asconian's blog

   The first fight didn´t settle anything. They could kill each other in a second round, and a gun fight would bring a extermination for both families. Lee Jones had an idea, and went to Eddie Hadfield’s house on the coast outside Calder Bay. The cuts had closed. The ribs still warned him when he breathed deep. Eddie opened the door. They stood in the doorway, two marked faces, two bodies that already knew each other too well.

 “I didn’t come to kill you,” Lee said. 

Eddie let him in. He shut the door. The room was wide: couches, a low table, stone floor, windows on the water. 

“Me neither,” Eddie said. “We already know we can’t take each other. We settled that in the garage.” 

They looked at each other. 

“There’s still one thing,” Lee said, taking off his watch. “Pride. Which man bends the other.” 

Eddie almost smiled.

 “Then no punches. Here. Shirts off. Body to body. Like when we were kids and nobody had taught us how to shoot yet.”  We wrestled like devils back at school.

They pulled their shirts off. Two torsos, close: shoulders, stomach, yellowing bruises. They kicked their shoes off. They were left in trousers. They set themselves in the middle of the room, feet apart, hands open. There was no count. Lee went for the waist. Eddie dropped his weight, caught the hip, and took him off balance. They hit the rug, rolled, hunted each other’s neck with a forearm: not to kill, to pin. Lee bridged out, got to his knees, and drove Eddie into the couch. The couch slid.

 Eddie bounced, caught a thigh, swept the leg, and Lee went down on his back. Eddie came down on him, chest to chest, one arm locked, a leg over the hip. Pure hold. Lee arched, turned, and now he had Eddie face-down, a knee at the hip, a hand on the neck, his whole weight on him. They breathed together. Sweat. Muscle. Skin on skin, already, the heat of one chest stuck to the other. 

 “Give up,” Lee said in his ear. 

“You first.” Eddie levered, drove him into the low table.

 The table scraped. A vase fell and did not break. They came up locked, forehead to forehead, arms crossed on each other’s bare backs, shoving toward the wall. Eddie’s back hit the plaster. Lee tried a throw. Eddie beat the weight, lifted him an inch, and dropped him on the couch. Cushions on the floor. Lee did not stay: he hooked the neck, closed his legs, and they rolled onto the stone again. Falls. Pins. A yard fight between two men who respect each other and will not give up the floor. One hour wresting like wild anacondas. Nobody has submitted yet. Two stubborn badasses.

The furniture was almost destroyed. An arm bar. A scissor. A bridge. A roll. The room filled with the sound of heavy bodies and a breath that was no longer only a fight. Sweat ran between them. A thigh slid on a thigh. Every time one got on top, the other felt the heat of the stomach, of the chest, the pulse hammering through wet skin. It was still a fight. It was already an appetizer. They locked on their knees, face to face, hands on each other’s sides, pushing. Eddie found the gap, swept, and Lee was underneath. On his back. 

On the rug. Eddie on top, hips fitted, Lee’s wrists a second against the floor, chest a hand’s width away, breath on the mouth. He was winning. For a second, he was winning. And then he went where he had already gone. Eddie’s hand came down, open, sure, and grabbed Lee’s balls through the trousers. The same move. The same language. 

Lee let the air out in a rush, an ugly gasp, and he did not stay still. He reached for him too. He got his hand in the same place and squeezed. They stayed like that. Forehead to forehead. Each with the most precious thing the other had in his fist. Squeezing. Pride held their necks stiff. Their chests rose in jerks. Skin stuck. Sweat ran into the grip.

 “Like that night,” Eddie spat, his voice a thread. 

“Squeeze, you bastard,” Lee gasped. 

“I’m not the one who’s going to ask.” Eddie squeezed harder. So did Lee. Their breath broke at the same time. 

“I’ll rip them off,” Eddie said, teeth near his mouth. 

“I’ll leave you with no balls, Jones.

 I’ll wreck this and you stop being a man.” 

“Do it,” Lee answered, in a growl. 

“And I’ll crack yours, you son of a bitch. I’ll burst them. 

You’ll walk out of here with no balls, Hadfield.” Neither let go. 

The second stretched. They gasped in each other’s face. Sweat. Trousers bunched in the fist. The same power as the garage, only now there was no concrete and no crews behind the door: there was a room and two men who did not know how to yield even like this. 

Then, they felt it. 

Both of them. Hard as hell. 

The trousers did not lie. The grip that in the garage had been a weapon, so the other would let go, stayed a second too long here, and what answered was not only pain. They looked at each other, hands still there, pride intact, cocks betraying them. 

“Look at you,” Lee said, voice broken, almost an ugly laugh. “So hard… and you’re squeezing my balls.” 

“And you’re dripping with your hand on mine, you bastard,” Eddie spat. “So hot for a Jones.” 

“And you for a Hadfield, you son of a bitch.”

 They went still. Their chests hammered. Nobody said faggot yet. They didn’t need to. They had caught each other in the same crime. 

“This…” Lee started.

 “I know,” Eddie said.

 The hands came up an inch, stayed at the crotch, no longer to castrate the pride: to check it. Both of them still the same. Hot. The wrestle did not break. It changed direction. The hips found each other. The weight on top no longer pinned. It rubbed. Sweat made the slide easy. Skin on skin where the shirts had already gone. Then they ate each other’s mouth. It was not a kiss that interrupted the fight. It was the next move. Teeth, a lip still tender, a growl from Lee when Eddie bit where the garage had opened the skin. 

They fought the kiss with their hands still down. 

“Son of a bitch,” Lee gasped against his mouth. 

“You more. I was going to leave you with no balls.”

 “And now you’ve got them in your hand and you’re hard, you bastard.” 

They tore off what was left. Zippers. Cloth. They were naked in the wrecked room: couch shoved, cushions, the vase on the floor. Two marked bodies. Hard cocks brushing every time one moved his hips. The same hands. Another use. They went down on each other. Lee grabbed his hair. Eddie dug his nails into the back and rubbed his cock against Lee’s. They jerked each other without delicacy: a closed fist, the thumb on the head. 

 Eddie turned him. Lee on his back. They rubbed cock on cock, on the stomach, on the thigh. Eddie spat in his hand, two fingers, looking him in the eyes. Lee set his jaw and nodded. Eddie pushed. He went in slow only because the body makes you; the rest was force. Against a wall. 

“We settle this here too,” Lee said in his ear, later, when it was his turn and Eddie was on all fours. 

“Then fuck me like your life depends on it. And don’t talk to me about ripping anything off, you son of a bitch. Use it.”

 They laughed afterward, coughing, on the floor, the same laugh as the garage.

 “We can’t take each other.”

 “We’ve settled this too. Here. Both of us.”

In the garage they had grabbed each other so the other would let go. In the house they had threatened to leave the other less than a man… and they had kept the hand there, both of them hard, until pride had to swallow it. Peace came....in a very sudden way. They cuddled and kissed....soft and tender this time.