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Cool
Lincoln stares at the red tracksuit lying on the bed.
“Why can’t I wear it when we go out?”
“Because tracksuits are not for going out,” Albert says with a air of dreadful finality.
Lincoln pouts, but it doesn’t work. Albert is not budging on this issue.
“Is it the colour? Do you dislike red?”
“No.”
“You never wear red.”
“No, I don’t. But I’m not opposed to it. I like your red sweater.”
“Well, I like tracksuits. They’re comfortable. That’s what I wore for the first three years of my life.” And that’s the vast majority of his life, he adds to himself. He’s only three and a half or so. “They gave it to me at the Institute.”
“Do you really want to be reminded of that place?” Albert asks.
Lincoln doesn’t mind thinking about it, too much. As long as he remembers it selectively. As long as he doesn’t think about the bad parts.
“It’s my past. Isn’t it my choice if I want to be reminded of it?”
Albert growls. Actually growls. It’s a little scary, but it’s even more sexy, so Lincoln doesn’t really mind. But it does bother him that Albert is upset. He wishes he could understand why he’s so upset.
“You don’t like to be reminded of my past,” Lincoln says, suddenly understanding. A flash of understanding. They call that satori in Buddhism. (He read that on the internet.) “You don’t like being reminded of your past, of what you used to do for money. You still feel guilty about hunting me.”
Albert blinks at Lincoln.
Uh-oh. Lincoln must be right. Now he feels bad, because he didn’t mean to accuse Albert of doing anything bad. Although Albert has done bad things. Lincoln doesn’t care – he’s done bad things too, but he doesn’t do them anymore. And neither does Albert.
“You don’t do those kinds of bad things anymore, do you?” Lincoln asks.
“No,” Albert says, and Lincoln can’t tell if the slight tinge of guilt is real or in Lincoln’s own mind. “I told you; the new company is going to do a different kind of security. Gadgets. Systems. Like the ones that are supposed to keep me out of this place. But I'm going to sell products that actually work. Don’t you believe me?”
Now it’s Lincoln’s turn to feel guilty. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Albert. He's happy Albert is setting up the new company. He just worries that the other kind of security, the offensive type, pays so much more than the defensive kind.
Honestly, he wishes Albert would give up the whole work thing. Lincoln has more than enough money for the two of them. But Albert likes to work, to be productive and useful. He doesn’t want to be kept.
The other night, Lincoln had to look up what “kept man” meant, when Albert made a joke about not wanting to be one. Lincoln laughed out loud when he read the word ‘gigolo’ the first time. It sounded funny, and he couldn’t imagine Albert being one.
As if Lincoln could ever ‘keep’ someone like Albert.
But he sure hopes Albert will choose to stay for a long, long time.
Albert’s face suddenly breaks into a wide grin, the kind of grin that makes Lincoln feel weak in the knees. Albert is just so beautiful when he smiles like that. Lincoln grins back at him and Albert laughs. Then he walks across the floor and pulls Lincoln into his arms.
“Lincoln, you make everything so needlessly complicated.”
Lincoln relaxes into Albert’s arms. This is much better than arguing. In fact, he doesn’t even want to go out for dinner. He’d much rather stay home. But Albert insisted they go out, in public, to a restaurant.
“Time for you to get out in the world a bit,” Albert had said when he’d arrived half an hour earlier. “Stop hiding away in this monstrosity of a home. We stayed in for a whole week while you were studying your motorbikes. Tonight we go out.”
Lincoln had protested at first, then relented, but only if he could wear something comfortable.
“So, why can’t I wear the tracksuit?”
“Because,” Albert says, and kisses Lincoln on the tip of his nose, “it is not cool.”
Not cool.
Cool.
Cool is something Lincoln has been trying to wrap his head around ever since he left the Institute. Certain things are cool, but they didn’t used to be. Other things used to be cool and are now not cool, or are considered to be something called passé. Lincoln sometimes can’t tell the difference.
He knows that all of Tom Lincoln’s cars are cool. He knows that motorbikes and hoverbikes are cool. Speed boats are cool. The style of this house, which Albert calls a monstrosity because he thinks it has no soul, is supposed to be cool. The low bed with the black sheets and the mirror on the wall and the gleaming metal trim and open empty space - all that is supposed to be cool.
He knows Tom’s wardrobe was considered cool, but he got rid of most of it because it made him feel like something was crawling up the back of his neck.
He doubts that Tom was really cool, but he sure tired to be.
Albert is cool. Lincoln isn’t sure how he knows, but he can tell. Albert is stylish and beautiful and sleek. But it isn’t just about beauty. It’s about how Albert acts.
Albert is in control. He knows what he wants, he doesn’t waver or change his mind at the last minute. He doesn’t let anything take him aback. That’s cool.
Except when they are in bed. Sometimes, when they are in bed, Albert isn’t so sure of himself. Sometimes he hesitates, or he loses his control.
Actually, it’s pretty cool when that happens. For Lincoln, anyway.
“Can we go out for dinner later?” Lincoln asks.
“Are you not hungry?” Albert asks back.
Lincoln finds himself grinning again. “Not really. And I’d rather spend some time here, making you lose your cool.”
Albert is cool with that.
Shirt
Not his usual style. The colour, bright to his eyes, is a rich, deep orange, and brings out the warmer tones of his skin. The perpetually cool texture is almost slick. The cut is sleek, accentuating the swell of his pecs, the breadth of his shoulders. It is overstated, for him.
Lincoln sidles next to him and looks into his eyes in the mirror.
“I like it,” Lincoln announces. His finger slips, glides over Laurent’s silk-covered bicep.
Then, in a hushed voice, “If you buy it, when we go home I’ll slide it off you.”
Laurent pulls out his wallet.
Chair
“What is it?”
“It’s a chair.”
“You sit on that?”
“Well, you sit in it. I think.” Lincoln hasn’t actually tried it. Yet.
“It is… very yellow.” Albert’s not terribly fond of bright colours.
“Yellow is a nice colour.” Lincoln is fond of bright colours.
“They don’t have it in black?”
“There’s enough black in my house already.” Lincoln’s house is black, grey, white, metal and glass, very little colour. This yellow chair, as he imagines it on the floor by the window looking out at the water, would bring much needed warmth to the living room.
“You’re not thinking of buying it, are you?”
“Not for sure. I wanted you to see it.”
Albert stares at it. It is bizarre. It is a big yellow bag, some sort of thick, fake leather holding something that flows to one side or the other, all around, depending on how it is manipulated.
“It’s retro,” Lincoln proclaims. It’s called a beanbag chair, but Lincoln knows it’s not full of actual beans; it’s full of little Styrofoam pellets. He read about beanbag chairs when he was searching for information on cool and ended up reading about things that had, at various times, been trendy.
Trendy and cool are two entirely different things. Trendy has to do with marketing cycles and the short attention span of the buying public.
Cool is forever.
He’s pretty sure beanbag chairs have never been really cool, but they have been a fad a few times over, in and out of style for decades, and on the cusp of being in again. That’s why this one is on display at the trendy store at the expensive mall, where he and Albert have been shopping.
Lincoln likes shopping. It’s fun to look at new things and imagine owning them. They’ve already bought a shirt for Albert. Lincoln really liked that, because he made Albert try on several shirts, and Albert went in and out of the change room briskly, buttoning or unbuttoning as he walked, so Lincoln got to see flashes of smooth brown skin and rippling muscles in a fairly public place, and that, for some reason, gave Lincoln a special thrill.
He watches Albert’s face. Watches Albert’s eyes study the curves of the chair. Watches Albert reach out with one foot and nudge the chair so makes a rustling noise and changes shape. Watches Albert’s eyes widen as he thinks of the possibilities.
Imagines Lincoln sinking into the chair, raised up enough so Albert can relax and lick him all over for as long as he likes without having to strain. Imagines Albert stretched out on the chair with Lincoln on top of him, sitting on his lap, because Lincoln has discovered that when he straddles Albert he can make their hard cocks rub together deliciously, and Lincoln can keep kissing Albert without having to stretch his neck much. Imagines rolling to one side and having the chair flow with them. Imagines Albert on top of him, holding himself up with straightened arms while Lincoln writhes beneath him. Holding onto Albert’s hard triceps and pushing up with his hips so their cocks meet.
Later, as they sprawl across the big, sweat-slicked, yellow beanbag, Albert toys with Lincoln’s hair.
“I like your new chair,” he says.
So does Lincoln.
Soap
“I like the green kind.”
“The colour doesn’t matter, you know. It’s a bar of soap.”
“I like the smell. It’s minty.”
“Mint soap?”
“So I’ll smell minty.”
“You smell fine without mint.”
“Are you saying I don’t need soap?”
“I’m saying I don’t care how the soap smells. I like the way you smell.”
“Well, I still like the green.”
“Fine.”
“It’ll look good when we take a shower together and I wash you.”
“What?”
“This shade of green looks good against brown.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong, Albert?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I’d like to go back to your place. Now.”
Mean It
“Your eyes are the most impossible blue before you come.”
Lincoln shudders and tried to speak. “Grey,” he pants. “They’re grey.”
“Not right now, they aren’t,” Albert says, and curls his finger slightly.
Lincoln shuts his eyes and moans.
It’s the first time Albert has done this to him, but from the way Lincoln feels, he could have been practicing for months. Years.
Lincoln wasn’t shy about it at all. Albert was taking his time, lazily tracing patterns on Lincoln’s skin, licking his cock and balls. Lincoln’s thighs fell open quite naturally, and Albert’s long fingers slipped down. The first touch was so light it tickled. Lincoln squirmed and asked for more. Albert pressed a little harder, at the centre, so the pad of his finger forced Lincoln open.
Lincoln asked for more again. And again. Now the finger, the middle one, is all the way inside Lincoln.
“Open your eyes. I want to see the colour change.”
Lincoln opens them.
“They turn pure grey after you come. Did you know that? Almost silver, the wings of a dove in the sunshine.”
Lincoln’s not sure if it’s the poetry, the low purr of Albert’s voice or the crook of his finger, but he could swear he can feel his eyes change colour.
Lincoln’s lashes flutter down.
“No, keep them open,” Albert says urgently. He punctuates the sentence with a comma, or maybe a question mark, traced deep inside Lincoln.
It makes everything go bright, even though Lincoln still has his eyes shut.
“Open,” Albert croons.
“Can’t,” Lincoln whispers. “You’ll see inside me.”
Albert twists his finger, straightens it, curls it again; Lincoln gasps.
“I can see inside you anyway. I’m feeling inside you. But open them for me. I want to see the colour change.”
Lincoln opens them again, but Albert’s face is so close it’s blurry. Albert’s tongue flashes across his lips, while bright lights lick at his eyelids. Albert could have three eyes or one. He probably has ten fingers, but only one counts. His tongue is inside Lincoln’s mouth, giving him something to moan around.
“Yes,” Albert whispers against his lips. “So close. You are so close.”
And Lincoln is there. His cock aches for a second and then jerks against Albert’s forearm. He can feel himself squeeze Albert’s finger and the waves of tension flow out from his gut to the ends of his limbs, where they become a tingling itch.
He’s still got his eyes open, but damned if he can see.
It takes a few moments before he can focus enough to see the slightly pained expression on Albert’s face.
“Can I do that to you?” Lincoln asks.
“You want to?”
Does he! Lincoln runs his hand over Albert’s hip. The hard muscle tightens under his fingers. He reaches around and holds Albert’s behind. Ass. It’s an ass. A perfect ass.
It’s so perfect, Lincoln suspects that Albert might, in fact, be the clone, because humans simply aren’t that perfect, and something that firm and round and so perfectly shaped can’t just happen. Surely that sort of perfection has to be engineered.
Albert pushes his cock against Lincoln’s hip and that one, perfect ass cheek flexes under Lincoln’s hand.
“You have a great ass,” Lincoln blurts out, and it was the perfect thing to say because it makes Albert push his ass against Lincoln’s palm. “It’s perfect,” he adds, unnecessarily, he thinks, but he wanted to say it.
“Lincoln…” Albert warns.
Now is not the time for leisurely exploration and discovery, it seems.
But it might be the time to keep talking, because Albert seems to really like that sort of thing.
“Should I lick my finger first, like you did? Or should I go right to putting the lube on it?”
Albert groans. “I don’t care it you take me dry, I just want your finger in my ass!”
Okay.
The attraction of dirty talk has suddenly become a whole lot clearer to Lincoln.
Lincoln grabs the lube from beside the pillow. He figures he should go straight to the really good part. Albert seems pretty impatient.
Lincoln’s discovered, in the course of all the handling and sucking and tonguing they’ve been doing, that Albert likes it when Lincoln is assertive. So he says, “Spread your legs.”
Albert’s legs shake a little bit while he does it.
“Wider,” Lincoln says. He tires to say it forcefully, but he can’t hide the hint of a giggle in his voice. The idea of ordering Albert around seems preposterous. Albert’s bigger and tougher and meaner and way more dangerous than Lincoln.
But he spreads his legs wider.
Lincoln dips his hand down between powerful thighs, follows the curve of Albert’s balls to the raised ridge of very sensitive, very smooth skin and stops just short of his target.
The growl from Albert is a rough rumble.
“Do I play around like you did? Or do I slide it right in?” This is fun, watching Albert get more and more agitated.
“You fuck me with it,” Albert says with a tight voice through gritted teeth.
He wasn’t this keyed up before. It must have something to do with what Albert did to Lincoln, which is what Lincoln is doing to Albert now. Except there’s no way Lincoln felt that good inside.
Wow. It’s so hot, and so tight, but that’s not nearly so amazing as how soft it feels.
“Do I feel like that inside?”
Albert mutters something Lincoln can’t understand because it’s in French. Lincoln really must learn French; Albert mostly uses it when he’s excited or distracted. He’s definitely excited at the moment.
Lincoln probes a bit deeper.
Albert flexes from head to toe. It’s an awesome sight. Lincoln can feel it inside too. He can’t help thinking about what it would be like to put his penis in there. No, his cock. A soft penis would never get past that tight ring of muscle. But a hard cock, even though it would be bigger, if it had enough lube on it…
“I want to put my cock in you,” Lincoln says as abruptly as he thought it.
Albert says something Lincoln doesn’t have a hope in hell of understanding because it’s in a language Lincoln doesn’t even know the name of; he only knows that the name of the language translated into English means ‘the language’.
Whatever Albert says sounds guttural, and it makes Lincoln’s cock twitch.
If Lincoln were a regular American, Albert would seem a foreigner to him, but since Lincoln is a clone who didn’t even know there were languages other than English until eight months ago, Albert is like some magical alien speaking in a language of sheer emotion, since the only time he ever uses his mother tongue is when he is completely overwhelmed, and almost always in a sexual context. Although, there was that time Albert dropped the book on his toe, but that was sort of in a sexual context anyway because he’d been moving the stack of books off the bed when Lincoln started playing with his own nipples.
“Help me, Albert,” he says, figuring Albert must have agreed with him, if only because Lincoln wants it so badly. “What’s the best way to do it?”
Albert’s torso ripples as Lincoln’s finger brushes over a lump inside. When Albert opens his mouth, nothing comes out, so Lincoln puts his tongue inside. That gives Albert something to concentrate on. He sucks Lincoln’s tongue while his hands grip Lincoln’s hips and put him into position.
Lincoln has never really been between Albert’s thighs like this before. The long, muscular legs pressing into his sides make Lincoln hard. Really hard. He reaches down with a slippery hand and gets his cock slick. His cock seems to know roughly where to go. The head is bumping against Albert. Albert’s arms and legs start moving, like he’s swimming, trying to wriggle into the right place. Albert’s fingers are firm on his cock as they grasp him to guide him.
The resistance only makes Lincoln want in even more. He pushes, retreats slightly, pushes again. Albert’s hands are on his ass, forcing him in. The pressure moves up to the widest part of his head. Lincoln digs his fingers into Albert’s shoulders. Past the head - and now that the head is inside, Lincoln doesn’t ever want to leave. Albert keeps pushing him in and the deeper he goes, the more Lincoln likes it. Loves it. Stronger than loves it.
“Open your eyes.”
Lincoln has to look up, because Albert is that much taller than him, and Lincoln is down between his legs like that.
“Blue,” Albert whispers.
“Albert,” Lincoln whispers.
Albert looks fragile, like he might break at any moment. Lincoln tilts his hips back and pushes forward again.
Albert breaks. He cries out and brings his legs up around Lincoln’s thighs, crushes Lincoln against his chest.
Lincoln is really happy that he trusts Albert so much, because if anyone else wrapped that much muscle around him and squeezed that hard, he would be terrified.
Albert is surging up to meet his cock and they agree on a rhythm after a mere three or four strokes. Lincoln is the one being fucked, really. Part of him is inside Albert and the rest of him is surrounded by Albert.
“Lincoln…” And then there is a torrent of words, sounds, really, to Lincoln’s ear, and it takes a while for Lincoln to realise it’s English. He’d assumed it would be something he couldn’t understand.
Albert is telling Lincoln he loves him.
Lincoln was warned, sternly, about groupies and gold diggers who would say things like that in the throes of passion. This is certainly passionate, and Albert is most certainly in what seems like throes. But he wouldn’t lie about something like that.
Maybe he doesn’t mean to say it, but he means it.
Lincoln slithers his hands between them to stroke Albert’s cock. That makes the inside of Albert’s ass feel even better around his cock. He’s never felt anything like it again, but he’s pretty sure he’ll get lots of chances to feel it again, so he lets it end. He strokes Albert hard and tells him to come.
Albert folds around Lincoln after they both come, and rolls to the side so they are facing each other with Lincoln’s cock still inside and Albert’s long leg draped over Lincoln’s hip.
Lincoln faces an expanse of dark, gleaming, sweaty chest, so he starts liking at the salty moisture.
“No, Lincoln, too much,” Albert whispers.
Lincoln turns his head to face the ceiling and rests his cheek over Albert’s heart. “Better?”
“There could not be any better.”
“I love you, Albert.”
“Do… do you know what that really means?”
“No,” Lincoln answers honestly. “But I mean it.”
Albert kisses the top of Lincoln’s head. “That’s better than what most people ever get.”
Paying Attention
Laurent presses the ice pack firmly against the purpling skin of Lincoln’s outer thigh.
He’s not angry with Lincoln for laying down his bike. That happens to almost everyone. Laurent’s grateful it was a minor spill, and Lincoln wasn’t injured more severely. But there was a recklessness to the way it happened. Lincoln wasn’t paying enough attention to the road.
“Have you learned anything from this?” he asks sternly.
“Yeah,” Lincoln sighs. “I should always lead when we’re out on the bikes, because honestly, when you’re wearing all that black leather, I can’t concentrate enough to make the tricky turns.”
A Harsh Environment Overcome
Laurent realises, only after he’s opened the door and Lincoln has entered the apartment ahead of him, that his living room is entirely brown.
He doesn’t think in terms of colour often. It’s only since he’s been spending so much time with Lincoln that he’s begun to notice what colours things are, and that’s mostly because Lincoln delights in such jarring and garish shades, especially in clothing. So garish Laurent feels the need to comment upon them.
Laurent wears mostly black, sometimes brown. Or he used to wear mostly black and sometimes brown, until Lincoln started putting colours on him. But he still wears mostly black, because it’s easy, and because people take it seriously, and because all black on someone of Laurent’s size is intimidating as fuck.
Laurent also drives black vehicles. Because they are intimidating.
Everything in his living room, he notes, seemingly for the first time, is brown. Which is odd, but perhaps not, because he does not really invite people to his apartment. It is his space, where he does not need to intimidate anyone.
Even though everything in the room, except for the cat, is manufactured or at least shaped to some extent, by the hand of humans, all of it existed in some form in a natural state. That might explain all the brown. Brown is a natural colour. In the village Albert is from, it is the natural colour. Green is fleeting. Brown is year-round. Many natural things are naturally brown, and Albert sees no need to overly change the natural state of things, especially when there is no need to intimidate anyone.
There is an old, comfortable couch covered in brown leather. There is a table he found in a junk store, from which he painstakingly stripped the peeling varnish, and finished with oil so it gleams with a dense, dark grain that speaks of a harsh environment overcome. The rug is woven from some sort of grass; he’s not sure which, but the rustle of it is reassuring. No one is ever here when he is resting on the couch, but he likes to know he would hear them coming. There is a chair made of bamboo and another of rattan. The blanket tossed over the back of the couch is dark honey, and the candle on the windowsill looks and smells like nutmeg.
The carving on the table is of a wood so dark it approaches black, a sinuous, soulful twisting drummer, reaching for the sky with one stick while the other plays his instrument. There is a mask on the wall, something he was sent years before. He suspects it came from his brother, and if it was, then it’s the last contact they had. But it could have been from anyone. It arrived one day in a plain wooden box.
The box sits under the window, and the cat sleeps on it, on a cinnamon-coloured silk pillow. The cat is brunette all over in subtle stripes. The blinds are thin slats of clear-coated wood, drawn against the sun, but the rays sneak in and stripe all the browns with golden overtones.
“Wow,” Lincoln says.
Laurent stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It’s strange to have Lincoln moving around his living room like that, touching things, picking up pieces of his life.
Lincoln is rolling a smooth, solid, almost perfect sphere, in his palm. It is the size of a golf ball, and made of glass. “What is this?”
Laurent shrugs. “I don’t know. I picked it up at a flea market. I liked the feel of it.”
Lincoln rubs the cool, always cool, surface on his cheek. “It has so many colours in it.”
“It’s brown,” Laurent corrects him.
“No, look; there’s this darker brown and those gold bits and that one, the colour of your eyes. They all swirl together.” Lincoln’s holding it up to the light. “Is it magic?”
“No, it’s just a glass ball.”
Lincoln looks at Laurent as if he’s the one who is three years old. “It’s beautiful,” he insists.
Laurent takes his jacket off, still a bit uncomfortable with the brightness of the orange shirt Lincoln talked him into buying. It slides on his skin, though, and reminds him of Lincoln’s hands sliding on his skin. “Would you like a drink?”
Lincoln nods, and Laurent realizes that the scotch is yet another shade of brown. He’s a bit worried that Lincoln will think he’s done this on purpose, made this room all one colour for a reason, when it has actually happened naturally.
Lincoln sits on the couch, and is alarmingly pink next to the dark, chocolate brown. The cat jumps up to greet him and Lincoln is startled. He must not have seen it, camouflaged by all the other browns. The cat meows and rubs against him.
“I didn’t know you had a pet.”
“I don’t. It belongs to the man next door.”
“It? You don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t even know its name. It comes in through the air vent.”
Lincoln looks up at the broken air vent cover, painted the same even, almost nonexistent sandy colour as the rest of the room.
“You should fix that,” he says.
Laurent shrugs. “Then the cat wouldn’t have any way to get around.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
Laurent shrugs. As if a stray cat could do him any harm.
The cat wanders away. Lincoln is not of much use to it. He hasn’t had a lot of contact with pets. He doesn’t know how to handle them.
He does know how to handle Laurent, though. He knows exactly how to make Laurent purr. He’s got a look in his eye that says he’s interested in that right now, and his hand makes little circles on the smooth leather.
Laurent sits, of course. He’s always willing to get closer to Lincoln. Lincoln is a shot of blinding bright colour in a dull brown room.
“Albert,” Lincoln says, drawing out the name playfully. He has called Laurent ‘my bear’ exactly once. Laurent hoped he was menacing enough to discourage such behaviour, but Lincoln is not one to be easily intimidated. He simply plays with the sound of Albert’s name now without actually saying ‘bear’.
It’s a finer point than Laurent is used to make, but for Lincoln he’s willing to make concessions.
“Thank you for inviting me to your home.” Lincoln slides his hand over Laurent’s arm almost shyly.
Laurent is amazed at how virginal Lincoln can seem, when only last night he was fucking Laurent like a pro.
Not like a pro. Like someone so intensely focussed on what they were doing it couldn’t help but feel like the best thing that’s ever happened to Laurent.
Laurent hasn’t let anyone fuck him for years. No, actually decades. And now he wants it again, less than 24 hours later.
Lincoln’s hands are sliding all over his chest. He loves Laurent’s muscles. Sometimes he asks Laurent to flex them. Laurent does it, just because Lincoln has beautiful hands. He’s messed them up a bit recently, but they are so smooth. Fully grown but without the 35 years of exposure a regular person would have.
He studies Lincoln’s short nails as they run over the orange silk. With a little bit of shaping, they would be breathtaking. He’ll try to remember to take Lincoln for a manicure some time. It’s a secret, guilty little pleasure Laurent likes to indulge in every now and then. Lincoln will love the luxury of soaking his hands in warmth and having someone touch them.
Then he forgets all about manicures and nails, because Lincoln’s lips are on his throat.
Lincoln is very careful with the buttons on Laurent’s new shirt. Laurent would prefer that he rip it open and toss it in the air, but Lincoln slides the little disks through the holes carefully, slips the silk over Laurent’s shoulders, folds it neatly and puts it on the table.
Pushes Laurent back onto the couch.
It’s a large couch. Laurent bought it so he would have a place to sleep when bad dreams chase him from his bed.
“How does this stay so soft?” Lincoln asks, momentarily distracted by the leather upholstery.
“I condition it. Just like the moisturizer I put on your skin last night. Or the cream I put on your bruise. Is your leg okay?”
Lincoln shrugs. “It hurts a bit, but it’s fine. I just can’t concentrate when…” He runs his hand over the black leather of Laurent’s pants. “Do you condition this too?”
Laurent moves, and the leather of the pants creaks against the leather of the couch.
“I don’t know. I send them out to be cleaned. I guess….” He can’t talk anymore because Lincoln is turning him over on the couch, hands on his hips.
“You could almost disappear on this couch,” Lincoln says, sweeping his hand over Laurent’s broad back. “If I took all your clothes off…”
Laurent would like that very much.
“But I don’t know if I want you to take these pants off. I like the way they look on you.”
Laurent’s breath disappears when Lincoln runs his hand up the back of his thigh.
“But if you don’t take them off, I won’t be able to touch your ass.”
That’s it. The pants are off. Laurent loves the feel of leather, but he can wear the pants any time. Besides, he can feel the leather of the couch instead. It warms under his stomach and cock the same way his ass warms under Lincoln’s hands.
He’s never been completely naked on his couch before. He’s never had a man’s hands on his ass quite like that before either. Lincoln is testing his flesh, pressing and pinching and squeezing.
“You’re so beautiful, Albert.”
Laurent would like to tell Lincoln he’s beautiful too. That Lincoln has beautiful eyes, and a beautiful face, and a beautiful body, and an especially beautiful ass. But he’s not really capable of that, because Lincoln is licking his skin, the skin of his ass.
Lincoln lies on top of Laurent, fully clothed. He’s even still wearing his leather jacket. He’s fully dressed, and fully hard, and Laurent is under him, fully naked and even harder. Lincoln rubs the jean-clad ridge of his cock up and down the cleft of Laurent’s ass, and Laurent gasps.
Lincoln tumbles off him. “I’m sorry. That probably didn’t feel so good.”
Well, jeans aren’t really Laurent’s thing. He makes a note to get Lincoln a pair of leather pants. Something snug without any sharp metal parts on the front. Or back.
But the cock part, that felt good, even though he’s not really up for getting fucked again quite so soon.
He reaches for Lincoln’s jacket. “Not a problem. Just take those clothes off so I can feel your skin on me.”
Lincoln is swift to oblige, and soon he’s stretched out over Laurent again, pink with blond-brown hair and that fresh purple bruise on his hip, which Laurent can see if he looks down to the left because Lincoln has spread his legs so he’s melded to Albert’s back and ass. Laurent reaches back and traces his fingers around the outside of the bruise. He iced it right away. It hasn’t swollen that much. It won’t last forever. It won’t last long at all.
“Sure it’s okay?”
“Fine,” Lincoln murmurs. “I think I’ll stay off my bikes for a little while. Besides, riding behind you on your bike was much more fun.”
Laurent closes his eyes. Fun. More like distracting. He was terrified he would crash the whole way here. Laurent had to endure Lincoln on the bike behind him, legs pressed up against the back’s of his thighs, chest against his back, arms around his waist. But they’d set out for Laurent’s apartment in the morning, and there hadn’t been any reason to change the plan once they’d righted Lincoln’s bike and got it back home.
Funny, that he’s started to think of Lincoln’s place as home. He doesn’t even like the building. The décor. The location. He only likes the inhabitant.
“Albert, oh, can we stay naked forever?” Lincoln moans against his back and arches into his body.
Laurent imagines Lincoln and him, on this couch, forever. Laurent would disappear into the warm, worn leather, but he would never lose sight of Lincoln. He reaches back again, further, and curves his hand over Lincoln’s ass, pulling him too close, Lincoln’s cock burrowing between his cheeks completely, Lincoln’s hands on his arms, Lincoln’s mouth on his skin. Lincoln’s leg creeps up so it’s nestled against Laurent’s hip and waist. Laurent stretches so his fingers find their way over a taut thigh to Lincoln’s warm balls and hot asshole. He’s never been so thankful for having such long arms.
Lincoln’s breath is hot between his shoulder blades.
Laurent’s breath is heavy.
This is his space, and he’s never really shared it with anyone before.
Jealousy
Black leather, stretched taut, so when the sun hits it, it gleams like a mirror.
And that’s exactly the shape and size of ass Laurent used to fine irresistible, back when he was bedding women. Soft and high, skirt a little too tight, a little too short. If she were to bend over any more, he would see things very personal indeed.
Lincoln watches closely, with his arms crossed over his chest, one elbow bent enough that he’s got the edge of his thumbnail in his mouth, worrying the cuticle with his teeth. A look of intense concentration graces his face.
She straightens up, turns around, notices that Laurent has walked in. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Karla.”
She’s got blond hair, not natural, piled up in a seemingly haphazard tangle, but the way the tendrils fall around her face, framing her peach skin, her glossy lips, her pert little nose, her… Laurent has to face the facts, her Jordan-Two-Delta-esque features… it speaks of all too careful planning.
“Albert Laurent,” Laurent says dryly, with a hint of menace, as is his wont with strangers of any sort, but particularly of the threatening sort.
“The Albert Laurent?” she says, all wide eyes and shining lips. “Oh, my god, Lincoln Six Echo and Albert Laurent!”
Fucking clone groupie.
Laurent hates them almost as much as he hates being recognized. Even if he hadn’t wanted to give up being a professional badass, even if he wasn’t tired of killing as a business, even if it didn’t please Lincoln that he’d quit all that, he would have still had to quit, because his cover has been fucking blown to bits forever.
“The Facility sent Karla over to help with the cleaning. She’s been showing me how to condition the couch.”
The black leather couch shines at Laurent, teasing him.
“Doesn’t it look great?” Lincoln says enthusiastically.
Laurent nods.
Karla gives him the kind of smile that used to give him a hard on, but now it just makes him wish she would leave. It’s obscene that the Facility that would send out someone like that, who dresses that provocatively, to the home of an unsuspecting, vulnerable clone.
But now that she’s not bent over the couch, her blue skirt isn’t quite so tight or short.
But she is licking her lips and making them even shinier. So shiny, they look like they might quench your thirst.
It’s none of Laurent’s business. He doesn’t have the right to say who can come into Lincoln’s house. Lincoln is an adult. And he does need help with the cleaning.
“I was planning to go for a run,” Laurent says. He has to run every day. It’s part of what keeps him tough.
Lincoln has dinner in the oven and he has to do something with a sauce, so Laurent decides to go on his own, because he needs to clear his head anyway.
When he comes out of the bedroom, changed into sweats and a t-shirt, Karla is on the landing, holding a feather duster and batting her eyes at him.
“You’re very tall,” she says.
Pathetic.
But he is. Her perky tits are pretty well poking him in the stomach.
Laurent growls. Fucking groupies.
His feet pound on the sand and the wind coming off the water is bracing. Once his heart rate starts to inch up and he has to take deep, regular breaths, his head starts to clear.
So what? A pretty, eye-catching young woman showed up to clean the house. She’s legit. Laurent checked out her ID badge. Maybe she took the job because she’s into clones. Big deal. Lincoln isn’t going to fall for a pair of smoky hazel eyes and a bit of jiggle. He’s not going to up and leave Laurent for a luscious high ass and some tempting cleavage.
And even if he was, Laurent couldn’t do anything to stop him, because it’s Lincoln’s choice. Things it would certainly be easier for Lincoln if he had a pretty, socially-acceptable female lover, one who could hang on to his arm in public, someone he could dance with and flirt with openly, someone who would have to go on tiptoe to kiss him. A woman he could fuck and marry and have kids with, and be normal.
Instead, Laurent has given Lincoln a lover with a clouded history and many secrets, someone who can’t truly open himself to anyone, although he’s come closest with Lincoln. A huge, hulking, brooding reminder of the violent past. A constant tribute to Lincoln’s own otherness.
But the passion between them, the feverish melding of their bodies, the electricity of their kisses, the hours of exploration and wonder, the explosiveness of Laurent’s desire, and the sheer enthusiasm of Lincoln… surely that counts for something.
She’s not that pretty. And she’s wearing too much eye make-up for daytime, especially for a house cleaner. It strikes Laurent as a little desperate to show up at a clone’s house looking that sleazy, with her Facility ID tag perched on her underwire-enhanced tits so the lower corner of the logo practically points to an erect nipple.
Lincoln has surely seen through all that. Lincoln won’t go for that sort of cheap, tawdry seduction… no, come on. Cheap come on.
He won’t, because Laurent will seduce him properly. Laurent will take Lincoln in his strong arms and he will take Lincoln’s breath away with a forceful kiss. He will whisper in Lincoln’s ear, tell him how treasured he is, how he’s the most beautiful man on earth, and Laurent will say it all in French, because that always makes Lincoln shiver.
Most of all, he will willingly offer himself to Lincoln, and Lincoln will take him and take him until they fall to the bed, exhausted and sweaty and covered in each other’s essence.
Lincoln is in the kitchen when Laurent returns, putting something in the oven and fiddling with the control panel and looking a bit tense.
The place is, otherwise, empty.
“Where’s Karla?” Laurent asks.
“I fired her,” Lincoln says.
He presses up against Laurent and pushes his hands up under Laurent’s sweat-soaked t-shirt to rub his hands over the swells of hard pectoral muscles. He breathes in the scent of Laurent.
“I did not like the way she was looking at you,” Lincoln says. “You’re mine!”
The Right Question
“I’m white.”
“I noticed.”
“Even though I’m really pink.”
“Correct.”
“And you’re black, even though you’re really you’re brown.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“White people have done some awful things to black people.”
“Not you.”
“No, not me personally.”
“In fact, you tend to do very nice things to me.”
“Albert, I’m being serious.”
“So am I!”
“But, are you comfortable with a white lover?”
“I’d be more comfortable if you would come over here and sit in my lap.”
“Albert!”
“Look, Lincoln, why are you worried about this so suddenly?”
“I’ve been reading.”
“I’m going to have to take your books away.”
“It’s important to know history, to know the history of your people.”
“Is that what you’ve been reading? That book, there?”
“Yes.”
“Lincoln, I’m not from the United States.”
“I know. I’m talking about black people in general. And white people.”
“Collectively.”
“Yeah, collectively.”
“Lincoln, does it mention clones in that book?”
“Uh… no.”
“I appreciate that you want to know about history, and the history of my people. I appreciate that you seem concerned about your place in the world.”
“I AM concerned.”
“Good, but this is futile. It doesn’t even apply to us, and even if it does, it’s about other people’s perceptions, not our relationship. I mean... okay, try to look at it logically. Do you think of me as black?”
“Of course I do. You are black.”
“No. I mean, when you look at me, do you see a black man?”
“Um. Well. It’s kind of hard to miss.”
“Why do clones have to take everything so literally?
“Because that’s the way we are?”
“Lincoln, would you still love me if I were white?”
“Yes. No. How should I know? Being black is part of what makes you who you are, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. I’m glad we settled that.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong question.”
“So, what’s the right question?”
“Does me being black and you being white cause us a problem?”
“Oh.”
“Well, does it?”
“No.”
“There!”
…
“Albert?”
“Yes, Lincoln.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable that I’m a clone?”
“Lincoln...”
“Yes, Albert?”
“Get over here and sit on my lap.”
Unnerving
Lincoln Six Echo stares at his left hand. The nails are short and perfectly shaped. They’ve also been made shiny with a colourless something that makes them look inhumanly smooth.
The woman with the riot of unnaturally blonde curls, which make her natural brown skin look just like chocolate, pulls his right hand out of the sudsy smooth water.
“Beautiful hands. So elegant, my dear,” she coos. “Albert must love them.”
Lincoln looks around, but he can’t see Albert anywhere. He had been right over there, in the blue chair, leaning back while the lady with the dangling earrings and lip piercing shaved his head with meticulous care. But now he’s gone. Maybe to a room like the one Lincoln had been in earlier, where they’d put that lumpy stuff that smelled like cucumber on his face.
Lincoln raises the finished hand to his face. Neither has ever felt this smooth. And he’s never shaved himself that closely before.
The lady starts to do things to his hands. Filing. Buffing. She is firm but gentle, and she keeps sneaking little rubs of his wrist bones. “I love these wrists, she says.
It’s unnerving.
That’s a strange word – unnerving. Because there’s no such thing as nerving.
Lincoln is relieved to spot Albert coming out of a curtained doorway.
Wow. His head is perfectly smooth. Lincoln fights the urge to go over and lick it. Albert looks even more beautiful than he usually does. He’s wearing very well-tailored black pants and a dark grey shirt that makes his chest look really really big.
Not that Albert’s chest isn’t really really big all the time, but this shirt is expertly tapered at the waist and the effect is enough to make Lincoln yearn for smooth, dark skin under his tongue.
The girl with the pink-highlighted hair is clinging to Albert and stroking his bicep. And giggling.
Lincoln does not like that.
The woman who seems to be in charge floats over and shoos the girl away. “Albert, darling.” Two kisses, one on each cheek. Everyone in the salon greets Albert this way. “You look wonderful. And now we see why you have been hiding all this time!”
There are women stealing looks at Lincoln. Envious looks.
Lincoln is definitely unnerved.
But not as unnerved as he was when they’d arrived and the one other man in the place looked at him with a hungry expression. He didn’t for look long, because Albert stepped between them so Lincoln couldn’t see what was going on, but he could see Albert shake his head sharply.
The man was very careful not to look Lincoln in the eye while he trimmed the tiniest bit off Lincoln’s hair.
Lincoln looks in the mirror and is amazed. Not much was cut off, but his hair looks great! Albert was right – a good cut makes a big difference.
In spite of being unnerved, Lincoln sort of likes this place. They do really neat things here. He’s not so big on some of the chemical smells; they make his nose tickle. But everyone is certainly friendly.
He just wishes they wouldn’t giggle behind their hands and touch him quite so much.
When the manicure is over, Albert insists on paying and they walk to Albert’s truck while Lincoln chatters about all the things that happened at the salon.
He knows he’s babbling, but he can’t stop. If he stops, he’ll want to lick Albert’s head, and Albert wouldn’t like that because they’re on the sidewalk, out in the open. It’s bad to call too much attention to yourself in public.
They get in the car and Lincoln stares down at his hands. There isn’t a ragged spot on them. All the rough edges are gone, softened and smoothed away.
Albert starts the engine. “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” he asks.
“My hands,” Lincoln answers.
“What about them?” Albert is smiling. Lincoln can hear it in his voice.
“My fingers,” Lincoln specifies.
Albert taps his long, similarly groomed fingers on the steering wheel. Patient, but not saintly.
“They’ll slide inside you so easily now.”
Albert’s head drops to the steering wheel with a thunk.
“There’s no roughness at all. See how short and perfect my nails are? I’ll be able to feel everything inside you without having to worry about scratching you or—”
Albert lifts his head a few centimetres and thuds it on the steering wheel again.
“Plus, I want to lick your scalp.”
Albert throws his head back with a pained groan.
“And rub my face all over it.”
Albert points at his lap with one exquisitely manicured fingernail.
“I think I want to suck your fingers, too.”
“Lincoln!”
Lincoln looks down at the heavy ridge trapped against Albert’s thigh by the sleek black fabric of his pants.
“I was in perfect control until you said that,” Albert growls.
“Said what?” Lincoln is curious about what he said to cause such an extreme reaction.
“Everything. All of it. Your hands, my scalp, fingers, sucking… oh, god.” Albert puts his hands over his face. “You, Lincoln. It’s you.”
Lincoln is shocked. He’s never seen Albert upset like this before. He appears to be what they call “at the end of his rope”, or at least very near it.
Albert sighs heavily.
Lincoln feels guilty. He’s put Albert in distress. And until Lincoln, Albert was always in control of everything. Lincoln is to blame.
Albert laughs. It’s sudden, and maybe a little hysterical.
Lincoln looks out at the street. Maybe he should get out of the car. If being close upsets Albert, he should get out and find his own way home.
Albert grabs Lincoln by the collar.
Lincoln fully expects to be thrown out of the car. At least it’s not moving.
Instead, Albert leans over, pulls Lincoln toward him, wraps a long arm around him, nuzzles his freshly-trimmed hair.
Lincoln’s face is smushed against Albert’s chest, and Lincoln thinks he might like it.
“Lincoln, I want to take you home and fuck you.”
Lincoln nods, and his cheeks rubs over a hard nipple. He knows he likes that.
“I need to be inside you.”
“Yes, please,” Lincoln, says politely.
Now Lincoln really likes the salon. He hopes they go there often.
There is a low rumble in Albert's chest, and it tickles Lincoln's lips through the thin silk of the shirt.
“Are you okay to drive?” Lincoln asks.
Albert lets go of Lincoln and sits up, taking deep breaths. “I will be in a minute.”
“Good.”
“As long as you don’t touch me.”
“I won’t. Not until we get home.”
“Or stare at me.”
“I’ll look out the window.”
“Better not speak either,” Albert adds shakily.
Lincoln sits, quiet as a mouse, with his hands folded in his lap, and looks out at passing cars and buildings and people, with a huge grin on his face.
They’re going home.
And Albert is going to fuck him.
On to the next parts in 21-30 Island100
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