Nothing Gay About Two Hot Strangers in a Hotel Room

Seagull knocked on the door of the suite, his stance nonchalant. He didn't bother to reach for any of the weapons on his person; if this man meant to harm him, he would never get his information.

It was the first time anything to do with the Russian mafia had made him feel safe in years.

He was even wearing nice clothing: his only white suit, complete with polished, matching shoes. Wearing anything else to a hotel this nice seemed wrong.

He wondered what the Crow would be wearing. In his head, the Crow was a man in his late forties, with a graying beard and cold eyes. Perhaps he'd forgo formal clothing altogether? Old people weren't generally very fashionable.

He didn't have much more time to wonder, as the door swiftly opened.

Crow opened the door, smiling warmly at the man outside it. He was, however, rather surprised at what he saw. Nonetheless, he didn't show it on his face.

"Hello," he said, examining the man from head to toe. "You must be who I'm meeting, yes? I'm Crow."

He flipped his long braid over his shoulder, his bangs were parted in the middle and went down to his shoulders. It was a deep orange in color, and the freckles all over his body as well as sea green eyes proved he was a natural redhead.

"Well, do come in."

Seagull stared at him, forgetting to mask the surprise on his face.

"...Yes." He walked inside, instinctively touching the knife in one of his pockets; was this young man an imposter?

"They call me Seagull."

Crow eyed him, watching his actions with care. He didn't see what the man would gain from deceiving him, but Crow was used to pointless threats on his life. If this truly was just another assassination attempt, it was the sloppiest so far. There was a reason he held his high position; he was the best.

Crow straightened out his suit, which was entirely black save for a tie that matched the color of his eyes. He sat down at the table in the room, crossing his long legs.

"We have a lot to discuss, take a seat."

Seagull sat down across from him, lazily folding his legs. He was glad to sit down; he disliked being the shortest man in any room.

"So. You needed to know about Prokhorov, was it? I might know a thing or two, if you do." He took out a cigarette and lit it, but didn't inhale. He despised the taste of cigarette smoke, but had always thought a cigarette made a man seem more mature.

Crow looked at the cigarette and frowned slightly but said nothing.

"Yes, I need more information than what I was given. I'll gladly trade you something for it. Information or otherwise." He smiled at that. He hoped the man wanted him to do something with him.

"...Otherwise?" he asked, waving his cigarette for emphasis. He toyed with his nose piercing, a glimmering silver speck against his dark skin.

"I was told I would be receiving only information in trade. Was my information incorrect?" Though subtle, his Russian accent was more apparent the more he spoke; he always rolled his r's.

"Well, if all you want is information, I can provide that," he leaned across the table, smiling with bright, white teeth. "Or, if you much prefer it, I can give you something else you desire."

"And what would that be?" he snorted. He didn't like this man's body language; he got the feeling he was trying to assert dominance. Determined not to be beaten, he spread his legs and leaned forward, like he had seen mafia men do many times.

"What do you know of what I desire? Unless your contacts are vastly superior to mine, we're strangers. Fucking strangers."

"No, we aren't fucking strangers yet," he teased lightly, his voice showed no seriousness. "But we could be."

"I'm growing sick of your implications and innuendos and whatever the hell else it is you're using," he groaned. "Say what you mean, or I will take my information elsewhere."

He had no intention of doing so, but the threat couldn't hurt.

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

"Fine, fine," he waved his hand. "If you didn't want to sleep with me you could have just said so."

"Oh. That's what you were suggesting." His face reddened slightly, but his skin masked it. He stared intently at his cigarette, avoiding Crow's face. "Seems...unprofessional. And gay." He wrinkled his nose.

"Then we won't, and I'll give you information like we promised," he replied folding his hands and leaning on them. "Alright?"

He nodded, and his shoulders relaxed.

"Yes, good. Now, who goes first?" He extinguished his cigarette in a nearby ash tray, already sick of the smell.

"It doesn't matter to me," he replied. "If you'd like, I can go first. But first I need to know what you want to know."

"Tell me everything you know about the mafia's movements," he commanded. "I need to know what the Russian mafia's next move is. I can't be in their way."

"Well, I don't know much myself. The job I was hired to do isn't very related to the mafia. The man I'm killing is a deserter...but, I do know that lately they've been cracking down on deserters after someone leaked information...much like you are about to do, but the information was leaked to the CIA, so you are fine."

He groaned, staring at the floor.

"Fair enough. Ask me anything you wanted to know about Prokhorov."

"I need to know what he normally wears, his build, the way he talks, how his voice sounds, speech patterns. Anything distinctive about him," Crow insisted, clenching his fists ever so slightly.

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat.

"The man was kind of an ass, from what I remember, but I don't remember much.

"I recall him wearing...I don't know, wife beaters or something. He wore ugly jewelry. He was a large man, and he spoke with a Russian accent--how do you think he sounded?" He rolled his eyes. "Large nose, thick eyebrows, I think.

"Also, he always ate lollipops. Rarely a cigarette with that bastard, always a fucking lollipop. Who does that?"

"Perfect," Crow replied, beaming. "That's exactly what I needed. Well...unless you wanted to discuss other things, I think our exchange is done."

"Good," he said, standing and stretching, "I'm starving. Skipped breakfast to get here on time."

Crow couldn't help but laugh.

"I wouldn't have minded if you were late," he replied, grinning at him, perhaps more flirtatiously than he had meant to.

He shrugged. "I'm never late--I make a point of being on time. Makes for a good first impression."