Heavy eyes meet over dark liquid in the deserted bar. Endless strands of conversation are exchanged with only a few key glances. Understanding, sympathy, but never pity grace their faces. They eventually speak, drowning their sorrows of failed careers, relationships, and miserable existences. The patrons have all but dismantled; a jukebox is playing a desolate tune and they both snort at the irony. By 2am, they stumble out the door; nowhere to go, no one to go to home to -- somehow end up Pacey's door. A semi-uttered invitation later and they fall inside, strong hands acting as life preservers, hurt eyes locking together until they swirl and blend and it feels like the world is too close to see clearly. Except that it's their faces. Lips fuse together in a delirious kiss of drunken desire and maybe more need than either is comfortable with.

Hands stroke heated flesh, warming outside what cannot be ignited within. The bodies of two best friends, who've shared everything but this, yet know every move to make, every body part that draws a sigh when licked and kissed and sucked; can cry out one another's respective names in orgasm without it feeling foreign or awkward. They run sweaty hands over wet skin afterward, their cocks growing soft in one another's mouths, licking each other clean in lazy brush strokes. They crawl on the bed and meet in an endless kiss; tender, hot, comforting. And think: this is what's been missing. Hands start to roam once more, weary smiles are placed. Some of that old Witter sarcasm returns as a breathy voice whispers 'My, my McPhee, so soon? I feel like an old man.' Sorrows forgotten as he's twisted beneath and replies, 'Good thing you lost the suit, Old Man.'

He's licked everywhere for so long; hopes to god he runs into David just to show off the job. Flashes of motion, probing of fingers, and he's on his stomach, ass in the air as his best friend gives him the most thorough fucking ever. A fist in his mouth, and he can't be sure whose. He's breaking the skin, trying to hold back screams but Pacey's hand is on the small of his back whispering, 'Let it go, ohjesusfuck, let it.. ' and he's screaming, hits him in a white flash; legs tense, head spins, and sharp gasps sound as he comes, ass clenching. He feels the moment the orgasm is torn from the man above him, arches back, swallows his name in a kiss, as mated hair is rubbed along his back, raising a weak, tickling laugh. They descend, talking in lazy whispers, exchanging more secrets of the events that led up to this moment, knowing it was both right and wrong for so many reasons. One man falls asleep wondering when he'll again be with the girl it always felt like this with, except then it was love. The other wonders when the heartache will stop, and the real thing finally occur.