Page 71 of Contested

“Shoes off,” Marcos mumbled to himself as Sebastian turned to watch him.

“Do you not do that at your house?” Sebastian asked as Marcos lined his shoes up neatly against the wall.

“Not really,” Marcos admitted, stepping further into the apartment.

Sebastian followed loosely behind him, letting his eyes run over him again. The white shirt stretched over his back when he moved, pulling across his shoulders, and the dress pants sat close around his legs without looking uncomfortable. He didn’t lift his feet fully now that he was only in socks.

Marcos spun around, fingers running over each other. “So…”

“So…” Sebastian echoed, taking a step closer. “You smell nice.”

“Do I not normally?” Marcos asked, raising a brow.

“No. I mean, yes, you do. But it’s like a different kind of good.” Sebastian and shook his head. “You smell like cologne and not sweat.”

“So, you think I smell good when I sweat?” Marcos questioned, and Sebastian groaned.

“Just sit down.”

Marcos smiled, his hands relaxing from constantly working at each other, and he walked over to the couch and lowered himself onto it, his gaze landing on the television.

The smile helped, but it didn’t erase the tightness underneath. Sebastian could still see it in the careful way Marcos sat, not too far back, not too settled, like he had not quite given himself permission to be comfortable.

“Did you want a drink? Or something to eat?” Sebastian asked, walking to the kitchen.

“Just water,” Marcos called over the couch. “I saw this last time. You like racing games?”

Sebastian poured two glasses of water, looking back at Marcos, who had picked up the controller. “No, I just like the background music.”

“Do you have a favourite car?” Marcos asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

Sebastian placed the waters on the coffee table and sat next to him, allowing his leg to fall against Marcos’. “RX-7. Easily.”

“Eh, Mazda.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Sebastian knocked into Marcos.

“Integra is better,” Marcos said easily, and Sebastian snatched the controller out of his hand.

“Eh, Honda,” he mimicked, and Marcos laughed.

“I mean, we could race. See which is better.”

“You’re fucking on, Reyes.”

Sebastian jumped to his feet and grabbed his second controller, tossing it to Marcos, before taking his seat again and setting up the game. It gave him something to do with his hands and something to look at that wasn’t Marcos’ mouth, which lasted until the loading screen came up and Marcos’ knee bumped his again.

The race started badly for Marcos. He clearly knew what he was doing, which was almost annoying enough to be attractive by itself, but he handled the first corner poorly. Sebastian took the inside line cleanly and nudged ahead while Marcos muttered something under his breath in Spanish that Sebastian didn’t catch and probably wasn’t meant to.

Sebastian grinned at the screen.

Marcos shifted beside him and leaned his shoulder into Sebastian’s, causing Sebastian’s fingers to slip off the joysticks.

His car drifted wide. Sebastian corrected quickly, but Marcos had already slipped ahead, the nose of his car cutting across the track as if he’d planned it instead of using his body to cheat. Sebastian knocked his knee into Marcos’ thigh. Marcos laughed as Sebastian stretched across, trying to get in his line of sight.

By the second lap, neither of them was sitting properly.

Marcos had one leg tucked under him and one foot braced against the floor. Sebastian was half-leaning into him, shoulder pressed against his arm, still trying to block his view with his own body without losing sight of the screen. Marcos shoved back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that Sebastian’s hip slid against the couch cushion and his car clipped the side barrier.