So, the sex story.

I am dedicating this to my wonderful beta, Insomiak, who was responsible for the cleverly complicated summary.

Posting it in parts because even I don't know when they'll get around doing anything.

Hope you enjoy!

Time Alone
Part One

Time alone with no chance of someone walking in on them was rare. When it happened, Mark and Rogers usually didn't waste a second of it because quick hand-jobs in Mark's room might have been fun, and rutting against each other on Mark's bed might have been nothing short of amazing, but there was a lot more they wanted to try before they turned sixty.

The thing was, even when they got time alone, they were paranoid and quick about everything. Too many people lived at Mark's house, people that had their own, ever-changing schedules and could knock on the door or peek through the blanket separating his side from his brother's at any minute.

After getting caught making out a hundred times too many, Mark had gotten used it. He had no problem doing that with other people in the house. But he had no intention of letting Dan hear them doing anything else from the other side of the room.

Rogers' house was off limits ever since the divorce had officially started. Hannah Rogers worked a lot from home and, on top of that, she spent at least an hour a day talking to lawyers on the phone or sighing down at papers or talking to Rogers in a quiet, tentative way that made Mark sort of want to drag Rogers to his house and let him live there until all that crap was over and done with.

All this left them with few options. So little options that Mark was starting to consider driving his car to the off-skirts of town, park it on the shoulder and just see what went on from there.

He was pretty sure Rogers wouldn't be offended by the absence of tact, if the looks he sometimes gave Mark were anything to go by. Looks that felt like a prelude to something, a question or a demand or whatever, and that always melted away before Mark could find out what they meant.

Mark knew he sometimes clung to Rogers longer than necessary, too. He sometimes wanted to tell Rogers to go on, to let Mark go further, do something else because this was starting to feel like not enough.

He was sort of comforted with the thought that if Rogers had been a girl, the whole privacy problem would have still been there. He was not comforted by the thought of preparation, and how little he would have needed with a girl, and how complicated and long and embarrassing it sounded with a guy.

Which was another thing: where the hell were they supposed to get supplies? Because Mark was not about to go to the drugstore, where his mother shopped, and get condoms and lube to have sex with another guy. The people that worked there knew him. They could tell his parents. Mark panicked with only the thought of how that conversation could go.

So, he was feeling a little frustrated.

In addition, Rogers – who was already strung tight because of his mother and Frank and all the drama they caused and that Mark had never heard the details of because Rogers didn't seem to want to talk about it – was moody half the time, and the other just horny. And being horny without the chance to get off properly made him moody. So basically he was moody all the time, making Mark feel like killing something whenever they ended up screaming at each other.

Mark and Rogers had had a miraculous first couple of months of doing…this thing they were doing, and in those months they had not had a real fight that lasted more than a day.

They argued and they spat insults at each other and they ignored one another for a bit, in order to cool off. But it appeared that their famous screaming matches and rolling-on-the-floor fights that used to leave Mark strangely unsatisfied were a thing of the past.

That is, until they started happening again.

Mark hated that he knew it wasn't really Rogers' fault that first-in-a-long-time time, because he could understand that snapping at him after Rogers had been on the phone with Frank was a bad idea, but he couldn't help himself.

He saw Rogers face, angry and pale, his lips curling up and his fists clenching and he hated it and he just…couldn't help but to tell him to suck it up, just so he wouldn't look miserable anymore. It made Rogers draw back for a moment, surprised, before yelling at Mark where to stick his pissy comments. Which just led to a loud fight and a shove or two and then Rogers didn't set foot in Mark's house or car for the rest of the week.

Compared to what they used to be, that first one was a mild one. It still felt worse than all the old ones put together, because this time Mark didn't want Rogers to stay away. Mark actually wanted to hear about what Frank had said, and what was going on at Rogers' house and in his head. Rogers could rant for two days about Mark's moods or Dan's games or the shows they watched on TV, but if Mark dared to bring up his latest conversation with Hannah Rogers then Rogers always found ways to distract him.

Ways that usually involved Rogers' mouth and hands on him and that – going back to the subject of Mark's frustration – were a bit of a double-edged sword. Sure they had fun for a little (little) while, but then they both ended up wanting more and being pissed about it all over again.

Mark was pretty sure calling it a vicious circle would have been appropriate, but lately not enough blood was finding its way to his brain, so he didn't trust himself too much.

Still, there was something about Rogers that Mark absolutely loved, and that was his total lack of shame when it came to Mark's groin area.

Rogers had been the first to grab Mark through his jeans (even though that first time didn't count because there had been nothing pleasurable in the gesture), had been the first to drag Mark's zipper down some time after that, and the first to slip warm, sure fingers inside his boxers.

Mark had taken longer to plunge in, to get used to the feeling of having someone else gripped in his hand. Had fumbled trying to get the moves right backwards and had had a silent freak-out after it was done, when he was wiping sticky fingers on his sheets.

Though mostly, it was the fact that he wasn't freaking out that had freaked him out the most. Because even if he had done it because he felt a little bad about Rogers always being the one doing it, even if there had been no conscious thought of actually wanting to do it, if only just to hear Rogers make those noises that were half gasps, half grunts, even if Mark had first done it to avoid an inevitable argument about reciprocity, it had been fucking great.

And, despite the initial fumbling, Rogers had definitely loved it, too. Then again, Mark was pretty sure he would have to have had needles growing out of his palms for Rogers not to like a hand around his dick, but still.

After a couple of weeks, Mark couldn't believe he had been reluctant about it. He loved having that kind of control on Rogers, loved the way Rogers wet breath hit his neck like he was having trouble finding air, the way Rogers' hand lost its rhythm when Mark twisted his the right way.

But that had been at the beginning, before it stopped being everything and started being the only thing they could do.

It was Sunday morning, three or four days after that first-but-not-really fight, when Mark went downstairs and found Rogers having breakfast in his kitchen.

"Hey," Mark started before he remembered they were supposed to be ignoring each other. Then he sort of stumbled as he quickly changed directions and went for the fridge instead of for Rogers.

"Hey," Rogers replied quietly. Mark watched him sip at his mug (his as in Mark's, as in the one Rogers' knew Mark used every morning) and felt his resolve not to be the one who started a conversation begin to crumble. He looked away and concentrated on pouring himself a glass of apple juice.

He didn't sit at the table but instead leaned against the counter, glass in hand, and pretended not to be watching Rogers pretend not to be watching him.

He could see Rogers' leg jerking as he tapped his foot against the tiled floor, nervous or something. Or maybe just impatient. Maybe he was waiting for Mark to talk.

Mark drank from his glass and could have sworn the noise of the juice going down his throat was heard in every corner of the – strangely silent – house.

"Is there anybody even here?" He asked, because it really was all very quiet, and Rogers looked at him properly.

Mark was suddenly very aware that he was in boxers and a t-shirt when Rogers' eyes instantly dropped to his bare legs. He resisted the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot like this was the first time Rogers decided to stare.

"Your parents went out earlier." Rogers' gaze was slow as it moved up Mark's body. "I saw them from across the street."

"Creep," Mark said and then remembered Jessica and Dan hadn't slept at home. Which meant they were alone and how had Rogers even gotten into the house?

Something must have shown in his expression, because Rogers was on his feet and across the room in a second, standing right in Mark's space.

"What?" Mark asked, looking down at him when all Rogers did was stand there, not even touching him a little bit. He set the glass on the counter behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're an asshole," Rogers said then, and Mark tensed, getting ready for a repeat of the week before.

"Yeah, I got it the first billion times, thanks," he replied, his voice strained. "You're not—"

"Just," Rogers cut him off. "I'm still fucking pissed, okay?" He snapped, looking seriously angry for a second, eyes flashing just before he yanked Mark down with a hand on the back of his neck and kissed him.

A furious sort of instinct took over from there and Mark wrapped himself around Rogers, suddenly all eagerness. Everything got put on pause when they had time alone to spend doing this – even fights and Rogers' stupid moods and breakfast in stolen mugs.

But Mark could still tell Rogers wasn't letting anything go, not even for a moment, from the way his hands slipped under the hem of Mark's t-shirt and his fingers dug into his skin, pressure bordering on painful. And the way he dragged his teeth over Mark's lips, sharp and unapologetic.

And maybe Mark yanked at Rogers' hair (how his hands always ended up there, he had no idea) harder than necessary, whatever. He wasn't just going to let Rogers get away with being a prick.

The edge of the counter was digging into the back of Mark's thighs as Rogers pressed himself against his front, chest over chest and a leg between Mark's parted ones. There was really no mistaking where this was going, and Mark didn't intend to let it happen in the kitchen, with a most likely unlocked backdoor not ten feet from them.

He tightened his grip on Rogers' hair and pulled him away just enough so he could speak against his lips.

"Let's go upstairs," he rasped.

Rogers kissed him again, eyes closed and hands climbing up Mark's back, making his shirt ride up and Mark slip down, aching to be a little closer. The counter was cold and made a shiver run through Mark when it came in contact with his skin. He returned the kiss with a muffled groan, his hands sliding to cup Rogers' face, thumbs on warm cheeks.

"Come on." Mark broke off, urgent, and stood straight – pushed Rogers towards the door. "Upstairs. Bedroom – not here, come on."

Rogers kept a firm grip on Mark's arm as they tripped up the steps, and Mark stared at his back, the line of his shoulders, at his hair flopping up and down and had to make an effort not to stop there and grab him again.

He waited until his room's door was closed behind them to push Rogers up against it, hands scrabbling for Rogers' fly as if Mark had never had a problem with it. As if he had never panicked at the thought of even grazing the front of Rogers' pants, as if he had always been as impatient to get the damn thing open as he was then.

Rogers' mouth was hot on Mark's neck as Mark eased him out of his jeans, breath harsh and loud as Mark pulled, slow, and ground against Rogers' hip.

But suddenly Rogers was hooking a leg behind Mark's and making his knee buckle, making him have to lower himself to the floor or fall on his back and crack his skull open or something. He went down with a curse, Rogers with him, Rogers pushing his back onto the ground, Rogers running trembling palms down his stomach and over his boxers, face hovering close to Mark's.

"I shouldn't even-" He said as he gave Mark's cock a slow stroke through thin fabric. He paused for a second – a second that felt like a fucking year to Mark with Rogers' hand pressing down, unmoving – and then shook his head, suddenly looking like he had made his mind up about something. "You don't fucking- but if I don't I…I think I'll go crazy or-"

"What-"

"Let me…I'm just gonna try," Rogers' voiced dropped along with his gaze, which landed on Mark's lap. Mark stared as a violent blush covered Rogers' face as he looked down to his own hand curved around him. He gave a squeeze that made Mark's hips jerk and then – and Mark may have made some sort of embarrassing sound at the sight – licked his lips like he was wetting them to- like he was getting ready to-

Mark barely had time to process it, though he was sure he got a little harder just watching Rogers' tongue swiftly peeking out of his mouth, before Rogers was slipping down his body, one hand still around him and the other pressing his hips against the hardwood. Mark held himself up by his elbows, eyes growing wider as Rogers' mouth came closer to the skin showing beneath the hem of his shirt.

Then he went lower, nuzzled Mark through his boxers, ran his tongue flat along the length of him once and Mark's head hit the floor and he came in his shorts with a gasp, hips jutting out.

It could have been mortifying how fast it was except that he didn't really give a fuck because that…that beat Rogers jerking him off any time.

"You didn't even let me finish," Rogers said, close, and when Mark opened his eyes all he saw were Rogers' pupils blown wide. He felt him hard against his stomach, skin on skin because he was still where Mark had left him earlier.

Mark didn't know what to say – what could he say to that? – so he just kissed Rogers, short of breath and thinking about where Rogers had been planning on putting his mouth before – where he did put it, God. He let Rogers rock his hips and wrapped his arms around him, put his hands on his ass and pushed down, arching up to meet his movements halfway.

Rogers went still – lips pressed to Mark's, eyes screwed shut – when he came all over Mark's stomach.

They kissed again afterwards, coming down. Mark's hands went to Rogers' neck where he could feel Rogers' heartbeat gradually slowing, could feel that the tension from before had melted away, leaving them both lazy and content as they lay there, neither fighting to gain control.

Then a door slammed somewhere downstairs.

It was sort of amazing how quickly they both stood up, pulling at their clothes (both their shirts were ruined, along with Mark's boxers and his ability of ever standing in Dan's side of the room again and not thinking of Rogers going down on him) as they hurried through the Pokemon blanket and to Mark's territory.

Rogers' face was dark red when Mark dared to look at him again, and he was frowning, body angled away as he tucked himself back in. Mark felt pretty gross, but there was still an electric hum running through him, his limbs still felt a little shaky. He didn't think he could muster up the energy to have a fight at the moment, but Rogers always brought up that side of him. Always with almost no effort at all.

"I—"

"What now?" Mark cut in. "What the hell's wrong now?"

Rogers sent him a glare. "I was going to say I needed a shirt, but I guess you don't care if your mom or whoever sees me like this, do you?"

Mark threw his hands out in exasperation – Rogers could be such a bitch – and went to his dresser. He rummaged inside until he realized he was actually looking for a shirt that would look good on the other guy, then cursed and tossed him one at random.

Instead of staring as Rogers changed, Mark took his own shirt off and wiped at his stomach with a grimace he was about seventy-nine percent faking. It was scary how little he cared about Rogers coming on him.

"I'm going," Rogers said, pulling Mark out of his thoughts.

"Huh?" He said and looked up to see Rogers standing in the middle of his room, face still pink, wearing his shirt. Whatever the hell that needle in the pit of Mark's stomach was, it couldn't be healthy.

"I said I'm going," Rogers repeated, still just standing there.

"Wait," Mark said, as if Rogers had made a move to go anywhere. "I…I'll pick you up tomorrow. Okay?"

There was pause and then, "Yeah, okay."

"Wait," Mark said again, like he was a moron because Rogers was still there. He took the three steps separating them and leaned down to peck him on the lips, a little roughly and lingering just a second too long. "That was…that was nice. Great. Awesome, it was awesome."

Mark knew his face was as red as Rogers', but cared about it as much as he cared about the come that had been on his stomach.

"Yeah?" Rogers asked, a smug smile pulling his mouth up. "You should try it next time."

Mark gulped, mouth suddenly dry. "Weren't you going or something?" He asked, which was neither yes or no. Rogers obviously noticed and smiled wider as he started walking away.

"See you tomorrow, then."