Smoke Break

Romantic short. A child psychologist is seduced by a receptionist from a neighbouring office space.

4k, rated M, M/M. Set in the mid-noughties. Oblique references to child abuse, smoking throughout, age difference. Adapted from a TweetFic.

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Lionel took a breath of fresh air sometimes between difficult appointments, and so long as it wasn’t raining, he’d take those breaths on the roof of the building.

He’d trudge out of the warm and welcoming environs of their reception, with its cheery cream-coloured walls and the various drawings and pictures lining it in frames — his second cousin, David, was a framer by occupation, and his daughter got her treatment for free in exchange for her father’s services — and out into the far more anaemic corridors, which had a sort of slate-grey carpeting and paler white walls that always put him in mind of some industrial office.

It was only one flight of stairs up to the roof, and so he’d head up, nudge his hip against the bar for the exit, and go out and just stand there, perhaps sit down against one of the glass-panelled fences at the edge of it, his arse on the grey wall.

It was in these moments, regular as clockwork, that the receptionist from the same floor would come up the same stairs and sidle up — he might casually walk about the bounds of the roof, the movements far too slow and easy to be described as pacing, or sometimes he would hoist himself up on top of the little shed that housed the door and sit cross-legged on top of it. This drove security mad, Lionel knew, because he’d heard one of them muttering complaints about it, although the door to the roof was far enough away from the edges of the building that he was permitted to get away with it.

Today he came directly up to Lionel, standing alongside where he was seated and resting his shoulders back on the glass fencing; his cigarette was already lit, and apparently to amuse himself, he blew out little Os with the smoke, the rings popping out from between his lips before they dissipated into the cold January air.

He always wore a suit, one of those skinny things that made him look like he’d fit right into a drainpipe, with skinny trousers and a skinnily-tailored jacket and even a skinny tie. He had rings through the shell of his ear as well as the lobe, and a stud through the side of his nose, too.

Lionel had never said two words to the young man, despite having seen him in passing a few hundred times, the past few months — Hell, by now, stretching into years. He’d always meant to say something, introduce himself, but he never actually had.

He was always horrible cognizant of the potential poor look of the thing, the fat old child psychologist lusting after the young receptionist, and perhaps it would be different, were he able to know, but —

Well.

He flattered himself that in his youth, his ability to clock like-minded men had been rather good — even when cottaging through his twenties, he’d always managed to sidestep the pigs lurking about, and he’d gotten his fair share of hook-ups at conventions and the sort, had always managed to lock eyes and have that delicate, silent conversation that led to an equally delicate, silent dance — the setting aside of the drinks, the synchronised excuses, the leaving by separate doorways to meet up by the lift or the stairwell or the smoking area, or a convenient back alley.

That was always men his own age, of course, and not handsome young metrosexuals with dyed black hair and nail polish and thin tailoring and piercings. How on Earth was one meant to know if a goth — if this young man was a goth — was gay, or at least inclined to men?

And in any case, even if the young man was, it wasn’t as though he’d go for Lionel, of all men, wasn’t as if he’d satisfy himself with some tired old man, or —

But if he was gay, Lionel regularly told himself, often while looking tiredly at himself in the bathroom mirror in the evenings, or after sharing a nod of acknowledgement or a smile of greeting while passing the boy on his desk, or in the corridor, or, once or twice, after he’d just finished wanking himself off to the thought of his tongue piercing and how it might feel when he sucked Lionel off, it would be easier.

To speak to him.

To — to not appear untoward.

He didn’t know why he said it, after months upon months turned to years of never so much as saying a “Hello”, but he did.

“Smoking isn’t good for you, you know,” Lionel said, voice quiet, and he panicked for a moment at the thought that the young man mightn’t hear him over the noise of the city below, but the receptionist only nodded sagely, the tip of his cigarette flaring as he took a long drag and then blew out a mentholated cloud.

“Panic attacks aren’t either,” he said mildly.

Lionel had never heard his voice before. It hadn’t occurred to him that the young man should have a regional accent, but he was a Brummie, and his voice had a rich quality to it, deeper than he would have expected for such a thin young man.

“I’m not having a panic attack,” said Lionel.

“Not today,” was the young man’s dry response, and Lionel squeezed the railing, feeling how cold the metal was under his palm as his cheeks burned a little warm. “Freak you out, masking like you do?”

“Masking?”

“You know,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette, “pretending not to be autistic.” He blew out smoke through his nostrils, then glanced down at Lionel with darkly lined eyes. “When you are.”

Lionel’s cheeks burned a little bit hotter, and he swallowed before he asked, “Pursuing your own psychotherapy degree, I take it?”

“My sister’s autistic,” the receptionist said with a shrug, and tapped the end of his cigarette, sending ash sprinkling to the concrete. “She stims like you do. The squeezing thing, and you do that humming thing sometimes when you’re trying to calm yourself down. She’s non-verbal, though, and I don’t think she could do the stuff you do — she wouldn’t want to. But you’re good, I think, all the kids who come out of your office always seem better after seeing you. Shame it takes it out of you.”

“It’s been a long day,” said Lionel.

“Every day seems pretty long for you.”

“It’s important to me.”

“Important to the kids too,” agreed the receptionist, peering down at his cigarette, turning it in his fingers. “Not like where I work.”

“Oh, well,” said Lionel, pouting out his lips a little in mock-sympathy. “I wouldn’t begin to imply the mental and emotional well-being of my patients is nearly as important as the bank accounts of your clients.”

“Hey, hey, old man, not my clients,” said the receptionist, clucking his tongue and waving his cigarette around. He really had beautiful hands, rather small, slim-fingered, the nails painted black and mottled red showing on his knuckles from the cold, in stark contrast from the pale surface of his skin.

He’d never particularly thought the young man enjoyed his work — he sometimes smiled when he left the office, when he was out for his cigarettes and occasionally reading a book or looking out over the city; he never exactly looked pleased when Lionel looked in through the window and saw him on the desk with a headset on, fielding calls or setting up appointments.

Lionel really wasn’t certain exactly what they did. The company was called Patti & Wolfe Holdings, and he’d never actually asked if they were an accountant or a public relations firm or… something.

“Why ever do you work there if you so dislike it?”

“Why?” was the immediate response, the young man’s lips shifting into a slight smile. “You hiring?”

Lionel laughed, relieved that the other man was laughing as well, that there was a little levity here, and that it wasn’t about whether he had autism or not, that it wasn’t about his work, either.

“Sorry for needling at you,” murmured Lionel. “You hardly need an old man’s judgement when you’re out for your cigarette break.”

“You act older than you are,” said the receptionist. “A daddy in grandpa’s clothing.”

Lionel’s cheeks abruptly burned even brighter, enough now that he was certain that the flush must be showing in his cheeks. “I, ah, I should go back down.”

The receptionist nodded, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under the toe of his shoe — Lionel had never really paid attention to this shoes before, but they were very clean, neatly-shined Oxfords, not the sort of heavy leather boots one might expect from his jewellery or his make-up.

“I should head back down too,” he said, and Lionel started to nod, but then laughed when he looked back up at him, because he was lighting another cigarette.

As he pulled himself to his feet, he gave him a small wave.

“Agathodaimon,” said the young man.

Lionel blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“My name,” he said, dropping his lighter back into his inside pocket. “Agathodaimon. Daimon, for short.”

“Daimon,” repeated Lionel. “Ah — Lionel. I’m Lionel.”

“Lionel?” asked Daimon, raising his eyebrows, tilting his head just slightly to the side and pouting out his lips. He had tremendously plump lips, shining, a perfect cupid’s bow carving them into the shape. “Not Doctor Vaughn?”

Oh, there was something about the way he said it, the way he enunciated the D and T in doctor.

“Goodness,” mumbled Lionel, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s hardly any cause for that. I’ll see you, Daimon.”

“See ya, Lionel,” said Daimon.

* * *

Lionel thought of Daimon more, in the coming weeks.

He wanked off to him more, naturally, to thoughts of Daimon’s lips wrapped around his cock, to his delicate hands about it too, but masturbatory fantasies aside, he thought about kissing him.

He felt bad about it, really, guilt tugging at him — he was only in his mid-twenties, and Lionel was the wrong side of forty. He felt like a filthy old man, most of all when Daimon, once or twice, leaned back in the hallway so that he could look very obviously at Lionel’s arse.

He always grinned when he did it, or blew a kiss at him if no one else was coming past, and every time Lionel came out of the interaction flushed and embarrassed.

It was a good distraction.

He knew he struggled switching tracks at work, sometimes, couldn’t stop continuously thinking about his caseload, about every patient upcoming, every parent or guardian or social worker he had to argue with or talk with —

Lionel loved the work.

He loved helping children — what pained him was the ones he couldn’t, or the parents who brought their child into the office in the hopes he’d flick a switch and send a different one out. There were the kids, too, that would be fine, if only their environment weren’t so hostile — their parents, their schools, the state of affairs in the wilder world.

He liked children, liked teenagers.

He’d never met a child he truly disliked, not yet, and he’d had hundreds of patients at this point — parents, yes. Other family members, yes. Social workers, nurses and doctors, other psychs, oh, yes, he’d disliked plenty of them.

But —

“Christ,” he muttered to himself as he went up the stairs, rolling his shoulders back to try to work some of the tension out of them. Geraldine had pencilled out an hour for him, and had said she would order in his lunch while he took a quick breather upstairs.

His throat was hoarse, and funnily enough, it wasn’t from shouting, but tensing so hard whilst working not to, doing his best not to snap and bite back at the most obnoxious, evil fucking —

He tried desperately not to think about it, about fathers in general, as he sat down on one of the benches, his elbows on his knees, his body hunched over and his head in his hands, his fingers fisted in his hair.

“Want a massage?” asked a voice behind him, and Lionel blinked down at the floor, then looked behind his shoulder at Daimon.

“Beg pardon?”

Two hands, decorated with black nail polish, came to hover either side of his head, not touching him just yet, and Lionel slowly lowered his palms down to his knees and gave a cautious nod. He turned back to face forward as Daimon came up behind the back of the bench: his hands were surprisingly strong as they alighted on his shoulders, thumbs dragging through the twisted muscles in his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt and jumper.

In a little pain and a tremendous amount of pleasure and relief, he groaned.

“Ooh, I like that noise,” purred Daimon, rubbing his thumbs in hard circles that made Lionel shudder, feeling like his back was being physically unknotted, the whole thing untangled. “You make noises like that for other stuff?”

“You really oughtn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? Gonna spank me?”

Lionel let out a breathless, half-moaning laugh as Daimon’s hands came up and began to assiduously turn his neck to butter. “We’ve really moved away from that sort of thing as punishment.”

“Sure, for kids,” said Daimon. “But for me? I deserve it.”

“Do you now?”

“Uh huh. I’ve earned it.”

“Well,” Lionel murmured, his eyes fluttering closed at a hard press that made something tangled at the base of his neck pop and then feel soft and hot and wonderful. “If you’ve earned it.”

“Starting to feel better?”

“Mm. You’re very good.”

“No, I’m very bad, remember.”

“Oh, ha. Of course. Very bad.”

It was early in the evening, a little after seven, when Lionel exited his office long after Geraldine had gone home to find Agathodaimon lounging in one of the beanbag chairs, paging idly through a Viviane Schwarz book.

“Have you read this one?” he asked, holding it up and clearly displaying its bright blue cover. It was a new release, he thought.

“No,” admitted Lionel. “Geraldine buys them.”

“It’s very good,” said Daimon, setting the book aside. “Funny, cute. I like cats. Drink?”

“I, ah, I don’t drink.”

“Food?”

Lionel hesitated.

“You don’t eat, either?”

Lionel looked at him where he was sat back in the beanbag, his long legs looking even longer in this particular position. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Uh huh,” said Daimon. “I didn’t want to knock in case you felt rushed through your end of day shit.”

Lionel bit his lip as he took his coat off the rack and pulled it on, his fingers closing around the shape of his keys, feeling the teeth of his housekey dig into his fingers, feeling the cool temperature of the metal.

“Daimon, you don’t think, perhaps, that I’m a little too old for you?”

Daimon laughed, grinning widely. “Do you have a height requirement too?” he asked as he pulled himself up from the beanbag and stood up straight. “Gotta be this tall to ride?”

“We’re the same height.”

“Guess it’s alright then,” said Daimon.

He actually offered his arm, and Lionel really was turning pink now, his cheeks burning with it.

He took it, though.

How could he not?

He felt quite silly, walking with his arm curled in Daimon’s, but Daimon had a slow, easy gait — confident — and he was tremendously warm. For all his skinny frame, he felt real and solid, and it was wonderful, the two of them walking together.

“No one’s looking at us,” said Daimon when they turned into the high street and Lionel squeezed his arm a little tighter. “You’re fine.”

Lionel said nothing, but he did the unthinkable and leaned in just slightly, his head on the receptionist’s shoulder.

It felt silly.

Very nice, really very nice, but —

Silly.

He pulled himself back.

The two of them slipped into a small place that Lionel had only ever moved past, a little hole in the wall of a restaurant, and without asking for them, Daimon ordered for both of them in confident, easy — was it Cantonese or Mandarin? Was it a Chinese dialect at all? He didn’t know the difference, knew full well he was ignorant — and it made him feel very warm and embarrassed at the same time.

Under the table once they were seated, Daimon lifted one of his Oxford-clad feet and rested the back of it in his lap, turned to the side so as to keep the sole away from his belly.

Lionel automatically rested his hand on top of his foot, feeling the warmth of the leather.

“You nervous?” asked Daimon, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Well, unless you ask, and I think it’ll be fun.”

Lionel swallowed, tugging at the loops of Daimon’s laces.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said, ever so slightly breathless — he was titillated, and he really ought to feel ashamed, not just being pursued by this young man, but being flirted with so aggressively, so directly. Daimon was leaning forward to look at him, waggling his eyebrows, his smile a handsome beam. “I’m often nervous,” said Lionel.

“Don’t get out much, do you?”

“I’ve never been one for — you know. Bars and clubs and that sort of thing. I assume you are.”

“Hey, I know I’m a sexy goth with nipple piercings, but that doesn’t mean I need a party to enjoy myself,” said Daimon. “I even read!”

Lionel swallowed, and his gaze dropped down, rather without his permission, to Agathodaimon’s chest.

He pulled his blazer open, and Lionel saw the raised shadows under the fabric on each side of his chest, the white cloth puckering over the pins where it was drawn tight.

“Good lord,” Lionel whispered, putting his hand over his mouth, and Daimon laughed, letting the jacket drop.

“You’re fucking adorable, you know that?”

“It’s not a word that’s ever been ascribed to me.”

“That you know of.”

He laughed helplessly. “That I know of.”

“You don’t have any piercings, I guess?”

“No, goodness, no, I never… Not that there’s anything wrong with — Yours are very, really, they are, ah, I’m not sure, but I…”

Daimon was smiling in a way that made him feel like he was melting. Were it that he felt like a young man again, perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so excruciating, but the fact was that he didn’t feel like a young man again. He felt precisely like the middle-aged man he was, which was why it felt like such an event that this handsome young man should be giving him attention, and such especially such fervent attention as this.

It had been a long time since he’d been seduced, if he ever had.

He reached up, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button, and the way it made Daimon perk up, leaning right forward as though eager to catch even a glimpse of bare skin, made him thrill.

“Do you ordinarily take up with — men like me?”

“Men with fat arses?”

He was embarrassed by the noise that came out of him, a delicate little wheeze, and Daimon grinned at him.

“What, you think you’re hiding it in those battered corduroys?”

“I do not wear corduroys.”

“They’re brown.”

“They’re trousers.”

“You fill them out nicely.”

“You’re indecent.”

“Uh huh.”

He was smiling to himself as a waiter brought a tray of plates for them, setting the out on the table: there was a wide variety of little dishes, dumplings, fritters, a noodle dish, some sort of duck.

“I feel rather spoiled,” he said quietly.

“I feel like you don’t get spoiled that often. Can you blame me?”

“Didn’t you call me a — a daddy? Aren’t I meant to be spoiling you?”

“I’d like to think we could spoil each other. Nightly, if it fits your schedule.”

“Behave.”

“Never.”

They were grinning at one another, even through Lionel felt so red he might burst, and he pinched a little patch of skin bared by his skinny trousers — the young man wore socks that barely covered the ankle — and pushed his foot out of his lap.

“I could piece one of your nipples,” suggested Daimon, and Lionel choked on a wonton.

“I think not.”

“Coward.”

“I’m sure you could think of some pleasant way to torture me without putting a barbel through one of my nipples.”

“You’re right. A ring is an option too.”

Lionel squirmed in his seat, and Daimon laughed, taking up a little satay skewer.

“Presumably with all of your, ahem, attire, you aren’t so interested in more boring encounters.”

“Presumably with the way you keep blushing and just called vanilla sex “boring”, nor are you.”

Lionel’s lips twitched. He’d been going through a dry spell of recent, but he’d been very busy, and hadn’t really been going out to bars — the last time he’d really fucked about had been at a mental health workers’ conference last June, and that was half a year ago now. “I’ve been around the block a few times.”

“I bet you leave a nice bruise.”

Lionel cleared his throat, rubbing at his own flaming cheek before putting himself back to the meal before them. “I really would stop, were I you.”

“Oh, yeah? And why should I stop?”

“I might just put you over my knee.”

“Is that a threat or an incentive?”

“I have yet to decide.”

They chattered and teased and flirted on, joked, ate.

When they finally left the restaurant, Daimon crowded Lionel up against the wall in the alley, and he gasped, his head tipped back against the brick, their chests together, one of Daimon’s knees sliding up against his thigh.

“Shit,” he said, freezing, “are you uncomfortable?”

“It might be called discomfort,” said Lionel. “That doesn’t mean it’s unwelcome.”

Daimon’s hands were either side of his head, braced on the brick wall, their noses brushing against each other. His breath was hot on Lionel’s lips.

“Can I take you home?”

“No,” Lionel blurted out. “Goodness no.”

Daimon faltered, his face falling, and he started to lean back, but Lionel hurriedly grabbed him by the skinny tie, pulling him close again. “No, no, I meant… I hardly mean to assume, but I expect my bed is a good deal sturdier than yours, and I live alone.”

Daimon stared at him, his eyes wide, and then kissed him, and he really couldn’t —

No, no, Lionel was perfectly capable of stopping himself, but why should he, at this point?

He flipped them around, pinned Daimon back against the wall and bit his lip, kissed as hard as he dared as he slid one hand up his chest and tugged on one of the piercings through the shirt — the noise he let out against Lionel’s mouth was hungry and wanting and more than a little desperate.

Lionel had never felt so attractive, so beautifully powerful, in his life.

“Call a taxi?”

“Let’s get it in a minute,” said Daimon, and Lionel laughed, pulling away for a moment to pull out his mobile telephone and dial up the number.

When the cab arrived, the long-suffering driver had to blow the horn to remind them that they’d called him, and they broke apart just long enough to slide into the back seat.

FIN.