“Can we just go to your room?” David asks. If Lourdes keeps offering him outs he’s going to take one; he’s practically shaking with nerves by now, not that he’s letting it show, or at least he hopes not. He wonders if that’s Lourdes’ plan or something.

“Yeah,” Lourdes says. “Cool. Just — wait a sec, I need to be sure it’s clean.”

David stands stranded in the front hall when Lourdes disappears. He almost wishes he’d accepted a drink so he’d have something to do with his hands, palms sweating, tie too tight against his throat, choking him. He wonders, dimly, absurdly, if Lourdes has escaped out of a back window or something.

Lourdes comes back after a fairly extended time, in jeans and a t-shirt, which makes David feel even more awkward in his game day suit. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “Room was a mess.”

David wants to point out he’s not Lourdes’ ‘dude’, he would never be Lourdes’ ‘dude’ in his fucking life, but that’s probably pretty self-defeating right now, so he forces himself to smile, one Lourdes blanches at.

“Uh, come in?” he says, and David follows him into a room that’s still a mess, bed half-heartedly made, clothes on the floor shoved in a corner, drawers half-open.

Lourdes is looking at him a little hopefully, and David can’t meet his eye, can’t even think of it. Not when they’re sitting on the bed, maybe half a metre between them, maximum, because Lourdes apparently spreads his legs wherever he goes. Not when Lourdes made his bed in the hopes of getting laid, or gay-bashing, or who knows, maybe both.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Lourdes says, and David gives him a blank look, which Lourdes ignores, reaching in to curve a hand around David’s jaw, mouth brushing David’s again, lingering, longer than the first time, which had felt like forever, David’s heart in his throat the entire time.

David can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut then, overwhelmed by the way Lourdes’ tongue slides, slick, into his mouth, more obscene than anything he’s ever experienced, one hand holding David still, firm against his jaw, the other nudging lower, where David’s dress shirt is tucked into his pants, a ticklish spot he’s learned to shield.

He grabs Lourdes’ hand before it can get anywhere that’ll embarrass him, but doesn’t stop it when it curves around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, David’s breath hitching at the spark that runs through him.

Lourdes kisses him like he’s done it a lot. Not that David would necessarily know the difference, but the way Lourdes kisses him is practiced, easy as a drill done a hundred times over, while it’s all David can do to keep up.

Lourdes’ hands find the buttons of his shirt, blind, and it’s too much, Lourdes’ fingers brushing against his stomach where he’s revealed skin, David sucking in breath as best he can. Lourdes’ hands move up to David’s throat, which David wants to shrink away from, but he manages to stop himself, lets Lourdes tug his tie free, get the last buttons undone, before he pushes David’s shirt from his shoulders.