A/N: I am desperately in love with Lamont-Worth bromance and insist with the FIERY PASSION OF A THOUSAND SUNS that they're the strictest form of platonic, but there HAD to have been that… second. Namely, that second that Lamont realized he was wincing from pain and that Worth was hyperventilating from joy.

For some, it can be a deal-breaker. For Lamont, no. Thank god.

(We all know that Luce is Worth's first name, right? Let's hope right.)

Warnings: violence, sexuality, language, throw-away OC

Tally

There was the moment.

Of course, there were no end of moments with a guy like Luce. Hell, even the way the scrawny eight-year-old punched him in his generous nine-year-old gut with a fist like a goddamn ice-pick and told him to forget about his fucking baseball was one that would never quite leave Lamont Toucey's mind. At that age, the way Luce wielded his curse-words was just about as impressive as the way he handled his elbows, but Lamont was a quick study and had a bit of chubbiness for protection. Older, they barreled through alleys behind bars, laughing and wiping at each other's bloody noses. Not cleaning, mind, just wiping, and then snapping at each other, demanding why they wore their best shirts when this happened every fucking time, you bastard.

The individual punches really weren't noteworthy anymore, but rather a dime-a-dozen. They were some sort of investment in the blood-based bank that was Lamont and Worth, cramming them closer with every new tight bandage. Solidarity through impact. No, fighting was nothing new.

Then there was the moment where Lamont, beyond pissed-off that his best friend had called his rawly-recent ex a whore, realized that fighting wasn't just fighting to Luce Worth.

He wasn't so pissed that he didn't notice, and that was the trick. The girl had really been a bit loose, flirted at other men and all that; ducked into their cars and sucked them off and all that when he was pulling nightshifts at the warehouse. Lamont knew it, even if it wasn't willing to admit it to himself at the time, and Worth's face was just begging to be punched. The surly med-student hadn't been around lately due to huge tests at his university and was being especially obnoxious every time they met up, going straight for vitals with words and knife-elbows alike. It was time for a bloody altercation, and that was simply fact.

It was that lack of utter roiling rage that hit them so infrequently and passed so quickly, like a raincloud bullet, that first allowed Lamont to notice his best friend's guttural noises, the little maneuvers and hip-twists he thought were just thrashings. Then he pinned Luce and pushed his skinny-ass chest down to the ground outside of the mini-mart on fifth and he was going to kill him, punch the smug bastard to death, bust all of his jagged Australian teeth out—and there it was.

First thing he noticed was the heat.

Luce's pants were always tight. Did that make it more or less noticeable, or was it the way that the skinny man was arching into him, not even pretending to try and get away? His back was dug into the green-reeking crushed grass with shoulder blades like goddamn trowels.

Settled in. Propped up. Tense.

Pressing against his inner thigh, Lamont could feel it, hard and obvious as the glitter in Luce's eyes. The same glitter, honestly, as the one in Rana's eyes when he'd pulled her hair like she asked him to. Should have really known she wasn't one for flowers and candy, his brain snuck in, or even monogamy.

Luce's bony hands were wrapped around his hairy hamhock wrist, wet lips curled. Curled in a smile. A slightly stunned smile, matching his sharp mud-green eyes, because Luce had felt it too: felt him feel it, and that made it seem like his rock-hard cock really was jabbing into his best friend's leg, and all because of the stinging, tingling after-effects of his best friend's fist in his face.

Every punch, every kick, made something sunburst just below Luce's skin, and the massive erection was really the least impressive sign once Lamont actually opened his eyes.

The two young men stared at each other, vision pushed from all sides by new swelling and the ringing in their red ears. Breathed. In, out, a dumb pant-pant-pant drumbeat—or the thump of a bedpost against a wall. Worth's blood-red tongue shifted in his open mouth, disturbingly visceral, but Lamont couldn't quite look away. It flicked out, clearing blood from his teeth and there was not a single wince.

Lamont got up. Stumbled once. Got away. Two steps did it. He left Luce panting on the torn-up grass, expelling that jittery yellow excitement onto the sticky green and the wet summer air.

Luce's first laugh was like a car backfiring. He choked on his own spit and found it fucking hilarious. He chuckled, snorted, then fell back into that thick, almost maddening breathing again. Lamont heard him groan as he hoisted himself to his elbow. Heard Luce spit.

The grass was slick, strung with saliva and blood. Warm fluids, all cooling.

Lamont could almost feel some of it on his skin, like he'd been marked. Slicked up by something, some secret or lie, of the young man panting on the ground. Dirtied. Used, if he was going to be dramatic about it; stone-cold freaked out, if he was going to be honest.

"Y'yanked my fuckin' ankle to hell when y'fell on me, fat-ass."

Lamont looked back. Worth was peering up at him through an already purpling eye, split lip yanked to one side in a ghastly grin.

"Gonna help me up or what?"

He turned, and there was another moment where he could have walked away—walked away, gone home and showered and possibly said the word 'over' in the exact same tone as he did with Rana-but then that moment passed and it was still Luce. Luce, beat up and looking pretty fucking pathetic sprawled on the ground with his hair all stuck up on one side. He was grinning in that you fuckin' twat way that wouldn't allow him to walk away. Because it was Luce.

Taking a deep breath, Lamont bent down and took Luce's meatless hand in his and heaved him to his feet. His ankle hit the ground hard, and Luce cursed and jabbed his elbow into Lamont's side, who dropped him like a stone to a yet louder curse. They bickered (or Worth did), and the downed man threw a few more slaps. Lamont had to step out of range of Luce's teeth but they ended up limping home together just like before, Luce's skinny-as-hell arm looped around Lamont's thick neck, jerking double-steps only slightly off.

Somewhere in the distance, every step was counted, adding to the tally the punches had begun.