It was summer. Oh, God, was it summer. That heavy kind of rich, thick summer. The shot of mango in your latte. The banana-vanilla air freshener in your car with the dead A/C. The 90's synthesizer rock in your headphones while you mow the lawn, or walk the dog, or try to find a blotch of shade big enough to keep you from reaching critical internal temperature. It was the kind of summer that Will really, really hated, and an apartment without any climate control made it even worse. He sprawled on the sticky couch and refused to open his eyes, because if he did he was reasonably sure he'd see his sweat getting up and crawling soggily of its own accord. That's what it felt like—of course, it also felt like his eyeballs had melted. So he might in fact want to check that out...

Before he could get up the motivation to pry his eyelids open, there was a series of thumps on the door. "Shit!" Will flung himself up off the couch, hissing and swearing at how much of him stuck to the cheap vinyl, and threw the nearest shirt over his shoulders before realizing it was a disgusting tropical-print thing from Hawaiian Friday at the office. Muttering 'fuck it' a few times and hoping that it wouldn't be anyone too important, Will shouldered the deadlock out and yanked the heat-swollen door open. "What the fuck... Jack?"

A bronze, glimmering, and completely-in-his-element Jack Sparrow stood in the hall with a smile on his face and a box in his hands. "Popsicles!" he declared cheerily, and shouldered past Will into the apartment. "Shit, man, do you actually like living in a fry kitchen? I mean, I know you did the stint once, but honestly—"

Will snapped the door shut and folded his arms. "My landlady's got more crack and Celebrex running through her veins than blood. You think she gives a shit whether the top floors have air conditioning?"

"Good point." Jack ran his dark gaze down Will's body—open Hawaiian shirt, boxer-briefs, and nothing else—and Will refused to believe that the room had in fact gotten warmer. Just as he thought he might have to admit to it, Jack turned and headed for the kitchen. "Your freezer still work?"

"Yeah, at least that much does."

Jack closed the freezer, handed Will a popsicle, and kept one for himself. "God, you've got to get a better place." As he took his teeth to the wrapper, Will smirked at him.

"What, and lose the pleasure of your visits? I'll stay right here, thanks."

"You're fucking nuts." Jack snorted and dropped to the couch; Will peeled the wrapper down his popsicle and stood at the window. "Do you even have a fan?" Will pointed to his left—a standing fan sat, neck broken, blades gathering viscous dust, on the 'hardwood' (too cheap to really finish it) floor. Jack sighed, kicked his shoes off, and leaned back. "Like I said... absolutely fucking nuts. Now get over here and stop blocking the only breeze we have and displaying your bad fashion and—" Jack craned his neck "—supermarket underwear."

Will twisted his head, neck, and shoulders around. "The fuck...?"

Jack nodded toward Will's boxer-briefs. "Hanes."

"Oh, piss off." Will turned back to the window and slumped his elbows on the sill. It was hot, it was sticky, he was crabby, and half-dressed, and Jack was making fun of his underwear. He did not need this. It was bullshit. And what was worse... he could feel Jack's eyes on him. Just as clearly as he felt the sweat, trapped on his skin in such high humidity, slithering down his back and legs. And he was certain Jack's black molasses eyes were slithering right along, keeping pace. The thought made his skin prickle and gave him an urge to shift his lean from the right foot to the left. "No, really, Jack, get out."

Jack was not supposed to be able to move that quietly—his answer rumbled up from between Will's feet. "That's no way to treat a guest." He pressed a tongue to Will's ankle, one that was far too hot to have been just recently around a stick of ice.

"If you were a guest, I would have—ah—I would have invited you." Will tried to jerk his ankle away, but Jack wrapped molten-steel fingers around it and held it still while he plucked the tendon behind Will's heel with his tongue.

"If you'd invited me, I wouldn't have come." He closed his teeth over the ridge, so much more prominent now that Will had it tensed and quivering, and tightened his grip for when Will kicked out reflexively.

Will shuddered and thump-cracked his head against the windowpane, feeling a spiky hot limpness slide up through his legs to his neck. "I know... that's why you're... uninvited." Will could feel Jack's lazy smile against his calf.

"And that's exactly why I'm staying." Jack touched the tip of a sticky, dripping, icy popsicle to the back of Will's knee, and the shiver it brought down nearly broke both Will and the popsicle, and Jack's wrist.

"Ffffuck..."

"Like that, do you?"

Will heaved in as much of the sopping satin air as he could without drowning in it, and let most of it out in a quaking long breath. Jack was trailing the damned popsicle up, down, and around, leaving what Will knew would be god-awful sticky messes on the backs of his legs. But he sure as Hell didn't care, once Jack muttered, "Let me get that for you," and put his tongue to the task. It was hot, and clammy, and clingy-sweet, and moved like a velvet creature drenched in cheap wine, up, and down, and circle, and stop; flick, and lap, and swipe, and suck a little... Will had begun to shake, somewhere between ticklish and ohgodyesfuckyes, and everything below the waist was twitching, trying to crawl into that mouth, where the lips were dry and scratchy and the tongue was sly and delicious, but Will had just enough logic left to know that one man's leg cannot successfully climb into another man's mouth, however dedicated either body part may be. It was hard, but he unstuck his forehead from the windowpane, unclawed his hand from the windowsill, and turned around.

By the time he faced Jack, the man was sitting back on his heels and smiling, innocent with a slant that made Will wonder if Jack had, perhaps, swallowed an imp. Fortunately, when he opened his mouth, only his tongue slid forward, but that was wicked enough given the slow, too slow, more than suggestive way it mapped every twirling surface of a grape popsicle. Jack's eyes were half-lidded and fastened directly ahead of him on a significant spot just beneath the hem of Will's shirt, in case his intent wasn't perfectly, lip-bitingly, fist-clenchingly, breath-catchingly clear.

Will licked his lips slowly to catch those eyes, then watched them roll closed when he curved his lips around the top of his own popsicle, lime, and slid down. He made a gaudy show of slurping and sucking, running his tongue out to snap up the dribbles that melted out in increasing rivulets, turning his head to the side and curling his tongue up around the bar to drag it noisily across his mouth and leave syrupy streams down his cheeks. He made sure that Jack was paying full attention when he sealed his funnelled lips, red and numb from the icy display, onto the tip and sucked so hard that the fake-colored fake-flavored sugary sap bled noisily out into his mouth. Jack's jaw was slack and wide, his lips twitched, and his eyes were seeing something else entirely. Will grinned slickly and bit sharply.

"Shit!"

Will regretted not having thought to videotape the way Jack vaulted back across the floor, skidding until he hit the leg of the coffee table.

"Fuck... fuck... Will!" Jack panted and wheezed, clutching at nothing, trying to catch his breath. "What the hell was that for?"

Will got his laughter enough under control to screech out, "You should've seen your face!"

This did not amuse Jack. "Get your scrawny ass over here, now." Will choked on the last of his giggles and swallowed hard. Jack's eyes were black fire, and his voice was tar in the sun on an asphalt road. It made Will feel dizzy and airless, and suddenly his bare feet were made of lead and he was ironically paralyzed. He dropped his popsicle and it landed on top of Jack's flung one. "Will," Jack peeled his t-shirt off, balled it up, and threw it across the room. "I have denim-burn on my ass. I have floor-burn on my elbows." He got to his feet and started a slow walk toward Will, silent until he stood inches away and curled his hands around Will's hips. "I fully expect that trend to continue." He leaned up and licked at Will's lips, smiling when Will slid his arms around and down, fingers into Jack's pockets.

Will pulled back. "You have denim-burn on your ass?"

"What the fuck... yes. I do. Now—" Jack growled and yanked Will back in, this time grinding and gripping and not letting go. But Will wrenched away again.

"Denim-burn?"

Jack rolled his eyes, and then his hips. "Yes."

Will moaned predictably, but regathered his frustratingly non-sex-addled attitude quickly—though it threatened to become very muzzy with lust very soon. "And you mean..."

"Will. You're a fucktard. I slid five feet on my ass. I'm wearing jeans. Therefore, denim burn."

"Yeah but what about..." Will's eyes got large and heavy. "Oh."

"Yes, oh." Jack twisted around to, it appeared, check out his own ass, and made a strange 'hm' sort of noise. "I'm surprised you didn't notice with these lowriders."

"Jack."

"Yes W—"

It was an incredibly sloppy kiss, because Will's lips were still numb and Jack was still talking. But what was really important was the dive Will's hand took into Jack's pants, and the flick-y holy fuck thing his thumb did on the way down, so the complete ineptitude of the kiss was really not an issue. Jack hung his arms over and around Will's shoulders and put all his coordination into determining just how satanically good it felt when he matched Will's downstroke, or countered his twist, or—oh sweetfuckohfuck—both. They were old jeans (four-button Levis), clever hands (know how to do this ohsogoddamnwell), and Jack's fly was soon open through very little of his own effort.

His tongue had long since slunk into Will's mouth, but it slurped back out again when Jack's jeans rumpled to the floor and he pulled back, gasping. "It is fucking hot in this apartment."

Will's chest was heaving, too. It made the tawdry flowers and palm trees on his shirt waver like a mirage in the wind. He licked the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. ...Ice?"

"What?"

"Couch."

"Uhm..."

Jack felt very strange sitting naked on a cheap vinyl sofa. It was... an interesting sensation. He leaned back, scooted forward, and stretched his legs out, so that as little of him as possible pressed into the tacky warm abomination of furniture. Will was in the kitchenette. What the Hell was he doing? He'd said something about ice? Whatever the fuck that meant... Jack closed his eyes and dropped his head back, and let a hand crawl down his stomach to his legs. He had just gotten to a nice, relaxing pace when a cold hand locked around his wrist. "You couldn't wait for me?"

Jack opened his eyes to see Will stripped and smiling warmly, but rather like a panther—toothy, slinky, and liable to bite at any second. Will lifted Jack's hand and sucked a finger into his mouth, lavishing each crease and knuckle with hot, wet, thoughtful attention. Jack closed his eyes again, sighed, and let his head fall over the back of the couch once more while he imagined other similar employments for that artistic mouth.

He was not in the least expecting it when an entire goddamned ice age landed on his nipple.

"Ohhhhhhh, fuck." Jack arched up into the sparks of hot-and-cold, kept his eyes wrenched shut. Shivers coursed through him like damned fever chills, and when Will let Jack's hand slip free of his mouth he clenched it around Will's shoulder, hard.

"I brought ice."

"Aaaaah—apparently, yes."

Will had no spoken reply to that, because his mouth was guiding the ice cube over Jack's chest, hot-cold-hot, a burning tongue and a freezing shiver so close that it felt like steam and fire but didn't burn anything except Jack's self-control and command of the English language. He disintegrated into low, throaty moans and rumbling whimpers that gasped at the end, and he squirmed against the squawking couch. Will pinned his hips and ground against them, and Jack nearly choked on the too-fast intake of thick, still air through a bowed-back throat. "Up." Jack didn't hear what Will had said until he was hauled up to his feet, and then it registered. The mostly melted ice cube clinked to the floor, but as Will pulled Jack in it was well replaced, by a hefty handful. A few cubes fell, but several of them got caught between Jack and Will, making their clingy, limb-locked kiss a gasping one that couldn't decide between pushing closer and shrinking away. Their bellies quivered and twitched around the ice, their skin stuck in some parts and slid in others with the sweat and the water, and their arms and legs twisted and held so that their cocks were pressed torturously right, with the ice cubes melting and trickling and slicking.

Jack hooked a knee around Will's thigh and an arm around his neck; Will wound fingers into Jack's hair and a tongue into his mouth. Jack moaned and growled and worried Will's tongue with his teeth; Will keened and bucked forward and splayed a hand down the small of Jack's back. They began to topple over, and worked their way blindly to a wall, or a door, or something. The ice cubes were little electric shocks that moved here and there depending on how exactly one man or the other writhed and strained, and the breezeless air was a woolen blanket that kept them from getting quite enough oxygen to not be sensationally dizzy. In an attempt to get that oxygen they dragged their kiss apart, but instead pressing foreheads to shoulders and licking deliciously fiery skin and biting, clawing, or shouting as they came and it melted what was left of the ice.

They slid together down the wall, but instead of laying together lay apart on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling. A fly buzzed through the open window and landed on the abandoned, melted popsicles.

"Jack, the apartment was too hot to begin with. How did this help?"

"I just brought the popsicles, dipshit. The sex was your idea."

Will didn't think that was quite correct, but he didn't have it in him to argue.

They spent the rest of the day, into the night when sunset cooled it, spread out on their backs on the floor in nothing at all and hoping no-one would come to the door.


...


My Two Cents: Like I said, unbetaed. And, PWP. Molly, I hope you like it. Everyone else, feedback makes the good stuff happen. Really I don't think there's much more to say, except that I have a major crush on the LP version of Marilyn Manson's Personal Jesus.