He'd lost so much back home. Lost his best friend. His partner. Every time they came together it was Len that put the brakes on things and Mick never pushed it, never argued. And now he's realizing that maybe he should have. He should have fought for what he wanted. Maybe shown him that he was worth fighting for, worth wanting.

They were both cowards in that regard. Fighting for Len would have been an admission of his feelings and that was something neither of them were comfortable with. So they didn't. There were quick handjobs in dark rooms, hungry rutting in an alley or a safehouse, but that was it. Never more than that.

Hands are quick and eager, tearing at clothes and smoothing along exposed skin. Both of them have their fair share of scars, but all Mick sees is his partner. His touchstone. The man who kept him anchored and moving forward when his mind would drift or grow restless and distracted.

Mick smooths his palms along his thighs, head falling back with a groan when warm heat surrounds him. Jesus. He'd almost forgotten how good Len was at that. Nibbling, licking and sucking along his length as Mick slicks up a finger. He can't quite get Len's dick in his mouth, but he can lick at him as he slides that first finger in, moving slow and easy to get him open and ready.