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To See Italy and Die

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Bass found Miles in the cellar, leafing through what looked like old photo albums by the light of his oil lamp, taking long swigs off his canister.

“I used to think,” Miles mused to no one in particular, possibly to his drink, “That when faced with Zombie Apocalypse, I’d try to save as many of these as I could.”

“That was before the world went digital,” Bass responded, placing his hand on Miles’ shoulder and leaning over to look at the yellowing pieces of glossy paper.  Miles took another long swallow.  “What have you got there, anyways?” Bass poked at the container in his friend’s hand.

“Oh this?  Something I found.  It’s yellow.”

“Piss?” Bass inquired, sweetly, and took a careful sniff at the canister.

“Lemon-something.”

Bass took a small sip.  “Holy fuck, Miles, this is limoncello!”

“So?”

“So?  You asshole.  It’s Italian.  We will probably never drink this shit again – you should save it for a special occasion or something.”

Miles grinned with his entire face and pulled Bass closer.

“I didn’t realize you were such an aesthete, Monroe.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too,” Bass replied and turned his face away.  “I remember Italy very well, you know.  You had quite the time there yourself.  What was her name?  Isabel?”

“Isabella,” Miles corrected, drawling out the L’s.

“Now I suppose we’ll never see Italy again too.  Never fuck an Italian girl.  Never drink limoncello again.”  Bass watched Miles take another sip of the bittersweet beverage, and lick his lips, as his eyes traveled back to the photo album.  Bass wished he could know what Miles was thinking, but his face had assumed that stillness which always descended upon him when he drank.  Perhaps that was one of the reasons Miles enjoyed his drink so much.  “I love you,” Bass blurted out, impromptu.

“Well, that’s just foolish,” Miles chuckled, prompting Bass to slap him across the face.  It must have stung, but not as much as Miles’ careless words.  Miles slowly rubbed his skin where Monroe’s hand left a phantom imprint.  “Ow,” he muttered.

“I love you,” Bass repeated, more forcefully.

“And I repeat – that’s foolish, Bass.  I certainly haven’t deserved anyone’s love lately, least of all yours.”

“No, you’re the fool, Miles.”  Bass turned Miles towards himself by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet.  “I said – I love you.  And that has nothing to do with you.  I love you.  Surely even an asshole such as yourself has to realize that the chosen object of one’s love says much more about the desirer than the desiree.”

Miles chuckled again but cupped Bass’ face in both his hands.  His eyes sparkled with something very akin to glee.

“Sebastian Monroe,” Miles whispered and pulled Bass closer into his lap, “I believe it’s time you climbed Mount Vesuvius.”

Bass laughed as he straddled Miles’ thighs, feeling his hardness tenting his trousers.  He pressed his lips first to Miles’ forehead, and slowly slid them down the line of his nose, and finally sealed them to Miles’ own mouth.

“You have the strangest kinks,” Bass whispered.  “I never know what’s going to make you hard.”

“You are the one who was worried you’d never see Italy again,” Miles retorted with a hint of humor in his lust-tinged voice as he pressed Monroe’s hips closer to his growing erection.

“You want me to make Mount Vesuvius erupt, don’t you, pervo?”

“I wasn’t going to go there, but…” Miles didn’t need to finish the conversation because Bass’ hands were already making short work of his shirt and belt, freeing his straining erection from the confines of his uniform.  Miles buried his face in the crook of Monroe’s neck, biting down hard where the ligaments disappeared into his clavicle, making Bass moan and grind down harder into his lap.

“God… fuck… something… Miles…” Bass was becoming somewhat incoherent as he rummaged in his pockets for something they could use in a pinch.  Miles made a noise into his chest that sounded closer to a roar than a human utterance.  One of his hands was grasping Monroe’s ass, holding his body close, the other traveled down to his boot and pulled something out.

“Use this,” Miles pushed something plastic into Bass’ hand.

“Where did you get a condom?”

“Does it really matter?”

Bass held it up to the oil lamp.  “Figures.  Expired.”

“I don’t think I’m going to get you pregnant if it rips,” Miles growled and pulled Bass closer again, sucking and biting at his neck like a hungry wolf.  “It’s lubed, dammit,” he moaned, his erection angrily poking Bass in the abdomen.  Finally, seemingly deciding to take matters into his own hands, Miles picked Bass up by the hips and pushed him back onto the desk, positioning himself in between his spread thighs.  “And why the fuck are you still wearing pants?”

“Jeez, sorry, General Matheson.”  Bass laughed and began to fumble with his own zipper, a process that was not being facilitated by the fact that Miles had decided to roll up his shirt and start sucking and biting at his nipples.  “Fuck, Miles…”

“That’s the idea,” the other man encouraged, his own hand finally tugging at the infuriatingly clingy material of Monroe’s slacks and tossing them away as if they were the most offensive thing Miles had ever seen.  “God, you’re beautiful,” Miles whispered, looking down at Bass who was spread out for him on the desk like a debauched Seraph, waiting to get plowed.

“Show me,” Bass exhaled and pulled his lover into a searing kiss, wrapping his newly liberated thighs around Miles’ waist.  He heard Miles tear open the plastic and watched with interest as the last condom in the world, for all he knew, descended over Miles’ engorged cock.  Bass prayed that he would still be sufficiently stretched from their “breakfast” earlier that day.

“Here,” Miles suddenly pushed the limoncello into his hand.  “It’s a special occasion.”

Bass laughed and took a long drink of the liquor, the warmth of it coating his esophagus as he drank.  It burned a little, but in a very comforting way, Bass thought, momentarily distracted from the other burn, as Miles’ cock stretched him open and thrust deep inside him at last.

“Oh, God, yes!”

Bass was getting used to having Miles use him hard and fast, and to his moods and inclinations changing much like the weather in Chicago, but that did not mean he wasn’t going to make the best of the situation.  He dug his nails into the flesh of Miles’ exposed ass and pressed him even closer, encouraging and meeting each one of his thrusts with enthusiastic moans.  Miles wrapped his hand around Monroe’s own throbbing erection and pumped in time with the thrusts of his hips.  Bass understood during these moments why they called this the little death.

“Don’t stop!” Bass gasped.

“Never,” Miles growled into his neck, latching onto the skin there with his lips and teeth again.

“God… promise?” Bass was riding the edge of his orgasm, only holding himself back by some kind of latent tantric will.

“I’ll never stop,” Miles breathed into his skin and Bass could feel him cresting over his pinnacle before letting his own control go and spilling hot and slick into his best friend’s fist.

Bass lay there panting, Miles slumped over him, his weight very familiar and impossibly dear as Bass wrapped his arms around his broad shoulders and ran his fingers through his thick and overgrown hair.

“So much for Pompeii,” Miles mused into his sweat-coated neck.

Bass could not help but laugh.  “I still love you, silly metaphors aside,” he said.  He half expected Miles to tense up, or to say something infuriating.  But instead Miles just nuzzled closer to his jaw.

“Good,” Miles finally said and Bass could feel him smiling into his own skin.