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cavalierious-whim · 4 years ago

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Felix's life is turned upside-down when Sylvain comes back after years away to hustle at his pool hall. #

Ever have an idea that's neat until it grows legs and just becomes 12k words worth of filth? Yeah, that. My google search history suffered intensely for this fic, but now I know that you can use cue stick oil as lube. You're welcome. Read here on A03 for better quality, and for wips, updates and more, follow me here on Twitter!

Felix runs a clean establishment which is why the red-headed idiot is the bane of his existence.

Every night, he’s there, running the action for a dime a pot. Making his victims even up before they start a new round. Regulars know that he’s hustling; he makes his targets put the money in the rack and then before they know it, he sweeps them in the last game, taking the pot for his own.

The newbies don’t stand a chance. Everyone else stays to watch the slaughter.

Felix waits before he steps in. He might run a tight ship but he can’t risk his regulars running out because he puts a stop to the usual entertainment. So, Felix watches from his corner spot on the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he scowls.

The idiot has cued up a tricky three-rail bank shot. His opponent looks confident that he’s going to win but everyone else knows better. Ingrid tries to warn the new guy; tugs on his arm to whisper into his ear. The man only smiles at her like she’s dumb, twirling a lock of her short hair around his finger.

When Ingrid smiles back, it isn’t kind.

The idiot takes his shot, the cue ball connecting with all three walls just as planned before sinking the eight like there’s a magnet in the pocket.

The newbie’s cigarette falls from his mouth, Ingrid stamps it out before it can do any lasting damage, and Felix makes his move before things get ugly.

“Sylvain,” he snaps, sliding in near the billiards table and leveling him with an unimpressed glare.

Sylvain’s already snatched up the money, thumbing through it and double-checking even though he knows it’s good. The bills never leave the table, not under his keen eye. Sylvain pauses dramatically and offers him a smarmy smile.

“Felix,” he greets in a low baritone.

“Are you done swindling my customers?”

“Hey, I’m a customer too.”

Felix scoffs. “You’re a leech and I can throw you right out.” The crowd around them is used to the theatrics of it all and begins to disperse, making themselves scarce. Ingrid hangs back for a moment and exchanges a knowing glance with Felix.

She isn’t much better than Sylvain at the end of the night, hustling her own targets in games of Cribbage before clearing the table, but she and Felix have an agreement. Felix and Sylvain don’t. Mostly because the latter is impossible to reason with.

“You won’t,” says Sylvain, back to counting his bills. “If I made this much, you easily made twice that.” He folds them before tucking them into his pocket.

Sylvain isn’t wrong. He might be a hustler, but he’s a damn good pool player, and people will spend all night in the hall just to peek at a game or two. Sylvain makes good change, but Felix takes a better cut off the booze and food he sells as a result.

It’s a win-win and it’s why he’s never actually kicked the man out despite his idle threats. Among other reasons, those far more complicated. Still, it’s the principle of the matter.

Sylvain orders a whiskey, neat, and Felix scowls. When Annie brings him a crystal tumbler, Sylvain gives her a wink. He’s barking up the wrong tree and knows it, but it’s harmless flirting that they throw between them on the regular. Annette finds it cute.

Felix finds it appalling.

Sylvain takes a sip and sets the glass aside, picking up a cue stick and rolling it between his palms. “So, it was a good night, I’m sure,” he says conversationally.

“I don’t talk shop with patrons, least of all you.”

“Here’s a reminder that I bring in money--”

“You could bring in Blaiddyd himself, and I still wouldn’t talk.”

Sylvain whistles lowly. “That’s a bit low,” he says. “Blaiddyd wouldn’t ever step foot into a place like this.”

Dimitri wouldn’t. Felix knows it, but it’s not because his pool hall is tucked into a dark corner of Fhirdiad. It’s because he and Dimitri aren’t on speaking terms and likely never will be again. The red-headed idiot doesn’t know that, can’t know that. He and Sylvain haven’t properly talked in years. Hustling in his hall is a fairly new development and it’s haunted Felix’s dreams for nearly a half-year.

Sylvain’s calling a blind-eyed bluff and Felix lets it ruffle him.

“Insufferable fool,” snaps Felix.

Sylvain shrugs as Felix rounds the table to clean it off, grabbing the wide boar-bristle brush. He sets about sweeping up the chalk marks from the felt because Sylvain’s shit at doing it.

Or, he doesn’t even bother, racking up another game without any consideration. Truly, the bane of Felix’s existence, a constant aggravation, from the way that he hustles patrons in his carefully cultivated pool hall, to that damned smirk that is more attractive than it should be.

Old habits die hard, especially when it comes to the decade-old flame still flickering in Felix’s pathetic heart.

When Sylvain leans against the table, Felix stands up, instantly high alert. When he sits his ass on the rail with his entire weight, Felix nearly has a coronary.

“Off!” he snaps, shaking the brush at Sylvain. “You’ll fuck up the balance.”

“I can fuck up a lot more than that, you know,” says Sylvain. “All you have to do is ask.”

Felix isn’t a mobster so he doesn’t murder the man. But he is a pool shark, so he does the next best thing. “You and me,” says Felix. “Later when the doors close. One-on-one, house rules.”

Sylvain regards Felix with one long, sweeping gaze across the entirety of his body, and Felix almost snarls back. But he doesn’t. Ingrid would be proud.

“I’m a front-runner,” says Sylvain, as though it makes a difference. Of course, he’s a front-runner, he’s likely the best player Felix has ever seen aside from Glenn. But Glenn’s dead and that doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m no slouch,” says Felix.

Sylvain smiles a curling thing that spells danger. “Oh, I know. I’ve seen you shoot a rack or two.” Or two thousand. Sylvain looks at his whiskey glass, swirling it gently. “And the stakes? A dime? Two?”

“Rights to play here,” says Felix. “You lose and I get to kick you out once and for all.”

“And if I win, you never bother me about hustling again.” Felix opens his mouth and Sylvain cuts him off. “Ah-ah-ah, none of that. You and I both know that I bring in more business than this dusty old place would see without me.”

Felix hates that he’s right and he hates that he doesn’t have the guts to refute it. He swipes the brush over the table angrily. “Fine, I’ll take your damned deal.”

They don’t shake on it, but Sylvain does tip his glass in a salute. Good enough for Felix since the faith of Sylvain’s word doesn’t mean shit.

So the thing is, they’ve actually known each other since they were children. Ingrid and Dimitri as well; they’d grown up together during the tail-end of Prohibition, spending their afternoons with Glenn shooting pool on tilted tables with badly balanced cue sticks.

Felix was good, but Sylvain was the prodigy when it came to shooting racks, an absolute monster that no one wanted to challenge. Back then, he didn’t hustle, he just enjoyed the sport. And Felix did too, their days spent leaning over chalk-dusted felt and hand-me-down sticks.

Then Glenn died, Sylvain went pro and Felix turned bitter and angry. And everything between them stretched wide and thin, colored by wanton attraction and the fear of fucking it up.

Dimitri bought this place to relive fond memories. Abandoned it when he lost his mind for fancier clientele. Felix, unable to forget his youth no matter how he tried, stepped in to keep it from shutting down entirely.

No longer in its prime, the place struggled for years, Felix barely paying the bills and keeping it afloat.

Until Sylvain walked back in one day. It’d been five years without a word, and nearly a decade of sore, unbidden feelings. Felix wanted nothing to do with him. Didn’t want to relive those memories.

One problem, though: Sylvain can’t take a fucking hint. Felix has told him to his face that he’s unwelcome and Sylvain just shoots him that signature smirk of his, the one that’s so impossible to ignore, and pretends that nothing was ever said.

Felix never kicks him out because he lacks any resolve, something that haunts his dreams. It makes Ingrid laugh.

“So, house rules,” says Sylvain, sliding up next to him with a smooth swagger that Felix makes a point of ignoring.

“Eight-ball,” starts Felix, but Sylvain tuts.

“Where’s the fun in that? That’s a family game.” Felix doesn’t like the glint in Sylvain’s eye as he leans against the table rail. “Nine-ball. Best three out of five.”

“Nine-ball’s a tournament game,” says Felix. “I don’t do tournaments.”

“You could,” says Sylvain with a shrug. He’s right; Felix can. But he won’t.

“You know that I don’t compete.”

“Anymore,” says Sylvain, a quiet correction that turns Felix’s blood red-hot. Sylvain must see it because he raises his hands in deference. “Not the point, not the point. I’m just saying. We’re playing for a high pot so might as well make the game match.”

Felix doesn’t think that playing for his pool hall is a high pot but there isn’t a point in arguing-- Sylvain’s been bit by a competitive bug and it’s too late to stop it.

“Fine, nine-ball,” says Felix. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at Sylvain. “Casual rules, though. Ball-in-hand--”

“Ugh.” Sylvain sounds positively offended and Felix smirks.

“And none of that fancy shit you like to pull.”

“Felix, you wound me.”

Felix levels him with an unimpressed look. “I don’t have time for it,” he says. Then he kicks Sylvain’s shin. “And off the fucking table. I won’t tell you again.”

Sylvain hops off but doesn’t apologize. “I’ll rack--”

“I’ll do it,” cuts in Felix, reaching for the triangle rack instead of the one used for nine-ball. “I don’t trust you further than I can throw you.”

Sylvain pauses, frowning the slightest bit, a tiny little crack in his carefully maintained facade. Felix nearly pauses-- nearly. Sylvain isn’t the kind to wear his heart on his sleeve. He only shows what he wants other people to see. But this here, it doesn’t seem intentional. He’s already off his game, distracted by something.

“I only meant you setting up the game,” says Felix.

“I’ve no qualms about you racking, but you know it means that I get to break.”

A calculated decision that Felix has already considered. Felix isn’t bad at getting a good spread, but Sylvain’s better at it. It’s a risky move to give him the first shot since he’ll likely sink one at the get-go, but it’s a risk Felix is willing to take.

Sylvain pulls a cue from his bag and twists it together, carefully wiping it down with a soft little cloth. Felix watches while he arranges the balls, nine in the middle. He presses his fingers against the bottom of the diamond, pushing them tight into the corner of the triangle. Not a traditional method, but Felix can get a better grip if the rack isn’t in the way of his fingers. Sylvain hasn’t noticed his stare.

Instead, he’s too busy inspecting the tip of the cue that he uses for breaking before chalking it up.

Once the balls are racked, Felix steps off to the side, showing off the table. “All yours.”

Sylvain offers him a smile, something small and genuine and for a second it’s like they’ve gone back in time. All that unwanted shit he’s tried to forget just wells right up from the depths of his heart. Felix pretends that they aren’t friends, that they were never close, that he hates Sylvain quite severely.

It isn’t true. When Sylvain left they’d been sitting awkwardly, hanging strangely in their friendship. Trying to figure out what they were together. For Felix, it’s never been something as simple as just friends.

And it never was for Sylvain either, which is why everything’s so fucked up between the two of them. Sylvain, despite whatever he feels, isn’t the type to settle down. And neither is Felix. But they’d thought about doing it, together.

Feelings can’t save shitty relationships, though, no matter how strong they are. They’re better off like this, frenemies that constantly dog each other.

Sylvain looks slick as he runs a hand through his wild auburn hair. The light above the pool table is dim and casts a shitty glow, but Sylvain looks alive as he takes his place at the south end of the table. He’s focused when he leans over, break cue held loosely in his hand. He lines up his shot, utterly focused on the task at hand, and then he brings the cue back before letting it loose.

There’s a crack as the cue ball flies across the table. The diamond scatters and balls bounce off the rails. He doesn’t sink one on the first shot which is an immediate red flag.

“You missed,” says Felix. “You did that on purpose.”

Sylvain shrugs, unconcerned as he swaps out his break cue for his regular. He chalks it up. “There isn’t any fun in running the table on the first go.”

Felix scowls. “You’re playing for keeps.”

“It’s best three out of five,” says Sylvain. “Might as well make it worth it.”

He’s a hustler through and through. Sylvain makes his bread and butter swindling poor sots out of their coin, pushing and pulling pots as he sees fit. Ingrid’s no better, but she’s already at a disadvantage. No one takes her seriously because she’s a woman, and if her goal is to take men down a notch, Felix isn’t going to be the one to tell her no.

Sylvain, however, doesn’t do it for the money, he does it for the thrill. He’s always been like that, living by the seat of his pants because it’s the only way that he feels things. Like right now. It’s the only reason he even bargained the game to begin with.

Felix only wanted a go at it, a friendly game between somewhat enemies. Sylvain was the one that put stakes on the table.

The cue that Felix uses is old and a little battered, but it’s straight and it’s got a decent weight to it. Nothing fancy, but he doesn’t need fancy, he only needs functional.

The spread on the table is good. The one-ball sits at the bottom left and the nine is at the right side pocket. The rest have enough space to get in a good table run if he plays his angles right. Felix leans over the corner of the table, lining up his shot.

Sylvain watches as Felix thinks it through. Nervousness prickles down Felix’s spine. He might play a game or two alone after the doors shut, but he’s admittedly, out of practice. Felix already knows if he mucks this shot up, Sylvain will spend the rest of the night poking fun at him.

The cue stick strikes true and Felix sinks the one-ball in the opposite side pocket. So far so good. The two is near a north corner, an easy shot. But the three is along a rail, leaving behind a tricky follow-up lie. Felix sighs and sinks the two, the cue ball kicking back to the left.

Not far enough, leaving him in a precarious position.

Sylvain whistles low and says, “Tricky, tricky. Not where I’d want to sit.”

“Shut up,” says Felix, scowling. He chalks up his cue, thinking about his next shot.

Sylvain shrugs, sipping at his drink. “I’m just saying. You’ve always been shit at putting spin on the ball.” Sylvain’s right. Felix never did practice his English much.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve played a game,” says Felix. Not since before Sylvain fucked off. He’s watched him, of course, but Felix hasn’t shot a rack around Sylvain since he came back. “Plenty of time to pick up some skill.”

“It wasn’t ever about skill, you just sucked at it even with how much you practiced.”

Felix would spend hours hitting shot after shot. He’d set up complicated lies and work out the math. He’s good with angles, and he’s decent at putting spin on the ball but it’s definitely his weak spot.

Felix doesn’t answer and Sylvain crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not trying to be rude--”

“Zip it,” cuts in Felix, shushing him. “I’m thinking.”

Sylvain’s quiet for exactly ten seconds before he says, “Lower half, middle of the ball. Put some meat behind it and it should stop dead.”

Felix ignores him on principle, hitting slightly to the right instead. The cue ball connects with the three, then banks to the side, flubbing the shot entirely.

Sylvain snickers from behind his hand, amused.

Felix knew it was a bad shot the moment his arm moved. He’s unsure why he’s so obstinate when it comes to taking Sylvain’s advice on a go. But then he sees the insufferable smirk plastered across Sylvain’s face.

Scratch that, he knows exactly why: Felix refuses to give in to his hustling.

“Should have just listened to me,” says Sylvain, getting up from the barstool and chalking up his cue.

“I’d rather sell out,” says Felix. And he would. He’d sooner leave him a good shot, sitting pretty on the table than give him any sort of satisfaction.

“Thought we were playing for keeps,” says Sylvain, repeating what Felix snarked earlier. “At least give me some satisfaction.” He leans over the table, marking up a shot at the three. He pulls the cue back once, twice, testing the wait of his aim.

“The only satisfaction you want is someone stroking your big, fat ego.”

Sylvain stops right in the middle of his shot, head cocking to the side as he shoots Felix a dangerous look. “Oh trust me, there’s something else I’d rather you stroke.”

Felix turns red in anger, hissing at the innuendo. Here it is, that unspoken thing that’s loomed between them for years. Sylvain’s always been overtly flirty with it, low whispers as he murmurs dark and dirty words into his ears. Felix refuses to be just another notch in his belt.

And it’s hard, so unbearably hard because the worst part is that Felix wouldn’t say no. Ingrid tells him that it’s stupid to hold off, that he should just get it over with and satisfy his fucking curiosity.

Felix refuses.

Sylvain bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Man, you should’ve seen your face, Felix,” he says, setting up his shot again. He falls silent as he baits the cue ball, his practice strokes smooth like buttered perfection. Then, he takes the shot and sinks in the three, lining up for a perfect hit to the four.

And the five, and then the six. Sylvain cleans the table with little-to-no effort, calling his shots because he knows it pisses Felix off.

“Eight off the seven,” says Sylvain, grinning widely as he surveys the table. “But I’m going to bank it off this rail and nail the corner pocket instead.”

It’s an absurd trick shot and Felix tells him as such. “You’re wasting time with these superfluous tricks.”

“Sit back,” says Sylvain. “Relax. Shit Felix, this is supposed to be fun.”

Felix knew that it wasn’t going to be fun the moment he proposed it. He knew he’d be staring at Sylvain’s long and lean form, bent over the table as he figures out math and angles. Sylvain’s a smart guy, despite what people think. It’s one of the few times that the look on his face is truly genuine.

He’s more handsome now than ever before, something straight from Felix’s most vivid wet dreams. He has a love-hate relationship with those.

“Nothing about this is fun,” says Felix finally. “It’s infuriating.”

Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek in a huff, a nervous tic that he’s never been able to get rid of. “You’re the one making it so,” he says smoothly. “As I said, just relax. We’re here to play a game.”

“That I need to win if I want you good and gone.”

Sylvain pauses at that, still hanging over the table as he looks at Felix. “Is that really what you want Felix?” For once in his damn life, he sounds serious, not his usually mocking tone.

Felix doesn’t warrant the question with an answer. Instead, he just crosses his arms over his chest as he lurks in the corner near his pool cue.

Eventually, Sylvain gets tired of waiting. “Suit yourself,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Felix to hear. He lines up his ridiculous shot and takes a few practice sweeps. The moment he pulls back, Felix speaks.

“Of course I want you to piss off.”

Sylvain fucks up the shot, nearly miscuing. The cue ball lurches to the side, misses the seven entirely, and nearly sinks in the nine-ball instead. That’d be a game lost, one to Felix’s favor, which is greatly amusing.

To his credit, Sylvain doesn’t look angry, despite his swear. He looks dejected. And really, what does he expect? That he’d come back here to find everything normal? Back to the way it was? Felix is too tired for ifs, ands, and buts. He moved on years ago.

Or so Felix pretends. It’s his most practiced lie, second nature at this point.

The look, though, that shadow of sadness that falls across Sylvain’s face is gone nearly as soon as it appears. He schools it into a competitive grin instead, nodding to the table. “Well, here’s your chance,” says Sylvain, leaning onto his stool, cue resting against his thigh. “Knock me out of the game.”

Felix surveys the table. The ending lie of Sylvain’s kicked shot leaves Felix in a decent position. Just enough to smack the seven-ball in and clear the table if he can keep his mind empty. Felix looks at Sylvain again who stares right back. Easier said than done.

He sets up his shot, pulling back the cue a few times. He sinks the seven easily and with the left spin he put on the cue ball, it rolls over to the eight. The side pocket’s an easy target that leaves only the nine left.

“Think it through,” says Sylvain.

“Shut up.”

“Look, I’m just saying. The easiest shots are always the worst, especially when it’s the nine.”

True. Felix can hit a stellar shot and still fuck it up-- there are a thousand ways to lose a game of pool, almost all of them your fault. Felix knows that he should take a deep breath, sit back and think about angles and spin.

But he won’t because he’s too fucking impatient, the absolute worst quality he has.

“Nine-ball, corner pocket,” says Felix, gesturing with his cue. He forces himself to try and take his time, at least, breathing in deeply before letting it loose.

He fucks the shot up royally. Taps it a little too hard and overshoots, the cue ball sinking in right after the nine. A scratch, and the worst kind-- entirely self-inflicted because he’s far too distracted to keep his head in the game.

Felix blames it on Sylvain. Doesn’t matter what part of him-- that handsome, devilish smile of his; the way that he twirls his cue around nonchalantly; the gentle grasp he has around his crystal whiskey tumbler; the ease as he sinks in ball after ball.

It’s all the same shit as far as Felix is concerned.

“Man, you dogged it,” says Sylvain, a badly concealed smirk set across his face.

“You’re taking way too much pleasure in it.” Felix is beyond annoyed.

Sylvain’s expression changes as he raises an eyebrow. “Felix, if I wanted to take pleasure from something, it certainly wouldn’t be you losing.”

“Is that so?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, he only stares him down, the depth of his face smoldering. And Felix stares back, frozen in place as he worries his lip between his teeth. At least after the game, he thinks. The pool hall deserves that much.

The tension between them is so thick you could cut it; the kind of joke that Ingrid would happily make were she watching their sorry asses dance around each other. Ridiculous, Felix thinks. Utterly ridiculous, how the two of them still act like teenagers who can’t keep it in their pants.

“You nearly had it,” says Sylvain finally, trying to diffuse the tightness in the air. “Next time I can show you--”

“I don’t need your pity,” says Felix suddenly.

Sylvain blinks. “An honest offer,” he says. “No pity involved.”

Felix knows there’s a catch, though. There has to be. When it comes to Sylvain, there’s always an ulterior motive.

They fall silent again for a moment that stretches a little bit too long. Staring at each other, neither willing to make the first move.

It’s Sylvain that finally does. “Rack them,” he says, pulling the balls from the pockets on his end of the table.

Felix says nothing as he sets the next rack, the nine-ball right in the center. He rolls them back and forth, pressing his fingers in between the wood and resin, ensuring a tight diamond.

“Three out of five, one to my name,” says Sylvain as he swipes some of his drink before cueing up his for his break.

It’s effortless as always, the crack of his shot deafening in the awkward quiet. He sinks two balls on the first go, the three, and the seven. Sylvain isn’t playing around this time. Felix knows he isn’t angry. He’s trying to distract himself.

And Sylvain does that by doing what he does best-- sharking pool.

He continues to clean the table in relative silence, intensely focused on the game. He gets like this when he’s thinking about things. Goes weirdly quiet as he formulates what he’s going to say next. Most think he’s inherently suave, an instinctual casanova, but that isn’t it at all.

Sylvain’s the best pretender around, carefully cultivating how others perceive him. Everything he says and does is by design.

Especially when it comes to Felix. It’s a well-practiced game to Sylvain when it comes to whatever the fuck their relationship is. Felix maintains there isn’t one, that there wasn’t ever. But it’s hard to hold to that when Sylvain’s two feet away in the pool hall, hustling right next to him every night. And Felix can’t stop looking, hasn’t ever been able to stop.

Even now.

“It’s hot in here,” says Sylvain, hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulling at it slightly. It is, and a little humid too. That’s what the weather does this far south, as far away from Fhirdiad as you can get.

“You’re the one insisting on being fully clothed,” says Felix.

Sylvain’s usual fare of dress is high-class. Crisply ironed button-downs paired with a well-tailored vest. Sometimes he wears his pocket watch, sometimes it’s a pocket square. He always rolls up his sleeves though, showing off well-defined forearms. Paired with the sleeve garters, everyone can’t help but stare.

Felix included.

“Gotta look the part,” says Sylvain with a tawdry wink. “You know that.”

“You already do,” Felix huffs, “With all the money you spend on those ridiculous brand-name labels.” Because it’s always been the best of the best for Sylvain.

Sylvain responds by reaching up and pulling his tie loose, unfastening the top few buttons before pressing the collar open, showing off his collarbone. And the sheen of sweat that glistens in the shitty glow of the light hanging above the table. Felix finally looks away, settling his gaze onto the wall.

“Nine off the eight,” says Sylvain. “Corner pocket.” He doesn’t point to the corner pocket that Felix would aim for.

Sylvain leans against the table, ass on the railing, the cue behind him. Shooting backward because he’s a gluttonous prick who can’t help but show off.

“Wrong corner pocket, you dick,” says Felix, obstinate as always. Mostly because he can’t stop staring at Sylvain’s ass when he should be watching the game. Between that and Sylvain’s gleaming collarbone on display, Felix is a goner.

Sylvain’s aim is impeccable, so naturally, he sinks the nine, winning the second game. “Rack ‘em,” he says with a smirk, jumping off the table.

Felix snarls before doing as he’s asked. Sylvain keeps smirking, running a hand through his unruly hair, stretching out his neck just so. Because he knows; he’s seen Felix looking and he’s hamming it up.

“Insufferable git,” says Felix, dropping the balls into the triangle-shaped rack and shuffling them around.

“You’re the one who keeps staring.” Felix pauses, looking back at Sylvain. He knows a challenge when he hears one and Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s ready to eat him right up.

“Only because you’re utterly ridiculous,” says Felix finally. “Pompous and loud, cheating my good patrons out of their money. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

Sylvain hums at that, sipping at his whiskey. “Well, if someone’s going to, I prefer it be you.”

Felix nearly throws the rack at him but he doesn’t, hanging it neatly where it belongs under the table instead. Ingrid would be proud of his remarkable restraint. “Your break,” says Felix, turning away.

Sylvain’s already chalking up his cue. Figuring out exactly how he wants to set up his final run. “One more, my favor,” he says. “Better step up your game.”

Felix intends to, tired of this song and dance, of playing cat-and-mouse. They’ve chased after each other for years. It’s time to put an end to it. As Sylvain preps his shot, Felix switches cue sticks, pulling a second one from his bag. Pitch black with mother of pearl accents, but a tad beat up and not well-polished.

When Sylvain turns to him, he goes stock still like he’s frozen in time. Watches as Felix screws it together, brows knitted as recognition sets in.

“You kept that old thing?” asks Sylvain, quietly.

“It shoots straight. Might as well.”

Sylvain’s surprised because he gave the cue stick to Felix. Spent nearly three month’s loose change when they were young and desperately poor. Probably thought Felix chucked it the moment that he fucked off. Felix nearly did, and nearly has repeatedly over the years. Never quite gets there.

There’s one thing that Felix is really, really bad at: actually getting rid of Sylvain once and for all. It’s a complicated thing, full of complicated feelings. For better and worse. Felix and Sylvain were very nearly something all those years ago. Shared a few kisses in dark corners, wandering hands here and there.

Childhood friends to nearly-lovers, then rivals to whatever the fuck they are now.

Felix has caught Sylvain off guard, judging by his unsure expression. And for once, Felix doesn’t know what he’s thinking, can’t really tell. Sylvain just looks at him with this entirely unreadable expression.

“What?” asks Felix, a little more bite to his tone than he wants.

Sylvain doesn’t immediately answer, just rubs at his chin with his fingers. Thinking. But then he smirks, shooting Felix a rather dirty grin, and just like that everything’s back to normal again, brushed away like chalk from the table felt.

“Nothing,” says Sylvain, swiping the cue ball from Felix’s hand and their fingers brush, Sylvain lingering. Felix is the one to pull away.

But, he can’t look away when Sylvain sets up his break, or the long lines of his frame as he leans over the table and tests the slide of his cue. Draped over the felt like he belongs here, in this dingy pool hall. Right before Felix, just like the days of old.

Felix sighs. He’s tired of longing for the past.

Sylvain’s cue makes great contact and the break spreads well. He sinks the two and four-ball and leaves a good lie for the one. Sinks that, and then the two. Leaves the three, and the five onward. Felix bites at his thumb nervously because Sylvain’s likely about to run the entire table with little effort.

He’s fucked this up.

Sylvain spares a glance at him and pauses, biting at his lip. Then he lines up his shot for the three. Should be an easy shot into the side pocket, incredibly straightforward. Until he fucks it up. Intentionally.

“Shit,” murmurs Sylvain, “Jawed the tit.” Bounced right off the corner edge of the pocket.

Felix’s eyes narrow. Unlike before, this time it doesn’t seem like he’s giving him a chance to catch up or drag the game out. He’s left Felix with a pretty terrible lie. Whatever Sylvain’s plan is, it’s something else entirely.

Something that Felix isn’t sure he wants part of.

Which is why he doesn’t call it out. Instead, they swap sides, slowly rounding the table. Felix has been left with a shitty option for the three-ball, but still doable. He lines it up and calls his shot, takes a deep breath, and then shoots.

Sylvain watches from the stool on the opposite side, strangely quiet. The cue ball hits one rail, then the second, then connects with the three-ball, sinking it into the left corner. Felix lets out a sigh of relief and Sylvain a low whistle.

Felix makes quick work of the five and six-ball, leaving the seven in a good spot on the side pocket. He freezes, hesitating. The last time he had a shot like this, he fucked it up, leaving the table open for Sylvain to take the win.

And Felix knows that Sylvain won’t risk losing because he isn’t playing to keep hustling, he’s playing to keep Felix at his side. Even if they aren’t anything.

Anymore, Felix’s brain unhappily supplies.

“Think about it,” says Sylvain, just like before.

“I am,” says Felix irately.

“If you want, I can show you a trick. Help you sink shots like that with no issue.”

“I’d win.” It isn’t a guarantee, of course, but a high chance. The spread on the table is in Felix’s favor if he sinks this shot.

Sylvain shrugs and stands. “Fine by me,” he says. Sylvain walks around the table, running his hand along the wooden rail smoothly. Felix tracks the movement. Then Sylvain’s behind him, leaning close.

“Alright then,” he says right next to his ear. “Mind if I guide you?”

Felix nods minutely, words stuck in his throat because he lacks any conviction to say no. Sylvain reaches around him and takes the cue, carefully arranging Felix’s arms. “Loose form,” he says. “Lift your elbow just a bit, yeah, like that.”

Sylvain’s hand isn’t just warm, it practically burns through the sleeve of Felix’s shirt. “From this angle, you want the cue ball to kick left, so you’ve got to put your spin here.” Sylvain slots himself even closer, his pelvis flush with Felix’s ass. One hand on his waist, holding him there gently as he reaches even further to point to the cue ball.

The only thing that Felix can focus on Sylvain’s crotch and-- “Are you seriously hard right now?”

Sylvain freezes but he doesn’t move. “Can you blame me?” he asks simply. Like there’s nothing to it, like it’s completely normal. He doesn’t make any further movements to manhandle Felix, he just stands there nonchalantly as Felix’s gut twists at the thought of it.

Definitely not how this game is supposed to go.

“Yes,” says Felix, “I can absolutely blame you.”

A pause. Sylvain’s mouth is very close to his cheek, Felix can feel the gentle puffing of his breath against it. “Do you want me to move?” asks Sylvain, sincerely.

“No.” Felix’s answer is barely above a whisper and comes far too quickly. Sylvain’s breath hitches slightly as he shifts his stance just barely, his hardness more evident than ever before. “But at least help me finish the shot.”

“Felix--”

“You never give away your tricks,” cuts in Felix. “I’m not letting this opportunity go.”

Sylvain laughs mirthlessly but complies, guiding Felix’s cue to the proper position. “Tap it here, on the right. Not too hard, just enough to kiss it.” Felix swallows, trying not to think of the insinuating verbiage. He doesn’t want to kiss the ball, he wants to kiss Sylvain instead.

Sylvain pulls back but doesn’t move away entirely, still holding onto his waist. Felix sinks the shot and the cue ball kicks back just as it should.

Time slows, the both of them hesitating. Sylvain makes the first move. He doesn’t give Felix the chance to lean into another shot, turning him around and pressing him against the edge of the pool table.

Felix lets him, but says-- very weakly-- “We’ve got a game to finish.” He still has a cue in one hand as the other reaches up and latches onto the tie hanging loosely around Sylvain’s neck, tugging at it slightly. Teasingly, if he were the sort to tease.

Sylvain certainly takes it that way, reaching up to grip Felix’s chin lightly. “The only game I was playing wasn’t pool,” he says, thinking he’s smooth.

“I’m aware,” says Felix. “Noticed it the moment that you undid your shirt. How annoying.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

It certainly didn’t help, thinks Felix, but he’d been gone long before that. Before this night, weeks and months ago. He was gone the night Sylvain walked right back into his life.

“I’m tired of pretending,” says Felix. “Of ignoring it.” Because he is. Tired of being the last to leave work because he knows he’ll go home with Sylvain if he isn’t. Of watching from afar, itching to touch but resigning himself to stay on the other side of the room. Of Ingrid’s eye-rolling and suggestive hand gestures. It’s exhausting.

“So don’t,” says Sylvain.

Felix pulls him down and Sylvain meets his mouth eagerly. Felix is risking the balance of the pool table for this, leaning onto it fully as Sylvain presses in close, slipping a thigh between Felix’s legs.

Kissing Sylvain is like riding a bike; Felix remembers exactly how to do it. What Sylvain likes and the amount of pressure. The way their mouths slot together like it’s meant to be. Sylvain moans against his mouth, just a soft breathy sound like he can’t believe this is happening.

Maybe he can’t. Felix isn’t the type to reciprocate and he’s been fighting this for months. Not that Sylvain hasn’t tried his best to unruffle him, to get him to fall back into the ease of it.

Felix finally gives in, tumbling down that darkly lit corridor to chase that tell-tale fire that stokes slowly in his gut.

Sylvain’s lips are soft against his and he holds him too tenderly. Felix responds by yanking at the tie again and nipping at his mouth. Sylvain opens it in surprise and Felix’s tongue finds his, seeking out that wet warmth and comfort.

The sound that Sylvain makes is enough to fill Felix’s cock halfway.

They part to breathe and Felix knows he looks a mess. Flushed and breathing heavily in the hot and humid pool hall. Half-sprawled across one of his carefully balanced tables. He can’t find much care in it, his brain muddled by the sharp press of Sylvain’s body against his own.

“Shit, Felix.” Sylvain runs a thumb across the high arch of Felix’s cheekbone. Just looking at him as it slides across the seam of his mouth. Felix nips at the digit in response.

Their next kiss is a little slower, driven by Sylvain’s persistence to take his time. Felix is impatient but lets him lead, relishing in the softness of his lips. Sylvain slides a hand down his front and pulls his shirt from his pants. His fingers are cold against Felix’s skin despite the heat of the room, splaying smoothly across the planes of his stomach.

But he hesitates, nails just barely scratching at the top of Felix’s waistband.

“Touch me, you imbecile,” says Felix, demanding and needy, kicking his hips closer to drive home his point.

“Right,” says Sylvain against Felix’s lips. “Yes, okay.” He sounds even needier, something that Felix takes great pride in. Sylvain’s stopped kissing him, nose pressed into the nape of Felix’s neck instead, resting there. No doubt savoring the moment or whatever other romantic bullshit that Sylvain thinks when lost in the moment.

Felix’s only complaint is that he isn’t moving fast enough. “Sylvain,” he warns, “I’m this close to shoving you off and taking care of myself in the office.” Not his favorite option and not nearly as fun.

Sylvain pulls back, one hand gripping Felix’s chin. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

“Try me,” says Felix defiantly. Because he definitely would and Sylvain knows it.

And the way that Sylvain looks at him in response, how his gaze smolders as he smirks knowingly, makes Felix want to drown in the heat of it.

Sylvain surprises him by dropping to his knees against the hard ground, grasping Felix by the hips. Nuzzles at Felix’s crotch, where he tents his trousers. Felix lets out a soft moan, fingers finding Sylvain’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

They’d shared kisses in the past and rutted against each other fully clothed. Fevered hands grabbing at each other over rough cotton in dark corners as they roughly jerked off.

Sylvain’s hand is soft as he drags it over the front of Felix’s trousers, the touch somehow still familiar. Then he grips a little firmer, cupping him properly.

“Sylvain--”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sylvain, fingers already pulling at his zipper instead. “Impatient as always. Just like old times.” Even with Felix egging him on, Sylvain is unbearably slow when it comes to undressing him. “I’m savoring it,” he says when Felix grunts in frustration. “You only get one first time with another.”

Felix can’t dispute that. Still. Felix moves, shimmying his trousers past his ass, letting them drop to the ground.

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. Then Felix’s briefs quickly follow and he stops laughing. Sylvain’s mouth falls open as he stares, hands gripping Felix’s thighs tightly. “Felix,” he croaks, looking at him like he’s a man starving, fingers itching to touch. And do more.

Felix isn’t an angel. There’ve been others. But this is Sylvain, and Felix has never been like this with him, never given him that much.

He would’ve but it never panned out.

Sylvain leans in close, pressing a kiss at the juncture where Felix’s groin meets his thigh. Then to the base of Felix’s cock, his lips lingering there. Felix takes a deep breath, his eyes slipping closed at the sensation.

Then Sylvain swallows him down, his mouth hot and wet around his length.

“Fuck,” says Felix, fingers tightening their grip on Sylvain’s hair. “Fuck.”

Sylvain moans around him as he bobs up and down his cock, tongue flat along the underside of him. Then on the upstroke, Sylvain’s tongue curls around the tip and his hand finds the part of Felix’s cock that isn’t buried in his mouth.

Felix wasn’t expecting this and he tells him as such. “You’re the kind that takes what he wants,” says Felix in a light-hearted jab. Even if this had gone another way, he wouldn’t have complained.

Sylvain pulls off to retort. “Oh, darling,” he says, pressing a sweet little kiss to the crown of his cock, “I never do anything that I don’t want to. And this? I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

“Insufferable bastard,” says Felix, but the insult dissolves into a blissed-out moan when Sylvain’s mouth finds him again, this time sucking around him properly. Felix can’t get enough of it, the tight and wet heat that engulfs his cock. The way that Sylvain works him like he’s trained his entire life for this.

Felix likes to think he has.

Sylvain’s hand moves to cup his balls, rolling them softly in the palm of his hand, and Felix nearly pulls Sylvain’s hair right from his head. He can feel the way that he smiles around his cock, the way that his laugh rumbles up from his throat. How it caresses his dick.

Felix shoves Sylvain’s face off none-too gently, his chest heaving as he tries his best not to come right then.

“Oh,” says Sylvain in surprise. Then his face melts into something amused. “Oh--”

“Shut it,” cuts in Felix. “I’m losing my patience and I didn’t want to finish in your mouth.”

“But what if I wanted you to?”

Felix blinks, the words barely registering. “What?”

“What if I wanted you to come in my mouth?” Sylvain looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and hazy with want. “What if I wanted to swallow it down?” It’s sinful, the earnest way that he says it. The way that Sylvain still cups his balls in one hand and drags lazy circles across Felix’s thigh with the other. Eagerly waiting.

Felix swallows thickly, thinking about the debauched image that fills his mind. Then he guides Sylvain back to his cock, his hands on either side of his face, thumbing at his cheekbones. Sylvain happily accepts it, tongue out and waiting before slotting his mouth around Felix’s length once more.

And he keeps going until the tip of Felix’s cock hits the back of his throat, and Sylvain’s nose is near the coarse hair at his pubic bone.

Felix is going to die, he’s pretty sure of it. Not a bad way to go, all things considered. One hand moves to grab at Sylvain’s hair tightly, the other still cupping his jaw. Sylvain’s efficient in the way that he moves, sliding up and down, tonguing expertly around him. The pressure as he sucks and laps at his cock.

“I’m--” Felix tries to warn that he won’t last much longer. “Sylvain, I’m--”

Sylvain doubles his efforts, letting go of his balls to press his fingers a little further back. Against the smooth skin there, massaging at it gently. Felix curses and spills into his mouth, doing his best to not buck against him. The tightly coiled tension has snapped and Felix does his best to come down from the high of it, but he’s nothing but a puddled mess, leaning back against the pool table. His legs shake like jelly.

When Sylvain pulls off him, he looks triumphant, swallowing Felix’s spend like it’s an expensive delicacy. Which is almost worse, the fucked-out look of it. Seeing Sylvain like this, on his knees before him, lips swollen and face ruddy in the aftermath of spectacularly sucking him off.

It’s almost enough to get Felix going again.

Felix tugs at Sylvain’s tie and he stands, leaning over him again, slotted between Felix’s open legs. Felix doesn’t care where his mouth’s been, he pulls Sylvain in for a kiss. Tastes himself as Sylvain deepens it, licking into Felix’s mouth.

Sylvain’s cock is fully hard and digging into his thigh.

“You’re wearing too much,” says Felix when he breaks the kiss.

“Going to return the favor?” asks Sylvain, his hands braced against the table rails on either side of Felix.

“No,” says Felix. “Not this time. You took too long, indulging as you did.”

“You weren’t complaining about it.”

“And I won’t.” Felix knows he’s being cheeky but Sylvain loves it, the way that he teases. Felix presses a hand to the open collar of his shirt where it’s undone, fingering Sylvain’s collarbone there.

“Irritating,” he continues. “How good you look when you show off your skin.”

“Only for you, babe,” says Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “That, I doubt.”

Sylvain’s expression changes, softening. “No, really,” he says. “Not in a long time.” It isn’t a lie; judging by the subtle change in his demeanor, Sylvain’s sharing a rare moment of truth.

Felix stares at him for a long moment, and Sylvain stares right back. Then, Felix’s hand shifts down to Sylvain’s vest. “So, no one else has peeled this off you in a while, then.” He toys casually with a button.

“That’d be right.”

“That must’ve been annoying.” Felix undoes one button and then the rest, and Sylvain shucks the vest off faster than Felix can finish his sentence. “Knowing you.”

“I managed,” says Sylvain.

Felix hums as his hand curls into the front of Sylvain’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Must’ve put your hand through the wringer,” taunts Felix. He unbuttons the rest, pulling it from Sylvain’s trousers. Sylvain’s always looked good, but he’s downright unfair now with his trim waist and just-enough-muscle.

“A downright nightmare,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. “Damn near sprained the thing.” Then he leans close, his mouth near Felix’s ear as he whispers, “Last few months especially, with all the thinking I’ve done about you.”

Those are the words that do him in. Felix’s hands drop to Sylvain’s waist, pulling at his trouser band. His hands are steadier than expected he when unzips them. Not so much when he slips his hand in, caressing Sylvain’s cock through his underwear.

The moan Felix gets in response can set him on fire.

“You’re cruel,” says Sylvain through a punched breath.

“Not as much as you with how slow you’re being. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Sylvain has two modes. The first is the saccharine one where he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, his voice smooth as silk. The kind that makes women swoon at romantic, chivalrous ideas, toes curling in their shoes.

This is the second; the searing hot one where his smile is a devilish smirk, and everything that he whispers against Felix’s ear is dirty and salacious. “Is that what you want?” asks Sylvain, before pressing a kiss just below Felix’s chin. “Goddess knows it’s what I want, you underneath me all hot and bothered.”

Sylvain’s intoxicating in the way that he leans close to him, and the weight of his hard cock pressed against Felix’s thigh.

“You’re all talk,” says Felix, rubbing a thumb across the front of Sylvain’s briefs, relishing in the wet dampness there. The way that his cock tents against the soft cotton there, twitching slightly under Felix’s grasp.

Were he more a patient man, he’d suck Sylvain off. But Felix isn’t, so he’ll save it for another time.

“You wound me, Felix,” says Sylvain, eyes shutting as he bites at his lip.

“Certainly no action,” says Felix, fingers tugging at the waistband of his briefs, letting it snap back into place.

Sylvain groans. “Have you forgotten so quickly? How I was on my knees before you just moments ago?”

Felix’s hands still as he thinks about it. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget such a sight,” he says.

And he won’t. It’ll haunt his dreams for decades to come. Even now, Sylvain looks so delectable; his face flushed, his shirt is open in the front and showing off his pecs, and his sleeves rolled up to the arm garters, revealing perfectly toned forearms.

Felix said it before, how irritating it is; how he can’t help but stare, to drink up and memorize it so he’ll never forget. Maybe he won’t have to. Maybe this’ll be the start of something new and a little more permanent. He won’t hold his breath.

Sylvain’s unpredictable at best and despite his earlier promise that there hasn’t been anyone else, for years, it’s always been the flavor of the week when it came to his interests.

“I’m waiting,” says Felix, tugging at Sylvain’s briefs again.

“Okay,” breathes Sylvain, kicking off his pants entirely. His briefs land in a messy pile on the floor beside them. His hand finds Felix’s hip, squeezing it gently as he looks down. Felix feels the heat of his gaze deep in his gut, his cock already twitching again.

Sylvain smirks as he sees it, hand sliding over Felix’s front and then down, his fingers nestling into the hair at the base of his dick. “Gorgeous,” says Sylvain, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Felix’s neck. “But you know that.”

“Yes,” says Felix. Then pauses, huffing. “Still waiting.”

Sylvain licks a stripe up the side of his neck, then says, “Lube?”

At least he’s considerate. Felix is too impatient to even think about something like that at the moment. “What, none on you? What’s happened to your stellar reputation?” As a player who was always ready. Felix is going to tease him about it until the end of time.

“Wasn’t expecting this to happen,” says Sylvain, looking around the room.

“You practically orchestrated this.”

“Trying to seduce you isn’t the same as actually doing it.” Sylvain’s got a point there. Felix is notoriously prickly. He’d managed to ignore it the best he could for months. Until he couldn’t anymore. Sylvain’s gaze settles on something at the far end of the room. “Jackpot,” he says, pulling away from Felix.

Felix watches his backside with a burning gaze, eyes honed in Sylvain’s perfect ass. Sylvain digs through his cue stick bag before pulling out a bottle. Then, Felix narrows his eyes. “Is that your cue stick oil?”

“What?” asks Sylvain, looking incredibly dumb as he stands there mostly naked and confused. “It’ll work.”

“Sylvain, I’m not--”

“It’s linseed oil,” cuts in Sylvain, “and it’s very good for--” Felix bursts into laughter and Sylvain stops dead. “What now?”

Of all the things they can argue about, it’s what they’re going to use as lube. Not their sordid past, or the awkward shit between them, or hell, why Sylvain even left in the first place. But lube.

Sylvain crosses the room in record time. “I’ve broken you,” he murmurs.

Felix clears his throat and says, “Not yet.” He leans back onto the table and spreads his legs, and Sylvain’s gaze drops right to where Felix wants it. Sylvain’s throat bobs as he swallows. “But I expect you to ruin me entirely.”

“Shit,” says Sylvain, a soft little curse as he looks skyward. “I can do that.” His hands find Felix again, squeezing at his hips, running along his sides, pressing close enough that it’s hard to tell where Felix ends and Sylvain begins.

“I mean it,” says Felix. He’s never been one for dirty talk, but with Sylvain, it feels natural. He reaches out to grab the loose tie that still hangs limply around Sylvain’s neck. Felix’s other hand dips into the open shirt, smoothing over a pec. He thumbs at Sylvain’s nipple and gets a low moan in return. “Make it impossible for me to forget.

Sylvain will, Felix knows it. Can already tell by the way that Sylvain whimpers softly against his neck when Felix’s hand drops to grab his cock. Felix’s fingers finally circle around him after such a long wait. He’s hard and wanting in Felix’s hand, already wet at the tip.

“Turn around,” says Sylvain when he regains his senses. Felix responds by sliding his hand up and down instead. “Felix, move--” Felix palms the crown of Sylvain’s dick and he chokes out a sound that Felix would give his first child to hear again.

Sylvain turns him around and presses Felix’s chest down against the felt of the table. “We’re going to fuck up the table,” says Felix, teasing. He doesn’t give a shit about the table anymore, the only thing that matters is Sylvain’s hands on his ass, settling him into a more preferable position.

“Not as fucked as you will be,” says Sylvain, leaning over and whispering into his ear. “Thoroughly and extensively. Within an inch of your life.”

Terrible, terrible lines that absolutely work on Felix. “Do your worst, then,” says Felix, goading him.

Sylvain smiles against the side of Felix’s neck. Felix can imagine it, the way that Sylvain’s lips are curled dangerously. Sylvain presses a soft kiss against the skin there, directly contradictory to the way that his hands slide across his ass, massaging it gently.

“Is that a challenge?” asks Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “Everything’s a game with you, isn’t it?”

“Not this.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet as he bites at the back of Felix’s neck. “Never this.”

Felix loves it, the way that Sylvain sprinkles in romantic shit as he touches him. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” says Sylvain immediately. Sincerely. Like he’s holding the world in his fingertips. One hand slides around Felix’s front, tweaking a nipple through his shirt that’s stubbornly remained on.

Felix hates how much he craves this kind of attention, those soft-spoken words of attention that he’s longed to hear, even when he was pushing them away. In the end, he’s never been able to say no to Sylvain, even if he tries. He’ll always come back.

Still, Sylvain’s insufferably slow at this, taking his damn time. Fingers skimming across Felix’s skin as he relishes the way he’s pressed into the pool table underneath him. “You’re playing lemonade,” says Felix. Stalling everything intentionally, slowing the pace of the game to a crawl. “Get on with it.”

“Yes, yes,” says Sylvain, pulling back. He spreads Felix’s ass cheeks and stares. Felix squirms under the touch, kicking his hips, trying to get the game on the road.

Sylvain slicks his fingers with the accursed cue stick oil and presses one against him. Felix’s breath hitches in anticipation, huffing slightly as Sylvain carefully circles around his entrance. When he slips the finger in, Felix moans so loudly that it’s embarrassing, practically echoing in the empty pool hall.

“Dammit, Felix,” murmurs Sylvain, working his finger in gently, pressing around inside. “Your--”

“So it’s been a while,” Felix bites out. “Fuck off.”

“No, that’s not--” Sylvain pauses, biting at his lip. “Goddess, I can’t wait to just--”

“Faster then, you idiot. I won’t break.”

Felix knows that Sylvain will still be careful, though, treating him like he’s something precious. Sylvain keeps it slower than Felix prefers, pressing in and out leisurely as he tugs slightly at his rim. Then a second finger joins the first. Felix loves the stinging pressure and the way that it makes him feel alive. It sets his blood on fire as it starts to boil, the pressure mounting deep in his gut.

Felix is hard again, cock twitching as it hangs below them.

Sylvain’s fingers move a little faster, setting a prickling pace. The way that he slips them in, the way he spreads them wide to lovingly stretch him-- Felix thrusts back against Sylvain’s hand, trying to speed up the process.

A third finger is added, Sylvain perfectly attuned to the wants and needs of Felix. Felix moans again, bites at his lip, grips tightly at the table rails below him. Sylvain’s good at what he does, prepping him so nicely.

Then his fingers stroke across his prostrate and Felix tightens up.

“Bull’s eye,” says Sylvain triumphantly.

Felix huffs, trying to seem indifferent. “Took you long enough,” he says, but his voice pitches high, crying out wantonly as Sylvain caresses him there relentlessly.

“Not yet,” says Sylvain. He slows his fingers but he doesn’t stop, moving them slowly as Felix does his best to not buck against his hand. “Don’t come until I’m inside you properly.”

“Give me some credit. It’s going to take more than your half-assed efforts.”

Sylvain’s fingers halt. Then he pulls them out entirely, leaving Felix suddenly bereft, his hole clenching around nothing.

“Half-assed,” repeats Sylvain, opening the bottle of oil once again. Felix looks back, watching as he pours it over his cock. He’s delicious looking, long and hard as Sylvain spreads the oil around with his hand. Then he’s spreading Felix’s ass again, thumbing at his loosened hole, watching with a dark and heated gaze. “I thought we weren’t playing games?”

“That was before you decided to take too long. I think I’ve already threatened you about that.”

Sylvain laughs before pulling Felix’s hips back. He nudges Felix’s entrance with the tip of his cock. “Ready?”

“A decade ago,” says Felix. It’s a double meaning, they both know it. They’ve wanted to indulge in this for far too long which is why Felix is so tired of waiting. He has to commend Sylvain on his valiant show of constraint because if it were Felix in his position, he’d have already lost.

Sylvain slides in like it’s second nature. He fills Felix up like he’s always belonged there. And maybe he has, maybe this is what Felix has been missing for so long. The heat and pleasure of what’s probably the world’s most perfect cock.

The man attached to it isn’t so bad either.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain, leaning forward once he’s fully seated, pressing his brow into the back of Felix’s neck. Waiting. Trying to ground himself. His fingers grip Felix by the hips, nearly bruising as he hangs on.

“You aren’t yet.” Felix can’t help the banter and Sylvain chuckles. Presses a kiss to his neck and then moves.

The slide of his cock is smooth. Sylvain’s lazy in the way that his length drags through Felix, a carefully maintained pace that’s just gentle enough. The kind of pace that’s wholly satisfying but not nearly enough.

It’s Felix’s turn to curse; filthy words, Sylvain’s name, anything that he can remember at the moment. He presses back, meeting Sylvain’s thrusts eagerly.

“Are you going to come like a clean shot?” asks Sylvain, his lips finding his ear, tongue licking around the shell of it. “Without me touching you? Like you’ve sunk the nine-ball without any interference.”

Felix should hate the ridiculous pool analogy on principle. He doesn’t, tightening up in response to the jargon. Felix moans at the words, biting at his lip and Sylvain smirks like he’s just won a new pot of money. Felix feels so satisfyingly full. Sylvain’s cock hits in all the right places as he moves over him. In and out. Pulls at his rim with stinging satisfaction.

Sylvain lifts Felix’s leg slightly, the angle changes and suddenly, Felix is seeing stars. Blinding white pleasure now that Sylvain’s cock has direct access to his prostate. Felix is mostly sprawled across the table now, his cock pressed into the soft felt of the table. Dribbling precome pathetically all over it.

“The table’s wet,” whispers Sylvain naughtily into his ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. Felix knows he doesn’t mean the humidity of the room and how it can fuck up a game. Sylvain reaches around to grab Felix’s cock, hand sliding along the length in time as he thrusts into him. “Felix, look at the mess you’ve made.”

“More,” says Felix, needily. He barely recognizes his own voice, too busy chasing the high that’s coursing through him. He can only focus on the thrust of Sylvain’s hips and the way that he fills him so perfectly, setting his nerves alight with every touch.

Sylvain delivers, pressing in as deep as he can go. He’s got a slick grip on Felix’s cock, fingers curled around it loosely as he jerks him. Sylvain bites at the meat of Felix’s shoulder, marking him up, and Felix moans, craving it.

“Felix, fuck.” Sylvain sounds so gone, his hips dragging against Felix in stuttering motions. He’s close, Felix can tell. And Felix is close too, the heat in his groin tightening more and more with every touch of Sylvain’s hand over his dick.

“Inside,” says Felix.

Sylvain pauses. “What?”

“I said to come inside me, you bonehead, not to stop. As in--”

“Yeah, yeah,” murmurs Sylvain. “Shit, Felix. You’ve got a way with words don’t you?” Then he lets go of his cock, leaving Felix feeling stripped of pleasure and entirely on edge. “Think you can do it? Come from just my cock?”

Felix can and he will, wholly determined. It’s perfect, Sylvain’s perfect; from the heat of his length, to the way that drags at him-- Felix can’t think of coming any other way. “Yes,” he says, his voice cracking like the word’s been punched straight from his gut. “Yes.”

Sylvain leans back, fingers digging into the meat of Felix’s waist. He doesn’t speed up, but he thrusts in hard and deep, sweeping strokes that aim to finish this off quickly.

“Look at you,” says Sylvain, “Taking me so well. Always knew that you would.” He spreads Felix’s cheeks, watching as his cock slips in, watching the way that Felix’s rim is stretched around him. Felix can imagine that satisfied smirk on his face, the kind that he gets when he’s won a pot.

Felix is the first to come, his cock just barely touching the felt of the table as Sylvain ruts into him. He tips over the edge, crying out Sylvain’s name and a litany of curses. None of them bad, all of them deserved. He feels rung out and limbless, legs shaking as he collapses onto the table.

Sylvain’s right behind, thrusting in only a few more times because he comes deep, filling him up. The resulting sound is downright sinful, Sylvain’s moan the kind of thing that Felix dreams about every night.

Even his dreams can’t compare. Sylvain lives up to the hype, thinks Felix as he breathes heavily, awkwardly folded against the pool table. His only regret is that he’d been facing away, that he wasn’t able to see Sylvain’s face in the throes of his orgasm.

Next time.

Sylvain’s careful when he pulls out. He’s gone for only a moment before he’s back with his polishing towel, splashed with lukewarm water from the tap. He cleans Felix up with a soft touch, pausing to look at his work. Felix can feel his spend leaking out of him. Moans when Sylvain presses it back in, his thumb lolling around his hole with smug satisfaction.

“Was it an adequate ruining?” he asks Felix.

Felix shoots him a rude gesture back, too tired to say anything else. Sylvain only chuckles, finishes wiping him up, and then leans in close for a sweet kiss against Felix’s sweaty head.

“For the record, I think you ruined me more,” says Sylvain. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

Felix won’t either. After a few minutes, he finds the strength to move, pulling back from the table. Then he sees the absolute mess he’s made all over the felt. Felix pinches the bridge of his nose, hissing at the idea of it.

Sylvain looks over his shoulder, wincing. “That’s, uh--”

“It’s ruined,” says Felix. “I’ll have to get it re-felted.” It’s his fault, though, not Sylvain’s. Not entirely at least. Felix was so gone he didn’t even think about it, lost entirely in their passion. Felix sees Sylvain’s expression and he reaches out, grabbing him by the shirt sleeve. “It isn’t a big deal.”

Sylvain’s flushed and sweaty, his cheeks pink and his hair mussed. Looks like he ran a marathon. Might as well have; Felix put him through the wringer. But then Sylvain smiles like he’s found the meaning of life, a wide grin that makes Felix’s heart stutter.

Felix leans back against the edge of the pool table gingerly and pulls Sylvain close. Sylvain follows, his hands immediately finding purchase on his waist. “Does this mean I’m not kicked out?” asks Sylvain quietly.

“You do bring me a lot of business,” says Felix.

“Oh, so this is all business then?”

Felix is quiet for a moment, fiddling with Sylvain’s collar. “No, it isn’t all business. It’s definitely something more.”

Sylvain cups his cheek, looking at him seriously. Felix pulls him down for a kiss, the kind where lips linger because you want them to. He doesn’t want to forget the way that Sylvain tastes.

When they part, they clean up. Felix limps about slightly, resulting in more raunchy innuendo from Sylvain. He’s never going to hear the end of it.

But Felix doesn’t want to, smiling softly when Sylvain isn’t looking.

They leave the pool hall tired and satisfied, fingers melded together as they walk hand-in-hand. Sylvain stays the night at Felix’s shitty apartment and it’s surprisingly chaste; they fall asleep fully clothed, shoved into a too-small bed, and wrapped around each other.

The next night at the pool hall is the same old bullshit.

Sylvain’s hustling Felix’s customers, stripping them of their money by winning pot after pot. Felix stands against the wall not far off, arms crossed over his chest as he watches. His expression is disgusted as usual. But his demeanor is entirely soft.

Ingrid notices. “Something happened,” she says.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” says Felix, obstinate as ever.

Ingrid levels him with a look. “You and Sylvain. Spill.”

“We played a few games last night.”

“Did you win?”

Ingrid sits on the edge of the doomed pool table. It’s covered that night and entirely off-limits. Felix isn’t sure that he’ll ever be able to look at it again, his face burning red at the mere thought of what he and Sylvain did there.

“You--” Ingrid’s mouth falls open. Then her gaze drops to the table which usually isn’t out of commission. “No,” she says. She jumps off it. “ No.”

Felix doesn’t confirm nor deny it, just sips at his well-deserved alcohol as he looks back at Sylvain. He’s dashing as ever, despite the shitty lighting, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. He isn’t wearing a vest this time and the collar’s undone, showing off what Felix would consider his biggest fucking weakness.

He swallows thickly and Ingrid makes a disgusted noise.

“I mean, about fucking time,” she says, “But really, Felix? Here?”

“It wasn’t planned,” he says truthfully.

Silence stretches between the two of them, relatively comfortable. Sylvain wins another pot, leaving behind an angry victim. Looks like someone’s about to go fisticuffs.

“You should go stop whatever that is,” says Ingrid.

“Yeah,” murmurs Felix, pushing away from the wall.

Back to normal, thinks Felix as he tries to talk the scorned gentleman down from punching Sylvain right across the face. Except that it isn’t. Things have shifted entirely, almost like they’ve both gone back in time, and moved forward. The start of something fresh and new.

Felix can think of worse things.

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