Saiyuki fic: Confluence (sequel to Solitary - prison AU)

[louiselux]

Fandom: Saiyuki
Title: Confluence
Rating: mild m/m

Notes: for the timestamp challenge: this is for emungere and i_am_zan, who both wanted a story set sometime after the events of Solitary. Because they both wanted different times, I cheated a bit and smooshed them together. This is set ten years after the events of the story and five years after James and Oren get out.

Summary: ten years later.

Confluence

He worked in construction. The bosses liked him and today they'd told him he could stay on after this project was finished, if he wanted. They liked his style, whatever that meant. They didn't ask too many questions.

He stopped off for a beer on the way home, just like he did most nights, somewhere different each night, just in case. It cleared the dust from his throat and it let him sit, alone and unbothered, drinking his beer, sometimes in gulps and sometimes in sips, always at the back of his mind thinking about going home.

There was a battered TV sitting on a bracket high over the counter in this place, tuned to the news channel. Someone fired up the jukebox and so he couldn't hear what the report said, he only saw that face: golden eyes staring down at him as Wild Horses drifted to the middle eight.

The eye colour didn't show up so good on the screen, but he knew the exact shade, like honey in a jar. Eyes that made you take a second look. That looked old in that young face. Still young, even though he hadn't seen it for more than five years.

The last time he'd seen it was that final morning, the four of them sitting in their corner of the day room waiting for the hours to pass until James's plan clicked into place. His palms had been wet with sweat all that time. No one had said much and the fucking priest had pocketed Oren's last pack of smokes. I need them more than you do, he'd said, and then he'd looked right into Oren's eyes, like he never usually did. He could still remember the shock of that.

He picked up a newspaper from the stand near the bank, then ran for the bus. He didn't need to, but it felt good on a night like this. Icy air seeped through his jeans like freezing water, making his thighs feel like two sides of frozen ham, and his work boots clumped on the concrete. The doors snapped shut behind his shoulders.

They lived in a redbrick house on the corner, for now. It had a white-painted porch and big windows. Oren liked it. He'd never lived anywhere like it before. They were moving up in the world, he'd said, and James had agreed very seriously: yes, they were indeed.

The house was solid and just big enough and Oren liked stepping off the bus at his stop and walking down the street towards it, seeing it get closer, swinging his door key on its ring. The ring was a plastic fob, given away free by an Indian restaurant in town. Shimla Brothers. They had only been there once. It didn't pay to get too regular about things.

The lights were on and there was the silver Hyundai parked on the driveway. When he opened his front door, the smell of cooking chilli wafted out. Nothing fancy, just simple stuff to eat most nights.

He closed the door and took his boots off, leaving them lined up together, an old habit hard to break. They sat next to a briefcase: black leather, which Oren had blown a week's wages on it, must've been four years ago now. His first paycheck since they got free, because that first year had been rough. It had been worth it though.

The hallway was dark but the kitchen was lit up with the little halogen lights Oren had fitted about six months ago, like they were going to stay or something. The radio chattered and babbled over the sounds of cooking and faintly steamy air warmed his face.

James was humming to himself, leaning over the kitchen counter and running his finger down the page of a cookbook. He had his apron on. Oren leaned against the door frame and watched. He wondered if they were going to talk about it.

"Don't stare at the back of my head," James said, eventually.

"Who said it was your head I was staring at?"

James looked over his shoulder. Oren couldn't say he'd changed all that much, not really. There were threads of white mixed with his dark hair and the lines had deepened around his eyes, but they were still young. Nearly.

"You're home early," Oren said, gnawing at his lip, closing his eyes and seeing the dumb headline: Two Escape. Cops Say, Stay Away

"I took a half day."

James never took holidays, unless they were the kind that involved upping sticks overnight and moving across the county line.

"So. You saw the news."

James nodded.

"Dinner's soon. You should wash."

Afterwards Oren watched football on the TV, some game he didn't even care about, but it had men running about after a ball so it was okay. James dozed off, head on Oren's shoulder and his breathing slow and soft. Oren was glad he could sleep, specially tonight.

"Wake up," he said, much later. His shoulder was stiff from James weight, but he hadn't been able to make himself move.

"Mmhn."

"Time for bed, baby," Oren said.

Lying together in bed, face to face, Oren could see the dim whites of his eyes in the dark. He was reminded of another room and another, narrower, bed. The same man.

"Oren."

"They're coming here, aren't they?" Oren said.

Cool fingers touched Oren's jawline, running along it up into his hair. James's toes were cold on his. Bad circulation. He needed bed socks or something like that.

"Yes."

James was like the spooky house in the neighbourhood, like the one you couldn't stop looking at as a kid. The one that frightens you and draws you near, both at the same time.

"So." He closed his eyes as James stroked his hair back from his face. "Where the hell we gonna keep 'em? In the attic?"

"I was thinking the basement."

"You're crazy."

"You've said that before."

"Yeah, and I meant it then, too."

James was silent for a while. A car swished by in the street and James felt his fingers pause, then move again as it carried on by.

"Oren," James said, fingertips skating over Oren's bare shoulders now, a light touch that seemed to be the only thing Oren could concentrate on. "I need to see them."

Oren got that. It was maybe the only thing about this whole thing-- the four of them-- that he did get. Maybe the only thing in his entire life.

"We'll need to move on," he said. "It's gonna look pretty conspicuous."

"We can disguise ourselves."

"Hair dye, check. Beard, check. Four crazy escaped criminals, check."

James was trembling against him.

"Oren. It won't be so bad," he whispered. "It won't."

Like he was trying to convince himself. Oren put an arm round his waist and pulled him close and James moved, fitting himself to Oren's body.

"So we run. And then what?"

"We can move right out, away from the cities. I always wanted a farm, you know."

"A farm. Fuck. What do we do now?" Oren said.

He heard James's breathy laugh and heard one low word.

"Fuck?"

"Oh yeah. Yes."

James kissed him, even before he'd finished speaking, pushing him back into the pillows. They rolled and moved together and it seemed like James wanted to touch him everywhere he could reach. Then Oren was on his stomach and James was kissing his shoulders, soft wet kisses that trailed down his spine.

"I want you," he said softly, right against Oren's skin. "I want you."

James on top of him and inside him, deep inside, so he could feel the hot slide and drag of every thrust. He hadn't even known he'd like it, till it happened one night and it got him harder and hotter than anything else he'd ever done.

James panted in his ear, one hand fisted in the sheets above Oren's head, the other tangled with Oren's own as they stroked his cock. Slow, hard, taking their time. It still felt like a luxury.

"I'm sorry," James gasped, and then his hips jerked and he moaned, moving rougher and faster. "Oren. Oh God."

"Don't be," Oren managed to say, because there was nothing to be sorry for.

It was good. So good, and they were going to be together again. He came, thinking of them.

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