Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I do not profit from their use.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to the usual suspects who, as always, graciously lent their energy, time and support.

Story Notes: I am currently composing a long sequel to this story. Look for the full-length Rentboy AU sometime in late spring/early summer.

The request for his company came down the whisper-stream of desk clerks and taxi drivers and hotel bellboys. His services were never in high demand, caught as he was in the negative space between the street hustlers on Halstead and the escort services that rented whole floors in the skyscrapers along Dearborn Avenue. Unorthodox though it was, his network of contacts was successful and on Thursday evening at seven oclock Benton Fraser had a client.

The hotel itself was familiar in its dry, dusty shabbiness. He knew of several very much like it scattered throughout Chicago. The hallways smelled of mold and dry rot, and the dusty orange carpeting that coated the lobby floor was badly ripped and stained. The first time hed been here with a client Fraser had apologized for the condition of the rooms, but the man had simply shrugged, stripped and pushed Fraser to his knees. That had happened years ago and this time, Fraser decided, any explanations or excuses would probably be unwarranted. Whoever had summoned him here would have few illusions worth preserving.

He waited nearly ten minutes and just before Fraser made up his mind to go, a man pushed against the glass lobby door, sending the tired bell above it tinkling. He scanned the room once, lazily, and then met Frasers eyes. He stepped closer and Fraser cleared his throat, prepared to follow the expected script.

Mind some company? he asked the mans dim outline. The low light of the lobby bordered on hazardous.

Yeah, sure, the man said. He sounded friendly and approachable, the words shaped by the faint suggestion of an accent. Canadian, Fraser surmised. He sounded like home. Youre the package, huh?

That appears to be the case. Fraser felt the mans eyes sweep up and down his body in a long, assessing look. His client was tall, broad-shouldered and neatly groomed. He was blessed with the muscular frame of an athlete and Fraser caught a glimpse of brown eyes and a rather sardonic grin before the man turned away to pay for the room. Something fluttered at the edge of his consciousness. Fraser felt as though he was missing some vital piece of information about his new client, but he pushed that small worry aside.

Done with the clerk, the man returned to hover near him in the lobby. He kept staring in a way that made Fraser decidedly uncomfortable.

Do you wish to go upstairs?

Yeah, the man agreed with a lazy smile. I wish to fuck you. Okay?

Certainly. Fraser allowed himself to relax, cataloging the supplies he had on hand and what the price might be if the man only wanted a half-hour or a full afternoon. A client hadnt requested intercourse in a few weeks but the money would certainly be welcome.

It wasnt until they had climbed the three flights up to their rented room that the man turned once again to look at Fraser. He smiled in the flickering hallway light.

You okay? You seem nervous or something.

Im fine, thank you. Fraser took advantage of the brief, uncomfortable pause that had settled between them to assess the mans features more closely. He was indeed strangely familiar; Fraser wondered if perhaps they had encountered each other before on the streets of Chicago. He prided himself on his memory butbut there had been so many men. Far too many to remember individual faces.

And then, like the clap of a thunderhead, he recognized his client.

The last time he had seen Mark Smithbauer they had been eleven years old and skating headlong down a frozen tributary of the Mackenzie Delta. Fraser had been smaller and faster than Mark but lacked his stamina. Theyd been neck-and-neck until Mark put on a burst of speed near the end and passed the old spruce theyd chosen as a marker.

You lose, Bent! Mark had yelled over his shoulder as he skidded to a stop. Never gonna make the NHL unless you learn to keep up!

Fraser had seen his opportunity and taken it. Mark was fast and strong, yes, but his balance was precarious at best. Fraser had simply plowed into Mark and theyd landed together in a snow bank, both of them laughing like loons. The late-winter sky above had been blue and crisp and unbroken by the small horizons of the town. Frasers grandmother had told him the night before that they were moving--again--this time to Aklavik. She had advised him to say his goodbyes to Mark since it was unlikely they would return to the south for at least a few years.

But Fraser hadnt been able to find the words that day to tell Mark he was leaving. How could he explain it? Hed make a friend, a real friend, and just when it seemed someone was willing to look past his funny manners and the shyness that crippled him around most boys his age, his grandmother would announce another move. Fraser was starting to wonder if hed ever get to know anyone at all.

But at the time he hadnt said anything to Mark about the move or how much he would miss him. Instead he had pulled himself up out of the snow bank, dusted himself off carefully, and held out his hand.

Best out of three?

The memory was gone then, blotted out like a blizzard sweeping in front of the sun. All that was left was this dingy hotel room in this ugly city, and Mark Smithbauer opening his wallet and pulling out several hundred-dollar bills.

Whole afternoon, yeah? Thisll cover it?

Fraser swallowed hard and nodded. There was no flare of recognition in Marks eyes, no indication that he remembered Fraser at all. And it was better this way, he told himself. He kept his head down and took the money, tucking it carefully away in the tight pocket of his jeans.

Fraser pulled a strip of condoms and a cheap, generic bottle of lubricant from his jacket pocket. He set the items on a handy bedside table and lifted his head.

Mark was watching his every move. He leaned against the closed door in an unconscious imitation of the way Fraser had stood on the street only an hour ago, one knee bent, thumbs threaded through the belt loops in the waistband of his jeans. His jeans were tight and new looking, and they hugged taut, muscular thighs. Mark wore a soft doeskin jacket and an olive-green sweater. The earthy tones, combined with his dark eyes and soft brown hair, made him look like a creature of the forest: strong and sleek and predatory.

Fraser rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow and began to pull off his clothing, folding each item neatly over the back of a chair. Mark watched silently, nodding in approval whenever Fraser glanced in his direction.

This was all part of the routine. Learning what the other man liked, what would please him or arouse him or even anger him, was a crucial step. Some men liked to take charge and be direct: they would position him just so, or request a specific act. But others would wait for Fraser to begin and in those cases, all the old powers of observation hed honed over a lifetime stood him in good stead. By following their cues, giving them what they liked, he ensured the encounter would be pleasurable for the client without asking too much of them. That was what he was, after all: a paid convenience. If sex was at all difficult for these men hed failed them somehow.

Mark was still watching him with a heated look in his eyes. Fraser bit back other questions (Who are you now? What has your life become?) and simply, easily gave himself over to what Mark needed, wanted, desired. And it appeared that Mark wanted to look.

Fraser took the cue and pulled off his boxers. He stood stiffly in the cool room. The drifting currents of air caressed his naked skin and Fraser felt goosebumps rise on his arms and thighs. He suppressed an involuntary shiver and shifted in his stance, falling into parade-rest almost reflexively. He hadnt stood guard duty in years but it still felt as natural as breathing to hold himself at attention. Naked or clad in dress reds he could, at least, control his body.

Mark left his chosen position near the door and approached. He smoothed a gentle hand over Frasers shoulder, shaping his broad, warm palm to collarbone and pectoral muscle. His hand was slightly sweaty and firm. Mark brushed his thumb once, twice, over Fraser's nipple, and Fraser felt himself swell and harden in the cool air. He did not look at Mark. Instead he stared at the poorly executed landscape hanging askew over the rooms battered bureau.

Mark continued to explore the terrain of Frasers body with his hands. He didnt compliment Frasers appearance, and for that Fraser was grateful. Some men did, and their flattery, whether offered grudgingly or in a tone of soft awe, usually proved mutually embarrassing. Fraser had never understood his own appeal. He was a bit stocky and barrel-chested, too pale, too pretty, as his grandfather had once remarked when Fraser came home from school with a bloody nose. He understood this pronouncement years later when he finally realized how vulnerable his even features made him in certain environments. Some men seemed driven to destroy what others deemed beautiful.

But Mark did not look as though he wanted to brand him or mark him or bloody his nose. He smiled instead, and continued to stroke Frasers bare chest. His other hand dropped to rub himself through his jeans.

Oh yeah, he murmured appreciatively, stepping back to divest himself of the doeskin jacket. It hit the floor, and his sweater and jeans followed. Soon he was as naked as Fraser.

Fraser stepped forward and reached down to shape his palm around Marks erection. He was hot and heavy in Frasers hand, and Fraser was unprepared for the swell of lust that fired his senses and made him close his eyes, fighting to control his breathing and his rapid pulse. How long had he thought of having Mark in this way? Since they were children? He hadnt thought about home in years, but he had sometimes dreamed of Mark Smithbauer. And Mark was...Mark was beautiful. Fraser opened his eyes, glancing down between their bodies, and watched his hand start to move over Marks cock. Half-remembered fantasies from adolescence and those scraps of dreams in adulthood did not match the reality. Not at all.

Marks head fell back and he bit his lip, his breath stuttering a bit. Fraser timed each stroke of his hand to what he saw in Marks face: the pad of his thumb nudging against the slit in Marks cockhead brought a startled gasp and a deep moan through half-parted lips. A twist to the left followed by a hard downward stroke made Mark thrust out with his hips and turn a deep, almost violent shade of red as he momentarily forgot to breathe. His sighing exhalation as Fraser licked his palm and then applied his moist, hot flesh to Marks was surely a sign of approval.

Marks sigh sharpened that dangerous feeling of need growing in the pit of his stomach. Fraser wondered how different it might feel to kiss and touch and caress, to do what he wanted to do, instead of doing what was expected of him. Mark was no anonymous stranger, after all. He could let his eyes drift from Marks face to where their bodies joined, hand to cock, and watch the tug and play of flesh there. He could slide down to his knees and take Mark into his mouth, close his eyes, and lose himself in the drift and rhythm of his friends pleasure. He could even stroke himself as he did so, Marks enjoyment informing and enhancing his own, until they moved in tandem and filled the small, sad hotel room with grunts and half-suppressed moans, Mark fucking his mouth and Fraser fucking his hand, two bodies moving as one until the need for release spilled over and brought them to a messy, sticky heap on the floor. They could even smile at one another; Mark could wrap his arms around Fraser and pull him close, kissing an odd, tender point--a temple, the lobe of his ear--and they might fall into sated sleep.

Good lord, what was the matter with him?

Fuck, Mark moaned. He tipped forward and slung an arm around Frasers neck to draw them closer. Pressed chest-to-chest against Mark, Fraser steeled himself and then leaned in to kiss him. His mouth was hot and wet: Fraser fancied he could feel Marks pulse in his cheek and the slow, sure thrusts of Marks tongue. More evidence of whether his own movements were satisfying, he told himself. Hed find pleasure in that, and that alone.

Mark broke away after a breathless moment and grinned. Ill fuck you now, okay?

Fraser nodded agreeably. As you wish. He retrieved the supplies hed set aside earlier and laid them out for Mark, then knelt on the brown-and-yellow checked bedspread. The fabric was slippery and clung to Frasers sweaty knees. The little room, so cool at first, now seemed oven-hot. When Mark pressed up against his back Fraser felt their bodies come together with the delicious friction of overheated skin. He closed his eyes and waited for the shudder of arousal to pass through him. He could use this, use it for Mark.

Ill make it good for you, Mark promised, his breath warm air against the back of Frasers neck. His hand slicked over and down Frasers spine, half-caressing, half-kneading. He wrapped one arm across Frasers collarbone to steady himself, and Fraser felt the heat of Marks erection as it seared his left buttock right before the hard invasion of Marks fingers pressed into him.

He gasped more out of surprise than any actual discomfort. The courtesy seemed almost alien--most men rarely bothered, and what little he and Mark had already done amounted to more foreplay than he had shared with anyone in months. It was sweet, really; he hadnt thought Mark would be the type. His hard, agile athletes body suggested he would set a quick, brutal pace and would not spare a moment for this odd form of consideration. But perhaps Mark had recognized him. Perhaps-

Fraser groaned and pushed back against Marks fingers, burying the thought before it could send him on a panicky downward spiral. Mark did not know him. No one did.

Fuck me, he said through gritted teeth, adjusting his position on the bed to brace his knees further apart, feeling the pull in the tendons along his groin. Marks fingers slipped out and Fraser heard the familiar crinkle of a condom wrapper as Mark ripped it open with his teeth. The sound was almost savage.

Hed been right from the very first: Mark was a predator. He would not want slow or gentle at all. Relief and arousal mingled together to make Fraser feel slightly dizzy. Hed wanted it fast and hard, wanted to drive the memories of childhood friendship away. That old life was ashes, and a hard fuck from Mark Smithbauer would drive that point home.

The first thrust caught Fraser off-balance. He pitched forward but managed to brace himself on his hands. As it turned out, his position was a stroke of luck; it seemed to afford Mark some sort of permission and he pulled out, then rammed home again hard enough to push the air from Frasers lungs in a low, guttural moan.

Youre goddamn tight, Mark whispered against his neck. The only answer Fraser could give was to push back again in a silent demand that Mark set the pace.

Mark took a firm hold of Frasers hips, one hand still sticky with the lubricant, and held him as he began to pump his hips. Fraser relaxed and closed his eyes against the sad narrowness of the cheap, ugly motel bedspread and the grey-spotted wall beyond.

Marks strokes, so sure and firm at first, began to falter, shallow then deep, slow and circular and then wildly erratic. All the while he kept his hands on Frasers hips, turning and twisting so that each thrust entered him differently. It was clumsy and seemed to frustrate Mark. He swore loudly and suddenly pulled all the way out. Fraser felt far too vulnerable and exposed there on his hands and knees, ass in the air and glistening with Marks sweat and the lubricant. He craned his head around to look at Mark, wanting to see if he should move or change his position. He ignored the twist of disappointment that curled through his belly.

Youre not going to come for me, are you? Mark asked, settling back on his haunches. He seemed vaguely ridiculous crouched there on the bed, his condom-enshrouded penis bobbing before him like the end of a fishing lure. His skin was damp and sex-flushed and he looked...angry? Or frustrated.

Should I masturbate? Fraser asked him, settling back onto his knees. He hated to ask. Asking was a sign of failure, an indication that he couldnt make the right deductions about his clients needs despite the decidedly straightforward dynamics of male sexual release. The vast majority of men hed been with required little more than an available orifice and an open mind. Mark seemed to require more, for some unknown reason. Would watching me help you to-

But Mark confounded him. He kept frowning at Fraser as his erection deflated, looking very much like he wanted to challenge Fraser to a race or a pick-up-game or a fight. Perhaps Mark hadnt changed so very much after all.

I dont want to watch you jerk off. I meant inside, yknow--you come that way.

Ah. It explained the erratic thrusting, at any rate. Mark had been trying to locate his prostate.

I assure you, its not necessary.

Mark shook his head. Well, I got to tell you...for most of the male species its a fucking imperative.

Id still rather not, Fraser said gently, hoping Mark would understand. Ive made it a personal rule, you see, not to-

Enjoy yourself?

I was going to say I make it a rule to abstain from certain acts with clients. I hope you understand.

Mark looked puzzled for an instant and than his expression cleared. I get it. Saving it for the boyfriend, eh?

Fraser hoped his wince wasnt too obvious. Marks question was innocent enough but Fraser found his reaction difficult to control. He had no one to save anything for, but if he had...if he had, there would be no miserly partitioning of his body or his soul.

He couldn't say anything to Mark, of course. Mark with his cocky grin and cynical expression, Mark who wanted more than Fraser was willing to give. He prepared himself for anger, even physical violence, but Mark simply shrugged, threw himself down on his back, and pulled off the condom.

"Okay. Other stuff we can do. Blow me, yeah?"

And that Fraser was certainly willing to provide. He tore another condom from the strip and rolled it down Marks penis with his teeth and tongue, teasing and, truth be told, showing off a little. Mark's cock was large and curved to the left. At the first touch of Fraser's tongue he closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head. Fraser worked him expertly, efficiently, mindful enough of the consideration Mark had demonstrated by trying to make the movements of his mouth and tongue appear unrehearsed and as spontaneous as possible. Mark tasted of bitter latex powder and sweat.

Before long Mark's easy relaxation fell away and he curled strong fingers through Fraser's hair, directing the movements of his head. Fraser was grateful for the guidance. The safe, familiar territory of bringing a strange man to release was enormously reassuring after Mark's baffling insistence on Fraser's own comfort and pleasure. Soon Mark began to thrust, his hard upward strokes filling Fraser's willing mouth. He held his head still and hollowed his cheeks and felt Mark's testicles lift and tighten. Fraser pulled away and used his hand to finish the job. Mark came in long, thick, heaving gasps, the orgasm torn out of him like he had been forced to surrender something precious.

Fraser left Mark to collect himself and went to the bathroom to wash his hands.

When Fraser returned to the room he found Mark had thrown off the slippery comforter to doze on the slightly tattered sheets that smelled of bleach. Fraser searched his face in an attempt to find any lingering traces of the boy he'd known. In sleep Mark appeared much younger and more vulnerable. Without the cocky smile and sardonic quirk to his brow, Mark resembled a clumsy St. Bernard. He even lolled like a dog, unselfconscious and apparently unconcerned that Fraser was still in the room.

"Planning on taking off?"

Marks question startled Fraser. He felt a deep, violent blush steal over his cheeks. To be caught staring at a client like some lovesick schoolgirl...

"No, you paid for the afternoon," Fraser assured him. I-I was simply wondering if you would like to try intercourse again.

The blush staining his cheeks intensified as he realized how stiffly formal he sounded. He tried to refrain from unnecessary discussion with his customers beyond the most perfunctory dialogue: price, location, how long an act might take. Anything more and he risked revealing too much of himself, words and phrases spilling forth to betray him as an educated man. More than his soft looks and quiet manner his vocabulary seemed to inspire offense or, worse, curiosity in some men. His clients sometimes felt obligated to ask awkward questions about his past or where he was from. By now Mark surely would have placed his accent and he felt it was only a matter of time before Mark guessed-

Fraser knew he was staring again. He coughed and cast around the hotel room for something to look at, something to distract himself. But it was difficult not to compare the strong, beautiful man stretched out on the bed with the high-spirited boy hed once known, and his attention was again and again drawn back to Mark, laid out on the bed like an offering.

"Okay." Mark sighed and threw back the sheets. He crossed the room and squatted by his abandoned jeans, and Fraser watched as he extricated his wallet. It was on the tip of Frasers tongue to say that he hadn't been fishing for any extra money--Mark had already been more than generous in that regard--but instead of folded bills Mark held up a small, stiff piece of paper. A hockey card.

"Who do I make it out to?"

Mark grabbed a pen from the wobbly desk in the corner. He settled on the bed with the card braced on one huge knee, waiting for Fraser to answer his question.

"I don't Are you a hockey player?"

Mark's expression clouded. "Yeah. For now. I thought you knew, wanted my autograph."

Fraser blinked. Mark had--Mark had made it. Even from this distance he could see the card was NHL, Chicago Stars. They'd teased one another relentlessly as children about who would be drafted first. And Mark had done it.

"Congratulations," he said without thinking.

"Yeah, I'm a real big deal," Mark agreed, chuckling. The sound was sharp and bitter.

"Is that supposed to be amusing?"

Mark shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Nope. No more than anything else, anyway. Still want an autograph?"

Fraser nodded. Diefenbaker would doubtlessly appreciate it, and he need never explain to his companion that Mark seemed terribly unhappy about his career. He waited patiently for Mark to scribble his name and when he held the card up Fraser approached. Mark caught his wrist.

"Hang on, okay? Just...just look at it later. I want another crack at that ass before we're done."

Fraser nodded and pulled his arm free from Mark's grip. He stepped between Mark's knees and stroked Mark's flaccid penis gently with his hand. When Mark was once again hard and moaning beneath him, Fraser retrieved the necessary supplies and rolled a condom down onto Mark. He slicked the other man up as Mark reclined on his elbows, watching all of Fraser's ministrations with an unreadable expression.

This time he made no attempt to stroke Fraser to full arousal or prepare him for his entry. Mark simply changed places with Fraser, bending him over the edge of the bed and pushing into him in one long, slow thrust. He set a hard-driving rhythm, the slap of his body against Fraser's a familiar counterpoint to the searing ache of another man buried so deeply inside his body. Fraser dropped his head and watched the room move in and out of focus in time to Mark's grunts. At last Mark came in one final, almost brutal push, groaning loudly and panting. He slipped out of Fraser immediately and rolled onto the bed, grimacing as he removed the condom and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket.

"Get the fuck out, okay?" he said and rolled onto his side, presenting Fraser with his back.

Fraser felt his face burn, though he told himself sternly that he could not possibly be hurt or embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly to Mark's back, not entirely sure what, exactly, he was apologizing for. Something in Mark's face when he'd signed the card, perhaps. "It's usually better. I'm ordinarily much more professional."

Mark stiffened and rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. "You couldn't be more professional if you were handing out business cards. What the fuck happened to you, Benton?"

His heart stuttered to a halt. Oh God, Mark knew. He knew. In a haze Fraser pulled on his jeans, Henley and his flannel shirt, locating the items by touch rather than conscious recognition. In seconds Fraser was dressed and at the door. He paused then, his shaking hand clutching at the knob, and dug deep in his pocket. He found the three hundred dollars Mark had given him and, before he could reconsider, tossed the wad of bills onto the bed much the way Mark had thrown the used condom into the wastebasket.

But he kept the hockey card. And when he looked at the card later, the shadowy privacy of the alleyway outside the hotel, the words written in Marks strong, sure hand seemed to swim before him on an ocean of night.

Bent, Stop running, or youll never catch up.

.end.