Issues of Mutual Interest: Magnetism

• Summary: "One has to face the consequences of his mistakes, he thought, watching Yates' subtle body language as he shook Thorne's hand."
  
• Pairings: Charles/Maxwell, implied Charles/Yates.
  
• Rating and Warnings: NC-17, M/M, plot spoilers.
  
• Feedback: Yes, please.
  
• Author's Notes: This is a short sequel to the yet unpublished novel Issues of Mutual Interest.
  

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Charles Northwood never looked forward to the gentleman's club sessions. They were a necessity, but usually he found them even drearier than party meetings. The latter at least had a clear point, and once the attendees successfully lumbered toward it, or as it sometimes happened - accidentally stumbled upon it, they could disperse with relatively good consciences. Here, the air was thicker with smoke than even the street outside, no clear point or end to it all was in sight, and the outlook on good consciences was similarly bleak. He passed the time by engaging in small talk with Christopher Yates, who was also present, and by doing his best to cough into his handkerchief as discreetly as possible. He was not at the best of health lately, and the stuffy lounge was as much a physical irritant as an emotional one. He could be seeing a doctor now, instead of spending his time on this.

Then Maxwell Thorne came in, fashionably late, the customary smile wide on his face. Charles had to fight the urge to excuse himself and leave, or at least to pointedly ignore the man. Good sense and willpower prevailed, however, and so he greeted his previous lover with a polite nod when it was time to do so. One has to face the consequences of his mistakes, he thought, watching Yates' subtle body language as he shook Thorne's hand. The man knew, and he was hinting at it for Maxwell: this is my territory now. As far as Charles was concerned, this was not strictly true, but he had no intention of confirming or denying anything for anyone. He does not care, he told himself, and will not even look at Maxwell's reaction to this. Still, when Thorne chose a seat on the other side of the lounge, Charles allowed himself a deep breath of relief.
From there, the evening somehow managed to go even further downhill. The company of Yates grew difficult to bear. The Lord Spokesman was excessively cheerful for Charles' taste, no doubt triumphant at having made sure Thorne knows, and Charles found he loathes himself at that moment, not Christopher. This choice of a lover, made at a moment of weakness and despair after the parting with Thorne, was no better than the previous, and held even more possible dangers in store. His political career, for example, would be most certainly doomed in case of a romantic fiasco with the older, popular, and powerful Yates. And so he smiled, and nodded, and watched the bright flickering screen with moving pictures that the host brought in.

The recording was of some boxing competition, which Charles had very little interest in. That is, until he realized to his great shame, that the sight excites him on a what had to be unconventional, physical level. He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth, staring intently at the interchanging monochrome images of well-built men. They were moving, aggressive, half-naked in those suits, as the crowd and the audience on Charles' side of the screen cheered for them. A touch startled him. Yates used the darkening of the room to lay a hand on Charles' thigh, and his suspiciously perfect green eyes were predatory. Charles could not suppress a shiver, wondering briefly whether the pictures had a similar effect on the man, but brushed it aside as too embarrassing to even contemplate. He shook his head and brushed the hand away gently, then leaned toward Yates, whispering:- Not now, I am sorry. - He added an apologetic smile to that, for good measure, and got up, using the darkness and the agitation of those present to cover up for his escape.

The air seemed better in the men's room, a fact that Charles found amusing. He leaned on the marble sink, coughing quietly, and looked at the mirror. There were electrical lights available to turn on here, but Charles did not do so. The doorknobs and faucets in the room were as well-shined as Charles' buttons and cuff-links, and his pale, waxy complexion was evident in his reflection, even in the dim lighting. He sighed, and then froze, as the mirror disclosed a movement among the shadows behind him. He turned, back stiff, expecting Yates to have followed him, and then frowning, not in mere displeasure but in surprise as well. The large dark shape was Thorne who entered the room, and Charles heard the click of the lock as the man closed the door behind him.
- What is it that you think you are doing? - He inquired, suddenly too frightened to attempt politeness.
- We need to talk. - Maxwell said with a sigh, leaning on the door and crossing his arms.
- We have got nothing to discuss. - Charles declined, returning the handkerchief into his pocket.
- For God's sake, why are you so stubborn? - Maxwell grunted, covering the space between them in two wide steps, and laying his hands on Charles' tense shoulders. - Please, get over this useless pride. There is no real reason for it to be like this. I suffer without you, and I know you are not well either.
- Oh, I am not, but this is simple cold. - Charles smiled thinly. - Nothing to be concerned about, thank you.
- Sometimes you annoy me so. - Thorne chuckled and drew him into his arms in a tight embrace. - And there is only one way to shut you up.

Charles tried to avoid the kiss, but the man was too strong, and he ignored his pleas entirely, until the moment when Charles ceased to be able to produce them. And when it happened, he no longer wanted to protest, and loathed himself for that weakness as well. He could not resist it however, the feeling of peace Thorne's arms unfailingly brought him, the lust his mouth awakened in him. The excitement from before stirred in him, fueled by the new, much more accessible object of desire, and he answered the kiss, gripping the man's lapels. Until his mind caught up, that is, and he turned his head, avoiding further contact. Trying to push the man away yielded no results, and he ended up pressed to his broad chest awkwardly, breathing deeply, trying not to cough.
- That, - he said, breaking the silence, - was not nothing but an automatic physical reaction. I cannot imagine why you might think I am not well.
- Because I knew you loved me too. - Maxwell said, stroking Charles' hair in a gentle manner that made the other man feel as if he was dying inside. - You could not get over it so fast and so easily. And no, don't tell me you lied. You're a better liar than I am, of course, but that was true, what we had. It still is true. I still love you, I...
- Oh stop it, you insistent oaf. - Charles looked up at him, eyes flaring, - It is over. Enough. It indeed was true, I did love you, but it is over, and it is time for you to bloody come to terms with it and stop it.
- Never! - Maxwell breathed and pushed him against the wall, mouth on his again, hands running over his torso, not missing any of the spots Charles prayed for him not to touch, regardless of all the clothing. He remembered, and so did Charles, who felt the prickling of tears in his eyes as the man turned him around, to face the wall. He no longer fought it, allowing Maxwell to fumble there as much as he wants, flick his suspenders out of the way, bring his trousers down. He knew perfectly well that Thorne would never hurt him, even now, never on purpose, and therefore he wouldn't have gone through with this unless Charles' own willingness was not apparent, despite anything he might say. Somehow, his deception skills always failed him with Thorne.

And so he leaned his folded arms on the expensive wallpaper, burying his face in them, muffling the moans as the man touched him, hands slipping under his clothes, mercilessly precise in manipulating and multiplying his desire. Maxwell was kissing his neck in that way of his, which made Charles so warm inside, stroking his stomach and chest, preferring to struggle against the tightness of the vest rather than bother with taking it off. And he was describing it all in a whisper into his ear:
- I love how sensitive your nipples are. What if I capture that one? No-no, let me do that again, you rub against me most satisfyingly when I do.
- Shut your mouth. - Charles breathed, feeling himself blushing all over, and yet loving being handled this way. By him.
- That can only be done with your tongue. - Maxwell answered, and they stole another kiss, with Charles having to bend his neck uncomfortably but still hanging on. Until the man moved on to fondling his erection, and he had to cover his face again.
- Were you this interested in the fighting, or in me? - He whispered appreciatively. - That I love too. How cold you appear, and yet how hot you are... and, hm, wet. By God...
- Oh shut it, I said. - Charles laughed almost soundlessly, then bit a knuckle to keep himself from moaning even louder, as the man's fingers, now slick with saliva, teased and explored him further. Denial was stupid at this point. He missed Maxwell, wanted him, and even though engaging in the particular activity at this particular place and time was bordering insanity, it was inevitable. Just as their attraction to each other always was. An event akin to a force majeure, and all they could do was succumb, and pray, and love every moment. Most of all, he loved it when Maxwell finished that excuse for a foreplay, and deciding him prepared enough, entered him. It felt like coming home. The hot hardness inside, an arm wrapped around him, pulling him close to the man's broad chest, soft lips against his ear, teasing, biting lightly. It was heaven and hell, so deviously combined together, for none of the reasons that made him walk out have changed, and yet here he was, being taken by the only man who felt so right.
- Oh Max. - He breathed into his own hand. He cared about nothing, wanted nothing but to hang on to this for as long as possible, as if there was no prospect of life after that.

Maxwell's orgasm coincided with a knock on the door, and Charles stifled a laugh, feeling the man shuddering and sobbing quietly into his neck. He quickened his own pace then, urgently thrusting into the man's hand, listening to the voices outside. Someone tried the handle again. His heart was about to burst, he felt, leaning back into the beloved arms, biting his lip, adding his own hand to the equation, so that when... now that he comes, he won't leave any suspicious stains.
- How very like you. - He heard Maxwell chuckling through the rush that swept over him. - To be considerate of the wallpaper.
- Shh. - He breathed, arching his back and holding on to the man.
- And, hm, there's a lot to mind, too. - There was another chuckle.
- I am by no means deprived. You insufferable idiot. - Charles hissed. Clearly the man had to ruin everything with the bad-tasted humour. Though the only truly bad thing about it was, that it made Charles feel as if they are together again, and the impossibility of it rended his heart. Panting, he brushed Maxwell's arm away and leaned toward the faucet.
- I know. - The man said quietly, and it could have been an acknowledgment of either of Charles' statements, or of both. Charles did not care. He now had the question of getting out of here to care about. He was quite confident about all variables, save for his ability to fool Yates. His weakness here could result in a disaster.
- My regards to your lovely wife. - He half-nodded at Maxwell, adjusting his tie, then looking himself over in the mirror one last time. - And goodbye.