@rapturerecordssilas
They’re both panting wildly, bare chests heaving in tandem, skin glistening with sweat that sticks their bodies to the hotel sheets beneath them. Silas manages to chuckle, however breathlessly, as his gaze fixes on the ceiling. He notices a small crack in the plaster finish near the base of the chandelier above them. It seems to spread out the longer he looks at it, unblinking.
“…I sure ain’t fucked like that in a while.”
Dax says nothing, instead settling into tense silence at Silas’ side. He’s most likely burning with guilt. Maybe shame. He’s always had such an affinity for both. Again, Cobb chuckles in quiet delight. The other man’s misery is just as sweet as it’s always been.
“Goddamn,” the southerner stretches himself out, taking up half the bed with the effort. Bones crack audibly, followed by hefty sighs of relief. He feels great. Sore, sure, but in all the right places. He eventually casts a sidelong glance to Dax, but the man’s already sitting up, an arm thrown over the mattress in hurried search of his clothes. Silas rolls his eyes, and clasps the man firmly by the shoulder.
“Aw c’mon now,” his voice is utterly taunting, “Was that really so bad?”
When Dax recoils, furiously jerking his arm away, Silas settles back against his pillows. An impossible smile spreads over his face–one that boasts of certain victory over the former love of his life–as he reaches for a cigarette case on the nightstand. ‘No Smoking’ policy be damned. Cobb slips a hand-rolled stick between his lips before fumbling for a neighboring book of matches.
“Ain’t in the mood fer ‘round two, then?”
Reality rushes in, roaring in his ears. Silas’ ragged breaths and the heat of his body next to Daxton confirm it. He’s always been weak for all the wrong things. The weight of that settles on his chest already heaving. Blue eyes stare up at the same ceiling, and silently, he curses himself, the glasses of champagne, the way his body gravitated to Silas despite every sense screaming he’ll only find tragedy in this.
He can taste regret in his mouth, bitter and unwelcome. It’s been a long time since he’s felt it like this, smaller regrets and missteps taking the place of his old ways. Though this feels less like a misstep and more like a broken leg on the last half mile of a marathon.
Muscles coil in his limbs and suggest flight may be the best option now. Silas’ words may land upon deaf ears, but his hand holds Dax still for the briefest second before he jerks free and stands upon shaky legs. Underwear comes first out of his fragile dignity, the fabric rubbing over still sensitive nerves.
“Never should have been round one,” he mutters low under his breath, not meeting Silas’ gaze. Daxton bends to snatch up his shirt from the floor, but it’s almost a lost cause. Buttons dot the carpet, a pearly shine in the low light. Still, he shrugs it on, the garment hanging open in a tantalizing view. But there’s a pause, one where he does look at the other man. It’s wrong and right at once: the hotel too lavish for their old life and yet Silas still smirks the same way. The memory tugs at him, trying to lure him back into bed.
“I don’t know why we even came back here,” he whispers, talking more to himself than Silas, as Dax rounds the end of the bed, looking for the rest of his clothes.
