Wow, it's been a while. I've lost my writing mojo recently, so forgive me if this is a bit rusty. I did my best. I started writing this ages ago when that now-notorious photo of Cody and Randy sitting by the pool emerged. I was full of ideas and then the whole drug scandal thing hit and I was thrown off my game. But seen as I'm on holiday with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon, I've done my best to re-ignite my Candy love.

Apologies if none of it makes sense - my mind was going down all sorts of avenues. Hopefully it reaches a satisfying conclusion for everyone involved.

WARNING: Slash (Yay!)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Randy or Cody. Never have, never will.

A/N: Told in 2nd person narrative and confusingly addresses both Randy and the reader. Sorry about that... Oh and if anyone spots the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference, you win my affection forever.

Hope you likey :-)


I lazily squint at you, my hand shielding my face from the glaring sun. I watch as you chew your lip, your eyes squeezed shut, your hand lazily dragging itself across your stomach, chasing an itch that you can't quite catch. Any minute now, you're going to sit up and scan the scene, unable to settle for some unknown reason. I practically count down the seconds and then smirk as you do exactly what I envision.

I'm curious as to what's caught your attention, despite the fact that I'm sure that it's nothing. That you are just being you – an unbearable fucker who can't appreciate the little free time he has. I imagine most people would think I would be the prissy one, the one who gets bored after 5 minutes, the one who needs constant entertaining – I mean, it's always the younger one isn't it? But they couldn't be more wrong. It's not me waking you up in the middle of night because I'm "bored with sleeping." And it's certainly not me who's tugging at your hand, pulling you into bathrooms, dark spaces for quickies. Not that I'm complaining, I'd just like to set the record straight, s'all.

It certainly wasn't me persuading you that a day in the sun would be a good idea. I would much preferred to stay locked in the hotel room – a mini-bar packed to the brim, a bed we could get lost in and fully functioning air-con – what wasn't to like? But of course, you were bored of the hotel room. And you did such a good job trying to convince me that I couldn't exactly say no afterwards. Although I'm sure the look on your face would have been worthwhile even if it would've landed me in the dog house for all of eternity.

But perhaps I should have taken that risk after all. Because guess what? It seems like your interest in our pool-side patch is beginning to wane. At first, this indecisive nature of yours was amusing, endearing almost. Life with you was never not interesting. The spontaneity was appealing, attractive. You'd rock up to my hotel room, sometimes at reasonable times, but most of the time it was gone midnight and I'd drag my sorry ass from the comfort of my bed to be greeted by your endless chatter about this back-alley club you've just heard about and that we just have to go. Half-asleep I'd follow you obediently, yawn my way through the cab ride and let you buy me endless shots and let you grope me behind pillars, against juke boxes, in the middle of a crowd of strangers. I never complained. Because secretly I loved it. It was worth the hangovers, the tiredness, the struggle to keep my eyes open during interviews, signings, workouts. And to be honest, even now, after year's of putting up with your pain-in-the-ass behaviour, I wouldn't change it for the world. Call me a sap, but I guess it's the truth.

Even now, I can't help but smile as I watch you slowly roll your neck, flex your biceps and arch your back – all signs that any minute now, you're going to open your mouth and utter those two words, followed by a suggestion of what we should be doing instead.

But I beat you to it. Just as you turn to me, let your tongue slip out and wet your lips, I cut you off.

"You're bored."

Busted, you scowl. "No..."

I raise an eyebrow. Your scowl deepens. Your mouth opens and closes and I can almost see the cogs whirring, as you desperately try to think of something else to say that doesn't involve the b-word.

"I... I erm... I was going to ask... if... if you wanted..." I watch your eyes dart around in a frantic game of I-spy. Suddenly, they start to shine and your lips curl into a smile. "Do you want an ice-cream?"

"Sure."

You leap to your feet and as you pass me, I feel your fingers gently ruffle my hair. Usually, I'd swat your hand away, accuse you of treating me like a kid, but instead I savour the feeling. Funny how the smallest of touches can send me fucking insane, how one touch can evoke memories of moments past. Your fingers in my hair is a common memory trigger, whether it be more tame moments between us, where we have lay next to each other, my head on your chest, your fingers lazily running across my hairline, slowly teasing the short thick curls. Or more sordid occasions, your fingers tangled in sweaty tufts, pulling my head back, exposing my neck, so you can run your tongue over my Adam's apple.

I shift uncomfortably on the lounger, re-arranging my pants and re-directing my thoughts elsewhere. I close my eyes and breathe steadily, focusing intently on anything but thoughts of you. It's hard though. You have a tendency to creep into my mind when I'm least expecting you. Your presence is so all-consuming, it's hard to escape you physically let alone mentally. But when you're not there, fuck, I feel hollow, empty, lost without you. I can't win.

Something cold hits my stomach and I hiss. Your deep chuckle echoes above me and I open my eyes to squint up at you. Your head blocks the sun as you gaze down at me, ice-cream in hand, gently tilted at an angle. I watch a second drop edge it's way down the cone, hold my breath as it dangles for a brief second at the tip and then hiss again as it finally falls and hits my torso. You grin, your eyes dancing in delight as you hold out the ice-cream for me to take. I watch, mesmerised as you slowly lick your thumb and pointer finger clean and then my eyes bulge as you reach out and scoop up the remnants of melted ice-cream from my stomach.

My breath catches in the back of my throat as you hold out your finger to me. Hesitantly, I lean forward and open my mouth. Your finger slides in, and I can taste ice-cream, sweat and tanning oil as I twist my tongue around the tip, my eyes never leaving your face. I watch you raise your eyebrows in surprise at my willingness, watch your forehead crease and your mouth form a small O as I suck and watch your eyes flicker shut for a brief second when I drag my teeth over the tender flesh.

When I pull away, it takes you a few seconds to come to your senses. You cough, rub the back of your neck and then sit awkwardly on the sun lounger. I pretend not to notice, but behind my nonchalant exterior, I'm grinning insanely. Moments like these are few and far between. Rarely do I take you by surprise. And what's even more rare is for you not to immediately counter. I lean back on the sun lounger and start to eat my ice-cream.

Out of the corner of my eye I see you start to the same. Your eyes are staring into nothingness as you do and I wonder what you're thinking. In the pit of my stomach, I can sense that it not now, that some day you'll take your sweet revenge. Previous experience tells me that yes, revenge is best served cold, but it doesn't have to be cruel. In fact, quite the opposite. It can be strangely satifisfying for both parties.

A smack of your lips brings me back from the past. I glance over and see that you've already devoured your ice-cream and notice that you're tentatively eyeing up what's left of mine. This is one impatient trait that tries me on a constant basis. Eating out with you is never enjoyable. No matter what you choose, you're always chancing sly looks over at my plate, wondering if I'm going to finish every scrap or if there will be leftovers for you to pick at. And if I don't give you the option to finish my meal, you stare at me woefully as I've wronged you in some way. Never mind the fact you've just ploughed through half a cow and a field of potatoes. Your appetitie is never satisfied.

Funny how an annoying trait at the dinner table, is never annoying elsewhere. Dinner is just a precursor. You're just warming up. And trust me, I ain't complaining. Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever be satisfied in any area of your life. You're always wanting more. And somehow I don't think anyone has ever said no. I certainly haven't. And I don't think I ever will. Sure, everyone has their limits and perhaps you haven't found mine yet, but even if you do, I think one look will tell me that everything will be okay.

Because I trust you. Not that this has ever been said outloud, you understand. I mean, do people honestly ask each other that in relationships? No. It's just an understanding you have when you reach a certain point in a relationship. I guess we trusted each other way before we started fooling around, before things got serious. We had to. Our business means trusting your entire body in the hands of someone else. And let's be honest, our trust has hit the rails recently. I've got the stitches to prove it.

I instinctively move my hand to touch my head. Even the though the stiches are long gone and the hair re-grown, I can still feel what I felt that night. It's funny because it's not the endless grovelling apologies I remember the most. It's that second just before you delivered the fatal blow. Your fingers clutching my chin, my vision blurred and your mouth moving in slow motion "Sorry Cody." It took a while to come back from that one. Even now I sometimes wonder how I ever managed to forgive you. Everything fell apart in one night and it took months to repair.

I blink. I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed your hand curl around mine. You slowly pull my hand towards you and I roll onto my side, moving closer to the edge of the sun lounger as you lean forward and place soft kisses on my finger tips, my palm, my wrist. I stifle a groan as the tip of your tongue tickles my skin and your eyes flash with mischief.

"I'm sorry," you murmur.

They say those words mean less and less the more they are repeated. With you it's the other way around. Sorry's start out sarcastic, but are slowly filled with sincerity as time goes on. It took me a while to work that out. It also took time to realise that sorry is a hard word for you. You like to think you're in the right and it takes a lot for you to admit that you're not. And for someone who is only to quick to admit fault and take the blame, it's hard to take a stand and wait for an apology.

I nod. You smile and place another kiss to the wrist, before enveloping my hand in yours. For a moment I think this is the beginning of something rare – you'll close your eyes, I'll roll onto my back and we'll lie hand in hand in the sun.

I should be so damn lucky.

Instead you're tugging at my hand. Pulling me from the sun lounger and bundling me the short distance from our sun spot to the...

I barely have time to take a breath or close my eyes. Water surrounds us and I'm frantically kicking for the surface, my lungs pounding. As I break through, all I can hear is my own raspy breathes as I gasp for air. I glance around for you and watch as your silhoutte glides through the water and breaks the surface without so much as a splash. One hand wipes water-droplets from your face as you smirk in my direction.

"You fucking bastard!"

You give me your trademark grin, the one only you and the clinically insane use.

I kick my way over to you and take aim. But you duck the splash and then catch me off-guard as your thick arms circle my waist.

"C'mon Codes, when are you gonna learn that anger only looks good on me?" Your teeth nip at my ear lobe and my stomach flips as I feel your nose rub against my wet hair. You inhale as I exhale, in a desperate attempt to keep ahold of my senses.

Remember where you are. Anyone could see.

These are things I tell myself. Telling you is pointless.

You press warm, open-mouth kisses to the back of my neck, your hands gripping my hips, fingers slowly edging south under the waistband of my shorts, as you slowly grind against me. A wise creature once said resistance is futile. And right now, I couldn't agree more.

So I let you push me towards the edge of the pool. And I don't stop you as you slowly tug down my shorts. I barely utter a negative word as you quit with the kisses and begin to bite instead, your hands sliding down my sides, gripping my wrists and stretching my arms out, as your feet nudge my legs apart, until my inner thighs begin to burn.

My cock twitches in anticipation. I know your penchant for fucking in the shower or bath pretty well. The wetter the better. And you know I'm way more inclined when there's less chance of messing up clean bedsheets. Hey, no judging – we all have our quirks, right? But a pool? Even my head's fucking exploding at the possibilities. An untapped source of fun has been staring us in the face all day and only now do you bring it to my attention?

I chance a glance over my shoulder, a grin plastered across my face. You don't grin back. Your face is poker-straight. Only your eyes give you away. They glimmer. I watch your hands rise and I shiver as you place them on my shoulders. Your thumbs slowly dig into my flesh, a brief massage before they head south. As your hands slide over my hips and a finger traces the length of my cock, you press against me. Your shorts are long-gone, probably floating behind us, giving us away to anyone who happens to glance out of their motel room at the wrong time.

But before I can even begin to care, all thoughts of being caught are pushed from my mind as your hand curls around my cock and slowly starts to pump. And when I say slow. I mean so fucking slow, it feels like time has stopped. Sometimes you're so lazy. Or you're being a tease. Hard to tell. Right now, I'd go with the latter.

My head rolls back onto your shoulder and your mouth quickly finds mine. Your kisses make up for your slow hands. Fast, desperate, gasping kisses, as if any moment we'll be pulled apart. The kind of kisses that you dream of as a teenager. The kind of kisses that you soon realise don't happen unless you're with someone who is capable of tormenting you and loving you all at the same time. The kind of kisses I've only ever had with you. I pull away, breathless. Your free hand rises from the depths and cups my chin, pressing your forehead against mine as you stare into my eyes.

The thing most people get right is that you're a man of few words. I think you're a true believer in actions speak louder than words. There's no way we would ever class ourselves as silent lovers. Far from it. But we're all about the noises, not words. Bollocks that talking during sex is sensual. I'd rather have you look at me the way you do when you're above me, below me, behind me, in front of me, than for you to utter a single word. Because although you'll deny it, you're like an open book.

And as corny as it sounds, right this second, I'm lost in you.

Your hand drops from my cock and I whimper. You press your lips briefly against mine as you grind against my ass. I groan as the tip slides down my crack. Your fingers follow, rubbing slowly against my entrance, before pushing inside. I choke on my own breath as you work them in and out, stretching me open. Your tongue trails a path around the shell of my ear as you tease me with another finger, your other hand sliding around to cup my balls as I stifle to cry out your name.

"I want you."

Those three words set me alight. Fuck the white hot pain that sears through me as you push your entire length into me in one thurst of your hips. Every time I don't think it can get any better. And then you just go ahead and prove me wrong. It doesn't matter if it's slow or fast, hard or tender, you just know what gets me. I'm trembling, on the verge of cumming and it's barely even begun.

Your hot, heavy breath on the back of my neck.

Your hands gripping my hips as you slam into me.

The burning sensation that ebbs away into pure, unadulterated pleasure.

The sound of the water slapping against the side of the pool.

Your pants, groans, single expletitives as you let go of my hips and unfurl your arms against mine, your fingers curling around mine as you cum.

Your head rests between my shoulder blades and I can feel your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

It's moments like this that make me realise how I feel about you. These tender moments after all the commotion when I almost say out loud what I'm thinking. And every time I have to catch myself and remind myself that some things are best left unsaid. Because your philosophy on life is true. Actions do speak louder than words.

Fin x