up about anything, not really.

"Take-away?" Tom says.

"In-n-Out doesn't deliver," Joe says, flattening one hand over his bare belly. He feels the growl before it sounds, empty stomach getting more vocal by the minute. "I want a burger. I need cheese. And fries. And a milkshake." His stomach seconds this list with a rumble.

Tom groans sympathetically, agreeing with both Joe and his stomach by the sounds of it. But he doesn't move, bare-ass naked over the sheets. "I'm the guest," he says. "You put on clothes and fetch us food." He lifts one hand and gives an imperial sort of wave towards the door.

"Ha," says Joe, "I have done nothing but cater to you since you arrived, it's totally your turn." He can't help grinning through the words though, because Joe hasn't exactly minded catering to Tom's every whim, not when most of said whims result in spectacular orgasms for both.

"Well, are you or aren't you a big famous actor?" Tom asks, though his own grin undercuts the import of his words; he knows Joe hates this title. "Call up one of your people and have them bring round burgers and fries and milkshakes," he continues. "What else do you pay them for?"

"Their actual jobs," Joe answers, rolling his eyes as he laughs at Tom. "Besides, what would I even say?"

"Tell them that you're too weakened by fucking your fit boyfriend into next week to dress yourself and drive ten minutes for food," suggests Tom, and maybe it’s a good thing they’re in L.A. and not London, because probably that’s exactly the sort of thing Tom would tell his own people — and Tom has people now, a professional cheeseburger-fetcher probably among them at this point.

"Fuck," says Joe, brought back to the idea of food via the concept of Tom’s designated cheeseburger-fetcher. "Holy shit, I'm fucking dying, here. Didn’t you say there were Oreos?"

"Ate 'em," says Tom, unrepentant about sacking Joe’s meagre pantry while Joe slept the sleep of the fucked out, earlier.

"Fine," says Joe, "fine, fucking fine,” and he rolls over onto his belly and slaps around the floor looking for any clothing that's both his and reasonably clean. He comes up with three pairs of Tom's underwear, but nothing else; for a while there, Tom kept getting dressed. (Eventually he realized it was more efficient to follow Joe's example and stay naked. California weather has its perks, after all.)

Joe decides Tom's underwear will do for a short trip, and wriggles the navy blue ones up his legs. They're maybe a little big around the waist; what the fuck ever.

"Hey," says Tom, though of course he's not objecting; Tom is a man of many foibles and quirks but let it never be said he minds sharing his underwear with Joe. "Get me vanilla," he says, instead. "Vanilla milkshake."

Joe lifts an eyebrow, quirks his mouth.

"What?" says Tom, all innocence. "I like vanilla."

"Right," says Joe, and pushes up on his arms, then his knees, sort of half-staggers to his feet from there. He's literally a bit wobbly, he finds, to his amusement. He doesn't know if it's his low blood sugar or if too much fucking really can have this effect, if it can make you sort of rubbery-legged and loopy, over and above feeling sore and used and stretched and — and fucking incredible. Joe's got no point of comparison, really; before Tom, Joe never spent thirty-six hours in bed with someone. He never wanted to, before.

"Steady on," says Tom, not missing Joe's little stagger as he finds his balance. "We've fucked away your coordination. It's a travesty."

Joe giggles, steadies himself on the dresser, swipes his glasses off the nightstand. Clearer vision makes it easier to locate a shirt, jeans, shoes, wallet. The shaky feeling isn't subsiding, much. Joe's going to have to force down whatever he can find in the fridge just to make it safely out the door and to his car. He thinks there's ketchup, maybe. Maybe Tom missed an Oreo crumb or two.

"Wish me luck," Joe says once he’s dressed. He’s nearly out of the bedroom, nearly clear, but now he makes the strategic error of glancing back at Tom to grin a farewell.

And there’s Tom: naked and hairy and lean; Tom, inky and bow-legged and still the tiniest bit flushed from their latest round. Tom, looking up from the bed, gazing at Joe through his lashes with a vaguely dazed look of fondness, of happiness, of admiration. It’s like he sees Joe as something extraordinary, Joe standing in the doorway in stale denim and worn hitRECord merch and smudgy glasses and borrowed underwear, hair probably going seven ways and mouth twisting with hesitation.

"Or we could get pizza," says Joe helplessly, because why stop at thirty-six hours when they could push it to forty-eight? “I mean, I hear they come right to your fucking door, the pizza guys."

"What will you Americans think of next?" marvels Tom, and lifts up one arm by way of invitation.

They haven't, it turns out, fucked away quite all of Joe's coordination. He's got enough left to strip out of his clothes as he knees over the bed and sprawls out alongside Tom. He lands wearing only his glasses and Tom's underwear. "Plus you get thirty minutes."

"Lots can be accomplished in thirty minutes," says Tom, stroking fingers through Joe's hair.

Joe turns his head into Tom’s touch. Some quiet, small place inside him marvels momentarily that he can be hungrier for Tom’s hands on him than he is for food to fill his pit of a stomach, even after hours and hours of nothing but. It should be scary, maybe; it’s not.

Tom pauses and tugs at a lock of hair at the back of Joe’s head. “Right, we need a phone,” he says, briskly and all-business like he’s not continuing to lie boneless and puddled over Joe’s mattress.

"You get it," says Joe.