2020-02-07 - Selfish, Greedy, and Fucked Up

Eight-ish AM, and the morning sun is as crisp and light as a really good potato chip. Itzhak is--what else?--trying to cuddle. Piled with the thick, soft comforter and surrounded by pillows, too, like the decadent jerk he can be. He might have chased Ruiz across the bed in his sleep, like sometimes happens. At the moment he is sacked out hard, his breathing deep and even, his scent warm. His hand, lying loosely curled, twitches in fingering patterns. He's sleep-violining.

The sun begins to crest over grey fields and skeletal trees that shook loose their foliage months ago. Spring's weeks away yet, but the thought of it slumbers fitfully. A jay of some sort flits to the windowsill, makes some noise, then flits away again, and Javier sleeps through it all; daybreak, noisy birds, and insistent cuddlers. His bulkier frame is sprawled, inert, tucked in against Itzhak's left side. Small spoon doesn't quite seem an apt descriptor, but it's close enough. A muscular leg is tangled up with the taller man's, and one of the fiddler's long-fingered hands is caught up in his own, and tucked in against his belly as he, too, dozes.

The jay goes skreek skreek! like jays do, and Itzhak full-body twitches awake. Adrenaline spikes into his system--where is he what's going on he's gonna have to fight! He's scrabbling to his knees, fists coming up, teeth bared. Come GET some.

There's nobody to come get some. Only the peaceful bedroom with the crisp winter morning filtering through the windows, and his lover in bed with him.

"I think you showed it," comes the sleep-roughened voice of said lover, scratchy with disuse. He's half rolled toward the lanky, still-bristling man he'd brought into his bed, not wearing a lick of clothing; all black and grey ink on swarthy skin, with that single pop of colour in the form of a bright red rose. "Estas bien, bebe?" His fingertips pet absently at Itzhak's hip, dark eyes tipped up to his warmer hazels with a fuzzy sort of not-yet-with-it concern.

Itzhak wobbles, kneeling, and flumps back down. "Fuck." It comes out as a groan. "Yeah. Bien," he mumbles. "Eleven years comin' up on twelve, still haven't shaken that shit." He slides his arm across Ruiz's broad chest, stuffs his nose into the man's neck. "Was havin' such a good dream too."

Itzhak burrowing back in nearly has his sleepy lover dozing right back off again. He's warm, and he smells good, and it turns out Javier actually does like to cuddle a select few people. His knuckles trace the other man's flank and shoulder and cheek, all the way into his warm curls, which he scritches at softly. Like the guy's a particularly large cat. "You want to tell me about it?" His head shifts a little so he can rub his scruffy cheek against Itzhak's stubble. "Or I can make us something to eat." A flicker of a smile, and his voice lowers in pitch, draws closer to his ear, "..or, I can help you work up an appetite if you're not hungry yet.."

Stretching a little under Ruiz's petting, Itzhak sighs, and smiles drowsily into his shoulder. "Mmm. Feels good," he murmurs, tipping his head into Ruiz's fingers. Springy black curls try to catch those fingers and keep them. "Was dreaming about being a unicorn again, in a beautiful forest. Music was playing, can't remember it, but it was like the whole world in a song. Everything good. Everything bad. The day, the night, the mountains, the oceans. All in a song."

His voice is rough with sleep. Then he chuckles. "I'm starvin'. Feed me, then you can ravish me."

Despite his claims of being willing to go putter around the kitchen and be domestic for the sake of his tall, gorgeous drink of Jew, the body seems weak this morning. Javier grunts something when Itzhak demands to be fed, and tries to turn the man's head so he can nip at his lower lip, and then kiss him soundly.

"El mundo entero en una canción," he rumbles, then, on the heels of it, voice warming a fraction. "Tell me if you remember it." The music. He's quiet, wistful for a few moments, then breathes out a sigh as his fingers stroke roughshod down Itzhak's back. And finally, he starts extricating himself and shifting to climb to his feet. "What do you feel like?"

Itzhak makes a hoarse little sound when Ruiz's teeth meet his lip, and then he's kissing him, and those eyebrows tip up. "Mmmmmf. Javeleh." The Yiddish nickname is a purr. "I fuckin' adore you, you know that? Yeah. I'll tell you if I remember." But it's faded already, the glorious rush of sound gone to dust. He doesn't say that.

He sits up, too, stretching as elaborately as if he really was a cat, long arms reaching and twining over his head. "Huevos rancheros?" he says, hopefully, on the end of that stretch, and looks at Ruiz with transparent eagerness. "Please?"

"Huevos rancheros," Javier agrees with a low chuckle. He pronounces it quite differently, of course, rolling his r's and adding that sultry, musical little slur to a syllable or two that's thoroughly unconscious. Black boxer briefs pulled on, sweatpants over those, and a rumpled tee shirt tugged over his arms and then his head, leaving his hair askew. It's been shorn short, nearly to his skull. A slow, indulgent glance is sent Itzhak's way, watching him stretch like that before he slopes off for the stairs with a twist of his lips.

Thump, thump, thump before the sound of the fridge being opened and eggs cracked filters up from the kitchen.

Itzhak slithers out of bed with a grunt, scruffles fingers through his curls--those curls are getting long, he really needs a haircut. Stupid jay, waking him up and activating all his old prison instincts (the technical term for this is PTSD). He crouches naked to rummage in his satchel, pulls on his own boxer briefs and soft, cozy sweatpants and a t-shirt that reads 'If You Call The Tune, You Pay The Fiddler'. And socks that have Iron Man on them.

Ridiculous.

As he's getting dressed and all, he starts humming. Of course. And dancing in place. Of course. And here comes the singing, voice rowdy and raunchy, faking a twang pretty good.

I got a little change in my pocket goin' jing-a-ling-a-ling
Wants to call you on the telephone baby, a-give you a ring!

He thumps downstairs himself, but he thumps in time, boogying on down the stairwell like he's the star of a Broadway show.

But each time we talk thump I get the same old thing thump
Always no hug-ee no kiss-ee thump THUMP until I get a weddin' ring! THUMP.

By the time Itzhak makes it down the stairs, breakfast is well underway. The beans are cooking, cumin and salt and pepper being dusted into the fragrant concoction as it fries. A tupperware container of homemade pico de gallo sits nearby, and the cracked eggs swim in a bowl as he heats a pan to cook them in. A glance up and over his shoulder at the lanky man shimmying and singing his way down the stairs, and a slow smile crawls across his mouth before he can help himself. Distracted as fuck, he watches. Spoon in hand, food briefly forgotten until the sound of it drying up signals he needs to attend to it.

"You're in a good mood," he observes, dousing the pan with a splash of water, giving it a stir.

My honey my baby, don't put my love upon no shelf
She said don't gimme no lines and keep your hands to yourself!

Itzhak skids along the hardwood floor like he's pretending he's Tom Cruise in Risky Business. To be fair, he's totally pretending that. He saunters his butt into the kitchen, slips his hands around Ruiz's waist from behind, and sticks that enormous beak behind his ear. "Mmm. Got my favorite guy in the world makin' me breakfast, what's not to like?" He plants a smooch on Ruiz's neck, then he's opening cupboards for things to set the table.

B-B-B-baby baby baby why you wan' treat me this way
You know I'm still your lover boy, I still feel the same way!
That's when she told me a story, 'bout free milk and a cow
And said no hug-ee no kiss-ee until I get a weddin' vow!

...And keeps singing, while he whirls around getting plates down.

Ruiz sort of looks at the guy like he's losing his mind. No, scratch that. Lost it. He half-turns his head when Itzhak sidles up behind him, tense for just a fraction of a second under those long-fingered hands. Like maybe, in some corner of his mind, he's remembering that he can't let people sneak up on him like that. It's gone almost before it can be noticed though, and he huffs a laugh at the kiss to his neck. "You sure nothing's up? Something you want?" Scrape, scrape as he unloads the beans into a bowl and starts cooking up the eggs, and warming the tortillas.

Itzhak never seems to want to let his ridiculous star shine to its fullest when he's in public, but get him in private and this nonsense happens. He starts making coffee next, filling the kettle and clattering it onto the burner, fetching the French press, measuring grounds. "You mean besides getting on my knees and taking your dick down my throat?" He shrugs that devil-may-care, insouciant shrug. "Yeah, actually."

His surly Mexican lover doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, beyond his somewhat overdeveloped sense of paranoia when it comes to people being nice to him. He slides his gaze over briefly as Itzhak gets to making coffee, and pauses again to simply watch the man. Like somewhere in his head, he's thinking, maybe this could be how things are. like this.

"Don't think I've ever had a blowjob while cooking break-" He pauses. "No, that's not true. But I wouldn't turn one down." His tonguetip roves across his lower lip slowly, eyes going a little smoky and warm as he watches his boyfriend's mouth. Imagines it, no doubt, wrapped around his cock with those soulful eyes lifted to him. Then swallows thickly. Oh, he said something else. "What?" A beat. "What else?"

That damned blush stains Itzhak's cheeks, as he realizes he's not just being watched but being lusted over. His long arms and clever fingers move among these simple tasks like he's playing music, his tall lean body slices through space with the intensity of his metaphysical power and his purely physical grace, but does he know it? Not so much. Only when Ruiz looks at him like that does he know it.

He can't help his tongue running over his lips, smiling to himself. The kettle whistles; he pours the boiling water into the French press, stirs the grounds. Then, his hands gripping the counter edge, he leans against it and glances at Ruiz, eyes hooded. "I gotta be honest with you, krasavets. I'm so fucking jealous of Cavanaugh I swear to God I pissed green. It's driving me meshuggener."

The man's a hunter, a predator in his prime; strength and ferocity in spades, but he's stilled by the raw, unadulterated beauty in front of him. Stilled completely, watching like a moth drawn too close to a flame, unaware he's being singed by it until it's too late.

Then the kettle whistles, and his gaze is pulled away by it. He works his jaw, goes back to his cooking. Turns over the tortillas and starts assembling food on plates. The name Cavanaugh quiets him for several seconds. And when he speaks again, it's in a low, rough murmur, "You're still bent out of shape about him being a shuttle pilot, yeah?"

"Heh." Itzhak rubs his forehead, and those eyebrows go rueful. "What really bends me outta shape isn't that. I mean. It is. It's that, and all the rest of his frikkin' accomplishments. I understand 'em, though. I woulda done terrible things for the chance to go to the moon, too, you know? Turns out NASA don't want nineteen year old car thieves, and they want twenty-six year old ex-cons even less. You gotta have your whole life set up to funnel you into that stuff. I read his memoirs," he adds, in case Ruiz isn't sure where he's getting all this. "They're...good, actually." Grudgingly.

"What really gets to me is he's all that and you were in love with him." Itzhak says it soft, dropping his gaze away. "Yeah, it was twenty years ago and you were a stupid kid. Yeah, I know you're with me now and you're not gonna leave. It's stupid for me to be actin' like this. I know it's stupid."

Ruiz busies himself scraping beans onto tortillas, followed by fried eggs, then spooning in pico de gallo and sour cream in, in heaping dollops. His eyes come back up at read his memoirs, then slant away again with a low sound of acknowledgement. He's probably read them too. How could he not have?

But he doesn't argue with Itzhak's assertion of his own stupidity. He doesn't say a word, really. Plenty's going on under the surface, but none of it makes it into words; none of it's given voice. His brows furrow, his jaw's tight, and he works silently. Eventually the plates are brought to the table and slid atop it, and he eases into a chair heavily and brandishes his fork. And then, finally, "Okay." A forkful of beans is shoveled into his mouth, eyes down, and he chews.

Itzhak finishes with the coffee. He pours Ruiz a cup pitch black the way he drinks it, doctors his own with cream. No sugar, just cream. He brings 'em over, sets the black coffee in front of Ruiz, and takes a second to kiss his close-cropped hair. Dropping into a chair, he takes a bite--and everything has to stop so he can close his eyes and sigh in enjoyment. "You cook almost as good as you fuck, baby." Itzhak glances up from his plate, wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. Then he goes back to what he was saying, between bites.

"I had a long talk with Dante. You know him? Real tall British guy, dresses like he's about to receive the Queen? About jealousy. And I had a bunch of advice for him, and I was like, why don't I fuckin' do this shit myself? Get my ass in gear and fuckin' cope, yannow? So, uh. I'm gonna do that."

There's a noise that might be gracias, for the cup of coffee hand delivered. Rough fingers scruffed against Itzhak's side, affection in that casual little touch. There's a touch of tension in him at the topic of conversation, but it's a far cry from his usual state of being ready to either fight or bolt. Months and months of patience with this man, and this is Rosencrantz's reward; this creature who, while never docile, could be called tame. Sometimes. For a few minutes here and there.

"Dante?" doesn't seem familiar to him, except perhaps vaguely so. He sips his coffee, shovels more food into his mouth, and pauses in his chewing when Itzhak reaches the last of what he wants to say about that. Then he finishes chewing and swallows, and, "Gonna do what.. exactly?"

Itzhak sips his coffee, too, studying some point between the mug and the table. In a way, he's weaving as much a spell with his words as he ever has with music or his body. Charm Wolf: Rank 5. "Take care of my own shit. God knows I have enough work to do on the garage, just...well, maybe I'll get back to that. Be with you, be with the girls. Do my stuff. Not be so fuckin' concerned about Cavanaugh's. Get to know him better, too. Hang out with him, maybe with both a youse. Get my shit together, be a fucking adult. Which, by the way, I'm terrible at," he adds with a huff of laughter at his own expense.

His eyes tick up to Ruiz's, that rare eye contact. "I know you wanna tear a piece off him. But please give me time to get used to the idea."

In a way, moreso. Not that Javier's not addicted to that body and all its delights. But the man's voice has always held sway with him, and it does so now; he listens, he sits with those words, he contemplates them while he eats. Turns them over in his head slowly. "Okay," he offers again, scratchy voiced and quiet. His eyes tick away, down to his plate, then back up to Itzhak seated near enough that their knees touch under the table. "Okay, you want me to cool it with him for now, until you decide what you want then, yeah?" He sounds remarkably calm about all of this. And there isn't even any brutality waiting beneath the wings, today. Just that eye contact, rarely asked for and quietly given.

Eventually, he speaks. "Haven't fucked anyone else in three and a half months." His lower lip's chewed on, then released, and his fork brandished again. "Not about to start. Soy tuyo." The wording's intentional; not, you're mine. But I'm yours. Freely given, that sliver of control, like an wild mustang accepting the saddle.

The smoke they shared at the Pourhouse was when Itzhak first accused Ruiz of wanting to rail him. Really, though, he'd known before that. He'd known when he tried to flirt with de la Vega to throw him off balance, and found his flirtation hungrily accepted. A long, long journey from that moment it's been to this, and Itzhak would not trade it for anything else in the world. Not for riches or fame or an actual harem full of odalisques of every gender would he trade a single moment he's spent with this impossible, surly, irascible man who has a wolf for a soul.

Not a single moment.

"Yeah," he says, holding Ruiz's gaze despite how uncomfortable it is for him. Clear gray hazels marked with radiating streaks of brown and green. "That's what I want." The peace of this particular moment is rare. Itzhak offering, and Ruiz accepting, even though it's something entirely different offered and accepted. It's a limit, this time. And Itzhak is offering it.

Then Ruiz saying how long it's been since he fucked anyone else. Soy tuyo. Itzhak actually shudders, hissing a breath in between his teeth, eyelids lowering. Like Ruiz just did something dirty to him.

"You got no idea how much I fuckin' love that," he murmurs, his voice gone lower, warm. "That I get you all to myself. You're the hottest man in this town, probably on this continent, got guys and girls panting after you, and you're all mine." Oh the ferocious possession and adoring lust in his voice.

There's nothing, no sound for the longest time but the tink of his fork against the plate. The sound of him eating quietly, then easing back in his chair for a sip of coffee to wash it down. He meets those warm, muddled, complicated eyes, and hears, that's what I want. And there's a part of him, to be sure, that wants to rail against it. Refuse, bellow, throw things. Hurl it in his face, the gall of him to ask for this, when Itzhak himself doesn't give it.

But there's a bigger part of him that wants and needs this. This simplicity, this devotion. "Okay, I understand," he replies, barely audible, tongue lashing his mouth in the wake of sipping his coffee, then his gaze is finally relinquished from the younger man's, and turned toward the window. A chuckle at those last words of Itzhak's, warmth lighting up his dark eyes. "Me estas halagando," he murmurs, ticking his eyes back in time to catch that tone in his lover's voice. And makes an answering sound in his throat, a warm, rumbly little growl.

Then he leans across the small space separating them, curves his fingers around the back of Itzhak's neck, and attempts to drag him in for a bruising, smouldering kiss. "I am fucking wild about you," he confides in a whisper against the man's mouth, once he's done with him.

Itzhak goes, gladly he goes, crushing his mouth against Ruiz's with a low snarl. He grabs his lover by the back of his neck in turn. "It's selfish," he growls, once that bruising hot kiss is broken. "I'm selfish and greedy and fucked up and I'm the biggest fuckin' hypocrite in history and I. Don't. Care. Mine. You're fucking mine."

The simplicity of devotion to this complicated man. It's not an easy choice.