David hasn’t done this much — or at all, except the other time with Lourdes — but he still knows this is sloppy, his hand meeting his mouth, slick, too much spit. The whole thing is inelegant, embarrassing, but Lourdes’ thighs are shaking hard enough that David can feel the tremble without touching them, like he can barely stay standing, one palm braced against David’s wall like he needs something to hold himself up, and there’s something supremely satisfying in that, to hear Lourdes’ unsteady inhale exhale, to have Lourdes come bitter on his tongue, fast, embarrassingly fast, even, his breath hitching into a cut off moan.

David’s barely swallowed before Lourdes is hitting the ground in front of him, can hear the impact on his knees, which makes David wince sympathetically despite himself, his own knees stiff already. His hands aren’t steady on David’s zipper, but they do the job, and he gets his hand in David’s pants, his tongue in David’s mouth, making a noise against him like he likes the taste of himself on David’s tongue.

David’s practically on a hair-trigger — he’s been ramped up half the night and he got off too much on sucking Lourdes off — already slick at the tip and leaking over Lourdes’ hand, but that makes it an easy slide, Lourdes jerking him off fast and hard, nothing special, but exactly how David needs it, and it’s all David can do to avoid biting either his tongue or Lourdes’ when he comes in Lourdes’ fist.

Lourdes doesn’t pull back right away, just breathes, still shaky, against David’s mouth, before he finally pulls his hand out of David’s pants, putting a couple inches between them. David looks at him, his hair a mess despite the fact that David never got his hands in it, his pupils blown wide so that it’s even harder to tell whether his eyes are hazel or green, until David gets self-conscious about looking, about Lourdes in his apartment at all.

He wonders how you’re supposed to kick someone out when they’re on their knees in your front hall, when you didn’t even make it into the apartment proper. At Lourdes’ place he could just leave, but Lourdes shows no sign of planning to move, until he looks at his hands, nose wrinkling, laughing softly.

“Bathroom?” Lourdes asks, waving his right hand like David needs the explanation.

“Second door on the right,” David says, and Lourdes gets up, hitching his pants back up around his hips with his left hand. David tries to right himself, tucking his shirt back into his pants, running his hands through his hair, and finally makes it into his apartment as far as the living room.

He listens to the sound of the sink, muted, and wonders what he’s supposed to say, what you’re supposed to say after you suck someone off inches from your front door. If there’s proper etiquette for this, he’s certainly never learned it.

Lourdes comes out of the bathroom, his tie gone, maybe tucked in his pocket, his shoes squeaking against David’s floor. He never took them off, which is no surprise, considering he never got his pants past his knees, but it just hammers it home how easy David is. He’s never been easy in his life, he’s been called difficult more times than he can count, and Lourdes is the last person he wants to be easy for.