MW - Waffen and Fletcher Pt. 1

Christchurch, New Zealand




'Do it, Zio.'
'No, Emma, stop being a pest.'
'Do it,' Emma repeated in the same hissing undertone, jabbing her uncle hard on the arm. 'I'll come fishing with you if you do.'
'Bullshit,' Fletcher turned to her, fixing her with a scrutinizing glare.
'I will, I promise, but only if you get over there and hit on him! Me and Donna can hold the fort, it's not like it's busy, anyway!'
Fletcher uttered a chuckle at the sincerity in her wide brown eyes.
'Why don't we make a better deal? You know that Anton bloke who called you the other week, who was so important for you to talk to you stopped right in the middle of making Mr Moretti his macchiato?'
Emma flushed deep red, but did not respond beyond furiously pursing her lips.
'Yeah, him,' Fletcher continued, waving an accusing finger at her blush. 'You asked him out yet?'
'Excuse me for being a traditionalist, but he should ask me out.'
'Nice try. You swear you'll ask him out, and I'll go hit on the Pom.'
'Right now?'
'Right this very minute.'  
'Fine. Fine. Hop to it, then.' Emma gave him a forceful shove in the small of the back, propelling him from the kitchen of the small café and out behind the counter. She crossed her arms in steadfast defiance and blocked the doorway through whence they'd come. 'Go on,' she muttered, nodding her head at the customer sitting at the table by the doors.
Fletcher withheld a sigh and looked over at the man she'd indicated.
He normally sat outside, as he was usually accompanied by a very large and very old German Shepherd, whose lead he wound around the leg of his chair while he read the newspaper or a book. Sometimes he sat there for hours, absently stroking the dog's head, murmuring to it occasionally as though emerging from deep thought. In no way had he given Fletcher the impression of a contented, life-pondering observer, however, because when he made his order (always tea, never coffee, which Fletcher regarded with mild abhorrence because coffee was both his livelihood and his soul), the man's manner and accent were so primly and stereotypically British Fletcher hadn't even dared to make a joke about the rugby.
This man was also gay, but not in the mournfully suppressed, closet-dwelling way Fletcher associated with the English, rather he was outlandish, patent and proud. As was Fletcher, or he had been. Once he'd hit thirty all the vivid colours, endless nights and delicious promiscuity had no longer seemed vivid, endless or even remotely delicious, and he'd had the epiphany he preferred his own company to such a lifestyle. This did coincide with the fact Fletcher hadn't had sex since turning thirty, and now with his thirty-second birthday looming, he was beginning to feel a little restless.
Not that he wanted to get this man into bed – well, that would be nice on the non-existent chance it happened; but also courtesy of being thirty-plus was a pervasive longing he felt for continuing to know someone after he'd slept with them. This was an exaggeration, he'd been in relationships, he'd just rather he forgot about every one of them.
After a second and final shove from Emma, he stepped around the counter and crossed the café, wondering absently if the man would prove too English to have a sense of humour, in which case this was going to go pear-shaped very quickly.
By the time he reached the table he'd decided he wasn't really bothered at all, as there was no way anything could come of this, other than creating a little reassurance for Emma he hadn't given up entirely on love. Granted, she was just shy of twenty, so "love" was still a feasible possibility in her world, but it was sweet of her to care.
Oh, to be young, he thought, slipping his hands into the pockets of jeans and finding a casual stance.  
'Whereabouts is your four-legged friend this morning?' he asked lightly. He then resisted the urge to sigh to the heavens, because the ancient dog had probably finally kicked the bucket, making its location a few feet under. This is what happens when you decide not to think, he chided himself.
The man looked up at him slowly, and Fletcher could tell from his expression the dog wasn't dead, which was a relief, but there was something in his face that unnerved him none-the-less. A kind of silent knowing; Fletcher dismissed it, being as far from the superstitious sort as one can get.  
'He's got terrible arthritis, I couldn't bring myself to walk him today, he was just too sore,' the man answered simply, his accent making a whole host of jokes and jibes cackle about in Fletcher's head. With some degree of difficulty, he ignored them.
'How old is he?'
'Nearly twelve. A good innings, but he's not long for this world, I fear.'
'Well, in the absence of better company, might I join you?'
There, that would be enough to appease Emma. After he'd been rejected she could get on with her day, and he could call the Ponto people, make an order for decaf–
'By all means,’ the man waved a hand at the empty seat across from him.
Fletcher got halfway to thinking, "Damn it", when he paused to look at this man properly for the first time.
Upon their first encounter, he had reminded Fletcher forcibly of a bantam rooster, what with his upright conduct, small, lithe frame, and hair that stood on end. Said hair was dyed royal blue at the roots and a kind of fresh green for the rest, making Fletcher proceed to wonder if anyone had ever tried to breed bantam hens with peacocks. He'd thought this man was really a few years too old to be dying his hair such eye-assaulting colours, but looking into his face now Fletcher realised he was a good deal younger than he'd thought.  He looked to be in his late twenties, not mid-thirties as Fletcher had supposed.
His features were as sharp as his voice. He had a long nose, and behind his rimless glasses his eyes were a fierce storm-cast ocean blue, and although his current smile was small and polite, Fletcher could tell he had a mouth to rival the Cheshire cat.
Somehow, Fletcher now realised, it was all very pleasing. He pulled out the chair and sat down, feeling Emma's grin boring into the back of his head.
'You're the owner, aren't you?' asked the man evenly, tipping his head to watch him at a slight angle Fletcher knew instantly to mean: I am interested.
'I am,' he replied, and said nothing further, wondering where the man might take this conversation himself.
'And do you lavish this amount of attention on all your regulars?' The man raised an eyebrow, and Fletcher caught himself before doing the same.
What an opening, he thought, impressed.
'No. Just the good-looking, gay ones,' he said frankly. He possessed the knack for making such lines sound natural, and could tell from look in the man's eyes he was going to need to go all out.
'Ah. Well, I must say I'm pleased,' the man's smile stretched a little wider. ‘You're not so bad yourself... for a Kiwi.'
Fletcher couldn't stop his eyebrows rising this time. Without realising it, he too was displaying all the traits of interest. He crossed his arms and leant back, pleasantly surprised.
'You do have a sense of humour,' he said approvingly.
The man chuckled, an impish, opulent sound. 'Kiwi isn't all there is to you, though. You don't get that sun-kissed look from Maori blood, there's European in you. Not quite Greece, not quite Spain, perhaps something in between?' A second chuckle. 'Quite literally.'
'This is an Italian café,' Fletcher said dryly.
'I'm aware of that, in addition to being good-looking and gay I do happen to be observant, but an Italian label means very little these days. You lot are everywhere, as are your imposters. You're only half, though, am I right?'
'You are. How can you tell? I'd always thought it'd contributed to more than half my genes.' Fletcher was surprised by how soon he'd had to think on his feet; there was no time for hesitation with this one. The man's pale eyes were growing brighter by the second, filling with lightning-fast competence, and Fletcher refused to be left behind.
'Mm, I can see what you mean about your genes,' the man's gaze dropped from Fletcher's face, no doubt insinuating Fletcher's chest hair had been exposed by the neckline of his t-shirt. 'But your eyes give you away. They're a little too blue for the Mediterranean.'
'So where're you from?' Fletcher enquired, curious to see how he would respond to such an obvious question.
'You can't tell?' the man replied with intense dubiousness, implying he knew full well Fletcher could tell.
'I can tell you're a Pom, but the UK's a bit more densely populated than this island, and your accent is... interesting.'
The gentle taunt didn't appear to even register, so Fletcher made a note to try harder next time.
'I'm from London, although I was born in Birmingham, but I've taken great lengths to forget about that.' The man pulled a face, a deliberately flimsy shroud over his apparent pain.
'Why is that?' This time Fletcher asked with no ulterior motive.
'I had an awful adolescence. How was yours?' he gave his attention to his tea, seamlessly brushing Fletcher off, and so Fletcher relented.
'Mine was fine,' he said with a shrug.
'Then I'm afraid this won't work,' the man flicked his eyes back to him from over his teacup. Fletcher sensed the challenge escalating. 'Only people with similar amounts of emotional baggage suit each other best.'
'Who's to say I haven't picked up baggage elsewhere?' Fletcher offered with ease. 'Or that opposites don't attract?' he added with a smile.
The man took a considerate sip of his tea. 'Excellent points, you argue a strong case. Were you to further our acquaintance I would not decline.' He spoke brusquely, but Fletcher would have sworn his eyes had finally softened.
At least a minute had passed since Fletcher had decided wholly and completely he'd been wrong: something could indeed come of this, and now he was going to gauge the potential.
'Any objections to Italian food? Or is it just our migration habits that bother you?' he enquired courteously, intrigued when a brief flicker of surprise passed over the man's face.
'That depends,' the man said slowly. 'Italian food in accordance with which meal?'
'Dinner.' Fletcher said firmly, with every air of his unspoken thought: I'm going to do this properly.
There was considerably more than just a flicker of surprise on the man's face now, and he appeared almost struck. He recovered shortly and was soon smiling again.
'What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?' he lowered both his voice and his chin so as to look up at Fletcher coyly.
'Not at all. Jared Fletcher, but for arguments sake I'm just Fletcher,' he held out a hand and the man accepted it, shaking it deliberately, slipping his fingers around Fletcher's with a silent whisper of intent. That did it, the spark was lit, and Fletcher wished he wasn't so weak before he yielded to it and gave the man's warm hand a light squeeze.
'We do have something in common, then,' their hands fell apart, but not without their pulses matching first. 'I also go by my surname. Angus Waffen.'
'Waffen,' Fletcher repeated, wanting to test how the name felt on his tongue, and finding it as amusing as its owner. 'How's that spelt?'  
'The German way, unfortunately, despite the pronunciation. An unhappy coincidence.'
'The Jerries are alright.'
'Yes,' Waffen conceded, directing his smile at his teacup for a moment. 'I suppose they are. But right now I'd much rather make time for the Italians,’ he looked back up, enthused.
'And their half-cast Kiwi offspring, I hope?'
'Naturally.'
'What're you doing here, then? This is a long way from home,' Fletcher spoke bracingly now, the signal for them to relax after the banter; they had reached the same page.
'Well,' Waffen pushed his teacup around in its saucer. ‘That's a difficult question. The answer's somewhere between business and pleasure, I suppose. That and I'd heard the weather was nice here.'
'The weather?' Fletcher said incredulously. 'I feel pretty safe in saying that's the last thing I expected you to say. If I've got you talking about the weather I must really be in.'
Waffen laughed indulgently, and it was a good deal less impish than his prior chuckling, rather unexpectedly good-natured.
'Don't think on it too much, I'm rather fond of the weather. More so than the average person, I can assure you,' he said with great conviction.
The strange, inherent "knowing" Fletcher had sensed from him when they first locked eyes flared again. It felt less eerie now, and so he found it doubly easy to disregard.
'In that case, I sure hope you like the rain, because as soon as winter sets in it'll be worse than London.'  
Waffen's smile stretched to the full extent of Fletcher's Cheshire cat prediction, winningly roguish and alight with ardour.
'That's precisely what I'm hoping for,' he said silkily.
Fletcher opened his mouth to reply, but Emma's voice rang out apologetically behind him.
'Zio, Ponto are on the phone.'
'Yep,' Fletcher stood, saying gravely to Waffen: 'You never did say yes to dinner.'
'Didn't I?' Waffen said incredulously. 'That was silly of me.'
'I'll take that as the affirmative?'
'Sì.' Waffen flashed him a second wide smile.
'Hang around for a bit longer, I'll just take this call.'
'If you insist.'
Not wanting to break eye contact, but knowing the cost if he didn't, Fletcher turned away, greeted with Emma's determinedly blank face. He joined her behind the counter, the two of them moving back into the kitchen.
'They'd better be on the phone, you weren't just staging a rescue, were you?' Fletcher muttered.
'They are, here,' she pressed the phone into his hand. 'What happened?'
He held up a finger to quieten her, grinning, and put the phone to his ear. Emma fumed in impatient, wilful silence while he created unnecessary conversation with the sales rep on the other end of the line. When he finally hung up she bombarded him once more.
'What did you talk about? Did it work? What freakin' happened?!'
'I'm taking him out to dinner,' Fletcher said evenly.
'Bullshit!' Emma squeaked.
'Nope. Although speaking of bullshit, you are now coming fishing with me and asking Anton out. Fair's fair.'  



'I've never really known why, but I don't like Stairway to Heaven,' Fletcher said thoughtfully. 'I never did.'
Waffen had been replying to everything Fletcher said with absolute ease until this point, and likewise Fletcher had been replying to him. They'd been talking so steadily they'd only refilled their wine glasses once in the last hour.
But now Waffen was silent, entirely stunned. He took so long to come to his senses Fletcher got to speaking a second time: 'You'd die for that song, I take it?'
'No,' Waffen breathed, his eyes widening. 'No, I always found it too... too haughty– Dear God, I have never met anyone else who didn't like it!'
'Well, there you go.' Fletcher smiled, snapping the end off a grissini from the little basket in front of them and slipping it between his teeth.
'I'd always thought it was the fact I refuse to agree when the world claims something is "the best",' Waffen continued airily.
Fletcher chuckled. 'I do the same, it's stubborn cynicism, but two of us can't be wrong.'
'As much as I hate to give it to the Yanks, Lynyrd Skynyrd had the greatest guitar solo with Free Bird, of this I have no doubt,' Waffen held his tongue before adding he'd seen both Stairway to Heaven and Free Bird performed live in their prime era, so if anyone could judge it was him.
He hadn't quite figured out if or how he was going to explain to Fletcher he'd been born in 1946. He'd been hanging around with other paranormal abnormalities for far too long; it wasn't as though he didn't feel human, despite everything, but if things continued as they were, the fact he was something of a minor deity was undeniably going to crop up eventually.
'It's less lofty, it connects,' Waffen pressed, averting his eyes from Fletcher's for a moment, knowing Fletcher wasn't aware of their true colour but feeling strangely self-conscious all the same.
If it comes down to it, he thought simply, I can just leave. And he meant "leave" as in "the country". He snuck a look at Fletcher from over his wineglass, chewing his lip. After dessert, the little voice in his head added in a mutter, and he agreed, his gaze falling to hover over Fletcher's large, sun-tanned hands.
'Yeah, I know what you mean. I have always liked anything Clapton, though,' Fletcher said lightly. Waffen grimaced and Fletcher grinned. 'What? You'd spurn a fellow countryman? I suppose you already did with Led Zeppelin.'
'It's not that at all, I–' Waffen paused, inwardly stunned that for the first time in years propriety seemed to matter to him. He mentally shook himself, and pressed on without a hint of guilt: 'One of the best orgasms I ever had was to Let it Grow, which I credit entirely to the song and not who I was shagging at the time.'
Fletcher laughed, and Waffen wondered why he'd been worried he might react otherwise. 'At least he had good taste in music, or was it your choice?'
It hadn't been anyone's choice, it had simply been debuting on the radio along with the rest of Eric Clapton's 461 Ocean Boulevard in the July of 1974.
'My choice.' Waffen said flatly.
'I can understand why. The way it peaks?'
'Yes,' Waffen mirrored Fletcher's small, wry smile, trying not to give in to the faint warmth nagging at his cheeks.
He could remember the afternoon so clearly, everything but the face of the man he'd been with; he'd always made an effort not to look them in the eye. With retrospect, he knew on that afternoon he'd been only weeks from deciding to kill himself. He could feel the way the song had fed a little life into him as though it was playing for him now.  
'The baseline is like a heartbeat,' he said gently, and then he did blush, albeit angrily, thinking that contribution to be needlessly sentimental.
'What was the face for, then?' Fletcher asked curiously, his voice soft.
It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him with romantic affection that Waffen quickly decided he'd imagined it.
'Hm? Oh. I was just going to say that in addition to not liking Stairway to Heaven, I never liked Tears in Heaven, either. That's slightly more heinous than "stubborn cynicism", though, it probably makes me something of a monster.'
Perhaps I am, he thought suddenly, surprised. The idea had never occurred to him before, but it seemed fitting.
'I always skip it when I'm listening to his "Best of", it makes me uncomfortable. I don't think it makes you a monster, a song is a song, not just its inspiration. I'd be interested to know what you think about My Father's Eyes, in that case, though.'
Waffen stole a moment to take another sip of wine; he had never, not once, listened to that song the whole way through. Hearing it had always torn at him as cruelly as if he'd swallowed broken glass.
'It's marginally better,' he said offhandedly.
Fletcher drew in a breath and then exhaled, leaning back against his chair and surveying Waffen with avid consideration, lightly tapping a fingernail against the stem of his wineglass. Waffen felt cornered beneath the penetrating vigour of the stare, and instinctively met Fletcher's gaze with equal force. It was as it had been with Karma: Waffen knew he was going to lose.
'Alright,' Fletcher began appraisingly; the fact he was blinking quite normally lent no relief to Waffen feeling as though the deep blue of his eyes were shards of ice, sharper than any he'd ever conjured, and that they had stapled him to his chair. 'What's your favourite song? I know it's impossible to have one, but what's the first one that popped into your head when I asked the question?'
Waffen opened his mouth, and then shut it.
He'd been waiting for someone to ask him that question since 1972, and now he couldn't answer it. Not to this man. He'd always been such a prolific judge of character, and yet he could barely lay a finger on Fletcher. It was worse than it had been with Karma. Or maybe he was simply panicking because the answer to the question also offended propriety, the ridiculous thing he'd somehow decided to start worrying about since sitting down. What did he care so much about Fletcher judging him? To use the vernacular: he hadn't given one flying fuck about what people thought of him in nearly half a century.
He sat up straighter, and in his effort not to sound defensive, his tone was distant and cold:
'Lou Reed, Perfect Day.'
'And why is that?' Fletcher prompted, unphased by Waffen's change in demeanour.
'Although it's woefully melodramatic, once upon a time I thought it would be the perfect song to slit my wrists to. Thankfully I didn't, because I hadn't yet heard Leonard Cohen's Everybody Knows. That way I would've had a last laugh.'
Fletcher watched him in frozen silence, his expression unchanging. Then he smiled.
'You sure are different from what I thought,' he said calmly.
Disarmed, Waffen dimmed the ferocity in his eyes.
'So are you,' he said sadly.
'You're not going to extend the same question to me?' Fletcher prompted kindly.
Waffen gave a small chuckle, and something that felt uncannily like gratitude welled within him.
'Of course. Your favourite song as of this moment?'
Fletcher cast his eyes to the left, thinking, finally letting out a disappointed sigh. 'It's no good. I knew before you asked I'd only be able to think of the song that has the highest play count on my iTunes. I was hoping I'd think of something more interesting I could lie about.'
'And the song is?' Waffen fought hard not to display the surge of horror he'd received at forgetting for two whole seconds what iTunes was. He had most definitely spent too long with paranormal abnormalities... and his vinyl record player, but he'd rather blame the former.
'Have you heard of Crowded House?'
'I have, although when it comes to the Finn brothers I admit I've heard a lot more of Split Enz than I have their later stuff. That wouldn't be your Kiwi pride at work there, would it?'
'Probably,' Fletcher chortled. ‘The song's called Weather With You, it was one of their bigger hits.'
'It rings a bell,' Waffen said.
'You'd like it, given what you said about the weather yesterday. I've always found it nice to listen to.'
'If it's about the weather I'm sold,' Waffen said slyly. ‘There are too few songs about the weather, and far too many about love.'
'It's also a bit of a love song, I'm sorry,' Fletcher said, not sounding sorry at all, rather intrigued and slightly pleased.
Waffen cocked his head, regarding Fletcher diffidently with growing fondness. 'I forgive you,' he said, risking the unveiling of his genuine smile and feeling his blood course a fraction faster when Fletcher mirrored it. 'On one condition, though,' he continued sternly, 'that we get some food, I'm really quite hungry.'  
'Ok,' Fletcher tapped Waffen's menu obligingly. 'I already know everything they've got here, so you take your pick.'
'What do you recommend?'
'The cannelloni.'
'Right. That, then. I'm afraid you'll have order it, though, because I've already forgotten what you said. I'm terrible with other languages.' Waffen said wanly, thinking of how many years it had taken before he could swear at Karma in German, let alone make a pass at him.
'Your English is really very good, though.' Fletcher said with mock seriousness.
'Oh, ha ha,' Waffen muttered, but he couldn't suppress a real laugh. 'I tell you what, they wouldn't let you sit in a restaurant in London for an hour without ordering anything more substantial than wine and bread sticks.'
'That's because the Poms worry too much.'
Fletcher said it with perfect frankness, as though there were no other contributing factors and there never would be. Waffen cocked an eyebrow at him, halfway to saying something about New Zealand being a British colony, and that surely some gloriously starched rules and rituals of the Motherland must remain – but then he stopped to wonder why that even mattered. As with all things, once he considered England from afar, it didn't really stand for anything he believed in. Perhaps prior to Thatcher it had, or–
'You know?' he said firmly, drowning out his fruitless internal monologue. 'You are absolutely correct.'  
He raised his wineglass, and Fletcher obligingly tapped it with his own, saying wryly:  'Welcome to New Zealand.'
Waffen had never been asked to dinner before, or any meal, for that matter, so when Fletcher had offered he'd been appropriately stunned. As it was turning out better than he'd ever cared to conceive, he wondered fretfully if perhaps this was what he'd been getting wrong for the better part of his many years.
He inwardly rebuked himself a second time, disturbed by just how true Fletcher's statement was proving.




By the time they'd finished swapping tales of their travels (Fletcher was heartily impressed by the scope of Waffen's international adventures. It sounded as though he'd been everywhere, but when Fletcher had enquired what he did for a living in order to fund such wide roaming, Waffen was noncommittal: "Oh, nothing dangerously illegal. Just this and that." And Fletcher didn't press him), night had set in to the degree of velvet cobalt.
Fletcher's cousin owned the restaurant, and when he closed up he joined them for a spell, surprising Waffen with his honest enthusiasm for seeing Fletcher on a date, not bothered in the slightest by his sexuality. He gave Fletcher the spare key when he headed home, telling him to lock up on their way out whenever they were ready to leave, which they were once Fletcher's adamance that Waffen sample pistachio gelato had been appeased.
The small car park behind the restaurant was deserted save for their cars. Their walk towards them was slow, protracted, but Fletcher had already made his decision. He would not be the one to make a move. He wondered if Waffen was expecting him to, as he had initiated their whole situation thus far, but he was resolved he would just have to disappoint him. Unless Waffen made a move; and a quiet, self-loathing part of him knew he would, and that it was only a matter of waiting.      
Fletcher didn't have to wait for long.
Waffen turned to him at his car, his thin smile and darkened eyes keenly showing he had no desire for a farewell what-so-ever, and so Fletcher advanced on him, pressing him against the car door with the force of his kiss. Waffen obliged him completely, curving to him, slipping a foot outside Fletcher's ankle to sharpen the pressure between their hips and echoing the action with how tightly he'd wrapped his arms around Fletcher's neck.
Fletcher's sense of restraint cried out incensed warnings, but for the time being he decided upon selective hearing. He couldn't help the way the hand he'd placed between Waffen's shoulders drifted to his neck, his fingertips tracing his bare skin with cautious veneration.
Their kiss, beginning as deep and hurried, began to slow, and Fletcher felt it closing on him with the painful surety of some rusted, groaning spring trap, mocking and languid, allowing him time to escape because it knew he wouldn't.
Perhaps because it had been so long, and perhaps because he'd amassed so many new fears in that time, but everything about Waffen held a wondrously terrifying murmur of purpose. He tried not to think about it, focusing on his senses instead in an attempt to ground himself.
Waffen's body fit against him so perfectly, as warm and as yielding as his mouth; he tasted of red wine and limoncello and his tongue was bold, craning and hot. The skin of his throat was an enticing contrast, liquid cool in the night air; Fletcher deigned to heat it, finally separating their mouths and tipping Waffen's jaw, kissing his neck. He felt Waffen smile by the hand he'd now cupped to his cheek.
The scent of him was unlike anything Fletcher had known. While it was bittersweet and male there was a slender trace of something ethereal beneath it, something natural, humid and calming; like the smell of the earth after the rain, and so enthralling it was a wonder it was even human.
Fletcher pulled away, ashamed of himself, his heart pitching. Mercifully, Waffen's resulting chuckle wasn't targeted at his evidently waning grip on reality, instead it was throaty, contented and, if Fletcher wasn't mistaken, a might self-conscious.
Waffen leaned in and kissed Fletcher's neck in reciprocation, but his kisses didn't linger as Fletcher's had done, rather they were teasing and progressive. His lips came to rest on Fletcher's collarbone before he returned them to his mouth.
'So,' Waffen spoke without drawing back, sounding out the word with such deliberation Fletcher could have discerned it by feel alone. 'Your place or mine?'
Fletcher smiled, his heart plummeting as surely as lead. 'I'm only a couple of blocks away.'
'Ergo you're closer... and a quicker, more desirable solution to this problem.'
Fletcher gazed down at the mischief in his face. 'And what problem is that exactly?' He knew the answer, much to his dismay he just wanted to hear Waffen say it.
Waffen said nothing, only slid his hands around Fletcher's hips and pressed their groins together, making obvious things grow more obvious. Fletcher's smile wavered. He reasoned that just because they'd only met properly for the first time yesterday and now they were going to sleep together didn't mean things were finished before they'd begun. Besides, he would have had to find out eventually what Waffen was like in bed, because although he didn't consider himself particularly shallow, good sex was good sex, and bad sex? Well...
In spite of this sound logic he still felt gripped by disparaging, looming doom.
Waffen found a slow rhythm for his hips as he worked them against Fletcher's with increasing tautness, aiding Fletcher in his realisation that right now any sex was probably going to be good sex.
Fletcher kissed him again and gave up on worry.
What would be would be.