Work Text:
Valletta, Malta - August, 1984
"You've killed men for your country. Why is this any different?"
"Need a light?"
Luban looked up from his recalcitrant lighter and took in blond hair and blue eyes. "Ah, thank you." He lit his cigarette on the proffered flame and took a few puffs. "I have seen you before, I think. Taking photographs in the street outside the hotel."
"Yeah, I'm putting together a travel piece, trying the freelance market. Michael Sandville." The other man, casually dressed in tee shirt and jeans, tucked the lighter into a pocket and offered his hand.
"Luban Hristov," he replied, shaking it. "You are American?"
"Canadian, actually. Would it be rude if I complimented you on your English?" A bright smile belied any possible insult.
"Indeed, thank you. Please, sit. Join me for lunch."
"Luban Petarov Hristov. Up and comer in what passes for the Bulgarian diplomatic corps. His uncle is well placed in the Party, which is why Luban's on vacation without any babysitters. We hear he's due a junior position at one of the prestige Western postings - probably London, but we won't be able to get close to him there. Between his own people and our British friends, he'll be under too many eyes. It's now or never."
"C'mon, Nathan. You've got to have people trained for this sort of thing. Why me?"
"There's nobody we can get here in time. You're in place and already covered."
"Hey, I'm taking the ferry over to Gozo. Tour the ruins, maybe do a little swimming, get some more pictures. You want to join me?" Michael patted his camera case invitingly.
Luban considered it for a moment. The ruins were of genuine historic value and such a visit would reflect better on him than another day touring bourgeois churches and monuments, should anyone ask him for details of his trip. He discreetly cast his eyes over Michael's body. Swimming....
"Am I even his type?"
"You'll do."
"That sounds delightful."
"Nice pick-up. How was your little trip?"
"Oh, it was a lovely outing. We crawled over rocks. I took pictures of rocks. I let him feel me up while putting on suntan oil so we could lay out on the rocks. I now have Bain de Soleil in new places. Happy?"
"So he's not the most subtle guy. That should make things easier."
"God dammit, Nathan."
"Lure him in, let him know you're receptive."
"We're having dinner tomorrow. Is that fucking receptive enough for your standards?"
"Good. I've got a room directly across the street from his. He likes to keep the window open and the curtains up. Guess the sea breezes are a novelty after winter in Sofia. Get him up there any time after nine."
"I'll try to get screwed on your schedule."
This was the way things were supposed to be, Luban thought. Plenty of lira in his pocket, a fine meal in an expensive hotel, a beautiful man dancing attendance on him. An American boy would be even better but why quibble over such a minor point? It was a taste of the kind of life his uncle led and Luban was enjoying every minute of this unexpected preview.
Even London or Paris might not be this enjoyable. Fewer eyes here, no one to whisper that he might be... tainted by the decadent West. It would be unconscionable not to take advantage of the situation.
"Michael," he began, looking into guileless blue eyes and gaining confidence, "would you care to come up to my room?"
Two men in a hotel room. One dark, built on broad, solid lines. His face clearly visible.
click
The other, taller, blond hair falling into his face.
click
Hard embrace. Roving hands. Shirts unbuttoned or rucked up.
click
The blond crouches in front of the other man, works at his belt, opens his fly. Pushes trousers and boxers down to his ankles.
click
The blond digs his hands into the other man's hips, pulling him in tighter, faster, harder.
click
Grasping hands direct the blond's head up and down. Dark red cock slipping in and out of swollen lips. The first man throws his head back, features contorted, his mouth working as he grunts and groans.
click
The blond pulls off, spit and pre-come ribboning between his mouth and the man's cock.
clickclickclick
The other man frowns, confused and frustrated, until the blond lets go and gestures at the bed with one hand while working at his own zipper with the other.
click
The blond kicks off his jeans and briefs. Pulls off his tee shirt, rolls his shoulders. Tugs at the medallion hanging from the leather thong around his neck. Crawls onto the bed, crouches there, runs a hand down his chest and lazily fists his cock for a moment.
clickclickclick
The man almost trips pulling off his own trousers, tangles up his boxers. His open shirt flaps around his hips as he rummages through a small case on the bedside table. A glint of foil. A small tube.
click
He pulls the blond's hand away from his cock, squeezes out some lube. The blond straightens up, reaching back and between his own cheeks, sinking a finger into his cleft.
clickclick
Condom rolled on with hasty hands. He pushes the blond's hand away, knocking him forward, off-balance. He kneels up behind him, holding his cock in one hand, fumbling for more lube with the other.
click
He pushes in, eases out. Back in. The blond tenses, flexes his thighs, relaxes.
clickclick
They fall into a rhythm. The blond rocks back into every stroke, hands braced against the bed, shoulders straining. The other man keeps pulling almost all the way out then fucks his way in, balls slapping with every thrust, his shirt falling off one shoulder.
clickclick
The blond pushes up, throws one arm back, clutches around the other man's neck. Both bodies arch. The man shifts his hold, wrapping one arm around the blond's chest, using the other hand to shift the blond's thighs. He drops one leg off the bed, the new leverage letting him buck up harder as he pulls the blond tighter.
clickclickclick
Jerky movements, all rhythm lost. Straining muscles, sleek with sweat. The blond's head twists to the side, letting the other man mouth his neck and shoulder. The blond works his own cock, twisting against the arm holding him down.
clickclickclick
The other man's head falls back, his body taut. He shudders, shakes, mouth open wide and eyes shut tight. The blond's hand is almost a blur, his cock barely visible in his fist. He comes, semen spilling over his hand, onto his thighs.
clickclickclickclickclickclick
He drops heavily against the other man and they tip sideways, separating, sprawling in a tangle of limbs. The man lazily strips off the condom, ties it, drops it over the side of the bed. Both are panting, occasional tremors rocking their bodies.
clickclick
Breathing stills, steadies, evens out. Their eyes close.
click
They sleep.
click
"Tell me you got what you need because I am not doing that again." Tom slammed into the room, the force of his entrance scattering the files strewn across the desk.
"I got it. Luban still out like a light?" Nathan didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading but he tracked every restless movement.
Tom paced back and forth, stopping to peer through the camera still focused out the window and into the room across the street. "Jesus, you were practically on top of us."
"That's the whole point of a telephoto lens. Besides, that made it easier to focus on your body instead of your face."
"You get off on that, Nathan? You like watching me whore myself for you?" Tom turned, looming over Nathan's chair, snatching the paper away and letting it fall between them.
Nathan stood up, but Tom didn't retreat a step. "Let it go, Tom. It was nothing personal." He could feel the heat pouring off Tom in waves, smell the sweat and sex that still clung to him.
"The hell it wasn't, Nathan! It was very personal. That was my body doing your dirty work. You were pulling all the strings. You were whispering in my ear the entire time. 'Keep him facing the window, Tom. Make sure he doesn't come too soon, Tom.' God, you couldn't have been any clearer if you'd had a wire on me."
Nathan stepped to the side, moving past Tom, but the younger man grabbed his arm and forced him back against the wall. There wasn't a hair's breadth between their bodies and he knew the second Tom realized that Nathan was hard beneath his trousers.
"You bastard. What did you do, pretend you were the one screwing me?" Fast as a snake, Tom squeezed his cock. "Come on, Nathan, don't be shy. Just lie back and think of the Company."
"Your ego a little bruised by taking it up the ass, Tom?" Nathan pushed back, sending them staggering. "Maybe you were the one doing the pretending, hearing my voice telling you what to do."
They grappled, each straining for advantage. Tom hooked a leg behind Nathan's knee and they crashed down onto the bed. Nathan couldn't breathe as Tom landed across his chest.
"Tell me what you want, Nathan. Tell me you want this." Tom ripped at Nathan's trousers, pushing cloth just enough out of the way before fisting the base of Nathan's cock. "Make me do it."
A quick swipe over the leaking tip. Nathan moaned, his hips moving before he could think to still them. Tom's mouth tight and hot and wet around the head, his hand hard and fast along the shaft. Shocking burst of cool air as Tom pulled off, wild eyes meeting Nathan's.
"Tell me," he insisted and reached up with his free hand, grabbing Nathan's hand and tugging it onto Tom's head.
Nathan ran his hand through Tom's hair, taking a good grip, taking the hint. "Suck me," he gritted out, pulling Tom's mouth back down to his cock. He watched Tom's lips open and his tongue emerge, licking at the slit. He groaned and thrust up, fucking Tom's mouth.
"God, Tom... Uh, harder, suck it, take it all in...." He could barely hear himself, the pounding beat of his pulse deafening him. He was directing Tom with both hands now and all he could feel was the shape of his skull under one palm, the flex of his shoulder under the other, the heat that surrounded his cock as he guided Tom, made him ride the buck and thrust of Nathan's hips, told him how hard how fast how tight how good so good perfect perfect perfect....
Nathan opened his eyes to see Tom half on, half off the bed, stripping down with shaking hands. He forced limp muscles to move, sitting up and tugging at his own clothes, pushing them to the floor. He'd scarcely finished when Tom pressed up against him again.
"My turn, Nathan."
The sheet pooled across Tom's hips, bright morning light spilling over his still form. Nathan watched his eyelids flicker, wakefulness slowly creeping into his face.
"There's coffee on the table," he said.
Tom sat up. "Back to business as usual, Nathan?"
He couldn't help how his eyes lingered on Tom's face, taking in the shadow of his beard, how his hair fell forward into his eyes. But his voice was steady and dry.
"It's always business. Don't ever forget that." He tossed an envelope onto the bed. "You're on the noon flight to Barcelona."
"No flowers?"
"Tom --"
"I get it, Nathan. One-off. Nothing personal. Your rules." Tom picked up the envelope. "New passport, I see. Back to being American again. Do you really think I look like a Terry?"
Nathan let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "Yeah. I think you look exactly like a Terry."
He watched Tom get out of bed and gather up his clothes, listened to the shower running. He packed up the camera, slipping the film canisters into a padded case. A few hours and it would be dropped into a diplomatic bag at the embassy in Rome, routed to an office at Langley, filed away until someone decided that pressure should be brought on Luban Hristov. And then the negatives would come out and copies would be made and Tom's face would be redacted out with a black bar while his body would be exposed to whoever needed to know.
Just business.
Just a little global and take.
Just another bit of compromise.