Thing is Tony, you sort of own me too.

He's never meant anything more, he thinks, pressed up against the wall of a hospital toilet, legs spread. It's not his first time by any means (in the back alley of a nightclub shady even by their standards, pants around his ankles and drunk off his mind, Tony saw an opportunity and took it) but he still winces as the other boy moves sharply, hipbones grinding unmercifully into his own.

He's wedged between two urinals, hanging on to one in a futile attempt to keep his balance, but it's hard and his limbs are tired from the strain. The other boy's fingers dig into his sides cruelly; Sid can't tell if it's to keep him or Tony up. They didn't use any lube and the angle is all wrong, but Tony is hard and fast and deep, and frantic in a way Sid had never seen him, ever, and Sid can't help the strangled moan that escapes him.

He gives up trying to find comfort; wraps instead an arm around Tony, who slams it against the cold tiles beside his head, fingers wrapping around fragile bones. Crushing. It hurts, and so does almost everything else, but Sid welcomes it. Pain is good. Pain is a distraction. It keeps him from having to think about Tony's sister, about Tony's girlfriend, about Tony's mother silently crying over her daughter while her son is fucking his best friend a couple of rooms over. About Tony in general, really. But then the other boy shudders, the look on his face almost startled. He scrambles for Sid's other hand, and Sid swallows his groan as he comes, bucking violently, and remembers why it's always kind of worth it for a moment. Then Tony hits something inside of him, something holyshitfuckinggood and it's over.

Tony leans in close, damp forehead barely grazing Sid's as he comes down. His eyes are closed, and Sid is grateful. Right now his head is swimming enough as it is.

"Sid..." he breathes, hot and sweet and sickly, against the too dry skin of Sid's lips. He doesn't say anything else, and Sid can't make out the meaning that might be hiding in the other boy's tone, but then he barely remembers a time he could. It never meant he didn't understand. He lets his fingers skim over Tony's bare shoulder, feather-light.

The other boy pulls away, leaving Sid to pull up his pants and button them with shaking fingers. He moves back again, just as Sid makes for the door; fixes him with deep, deep blue, the color of drowning. Maybe there's a plead for atonement in the way he softly brushes Sid's cheekbone. Maybe there's an apology there. Most likely there isn't, and most likely Sid doesn't need one. Tony walks away without glancing back. Sid rubs his wrists, imagines the dark shadows he'll hide under long sleeves in the morning.

Mostly in a good way.

It'll have to do.