Let me be...

Your comfort

The routine comes back for Mark and Corey as they hang out as a cute couple at day and have rough s*x as strangers at night.

And even though the American still fights against it, he has the plain excuse that involves financial need. He continues lying to himself, repeating that as soon as he gets the money he needs, he'll stop it.

But then what?

He had never thought about it until now that there are only three nights to go for him to get the amount he set a month ago.

He sighs, putting those worries aside before opening the door and revealing a pair of lustful blue eyes.

There is no doubt that both men crave for each other at least 12 of the 24 hours a day has.

That's why it's not the immediate kiss what takes Dark aback when he steps in, but the taste those pair of lips have after he bites them.

It's alcohol.

He suddenly feels a wave of pain rushing through his body, but he continues without saying a word.

The red-haired man's teeth are lowered to their usual spot on his neck as he tries to clear his mind from the only question he can think of. "What's wrong?"

Although Dark is weak enough to let those words slip from his tongue, is now Mark the one who stops them by exploring Corey's bitter mouth in a heated yet empty kiss.

There is now a more important promise to keep than the one he made with himself and there's no way on Earth that he'd break it, or at least that's what he thinks.

It is painful for Mark to see him like this. It does remind him of the very first night they spent together, which makes him wonder if he's had the same reason to look for him since then, if the Irish is still trying to escape from those old demons.

A loud moan echoes in the tiny bedroom as Corey's back arches against the cold wall behind him, pleasure filling his veins in the moment Dark finally pulls off his underwear and starts licking a line from the shaft to the tip of his lover's hard member.

He soon feels skinny fingers tangling in his recently dyed hair, urging him to continue to suck and bob his head back and forth in a quick pace.

Corey curses under his breath, his head now resting on the white surface behind him.

He drank five bottles of beer before getting to the hotel, saving that last one to drink it in the bedroom, the empty glass now shattered on the floor by the farthest corner, hiding the anger it was tossed with in the darkness.

The Irish still can't believe he got there safely. There wasn't a lot of cars on the streets, but he does remember going a little faster whenever the yellow light was about to turn red.

At the moment, he wished a truck appeared from nowhere just to crash against his vehicle, but it never happened.

Now he's glad though, because he knows that not even heaven is as perfect as the man he's given his heart to.

It takes them only seconds to move onto the bed, with the slightly taller man digging his nails in the other's hips, thrusting inside him until their uneven breathing synchronizes and they let out a final moan as they reach the orgasm, one after another.

"You're a f*****g God, Mark." Wallcox says between groans.

This would have normally made the other male chuckle, but now there's no response from him.

Mark indeed loves the way his name sounds with that thick accent of Corey's, but he hates it when it's said with dragged letters and toxic breath.

Thus, he turns his companion around once they're done, cupping his angelic face between his hands and trying to read the answer to that question that has been bothering him throughout the whole night in those crystal blue eyes.

Corey smiles faintly, taking Mark's left hand and bringing it close to his mouth before kissing it. "I love you." He mutters against his warm skin, his voice no longer filled with desire, but with. . . Sadness?

The American frowns deeply, caressing his lover's cheek.

No matter how badly he wants to answer with the same words, he still has no excuse to break the deal between them.

"You're so drunk, Corey." Is all he whispers, making the man beneath him giggle. "Come here."

Yes, Mark can't say how much he cares for the Irish at the moment.

He can, nonetheless, show that care with actions.

He carries the lighter man towards the bathroom, turning on the shower before closing the door behind them.

Once the mirror above the sink gets foggy and their muscles relax under the steaming water, Mark opens a cheap, small bottle of shampoo and starts washing Corey's hair, who only closes his eyes and hums in response, leaning forward to the touch.

It feels good.

Probably better than being f****d in the ass.

But Corey didn't know that this was what he needed instead. And, unfortunately, he probably won't remember after the hangover.

When the shampoo is rinsed and Mark's hands start cleaning his skin, taking his time to massage Corey's tensed shoulders, the younger sighs and turns around, surprising the taller with a soft kiss, similar to the one they had under the cold rain the night they finally accepted their feelings for each other.

This simple, little thing is enough to convince Mark that it's ok breaking promises every once in a while.

After all, that is exactly what has put him in this situation right here; a treat he made with his best friend and that he would disregard later.

Corey leans back, his tears falling along with the running water over his red cheeks.

No matter how well Mark knows him, there's no way he'll ever guess the reason behind his sorrow.

The Irish thought that alcohol would make him forget the note he found on his desk at work. But now he knows that not even his favorite drug can erase those words from his memory.

That short message wanders relentlessly in his mind as he still tries to find out who left it; because he will have worst consequences than being fired from his job in mere weeks unless that unknown person chooses not to say a word.

His whole life is in that stranger's hands and that has him terrified.

He looks down at their feet, feeling a pair of lips on his forehead.

Sadly, not even this keeps that fear from increasing.

The crumbled piece of paper didn't have any clue on it. Just a sentence formed with stray letters that have been cut off from random magazines reading:

"I know your secret, Corey Wallcox."