Well, good with his mouth anyway.
And so, even though Alex's visions had been less...pretty, involving
as they did, dysentery, machete-wielding bandits and cockroaches as big
as his head, he had agreed to go along.
What Alex hadn't counted on. What he couldn't have imagined, were the
trains. He thought he knew trains. Hell, he thought he knew bad
trains—he'd lived in Russia in the 1980's for God's sake—he damn
well knew he knew bad trains.
But the worst train from Pinsk to Minsk to Armpitskaya, Siberia on the
coldest day in January was no match for the Altiplano Molasses Express,
which achieved worst-train-of-all-time status by the simple expedient of
having four times as many passengers as seats, no stops and absolutely
no working toilets.
"Actually, Alex," Mulder said, having searched his half of the train,
"there aren't any toilets at all on this particular train. They took
them all out a year ago for a general overhaul..."
"...and haven't quite gotten around to replacing them yet. Yes, I got
the same story from the porter down my end. You know, Mulder," Alex
winced, shifted a little in the cramped, crowded aisle where they'd
managed to meet up. "That would have been good, useful information to
have gotten before we left the station two Inca Colas, two cups of
coffee and two—" he checked his watch, winced again, "—three
fucking hours ago."
"You have to pee?"
"No, Mulder, this is my 'happy' face. What do you think?" Mulder
laughed. Shrugged expansively, loving everyone today.
"So pee out the window. Everybody else does."
"I haven't seen anybody peeing out the window, Mulder."
"Well I peed out the window. It was the first thing I did when I got
on the train."
"You're so full of shit, Mulder."
"Actually I too—"
"Do NOT go there..." Mulder seemed to consider the potential amusement
value of that particular conversational side-trip and appeared to decide
that, this morning anyway, he could do better than instant gratification
of his inherent death-wish. Or at any rate he let the subject drop,
didn't complain when Alex turned and tried to fix his attention on the
mountain-scape rolling by outside the window.
On any other day he would have been entranced. This was Alex's idea of
romance in the old-fashioned sense of the word: deep, misty gorges;
rocky pinnacles; tiny streams launching themselves off the rocky
pinnacles to become splashing, spraying waterfalls—don't look at
the waterfalls. Condors circling in the vast open spaces; ragged
ribbons of clouds shredded on the knife-blade peaks. Llamas hopping
down steep terraced fields crossed by streams that trickled noisily down
to join the rushing cataract of the icy Urubamba river...
Fuck
And Mulder was not helping—pressed up right behind him, playing
little Mulder games. A little casual frottage, a flurry of covert
'bad'-touches. Letting the rhythm of the train brush what felt like a
nicely flushing hard-on against Alex's ass. Mulder's hand coming around
as if to steady himself on the hanging strap, only to graze a nipple
through the flannel of Alex's shirt.
Kind of a nice danger kick thing to do here in mucho macho Latin America
and under other circumstances Alex would have approved. Hell, under
other circumstances he would have applauded, dragged Mulder into the
nearest under-furnished water closet and fucked him stupid.
Between Mulder's hips and Mulder's hands and the rocking, swaying,
rumbling vibration of the train playing Mulder's counterpoint in his
bones, he was definitely starting to get off.
Except he couldn't get off. Not here. Not now.
So there he stood, trapped like a... like a... well, like a guy who really
has to piss on a crowded, toiletless traincar: Mulder behind him; a fat,
motherly campesina in every seat between him and every window and,
flanking, a dozen or so young Quechua farm-boys on their way home from a
fete.
Happy farm-boys, reeking of stale sweat and lanolin from the llamas, and
beer. Laughing and—fuck—jostling and drinking even more beer from
quart bottles that sloshed and...
Alex gasped, shifted again, abruptly. Felt a faint tremor run through
his left thigh and—
BAM—the train entered a tunnel, plunged into darkness.
Which was, of course, when Mulder made his move. Hot breath on Alex's
neck and a hand sliding around his hip to grasp him. Squeeze.
"Jesus! Don't...!" he gasped.
"Mmmmm...?" Mulder's tongue found his ear, plunged in hot and slick.
And, fuck, that hand. He was definitely getting hard now and it ached.
It fucking ached...
"Mulder..." Alex turned his head and Mulder's tongue smeared his cheek.
So naughty. So nice... "Mulder, not now..."
"Mmmm..." The hot tongue was seeking his mouth now, winding and flicking
gently like a milk snake sampling a sleeping baby. Rumble of Mulder's
voice against his cheek: "Why not?'
"Because I have to..."
WHAM—it was light again and Mulder, fox's instinct, had pulled away
to an innocent distance and Alex was abruptly shouting into relative
silence and the alarmed face of the woman in front of him:
"...PEE."
"What?"
Alex managed to make a low growling whisper carry back over his
shoulder. "I have to pee, Mulder. Remember?"
Mulder leaned in again, laughed low and definitely evil in Alex's ear.
"Oh, right. Sorry," he murmured. "Forgot..."
Asshole. Alex debated repeating the thought aloud, but before he had a
chance to decide, Mulder reached past his shoulder to tap the shoulder
of the farm-boy directly to his left. The boy turned—good looking
kid, maybe 18, 19, with caramel skin, flat Indian features, long black
hair—raised his eyebrows at Alex.
Mulder said, in his bad gringo Spanish:
"Per favor. Mi amigo wants ...un poco... cerveza."
"Mulder..." low warning growl. "This isn't funny."
But the farm boys, who were well on the lee side of a few quart bottles
already, seemed to think it was pretty fucking hilarious.
"Cerveza...si...si!" Lots of laughter and they handed the bottle back
around to the boy who offered it to Alex. Who gritted his teeth, locked
his knees and refused politely. Then firmly. And then, taking stock of
the dying smiles, the spark of suspicion in rapidly veiling eyes,
realized that 'no' was no longer politic.
No odds in taking on a trainload of drunken farm-boys in the condition
his condition was in, particularly not with Mulder in the kind of mood
that made him a dubious back-up at best—so Alex sucked it up, bore
down hard on a knifing cramp, took the bottle and drank.
"AŇanchaykin Ňoqapi tukuy sonqoyki churasqayqimanta," he said as
graciously as he could manage with his teeth clenched hard enough to
make the enamel crunch. He handed the bottle back to the young
campesino. His fluent Quechua evoked a brief flurry of excitement and
further offers of beer, chicha, tobacco, coca leaves and other
hospitalities. It took several minutes of solid compliment and insult
trading (with accompanying teeth gritting and position shifting and deep
inward-focused concentration) to extricate himself from further
awkwardness. Finally out of the center of attention, Alex turned a cold
stare on Mulder.
"Had your fun?" he asked. But from the look in Mulder's eye, Alex knew
he was just getting started. He should have known today would be one of
those days. Mulder had woken up with a definite foxy hair up his ass
this morning—all cowlicked and dimpled and full of some mischievous
Inca trickster spirit. Just looking for trouble.
"Your eyes are so...so green in this light, Alex." Fuck. Any other
time in this or any other place, he would have howled at the idiocy .
But right now Alex didn't care how bored Mulder was, or how horny, or
how long the train ride had been—this was getting well beyond funny:
"Mulder..."
Before the warning was even out of his mouth, though, Mulder had engaged
the attention of the farm-boys again, and this time—with much bad
Spanish and creative body language—imparted to them that his friend
Alex could drink more beer than any three of them combined.
He was willing to bet money on it.
Alex couldn't believe this. His brain was buzzing (possibly
electrochemical connections shorting out in the rising tide behind his
back molars), balanced somewhere between admiration of Mulder's utter
testicularity, sheer white rage and a growing sense of panic. This was
well past 'have to pee a little, will be uncomfortable'—and was
clearly on its way to being 'one good sway of the traincar and I am
actually going to piss myself in public.'
The sense of inevitability moved him down the road like a tidal wave.
He kept shaking his head, raising his hands in surrender and growling
"Mulder, don't...Mulder, stop...Mulder, please..."
But Mulder didn't seem to have caught the desperation rising in his
voice. In his element—laughing and getting out real American money
while the boys searched their pockets for matching coin.
And not just them. Other people were pressing close to see what the
excitement was about, getting out money of their own and suddenly
Mulder's little joke was becoming a big deal, a show, a fucking Busby
Berkeley musical with Esther Williams and fountains and Lorenzo Lamas.
Or was he a two-'L' Llamas?
And Christ, Alex knew he was losing it now. Oh, he was going to lose
the bet, no question—and make damn sure Mulder lost a big fat wad of
cash into the bargain—but in order to do that he would have to put on
at least a show of playing the game, and he didn't think he was going to
be able to do that.
And then it hit him. A little late, a little slow—delayed where
intermittent flooding had washed away the neural pathways—but there
at last, the thought that would save him.
To the boy with the bottle he said, in Quechua:
"I will happily drink with you, but first—" he turned a brilliant, if
somewhat strained, smile on Mulder, "—first, I have to pee."
"Translate," said Mulder, eyeing him narrowly, and when he had resorted
to name-calling:
"Spoilsport."
"Dickhead," Alex retorted, pleased to have the upper hand again. "Just
you wait..."
But Mulder wasn't quite finished yet.
The farm-boys didn't appear to think it was unreasonable for Alex to
piss before a drinking contest, but Mulder's American $20's had already
managed to engender enough investment that they balked at letting either
Alex or Mulder out of their sight until the contest. Alex was just
beginning to desperately negotiate their withdrawal when:
BAM—they hit another tunnel and Fox moved in for another quick feel
in the blackness, and Christ, mad as he was, agonized as he was,
Mulder's hands on him in front of all these people...Alex was just weak
to it...
But it couldn't go on. Couldn't—Jesus— He grabbed Mulder's hand,
pulled it off him—shuddering—gave the delicate bones a warning
squeeze. Maybe harder than he'd planned because it was suddenly
too...oh no...too close...
"Fox..." he could hardly speak. "I'm not...I'm not gonna make it."
Sudden tension in the body pressed up behind him and—
"Oh shit..." As Mulder finally got it. And Alex could feel him
shaking. Christ, laughing.
"Oh, God, I'm really sorry, Alex. Really..." but the shaking didn't
stop and Alex thought: that's stone fucking cold, Mulder... but then
Mulder grabbed his hand, started pulling him through the crowd.
Alex followed blindly in the dark. The crowd around them could
obviously feel something going on but it was pitch black enough that
even though people grabbed at them, no one got a hold.
"Where...?" Alex tried. He was at sea with a vengeance now, unable to
imagine where Mulder was taking him and every rocking, jouncing step was
agony and...
He heard the clang-clank of a door latch. Felt a blast of cold air in
his face and the noise of the train doubled in volume.
They were in the space between cars, he realized and suddenly Mulder's
hands were on his fly and Mulder's mouth was on his mouth.
Alex groaned helplessly into the hot kiss. The motion of the train
knocked them together. Mulder was hard. Alex was losing it. The
fucking fly was jammed.
Mulder dropped to his knees. Things were swaying wildly. Mulder got
the fly down. Alex got his thumbs under the waistband of jeans and
briefs, yanked down. Freed himself.
And Mulder—fucking Mulder—took him in his mouth. Hot and wet
and—
"Mulder, noooo..."
Piss hard and hard hard, and Mulder grabbed his ass with both hands,
nails digging in to spark bright pain—and then he was losing it,
pissing—Jesus—letting it go and Mulder sputtered around him,
pulled off and—
WHAM—it was light again and there was Mulder—on his knees, head
back, getting it full stream in the face—splashing off his open
mouth, down his chin, soaking his shirt... and laughing, still
laughing...
Sharp tangy salt of fresh piss and the stream went on forever and it
just felt so fucking good. Like coming, but longer, sharper—an ache,
a shudder and—fuck Mulder looked hot like that...
"You deserve that you fucker," Alex said—breathless, laughing through
his shudders, shouting a little over the train noise.
Mulder grinned back at him, soaked and gorgeous. He licked his lower
lip, shrugged his agreement. The stream finally slowed to a trickle.
Alex holding himself, gave Mulder one last hose. Glanced up.
Faces pressed against the smudged-glass window peered in in cartoonish
expressions of shock.
"So," Alex said, zipping himself up and shooting for casual. "How do
you think they feel about piss play between consenting adult males
around these parts?"
Mulder winced, didn't turn around.
"Well, they might consider it a re-enactment of an ancient form of
healing. The practice of urine therapy has been described in documents
written as far back as 5,000 years ago, as part of the Damar Tantra
followed by India's Ayurveda masters."
"Is that so," said Alex. He leaned casually back against the open side
of the train car. Risked a glance out and down. Lots of down. Maybe a
little bit of flat ground whizzing by on either side of the tracks.
Otherwise, nothing but steep, stony hillside; yawning chasms and the
white mist of the occasional waterfall as the train passed over some
rickety old trestle bridge.
"There are 107 verses devoted to the medicinal benefits of the drinking
of urine which practitioners call 'water of Shiva' or 'shivambu'."
Mulder wiped his chin with his shirtsleeve. Sniffed the result
delicately. "It's even entered the pop-culture lexicon of India as
'Morarji Cola', after a former prime minister who used to imbibe.
Interestingly enough, it's the mid-stream urine that's most prized. The
first urine is considered too pungent to be palatable, while the last
spurt has no useful properties."
"Unless your name has an extra 'i' in it," said Alex. He snuck a hasty
peek at the crowd. They were pounding at the door, unable for some
reason, to force it open. Maybe rust had finally done something to be
proud of, he thought, and found the right moment to fuse the hinges.
"I never thought of that," said Mulder, getting to his feet and grabbing
Alex in a damp and somewhat pungent embrace.
"You know, Mulder," Alex said, nuzzling Mulder's slightly sticky cheek,
stealing a tangy kiss. "Lack of forethought is a dangerous personal
failing in an FBI agent. You ready?"
"Always," said Mulder, giving Alex's waist a squeeze and grinning up in
anticipation.
"Good," said Alex, and he swung Mulder around in his arms and tossed him
off the train.
And as he followed Mulder down the long drop to what he sincerely hoped
was a deep enough pool at the foot of the waterfall, Alex reflected on
the look of sheer, unbridled horror that had graced Mulder's face as he
windmilled backwards into the open air, and wondered whether that in
itself constituted adequate revenge, or whether justice still demanded
that there be a blow-job to make things really square.
Inca Gold
by The Spike
The trip to Peru had been Mulder's idea of course. He'd seen it all
through the magical mirror of his fine madness: like the lines cut in
the Nazca sands had guided ancient astronauts to earth, Hiram Bingham's
footsteps would lead them down the Inca Trail to the lost city of Machu
Picchu. To the place where irrefutable proof of the existence of those
long vanished travelers lay waiting among the bones and stones. It had
all seemed highly romantic and appropriately Fitzcarraldian and Mulder
had been so...eloquent.
