3

Chris leans his head briefly against Toby’s thigh, pulse racing, heart pounding. Being an expert cocksucker isn’t something he's ever been *proud* of – and that’s the understatement of the fucking millennium, right there – but hell, seeing Toby like this, well, it might’ve been worth a lesson or two, at least. 

He’s sprawled across the mattress, eyes closed, body loose, all that pale skin flushed and slick with sweat, and Chris’d have to be a goddamn saint not to pounce on that, to hell with any demons. And he’s never been considered even close to a saint, not for a single day in his whole life.

Though he has come closer than he’d ever thought he could, in the past couple months.

Fact is, he’d always made sure to hold part of himself back; enjoying himself, hell yeah, but staying unaffected. All a part of the old strategy, born out of necessity but pretty much instinctive to him now. Study each response, scrutinize each reaction, file away the results in his wicked, wicked brain, because these are the weapons in his particular arsenal.

Simple.

Nothing simple about this, though, not since day one. In all the years of playing pursuit and conquer, he has never felt -- *this.* Fucking is about giving, or it’s about taking. The motive behind it makes all the difference. And Chris has done it all: sex for power, sex for payment, sex for pleasure, doesn’t matter. This, though... this is a whole new ball game. A different motive all around. Or maybe it’s all of them, rolled into one.

Aww, fuck. What the hell is he doing? Beecher’s lying across his bed bare-assed naked for the first time ever, and he’s spouting psychobabble bullshit -- to *himself*, no less.

Toby’s voice, soft and questioning, interrupts his dark thoughts. “Chris. Hey, it’s all right.”

“Show me,” Chris says, savagely.

***

Toby half-rises, pushing Chris backwards until he’s lying flat on his back, and before he even lays a hand on him Chris is halfway to the finish line. Toby leans on one elbow and gazes down, shy and hungry all at once like Chris is some new foreign food that he’s afraid to try, and that alone would be enough to get Chris buzzing if he wasn’t already. But when Toby flicks out his tongue nervously, wetting his lips, it’s all Chris can do to keep still and let Toby set the pace.

Finally, Toby sets his hand on Chris’s chest. At first his touch is vague, hesitant, a mere brush of warm fingers on his skin, but Chris sucks in his breath sharply, as if he’s been burned. Toby’s hand quickly grows bolder -- gliding over firm muscles, skimming over taut nipples, and Chris throws one arm over his eyes, desperate to think of something -- *anything* -- other than how good that feels, how hot Beecher looks, and how much he wants to feel that wet mouth. On him. Right fucking NOW.

“I didn’t know I’d like touching you this much.” Toby says, bemused.

“I did.” Chris answers without a shred of modesty.

Toby sniffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Conceited son of a bitch.”

“Nah. Just honest.”

“Yeah, right,” Toby says wryly. “You’re just a role model for honesty. That’s why you’re in Oz.”

“Touch me all you want, Toby. I ain’t going anywhere.” Chris stretches his limbs lazily, then manages to pull off a fairly convincing fake yawn. “Mmm, 'less I fall asleep…”

“Oh, sorry, am I keeping you awake? I can always go back to my own bunk--”

Chris grabs Toby’s wrist, growling. “I don’t think so.”

Toby smiles, and resumes his light, teasing massage of Chris’s body. Suddenly his hands are everywhere all at once: exploring, caressing, angling downward ever closer to the mark, and Chris’s breath grows shallow in anticipation. Glancing up, he catches the slight change in Toby’s expression, the subtle light dawning in those pale eyes, and Chris *knows* that look, knows exactly what Toby is experiencing: that first real taste of sexual power. With anyone else, Chris would feel threatened by it, would instantly turn the tables and reclaim control. But this is *Toby*. Toby, who’d been steamrolled into submission by Vern; Toby, who’d been brought so low that even a slug like Chris looks good to him now. Chris understands all of that; he understands that *this* is the gift he can give, may even be the only one. Strangely enough, that thought turns him on even more.

After only a slight hesitation, Toby’s hand dips lower, taking Chris’s aching cock fully into his hand.

“Christ, Beech…” Chris groans, his breath now coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

Toby leans over, his lips traversing the J-shaped curve of Chris’s neck and shoulder, while down below his hand takes up a motion that steals the last coherent thought from Chris’s brain. Eyes closed, head thrown back, he’s practically vibrating from the feeling of Toby’s hands on him for the first time -- those fingers wrapped tightly around him, milking him, whipping the breath out of his lungs with each stroke. Silently Toby moves lower, replacing his hand with the moist heat of his mouth, and Chris is gripped by an emotion so raw and so fierce it brings all of his own fear back into full
force.

In a sudden jarring movement, he pulls away and grips Toby by the shoulders, flipping him over onto his back. His mouth comes down hard, kissing Toby roughly, but Toby just pulls him closer, meeting each fierce kiss with his own thrusting tongue and sharp teeth. They come against each other almost violently; limbs twining, tongues dueling, a satisfying skirmish in the only war in Oz they both can win. Toby arches up against him, as eager and desperate as Chris is himself, and Chris no longer wants to think about why. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. It won’t matter. He won’t let it matter.

Driven now by Toby’s insistence as well as his own, he moves back down the length of Toby’s body, using warm lips, wet tongue and skilled hands to prepare him. In the tiny part of his brain that is still functioning, it occurs to him that Toby is no longer even slightly reluctant -- he’s submitting completely, as if he *trusts* Chris now, trusts him to make this right despite Chris’s own doubts that he can. 

Trust. It’s what he’s wanted from Toby from the very beginning, and what he’s sought from him ever since. The thought sobers him, weighs on him heavily as he moves back up to take Toby into his arms.

Toby starts to turn over, but Chris stops him. “Not like that.” Ignoring Toby’s surprised expression – best not to even *think* about that one -- he slides up and over so their bodies re-align, shifting his cock between Toby’s thighs. “Like this,” he says, then sighs raggedly when Toby wraps his arms around him, holding him close.

Only for a moment, though – and then Toby pulls away.

Chris looks down, his dark eyes narrowing, searching for signs of fear – or anything else he should know about -- in those pale eyes. When Toby finally speaks, his voice is emotional but steady. 

“I want you to know,” he says quietly. “I do forgive you. And I do love you.”

Ah... *fuck*. Chris closes his eyes tightly, gripped by a sudden ache that has nothing to do with sex. He feels the words -– the truth of them -- settle over him, move *into* him, in just the way that he moves into Toby: silently, solemnly, the motions and the emotions becoming one and the same. He feels the shocking warmth of being welcomed and wanted, the rushing sense of freedom as barriers are breached, and finally, finally, the encompassing grip of acceptance. 

Burying his face in Toby’s neck, his mouth wide against Toby's skin, he gasps from the flood rushing through him. Struck, shocked by how much he needed to hear it, to know it. And when he can’t hold back anymore, when his body clamors for the finish and he at last begins to move, he raises his head slowly – and knows, *finally*, that Toby feels all of it too. Sees it on his face, hears it in his rough cry, and feels it, way deep within, where souls and bodies join -- each to each, and each to the other, for the first time.