FicWad

Reeve Tuesti is not, like so many people tend to think, a morning person.

Vincent doesn't realize this fact until the coffeemaker breaks down one grey Monday morning- along with the toaster (the handle got jammed), two mugs (Reeve broke those when he tripped over Pixel, his orange Siamese mix), and the executive's little toe (which he stubbed on the cats' scratching post on his way to the bathroom). They have breakfast that morning amidst the smell of burned bread and smouldering plastic; a soft, steady stream of profanity colors the air around him as he glares death at his cold cereal. The older man watches placidly, hiding his amusement behind the newspaper as his lover treats the morning with all the grace and good humor of a petulant six-year-old.

It takes two hours and a pot of coffee at work to bring Reeve back to some semblance of humanity, and Vincent makes careful note to order another coffeepot for express delivery- as amusing as it is to watch his lover emulate Cid, and as adorable he may be when he pouts, it's not very productive. (That, and he's scaring his secretaries.) Cloud delivers the appliances to their house before the work day is over, and by the time they get home the executive is almost completely back to his normal, cheerfully quirky self.

The new coffeemaker breaks down the next morning and it takes all of five minutes for Reeve to determine that the problem lies with faulty wiring in the wall and not the machine itself. Which doesn't help, as he comments through a mouthful of toast, since either way the circuitry is fried in the machine. And, he adds, somebody didn't have the insight to buy instant coffee.

Vincent, who was sleeping in a coffin around the time instant coffee was developed, tells Reeve to stop whining.

Reeve says he just got up on the wrong side of the bed, and when Vincent reminds him that he got up on the side of the bed he always gets up from, he throws what's left of his toast at the gunslinger's head.

Things go downhill from there.

The two don't talk to each other again until well after the lunch hour, where the executive has an iced cappuchino in one hand and his lover's cock in the other, apologizing via breathless little sighs and soft moaning kisses as the two indulge in some office fraternizing. Indeed, the problem of the broken appliance is completely forgotten in the quick thrill, and it isn't until Vincent is lying next to Reeve's sprawled body in their shared bed later that night that he realizes he hasn't gotten a replacement.

The world, Vincent decides, is doomed.

*

Sunrise is not Vincent's favorite time of day. His training as a Turk, however, is so ingrained that the habit of waking up at the crack of dawn is proving impossible to break- much to his chagrin. Tossing and turning doesn't help; covering his head with a pillow only makes him hot; and counting chocobos only makes him think of the ridiculous children's show Marlene was so enamoured with when she was little. Giving up for the time being, he lies on his back, staring at the cat perched upon his chest as they hold a very quiet, one-sided conversation. "I can't go through another morning like this," he confesses.

Pixel licks his paws and rubs them over his face in a nodding gesture.

"He's an ogre."

Pixel makes a noise that sounds much like 'blert'.

"It's like tending to a spoiled child. I'll spank him if he keeps this up."

The cat kneads his tiny paws into Vincent's shirt and purrs, the claws just barely pricking his skin.

"You're right, he'd enjoy that." He sighs and idly runs his withered left hand over Pixel's back; he purrs again, sounding like a rusty motor. "Though on second thought, that might not be such a bad idea... not the spanking so much as...."

As if reacting to the images springing up in his mind, Pixel raises up and stretches, tongue curling in a wide fish-breath yawn right in his face. Vincent wrinkles his nose a bit- human morning breath has nothing on that of a cat- and raises an eyebrow as the kitten hops off the bed. Watching the cat's tail twitching merrily as he scampers through the bedroom door, he decides it's as close to a sign of approval as he's going to get from the gods of the Right Side of the Bed.

Beside him, Reeve makes a sleepy sort of mumble and Vincent rolls over on his side to take a leisurely survey of his lover's body. It's not something he does often. Sexuality is not one the most comfortable points in their relationship, and they have both agreed to take it slowly- more for Vincent's sake than anything, though they avoid mentioning this outright. Right now, the executive sprawls gloriously over half the bed, arms and legs akimbo as if trying to claim the entire region. In the glow of the morning light, he can see how his lover has his head thrown to one side, a thin silver string of saliva at the corner of his mouth; the ridiculous sight is one of the most beautiful things Vincent has ever seen. Allowing himself a soundless laugh, he wipes it away with the edge of his thumb before pressing a gentle kiss over the area.

He shifts and murmurs lazily as Vincent trails kisses down the edge of his throat, stopping just above his carotid artery and feeling the beat of the other man's pulse through his lips. It's not often that he's given the opportunity to explore at his leisure, without the expectations and pressure of the other man's eyes on him, and he wants to make this moment last as long as possible. Whole fingers graze over the smooth muscle of Reeve's chest before twining themselves in the soft thatch of hair. He moans in his sleep and Vincent ghosts a finger over one flat nipple, making it rise. He repeats the motion, Cheshire grin growing as his back arches to meet his touch and shivers ripple up and down the sides of his ribs.

Thus encouraged, Vincent's hand trails lower still, drawing a circle around the other's navel before continuing down the dark, thickening line of hair that runs the length of his lower belly under his boxers. A half-formed erection tents the silk material, bobbing lazily as Reeve unconsciously shifts towards that pleasant feeling. Hooking a finger under the elastic, he begins nudging the cloth down, an agonizingly slow process- fortunately his lover is a sound sleeper, and he doesn't awaken even after the shorts have been worked down his hips. Freed from the confines of the shorts, his penis twitches against the cool air, rising slightly.

Raking his fingers briefly through the lush thatch of pubic hair, he eases back a bit to admire the view. It's not as intimidating here, in the soft glow of the morning light- rather, there's a sort of grace to the slight curve of the shaft and the symmetrical ridges of the skin over his testicles. Reeve twitches beside him and he smiles. Touching he has done before, but always under guidance of gentle hands and murmuring kisses- in the heat of the moment, while he cannot focus on the specifics of what he is doing beyond the fact that it sets his very essence on fire. Flying solo is new territory he's exploring, exciting yet still foreign enough to him to be nervous. He closes his eyes for a second, hand hesitating, savoring the moment and gathering up his courage for the next phase of his explorations.

Reeve moans when he glides his fingertips along the underside of his shaft, tracing the contours of the slight veins before stroking up the frenulum. His foreskin has mostly retracted, his erection growing with the faint touches. The head throbs underneath. Vincent feels the heat radiating from it, the warmth and the motion, and hesitates before slicking one finger up over the head. The skin is soft, he realizes- softer than silk, even- and his smile widens. Tiny droplets like dew form on the very tip, and he strokes them away, pressing slightly against the slit and shivering when he hears the throaty purr beside him.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Vincent is so caught up in looking that he starts when Reeve speaks, and jerks his hand away guiltily. The executive chuckles softly. "Don't stop on my account," he says with a warm smile. "I was just starting to enjoy the show."

An embarassed flush darkens his cheeks. "How long have you been awake?" he asks, fingers tapping just above Reeve's pubic bone. Crimson eyes narrow as an eyebrow arches in slight irritation.

"About the time you started pulling off the boxers." He smiles again, this time more tenderly. He knows his lover's quirks well. Later on he will rejoice in this opening of barriers, this sign of healing, but for now Reeve props himself up on his elbows so he can see Vincent's face. "Would you feel better if I went back to sleep?"

He lays his head against the other's stomach. He can hear faint gurgling noises and the soft rasp of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. "No, just . . . let me look?" It's a question, and a hesitant one, one which is answered by the massaging touch of a heavy hand on his shoulders. Vincent sighs as Reeve's fingers work loose the tight spots, melting away the tension.

"What's the occasion, anyway?" Reeve asks as the other's long fingers begin tracing their way back along the sides of his shaft. They pause just at the underside of the head. He tenses, his breath going short with pleasure as his foreskin is gently retracted. "Something . . . I should know about?"

"Well . . . ." Vincent nuzzles the center of his stomach before lowering his head slightly. A tiny clear drop of moisture forms on the end of his cock; the morning sunlight makes it sparkle for a second. His fingers skirt around it hesitantly. "I know the last few mornings haven't been . . . very pleasant-"

That earns him a laugh. "That's putting it mildly."

"-hush." Reeve chuckles again. "I thought it might . . . ease things . . . if I gave you something pleasant to wake up to." He inches closer, slipping out from under the other's hand, and brushes his thumb over the head again before pausing. The shadowed beast of memory tenses in his mind, rearing its ugly head even as his own desire begins to blossom. The next step seems like a canyon, nigh impossible to cross. It's farther than he's ever willingly ventured before, and he hesitates.

"Be careful." It's both a warning and a note of concern, one which Vincent acknowledges by bumping his cheek against his hip. The desire to try is there, curling within his chest and urging him on; the fear is there too, hovering along the edges of his vision, waiting for a chance to attack. "Vincent . . . ."

The warmth in that deep voice sends the shadows flying away. This is Reeve- not just anyone, but Reeve- the man who sits though his nighmares and holds him until the shadows fade away; the man who understands him oftentimes before he even understands himself; the man who by his own admittance loves him. He closes his eyes for a second and wraps himself in the sensations. The soft shifts, sighs and grumbles; the pleasant warmth of bare skin and silk and the way his chest hair tickles Vincent's nose when he lays his head over his heart; the scent of his soap and aftershave and sweat- all at once he feels safe, embraced by the sights and smells and sounds that are all Reeve. Suddenly the canyon seems like but a crack in the pavement. Slipping his knuckles underneath the curvature of the shaft, Vincent leans forward and presses moist lips to the head.

It takes all of Reeve's self-restraint not to buck up into the gentle contact; Vincent holds the gesture, his breath puffing slightly against the hot flesh and his eyes closed tight. The skin is impossibly soft under his lips, and burning with a tender fire that warms him inside. It's soft and firm at the same time, and pulses softly; there is no movement otherwise, only total surrender. He is in control of everything, and thus emboldened he parts his lips just enough to draw the tip of his tongue quickly along the slit, earning a faint taste of salty-sweet nectar and clean skin.

Reeve moans again, fingers spasming in the sheets, but keeps himself steady. "Oh Gods-" he hisses, eyes shut and toes curling as he repeats the motion, pressing his tongue in harder. It is the trust behind the gesture, the absolute faith Vincent is showing in him that arouses him, moreso than any of the physical gestures. He's unable to repress a shudder of ecstasy from frissoning up his spine when Vincent draws his fingers tenderly down the length to cup his testicles. His lips part a bit wider, suckling hesitantly at the very tip before he licks a lazy circle around the girth of the head. Reeve moans an inarticulate cry, shivers running down his spine to the tips of his toes.

The flesh beneath Vincent's lips twitches, grows warmer; he jerks away with a startled cry as the first sweet milky threads of precum hit his tongue. It's suddenly too much, too soon, and he trembles, frozen in place. Before the shock can set in, Reeve pulls him up next to him, letting him hide his face in his broad chest; strong hands stroke his back, staving off the sudden rush of fright with their loving touch. It takes several long minutes before the older man relaxes again. Vincent's cheeks are flush with equal parts embarassment and arousal when he finally gathers up the nerve to raise his head. He glances away when he sees his lover's own look of smiling patience. "Sorry."

"Gods, Vincent . . . ." Underneath the breathlessness of Reeve's voice is warm concern and a tender sort of pride, a huskiness that chokes his throat. His arousal is almost painful at this point, but it's the furthest thing from his mind; rather, his focus is on the man beside him and those brave few steps he has taken. He gently tugs the other's head up to look him in the eye, fierce desire sparking in his expression. "Don't be sorry. You didn't have to do that."

The smile he flashes his lover is a real one, small but genuine, that lights up his crimson eyes and transforms him into something radiant. "I know." He edges up enough to rest his head on the other's broad shoulder. Reeve chuckles as something hard jabs him in the side- Vincent's erection, he realizes; apparently the exploration excited more than just his courage. "I wanted to try. I needed to . . . if just to prove-"

Reeve bends down just enough to silence him with a kiss, nibbling on his lower lip and grazing his hands over his shoulders. "You don't have to prove anything," he whispers when he pulls away, trembling as Vincent's hand begins trailing back down his stomach. "Not to me."

"I had to prove it . . . to myself." He leans forward again, pressing gentle kisses to Reeve's lips and silencing him. His lips part to inhale and he slips his tongue in. The clashing of their warm, wet mouths sends thrills up Vincent's spine, making him press up harder against his lover's side. He welcomes the taste of him, the slick feel of his tongue as it dances along the roof of his mouth. Their mingled tastes are sweeter than the finest wines, potent and addictive. Fingers curl into the thick forest of curls at the base of Reeve's erection and they break off for a moment, panting. "Now . . . you think you can behave this morning without your coffee?"

One hand steals up under his shirt, stroking over one scarred nipple and pinching slightly, eliciting a breathy moan. "I think you're on the right track," Reeve purrs as he nuzzles the side of his neck. "But . . . maybe we should make sure, just in case, hmm?"

Vincent leans back and raises an eyebrow, that vague smile still tugging slightly at his lips; his hands, however, tense slightly. "And how do you propose we do that?"

There's not an immediate reply; Reeve brushes long black locks away from the side of Vincent's face, taking the bottom of his earlobe between his teeth and nibbling. His free hand traces down the longest of his scars down over his stomach and under the waistband of his pajamas. Vincent practically melts under the gentle mistrations; those strong fingers grasp his hardening shaft and stroke, rubbing the head of his nascent erection against the palm of his hand as his tongue traces the delicate outer shell of his his ear. "Just relax," he breathes. It's all he can do to not whimper as Reeve pulls his hand away just long enough to work his pants off his slender hips. "Lean over toward me- that's right. Just- just like-"

Semi-nude, facing each other, they shift and Vincent lets out a low cry as their erections brush up against each other. Reeve tugs at him until Vincent's sprawled halfway on top, letting his body weight press the heat of their cocks together. "Touch- please-" he moans, bucking his hips up slightly. His teeth graze his collarbone before he pushes his shirt up to lick hungrily at the sweet flesh of the other's nipples. "Please-"

The pleading in his voice is impossible to ignore; Vincent reaches down between them and wraps his whole hand around both their shafts, squeezing them gently against each other and making his lover moan in anticipation. He braces himself up on his left arm, pressing down as he begins to stroke, groaning as the man underneath him suckles at the sensitive skin of his chest. "Gods, Reeve," he hisses. "Reeve-"

"That's right," the other moans, switching over to attack the other hard nipple with his teeth, his hands busy caressing Vincent's scarred flesh. He reaches down and intertwines their hands together, pushing him into a quicker rhythm. Thin drops of precome ooze from the tips of both their cocks, slicking the shafts and making the flesh burn hotter. Vincent pulls Reeve's face away from his chest and latches onto him with a deep-seated kiss of pure desire. Their tongues wrap around each other, suckling and teasing, even as their hands tighten and thrust in quickening tempo with their low panting cries.

Reeve reaches his climax first, the weight of his lover atop him and the feel of his tongue and hands and naked flesh burning through him like wildfire; he arches up agaisnt Vincent with a long muffled cry as liquid fire erupts from his cock, coating their hands even as they pump more furiously. Their wet flesh pulses, and when Reeve snakes his thumb up to stroke the head of Vincent's erection he throws his head back and cries out as his seed mingles with that already spattered on their stomachs. They continue stroking each other, slowing down until the pleasure dies down to a low fire and their softening flesh cannot take any more stimulation before reluctantly letting go.

Vincent rests his head against the center of Reeve's chest, panting, and smiles fondly when he takes his sticky hand up and licks the fingers clean. "Only one thing missing," he notes, biting at the inside of Vincent's scarred wrist.

"Oh? And what's that?" He can't help but smile even more widely at the mischevious look his lover gives him.

"Well, we have the cream here," and Reeve wiggles his own fingers for emphasis. "Too bad we don't have any coffee to go with it."

Vincent stares at his lover, gaping as Reeve licks the palm of his hand. The joke is horrible, the pun is dreadful, and he still has the nerve to sit there grinning like a Cheshire cat; rolling over on his back, he stares up at the ceiling and starts laughing, body-shaking laughs that make his sides ache and bring tears to his eyes. His laughter is like music, cascading over the room like rain, a sound so rare and priceless that just a few moments of it feeds the soul for a lifetime. Reeve leans over, eyes sparkling, and begins to chuckle himself when he punches him lightly in the shoulder. "You have . . . the worst sense of humor . . . ." Tears roll down his cheeks; the laughter makes it almost impossible for him to finish.

"You love it." Reeve gathers his lover up in his arms, holding him and kissing away those priceless tears of laughter. "And if nothing else, I think you're cured me of my coffee addiction." He nuzzles the other's smooth chest. "Though now I think I've gotten addicted to you."

Vincent laughs and pulls Reeve's head up to kiss his lips. "That," he manages with a brilliant smile, "is an addiction I think I can live with."