champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between
”You can be a man or you can be a dog, Everest, but you are leaving this apartment and we are going for a run.” Mateo’s voice is cheerfully insistent, carrying up and through the windows of said apartment from the street where he’s waiting for his friend. Having carried himself down to the plaza at some gods awful hour (read: a perfectly ordinary time of the morning), he’s doing the sorts of stretches he sees from other runners in passing. Because Mateo, of course, doesn’t favour this kind of exercise; he prefers to burn his calories between the sheets.
But Frey had suggested finding a way for Ever to relieve his physical tension, and working out is notorious for that sort of stuff, or so he’s heard. ”It’s either this or an orgasm,” he adds as an afterthought, not bothering to lower his tone and straightening up to stretch his arms above his head. Dressed in the sort of running clothes one might imagine draped upon a mannequin in a store that doesn’t sell anything close to actual exercise gear, nevertheless, Mateo’s heart is in the right place as always.
Also, he’s purposely not hungover this morning, so Ever needs to come and take advantage of that, stat.
But Frey had suggested finding a way for Ever to relieve his physical tension, and working out is notorious for that sort of stuff, or so he’s heard. ”It’s either this or an orgasm,” he adds as an afterthought, not bothering to lower his tone and straightening up to stretch his arms above his head. Dressed in the sort of running clothes one might imagine draped upon a mannequin in a store that doesn’t sell anything close to actual exercise gear, nevertheless, Mateo’s heart is in the right place as always.
Also, he’s purposely not hungover this morning, so Ever needs to come and take advantage of that, stat.
