Chapter Text
Gavin walked slowly toward the bathroom. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a dim light across the hallways of his home. He had never been a man who enjoyed waking up early on his off days, but he couldn't sleep anyway.
The brawl from the night before replayed behind his eyelids like a movie on an endless loop. The crack of his palm against Ron's face, him banging his fists on the door, and the terrifying moment when his own hands closed around a throat he once thought he only wanted to silence politically.
Gavin Newsom finally had a name for the suffocating sensation clawing at his chest: Helplessness.
He was lost. Didn’t know what to do.
Before splashing water on his face, he paused to look at the thin scratches on his arms. They could have been the work of a man who practiced self-harm, or perhaps a cute little cat. Instead, they were the marks of sharp, wolverine-like nails belonging to a grown man acting like a child.
His head still throbbed from the impact of hitting the wall. He underestimated the man's strength. Whenever Ron spiraled into a nervous breakdown, he seemed to possess a god-given, or rather, demon-sent power. It was impossible to predict; like the Floridian was getting possessed by an angel one moment and a demon the next. He was dangerously unstable.
He was still in the room where Gavin had left him. What did he even do all night?
As Gavin splashed cold water over his face, a shiver ran through him. How was he supposed to approach him now? With calmness and affection, or with distance and aggression? He weighed the pros and cons. If he chose the first option, they might forget the horrors of yesterday, but it would make Ron more entitled and spoiled. If Gavin took the high road for everything, Ron would continue to crush him -intentionally or not- dragging him down along with himself. He would have to sacrifice his own mental health in order to keep things in check, which was already shit.
The second option, however, was a whole different story. The Californian couldn't shake the terrifying possibility of Ron leaving him, or worse, something he didn't even want to think about, the possibility of Ron straight-up committing murder-suicide. These might have seemed like extreme scenarios, but in this house, at this point, everything was possible. Ron’s personality was so complex that Gavin couldn't fit the puzzle pieces together. He was unlike anyone he had ever known, and this felt like a crossroad where one wrong choice would only lead to more pain.
He turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel, realizing the only way forward was a middle ground. Neither too forgiving nor too accusatory.
He started mapping out the strategy in his head. He couldn’t just unlock the door. He had to knock first, giving the younger man a few seconds to prepare. Once inside, he’d sit on the edge of the bed.
Eye contact or not? Avoiding it would make him look like a coward, and to be fair, he was. Then again, Ron was notoriously bad at eye contact himself. Gavin didn’t want to pressure him, but he also refused to look pathetic. In Gen Z terms, he didn’t want to come off as a cuck or a beta male. He picked up plenty of that terminology while doomscrolling through discussions about his secret gay affair, which was absurd in itself. A man pushing sixty had no business knowing words like fujoshi or yaoi, and yet here he was. The internet, apparently, loved nothing more than a “toxic old man yaoi.”
What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t just walk in and go “Good morning, let’s have breakfast,” like nothing happened. Maybe he could bring pancakes and coffee. But would that feel thoughtful, or more like a bribe? He realized with discomfort that he didn't even know how Ron liked his coffee. Did he even drink coffee? He had this irrational feeling he didn’t. Something about him screamed anti-caffeine. God, they were strangers. He wasn't some sex worker brought home for a hook-up. He had to know him better. He wondered if writing little details down in his notes app would be doing too much.
The breakfast option was off the table. Gavin had neither the energy nor the time. Ron was likely sitting in there, annoyed, waiting for him to appear. The Californian noticed a few of his wife's old makeup products still lingering near the mirror. He sighed, sweeping them into the drawer. Another question: Was he going to apologize? He gripped the edges of the sink and let out a sigh. He hated apologizing more than anything else in the world. He remembered that humiliating moment when he apologized for cheating on his first wife... He didn't look even remotely sorry then. He couldn't make it feel sincere no matter how much he tried. It just wasn't in his nature. Besides, he didn’t do anything wrong. Ron was the one who should be apologizing. Sure, Gavin was the one who let things turn physical; he shouldn't have hit him, never. But he didn't feel bad per se. That stupid bitch needed to learn how to stop overreacting, one way or another.
Gavin walked toward the room where Ron was locked inside. There was no plan. It wasn’t a method that served him well in the past, but he had no choice except to trust his instincts. As a politician, he knew the art of theater and manipulation all too well. But so did Ron.
He tried to ignore the tiny red droplets of blood that stained the wall during the struggle. Marks that looked like they would never fade. He hesitated for a second before knocking.
When no answer came, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. The click sounded deafening in the morning silence. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside.
Ron lay flat on his back, his feet drawn up on the mattress, staring at the ceiling with unsettling stillness. The moment he noticed the older man, he sat up abruptly.
“Hello,” Gavin said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Hello.”
Gavin sat down across from him, folding his hands in his lap. His eyes caught the faint, plum-colored bruises on Ron’s neck. Not a good look.
“So,” Gavin said calmly, “I suppose you’re waiting for me to apologize for beating you up and locking you in here.”
Ron looked away, his jaw tightening. “How did you know?”
Gavin caught the flicker of anger that crossed his face. Ron always believed he was right.
“The thing is,” he continued, “I think we should both apologize and put this behind us.”
The Californian had no intention of being the only one to fold. He never had. A one-sided apology created an imbalance of power, and he hated that.
“And why exactly should I apologize?”
“For having a complete mental breakdown out of nowhere. For hurting me physically and psychologically. And for calling me a faggot.” Gavin tilted his head slightly. “Would you like me to continue?”
Ron finally shook his head after a few seconds of silence.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t easy, Gavin. You don’t understand.”
“I understand, honey.”
“Honey?” The Floridian let out a humorless laugh, staring at the wall. “It’s strange that a whole ass bloke is calling me honey.”
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t like it.”
Ron’s eyes darted everywhere now: The floor, the ceiling, the walls, anywhere but Gavin.
“I wasn’t like this before,” he said quietly. “Not before you changed me.”
It was a beautiful piece of cope, Gavin thought. Yesterday's crashout revealed Ron had likely been attracted to men at various points throughout his life, repressed and buried under layers of 'family values.’ He just rebranded that attraction as jealousy. Now that the floodgates had burst open, and with his greatest enemy of all people, his brain was struggling to accept the truth. He wanted to surrender, but there was a voice inside him that kept pushing him to resist. Ron was trying to convince himself he had been infected by Gavin, rather than admitting the gayness had been living in his bloodstream for decades.
"I didn't change you, Ron.”
The apology Gavin owed him had been forgotten when the conversation shifted. The power dynamic, the one-sided surrender... Gavin knew exactly what he was doing.
"I want to show you something," he said, pulling out his phone. "Take a look at this."
He handed the phone to his rival. It was a screenshot of some pseudo-psychological post he found on Twitter.
‘Signs of main character syndrome: Attention seeking behavior, overdramatizing life events, feeling the need to outshine others, dissociation from your true needs, lack of empathy for others, constant seeking of novelty, centering yourself in every conversation.’
“Thought I finally know what your problem is," Gavin added, reaching out to take the phone back, but Ron yanked his hand away.
"You just said you understood.”
Gavin saw the flicker of genuine hurt in Ron’s eyes and felt a momentary pang of something that felt dangerously close to regret. He couldn’t help himself. Again. When he made another move to grab the phone, his fingers brushed against Ron’s, and the younger man threw the device against the wall.
The sound of the phone hitting the wall sucked the air out of the room. Gavin scrambled up in shock, retrieving the phone from the floor. A spiderweb fracture ran right through the center of the screen.
"You bitch," he hissed, his voice trembling.
“Is it… is it broken?” Ron asked, his voice wavering with a flicker of genuine surprise. He didn’t mean to do that. It happened in a moment of impulse.
Gavin took a long breath and counted to ten in his head.
"You’re going to pay for this.”
"How much was it?"
"No, Ron. Not with money."
Ron pressed his lips together.
"Are you... Are you mad at me?"
"I’m not," Gavin lied. "But you owe me. Do you remember the offer you made last night?”
"What offer?"
The events of the night before were a blur, and he was struggling to piece the chronology together.
"It wasn't exactly an offer," Gavin corrected, moving closer until he could feel the radiating heat of the younger man’s anxiety. "It was more like a plea. You practically begged for it."
Ron’s eyes widened.
“Is that really how you want me to pay you back?”
Silence filled the space between them. Gavin realized, perhaps a second too late, that linking this to the phone incident was a mistake. It framed the intimacy as a debt to be paid.
"Now?"
"If you want to," the Californian said quickly. "The phone doesn't matter. I don't care about the phone."
A thoughtful expression settled over Ron’s face. Unlike the feverish madness of the previous night, his mind was clear now. He was grounded in reality.
"Not now. I don’t want to be sucking some guy’s cock at the crack of dawn, really.”
“Crack of dawn? It’s almost afternoon, but whatever.”
There was no need for insistence.
“Hey,” Gavin added more gently, “What if I take you to dinner tonight?”
Ron exhaled slowly. “So people can see us together? Gavin, I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Are we supposed to hide forever? Never go to a movie, or a concert, or even the Super Bowl like everyone else?”
“Exactly. Everyone else. We’re not everyone else. Have you still not grasped the gravity of the situation?"
“There’s a place nearby. Really upscale. I can book the entire VIP section and have it closed off to everyone else. We’ll be in and out before anyone even notices.”
Ron paused, his eyes tracing the patterns on the rug as he weighed the risk.
"If it’s really going to be like that... then fine," he muttered.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of the older man’s mouth. "I guess you have no choice but to trust me.”
Gavin counted the minutes, even the seconds, until nightfall. Time went by slowly. He sat in the living room with the TV on, barely registering what was happening on the screen. From the other room, he could hear Ron making phone calls. Even though he wasn’t in Florida, there was still work to be done.
The Californian didn’t like to admit it, but he was an effective governor. He disagreed with most of his policies, but the man worked hard. That was undeniable and somewhat impressive. It also helped him distract himself from his messy personal life. God knows what lies he was telling his staff about his absence.
Gavin knew the restaurant’s owner. He was one of those guys who had poured serious money into the campaigns of several high-ranking Democrats, Gavin included. He understood how the system worked. Luckily, only two other people had reserved the rooftop VIP section that night. Normally, the place was packed, tables booked weeks in advance. At first, the owner was reluctant. He said he couldn’t just cancel existing reservations, muttering something about ethics and not wanting to alienate loyal customers.
Gavin used that familiar cold yet polite tone over the phone.
“Listen,” he said, tapping his fingers lightly against the edge of the couch. “Cancelling those reservations might cost you a few thousand dollars today. But you know the cost of not having a governor on your side when you get hit with that zoning permit case, don’t you?”
The hesitation quickly gave way to compliance. The owner agreed to blame it on a technical issue and turn the other guests away. It was an abuse of power, but it didn’t matter.
Gavin adjusted his tie in front of the mirror. As always, his reflection was immaculate: Expensive, composed, a little dangerous.
He watched his rival step into the room. He was wearing a basic white shirt and an alligator-print tie. He didn’t know how cute he looked.
Ron approached him in silence. Neither of them seemed to know what to do with their hands. Gavin reached out first. Slowly, giving him every chance to step back. He didn't. He took Gavin's hand like he'd been waiting for this moment for years, fingers curling in and locking tight, and something about the certainty of it made the Californian’s chest ache.
He tilted his head down and noticed Ron’s cheeks flushing a deeper red than his state.
They walked toward the car. Night had settled in fully by then, and a cool breeze moved through the California palms, licking their faces.
Gavin opened the back door for the Floridian, then folded himself into the driver's seat. He purposefully avoided a driver; tonight wasn't a night for a third set of eyes.
The drive was quiet. Gavin kept stealing glances through the rearview mirror. Ron had pressed himself into the far corner of the seat, face turned toward the window, watching the darkness pass.
Avoiding the main roads, Gavin used the isolated streets instead. He didn't pull up to the front entrance of the restaurant but instead tucked the car into the dim rear entrance known only to special guests.
A waiter was already there when they stopped. Not a single word was exchanged, not a single question asked. They walked through the kitchen corridors and into a service elevator that carried them up, and when the doors opened, it was straight into the rooftop VIP section.
The atmosphere was a display of Gavin's power. Empty tables, unoccupied chairs, candles, Tchaikovsky playing in the background… It was all for them.
It all started so beautifully. Champagne in crystal glasses catching the city lights, that toxic silence between them giving way to something resembling a civilized dinner. Despite the moment being artificial, Gavin felt a strange sense of warmth and took a selfie. He looked flawless, as always. But when an impulse pulled him onto Twitter, the first video that showed up hit him like a fist to the stomach.
The headline was obnoxious: "Two governors' alleged affair brought up to Donald Trump earlier today.”
Gavin paused. He didn't want to shatter this rare, peaceful moment, but there was also a certain logic to detonating this particular bomb here, in a place where Ron couldn't explode. At home, he'd probably have a breakdown and punch the walls. Here, the worst he could do was set his fork down too hard.
"Ron," the Californian said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. "Trump said something about us."
Ron placed his fork on the plate, quieter than expected. The expression that crossed his face wasn't anger. He just looked tired. It was a ‘here we go again’ face.
"I knew that would happen. He's a New York liberal, he lives for the drama.”
Gavin slid his phone across the table and hit play. On screen, a CNN reporter was asking Trump: "Do you have any comment on the alleged affair between Governor Newsom and Governor DeSantis?”
Trump was clearly amused. It was rare to see him laugh genuinely, but this particular subject had whetted his appetite. Far more entertaining than anything related to Biden.
"I wish them the best," he was saying, his voice dripping with the particular smugness he reserved for moments like this. "A Republican governor and a Democrat governor... A match made in hell. I can't even imagine what they do when they're not trying to kill each other."
Gavin closed the video. A brief silence settled over them. The classical music was starting to get irritating.
"People can't afford groceries, and somehow we're the headline. He just reminded everyone right when they were starting to forget. Expected behaviour from a jerk like him. Say what you want about Biden, but he would never have answered a question like that."
"People weren't starting to forget, Ron. I don't know if you saw the latest viral tweet. They photoshopped us into a scene from Brokeback Mountain. Last time I checked, it had a hundred thousand likes. It’s from a Republican too."
Ron closed his eyes. His knuckles went white around his fork, like he was trying to physically get the image out of his mind. "Not surprised.”
"Turns out I have more enemies than I thought. So many Democrats were waiting for an opportunity to throw me under the bus. And now they have it." Gavin paused. "There's more. While we were fighting last night, SNL was airing a skit about us."
Ron took a slow breath.
"Nothing can make me watch that shit.”
"I didn't watch it either. But I skimmed through it. They made me a perverted scumbag.”
“Sounds about right.”
“There's a scene where you're kissing my abs. Mildly suggestive."
"You don't have abs.”
"That's the joke, Ron. Why do conservatives never understand satire?"
"There is no way you find this funny.”
"I don't. But my wife watches every episode and-” Gavin paused. A look of horror spread across his face. "Oh God. How did she feel watching that episode?”
Ron’s fork struck the porcelain.
"The whole world is laughing at us, and that's what you’re worried about?”
"Ron-"
“Don’t you think my opinion should matter more than your ex-wife’s?”
Gavin's mouth opened and closed. Whatever composure he'd been maintaining all evening slipped for a second. He was caught off guard by the bluntness. "Are you actually jealous right now?”
Ron didn't answer. He traded his dignity for being Gavin’s ‘one true love,’ and this is what he got in return? A romantic dinner interrupted by casual mentions of a wife who technically still existed. Was Gavin not divorcing her because he was not able to, or because he simply didn’t want to? Ron had closed that chapter for himself when his own wife had shown him the door, and he expected something from the other side. Some intention, some movement. He had burned his half of the bridge down to the last plank. The least Gavin could do was strike a match.
"Look at my hands," Ron said, raising them slowly. “What do you see? Or, what don’t you see?”
Gavin’s eyes moved over Ron's trembling hands. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."
He did. Of course he did. There was no ring.
"So tell me, Gavin… What do you have that I don't?”
Gavin hesitated for a moment. The topic clearly made him uncomfortable. Then, with that same infuriating smug look, he shrugged.
“Self-control.”
Ron leaned forward, his eyes glinting with something between anger and disappointment.
“Oh, you have self-control, really? You’re a sixty-year-old man who can’t keep it in his pants. All you do is hide your weaknesses behind expensive suits and pseudo-intellectual bullshit. The only thing I don’t have is your disgusting hypocrisy.”
Gavin blinked. Once again, Ron had gone straight for his age and his impulses. The thin veneer of civility at the table had completely shattered.
“You’re the one without self-control,” Gavin said, his voice low but sharp. He leaned back in his chair calmly. “You can’t control your emotions. Just look at yourself, raising your voice in public. You’re acting like a menopausal woman. Always playing the victim.”
“Ah-” Ron shook his head with a bitter smile. “There you go again, changing the subject. The classic Gavin Newsom 4D chess move. When you’re cornered, you just label me hysterical. But you won’t get away with it this time.”
Ron raised his hands again.
“Do you know what you have that I don’t, Gavin? That damn ring.”
“I took that ring off and left it on the desk. I completed my suicide mission. You’re still trying to cling to your past life. You still wear that ring like nothing ever happened… You still talk about your wife like I’m nothing more than your side piece.”
He let out a quiet, humorless breath.
“That’s what you have that I don’t, Gavin: Cowardice. You’re still too afraid to take a step. And instead, you project that fear onto me.”
The expression on Gavin’s face froze. The Floridian was hitting a weak spot. His ring suddenly seemed heavier. It was burning against his skin.
“This is just a piece of metal to me, Ron. But for you, marriage is sacred. Isn’t it?”
Gavin leaned a little closer to the table.
“You and I can’t be united before God, Ron, have you forgotten?”
“Don’t you dare weaponise my religion against me,” the Floridian snapped, his voice shaking with anger.
“I like wearing a ring,” Gavin said, holding the golden metal on his finger up to the light. “If you wanted, we could’ve worn matching rings. But you don’t want that. What a shame.”
“You son of a bitch.”
A smile curled on Gavin’s lips.
“Profanity, Ron.”
He had him cornered. If Ron was so desperate not to be the bigger sinner between them, well… Gavin could work with that. It was manipulative, sure. Ugly, even. But for the governor of California, this shit was second nature.
“Dessert?”
Ron averted his slightly flushed face and closed his eyes.
Gavin pressed the button on the table to call the waiter and ordered two portions of tiramisu.
“You didn’t even wait for my answer.”
“You’re Italian, Ron. You like tiramisu,” the Californian said, leaning back with confidence.
Ron let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
“Jesus… You did it again. Beat me at my own game. What is wrong with you?”
“I read you like a book.”
Ron held his gaze, jaw tight. That infuriating, self-satisfied look on Gavin’s face should’ve made him furious.
It did.
But it wasn’t just anger.
Something darker crept in under his skin, something he couldn’t quite control. His hands trembled under the table, not from fear, but from the way Gavin kept backing him into corners, again and again, until resistance felt pointless.
It was that twisted arousal he felt at being overpowered again and again by Gavin’s poisonous intellect.
“It’s getting warm in here,” Gavin murmured, eyes roaming over his rival with calculated provocation. “You’re sweating.”
Ron's collar had been tightening for the last few minutes without him noticing. The tie started to feel like a hand around his throat. He reached up to loosen it on instinct, but the moment he caught the older man watching, he dropped his hand. To show that he was affected this easily would be like handing his executioner the blade.
"When I put my lips on yours, I can read every thought in your head. I take your soul and break it into a thousand pieces. It feeds my ego. Just the idea of it almost gives me an orgasm. Tearing you apart in your own world, your own cage. Wrapping my arms around your waist like a snake…”
At that point, the other man went completely rigid.
"This isn't a new fantasy. The debate night. I humiliated you on that stage. Do you remember? While everyone watched you stumble, I went home thinking about how I'd do it better next time. And then my hand found its way down, and I was thinking about you."
Ron didn't move. Didn't breathe, maybe.
"The hatred came first. Then it turned into something hungrier." Gavin tilted his head slightly, like he was recalling something faintly amusing. "I started learning more about you, and eventually I figured you out."
Ron drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, his chest rising and falling too fast beneath his shirt. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. You like this. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t do it. I mean that.”
“Are we both sick?”
Gavin had no answer for that. Under the table, the tip of his shoe pressed deliberately against Ron’s foot. The shorter man’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Dessert… Ron’s thoughts blurred. Bring the dessert already. I want to eat… Just to keep my mouth busy, to escape this conversation. There was also another way that could keep his mouth busy...
He tipped back the rest of his champagne in one swift motion. The alcohol rushed through him, quickening his pulse, feeding the heat burning across his face. There was no denying it now. Both of them were slipping, logic loosening its grip as something far more instinctive began to take hold.
"You know," Gavin continued, "I actually try to be gentle with you. But something about you, that stubborn, self-righteous act, makes me so angry.”
His hand moved under the table. It slid across the fabric of Ron's pants inch by inch until his fingers found what they were looking for. The other man bit down on his lower lip to keep the sound in, his body locking up at a single point of contact.
Gavin withdrew his hand abruptly. Neither of them would surrender easily tonight; this was not a simple search of pleasure, it was a fight.
“So…” Ron said, “I hate you so much… The feeling’s mutual.”
That desperate yet feral glint in Ron’s eyes fed every corner of Gavin’s narcissism. The silence at the table thickened. The conversation had crossed into a place so raw that even the Californian couldn’t look at the other man anymore.
Neither of them had ever lived through a moment like this before, and they both knew there was no going back.
Heat was climbing through Gavin's body. The music kept drifting through the VIP section softly while he pressed his nails into his palms and tried to think about something else.
Public place, he reminded himself. What are we doing?
"I have to use the bathroom," Ron said, standing abruptly. He walked away, refusing to look back.
Gavin sat for a moment, trying to pull himself together. But his mind refused to forget what he had just touched beneath the tablecloth. This had to end here. They both knew what would eventually happen, but neither of them wanted to be the one who made the first move. After all their arguments about self-control, they had to prove to each other that they had willpower.
The Californian suddenly got to his feet. The alcohol made his head spin slightly, and the world tilted for a moment. He walked toward the bathroom. Ron was standing in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink. When Gavin closed the door, he met his eyes in the mirror. There wasn’t an invitation in his gaze, but a challenge.
Neither of them had time to think about it before Gavin gripped the younger man by the collar and shoved him toward the last stall. He slammed the door behind them and locked it.
“You hate me, huh?” he muttered, out of breath. He pressed himself against the other man so hard that the sound of Ron’s back hitting the tiles echoed inside the stall.
The adrenaline surging through both their veins had reached a dangerous threshold, making rational thinking impossible. Their tongues found each other and refused to part, collapsing the space between them into a single shared breath. Gavin was the one to make the first move, once again. He lost the battle. Driven by that frustration, he tried even harder to assert dominance. He pushed his tongue deep, all the way to the other man’s throat. He caught the Floridian’s lower lip between his teeth, forcing a muffled moan to rise from his throat. Ron buried his hand in his rival’s hair, pulling his head even closer; his fingers digging sharply into his scalp.
Ron’s body shuddered involuntarily. He pressed his knee between the other man’s legs, applying upward pressure, and Gavin’s breath hitched. He lost control completely when Ron reached for his belt.
"So that's how it is," Gavin said. "So you've finally grown bold enough to want to have sex with me in a cramped stall of a luxury restaurant. I'm proud of you."
Without giving him a chance to respond, he shoved him back against the wall. He pinned both of his wrists above his head with one hand, while his other hand seized his tie. As he tightened it like a leash, the Floridian’s head fell back involuntarily. He couldn't speak, but he could express himself without words; he pressed his knee once more between the other man's legs, even harder this time, in a gesture of defiance.
"I hear you, loud and clear," Gavin said with a smirk.
His rival reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the buckle of Gavin’s belt, an unspoken offer to finally surrender. But Gavin caught his hand mid-air, pinning it back against the wall. "Leave that to me," he whispered. “Get down on your knees.”
Ron didn’t hesitate.
Through the small window above, a breeze blew into the room, hitting the back of Ron’s neck and sending a tremor through his frame. Outside, the dramatic strains of Vivaldi seeped under the door, echoing against the tiles. The elegant rhythm of the music formed a grotesque symphony with the primal display of power occurring within.
Gavin unbuckled his belt, the metallic click punctuating the tension. As he lowered his zipper, the heat freed from the fabric was only inches from the other man’s face. The Californian reached down, burying his fingers deep into Ron’s hair. "Go on," he commanded.
Ron parted his lips and took the tip of Gavin’s length into his mouth. The hardness filled his mouth, becoming more vascular and strained with every passing second. Gavin took total control immediately, cupping Ron’s head with both hands. He wasn’t going to allow him to dictate the rhythm; he wanted the act to devolve into a raw, relentless session of face-fucking. The older man thrust his hips forward, reaching the very back of Ron’s throat.
Ron felt every thrust like a cold barrel of a pistol being forced into his mouth. With each forward surge, as Gavin’s penis struck the deep recesses of his throat, he felt like he was about to get executed. The older man gripped his chin, tilting his face upward. "Eye contact," he hissed. For a fleeting second, a spark of consciousness returned. We shouldn't be here, in a restroom; we've gone too far. Ron instinctively tried to slow down, to pull his lips away from Gavin’s cock. The moment the other man felt that hesitancy, he raised his hand, ready to deliver a stinging blow to Ron's flushed cheek. His fingers twitched, but at the last moment, he decided against it. "I know,” he said. “But we need to finish what we started. Please.”
Neither had ever experienced anything this rough. Gavin felt a narcissistic intoxication as he felt the desperate spasms in Ron’s throat against his penis, a level of dominance he had never tasted. The Floridian, hovering on the brink of suffocation and profound humiliation, realized that the dark corridors of his soul, places he had never dared to look, were swinging wide open. Outside, the sound of the classical music merged with the muffled moans he was trying to keep in.
Ron’s mind finally fractured from reality. This man ruined his life, and he wanted revenge. His once normal life was now nothing but noise and conflict; therefore, the prize for this destruction had to be as monumental as the wreckage itself. They were in an alternate world now. A void where laws, morals, and rules didn't exist. With this thought, Ron let go completely. He began to pull Gavin’s cock deeper with feral desperation.
Gavin was momentarily stunned by this sudden, aggressive shift. Ron’s jaw took on a frantic rhythm with every thrust, his throat constricting around Gavin’s penis as if trying to consume him. The Californian, fueled by this savage energy, lost himself. "Is that how it is, Ron?" he growled, “Are we speedrunning hell? Fine.”
He seized the younger man’s hair. His movements moved beyond the capacity of a civilized man; every thrust of his cock echoed with a force that made the bones in the other man’s jaw feel as if they might splinter. Ron clawed at Gavin’s thighs, his nails digging into the skin as he danced on the edge between agony and ecstasy, reaching a state of pure euphoria. Gavin accelerated further as he saw the glazed, translucent look in his rival’s eyes. They were in a shared trance; the noise of the outside world evaporated inside this narrow stall.
The Californian began a cruel, calculated game of edging. He would drive his cock deep, holding it there until Ron began to gag, and then he would pull back just enough to let the younger man catch a desperate breath, only to plunge back in before the oxygen could even reach his lungs.
"If we weren't public figures, I’d make sure your voice was completely gone by now,” he whispered breathlessly. "But I'm not that cruel, am I? I still want you to be able to lie through your teeth at a press conference."
Ron let out a jagged sob, and his rival smiled. "Imagine if someone walked through that door right now... If the owner had set us up, or if hidden cameras were watching this..."
Ron’s eyes widened, the hypothetical scenario blooming in his mind with the vividness of a nightmare. In his fractured state, the imagination became a sensory hallucination. He thought he heard the thud of actual footsteps echoing in the hallway outside. He thought he heard the click of a lock, the sound of a faucet turning on. The terror was so visceral it was indistinguishable from reality. Panicking, Ron tried to pull back, but the older man kept him still.
Instead of stopping, Gavin surged, fueled by the thrill of the imaginary audience. He kept the other man in a state of constant edging, bringing him to the peak of sensory overload and then holding him there, refusing to let him find any relief. He gripped his jaw so hard, timing his thrusts with a cruel precision so that just as he gasped for air, he was plunged back into the dark against Gavin’s cock, trapped in a loop. The boundaries between pain, pleasure, and terror were nonexistent.
"Ugh…" the Californian moaned. He held his penis at the deepest point, his pulse thrumming against Ron’s windpipe. “I’m about to get your face dirty… All over your stupid face…”
His body twisted as he pressed Ron’s head against himself. The Floridian felt the taste of hot cum. The first surge felt like a bullet piercing through his throat. Gavin didn't stop, he kept pushing himself forward with a relentless rhythm, forcing the other man to swallow every last drop of his release. The warm fluid spilled from the corners of his mouth, staining his cheeks and his nose.
Gavin continued to invade Ron’s mouth while he let out muffled, choking moans, vibrating to the rhythm of the piano outside. He watched with a twisted sense of gratification as the white fluid splattered across his rival's eyelashes, his cheeks, and his lips. It was like painting the Mona Lisa.
As Gavin slowly withdrew his penis, he surveyed the wreckage of Ron’s face. His lips were swollen and his eyes bloodshot. He remained on his knees, trembling. Gavin zipped his pants and adjusted his belt like nothing happened, per usual.
"That was a lovely dinner, wasn't it?" he said sarcastically.
He paused at the door, glancing back at the man on the floor. "I suppose there’s no room left for the tiramisu now," he added with a smug smile. "You’ve already had your dessert for the night."
Ron looked at the man's recklessness and leaned back against the cold tile, his chest heaving. A wave of white-hot regret and simmering fury washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the exhaustion.
"Pull yourself together and come out when you're done," Gavin commanded as he stepped out of the restroom, leaving Ron in the silence of the stall, which was increasingly feeling like a tomb.
Ron remained on the floor for a moment, his mind spiraling into an obsessive frenzy. He looked at the floor, seeing the white droplets scattered across the tile. No traces. I can't leave any evidence.
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and dropped to his knees, frantically scrubbing the floor. He wiped every inch of the tile. He was acting with the desperation of a criminal cleaning a crime scene, which, in a way, he was.
After disposing of the evidence, he stood at the sink and splashed his face with cold water. He looked into the mirror and tried to make himself presentable. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and rubbed his flushed cheeks, but he still looked disgusting. He felt like the very first person who looked at him would know exactly what he had just done. That he just gave another man oral sex. The smell of Gavin and the taste of him were permanently stuck to his appearance.
He stepped out into the VIP lounge with slow steps. The grand room now felt like a cage. Their desserts were on their table, untouched. Gavin was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the flickering lights of the city. He was motionless.
As Ron approached, a sudden, sickening feeling of dread spread through his gut. The silence was deafening.
"Gavin?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Stop," Gavin said, his voice strangely flat. "Don't come near the window."
Ron froze in his tracks.
"What happened? What is it?"
Gavin didn't turn around. He just tilted his head toward the street below, where the flashing lights of the city were being punctuated by something else.
"There are reporters outside. And paparazzi. Dozens of them. They’re blocking both exits."
Ron felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
"Fuck.”