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We watch each other, like always.
He moves slower than usual tonight, dragging his feet across the floor. I can hear the soft slide of his feet as he passes from his closet to his bed, his white Hanes socks against the unremarkable apartment carpet, his fuzzy shadow gliding around the room in the ambient lamplight. It had been a private lullaby since we’d moved in, since I’d first watched him fold his maroon sweater and tuck it neatly into the drawer, hang his slacks, turn out the light, turn down his covers, and do all the night things people do. Sometimes he sleeps in his undies and other times in flannel pajamas and once in a hot dog suit.
But he always wears clean socks, and if they’re white, he’ll throw them away after one use and buy new ones. He hates dingy socks.
“Well…” He’s stopped moving and is leaning his hip against the wall by the bathroom, tapping his finger silently on the door frame. He opens his mouth like he’s going to talk, to say something else, something to fill the already-full silence between us, but he doesn’t. Just stands there with his mouth open, shirtless with plaid pajama pants on. The plaid ones are my favorite.
I can’t speak either. So we stand and lay, respectively, in the silence.
I have no right to feel this way, I know. It doesn’t make any sense, in this world or any other. I’d never had a gay thought in my life, and that is not an exaggeration. Not even a passing glance at a porn dick, no wistful thoughts in the locker room, nothing. Until Scott.
Room assignments had been random, and our cheap fucking company made us share rooms. I was so pissed. I knew it was going to be a fucking nightmare – I hadn’t shared a room since college, and I had never planned to do so again.
And then I met him.
He was standing by the table, and they had written our names on little cards with the room numbers, like we were fucking twelve. His back was to me, and he appeared to be reading his phone. He turned as I approached and smiled, and took my hand. I didn’t think much at the time – I didn’t think anything at the time – but looking back, I felt it then, or at least the beginning of it.
Nothing happened, per se.
Not at first.
Our apartment only had one bedroom, with two full-size beds in it, but the living room was big enough, and it had a nice entertainment system and a great sofa. We watched something the first night we stayed, I don’t remember what. What I do remember is the weight of him beside me, the rise and fall of his chest, and other bullshit like that. I must have been staring, because every now and again he’d turned to me and smiled with one corner of his mouth. It was so fucking sweet.
I ran to bed during a commercial.
I tried to avoid him, but we were on the same work team, and we were in the same room, and it was impossible. And I liked him. God help me, I liked him, and nothing would happen anyway, right? I would make sure of it. I’d make sure.
He started making me food.
It was just small stuff at first, toast and juice, when he made some for himself. And then I mentioned how much I loved French toast one day in an offhand comment during a work meeting a few months in. The next poker oyna day he cooked it in the early morning, before I woke up. He left me this little handwritten note about it, and I would have puked if I wasn’t so hungry. I ate it, and of course it was wonderful, and my heart grew three sizes that day, and I knew I was in trouble.
At work, I thought it would be awkward, but it wasn’t. He was in advertising and I was in supply chain management, and there was some bullshit about inside sales and advertising to our distributors and the next thing I knew, we were together every day, all day, him chattering about target markets and segmentation and psychographics and optics, and it should have been annoying, it should have driven me up the wall. But it didn’t, and I couldn’t look away when he spoke and I couldn’t say no if he asked and I couldn’t say goodbye if he said hello, and that was worse. That was so much worse.
If I came in after he’d gotten home, he’d smile at me and scoot over on the couch. Sometimes he even patted it and laughed. After a while, he didn’t need to pat anymore.
I couldn’t fight him.
It was like he had his own gravity, and whenever he walked into a room I could feel him, even in the dark, and he was warm and solid and alive and he had a physical pull, I swear to God, and I couldn’t fight it anymore. I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t.
And soon we were falling asleep on the couch together spooning, and tossing food into each other’s mouths and playing Modern Warfare 2 and laying in silence, feeling each other breathe and shift position and yawn and stretch. And sometimes feeling other things, things we never spoke about.
But nothing happened.
“Paul.” He looks somber. He’s got these narrow, Polish eyes that turn me to jelly when he’s sad, so I look away, turning my head to face the wall. I’m on my back on the bed, knees bent and feet touching the floor.
“Shouldn’t we…I don’t know, talk about this?”
I don’t know what it is about the words, but I’m suddenly furious. My head snaps back in his direction.
“About what?” I sound like a waspish bitch, I know, but I can’t help it. I’ve stopped trying to help it where Scott is concerned.
He sighs and looks sadly at me. “Are you going to be okay?”
The genuine concern in his voice makes my eyes fill, but I am not going to cry. Not right now.
“What, without you hear to spoon me to sleep on the couch?” I try to scoff, but it sounds like sob.
Which it is.
“Yeah,” he says simply.
I scoff again, somewhat more successfully this time. “I’ll live.”
He’s not fooled. He’s never fooled by me.
I don’t want him to be fooled by me.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I wasn’t paying attention, because he’s suddenly much closer. I start and sit up, and I try to move away as he sits down. He grabs me around the waist – he actually grabs me around the waist – and pulls me back down until I’m sitting beside him at the foot of the bed. I’m too shocked to say anything, and my mouth flops like a fucking cartoon fish.
“Shhh,” he says gently. His arm is still around my waist, I can feel it there, heavy and warm. He tightens his grip and puts his fucking chin on my shoulder.
“Your skin always looks so soft,” he whispers, his fingertips grazing my side. “You don’t canlı poker oyna know how hard it was for me to keep my hands off it, with you so close all the damn time.”
“Uh…” I’m shuddering, and things are happening in places I don’t want things to be happening. “I should – ”
“Feels nice,” he says, settling his palm flat against my belly. “Warm.”
I’m falling, I can feel it. His hands, his voice, the air on my neck when he talks – my skin is suddenly on fire, but a good kind of fire. Too good. His gravity thing is happening again and I’m leaning into him, his mouth against my neck.
“All fucking year,” he whispers between kisses. “Finally.”
I’m panting like I’ve been running, and for fuck’s sake, nothing has even happened. I can’t believe how close I am, my cock straining in my boxers, and he hasn’t even –
“Mmmm…” he moans into my neck and his hands are all over my chest, pulling me back into him, and before I know it we’re spooning in the middle of the bed, and I can feel his cock against my ass, like I have so many times before, but this time there’ll be no running off to the bathroom with flimsy excuses, no squirting in the shower thinking of him –
I cry out as he tweaks one of my nipples pretty hard, and I actually think of complaining but his hands are all over me, haphazard and unfocused, as he ruts against me from behind, moaning and squeezing my arms and my belly fat and even my hair, and he’s panting these little moans. Each one makes my cock throb, and I’ve never felt so much lust, but all I can do is lay there in shock as he gets closer and closer.
It suddenly occurs to me that I can see him, and I turn over without warning while he’s rutting against my ass. He groans at the loss of contact and when I see his face, the desperation, the sweat, the lust, the aggression – I almost lose it, right there.
His bare chest is covered in a soft sheen, and even the hairs there are shining with it. His cock is poking through the hole in his pants, and it’s leaking and red and angry and bite my fucking lips and moan like I’m in a bad porno. He grabs my thigh and puts it between his, fucking against me and growling with each thrust.
The sound shakes me out of my shock, and before I know what’s happening my hand is on his cock and he’s screaming and there’s come squirting out of him and it’s getting on my hands and oh, God.
He’s trying to get his breath, but I’m so close I can barely see, and I’m fucking my come-covered hand right in front of him. My boxers got down somehow, and my cock his heavy and pulsing in my hand. I’m stroking like I do when I’m really alone, like nobody will be home for hours, legs splayed, one hand on my balls, moaning like a whore in a movie. He’s watching me, I know it even though my eyes are closed, and that’s it, that’s all it takes.
It’s explosive, it hurts, but I don’t mind one bit. I can dimly feel come landing in the little patch of hair above my cock and some on my belly button, but I’m so lost in the sensation that I can’t even grab onto the thought. Any thought.
When I come round, Scott’s holding me again, even though I don’t remember changing positions. We’re breathing in tandem, blankets ruched up around us.
We just lay there for a while.
Some time later, he gets hard again, and then I get hard again, and then his cock internet casino his between my cheeks, coming between my legs, coating my nuts and my asshole, and I’m squirting furiously onto the sheets under me, biting the pillow and screaming. We want to fuck, we want to fuck so bad, but we have no idea what the hell we’re doing, so we decide wordlessly to leave that door closed, probably forever.
It’s morning, and we’re still in bed, under the covers now. I’m on my back and he’s hugging me, his head resting on my chest. His weight is familiar, comforting, and it’s finally starting to hit me, what really happening. What’s already happened.
He must feel my chest shuddering because he wakes and sees me, and then he kisses my face and then my lips, and that just makes it worse, and I try to fight it, but why do I even bother? Why?
After, his eyes are red, too, and he says we should take a shower, so we’re not late for the plane. He gets up, and I hear his socks dragging along the carpet until he steps onto the tile in the bathroom. The sound and his missing weight is too much and I run into the bathroom after him, and then the shower.
We come some more.
On the way to the airport, we hold hands in the back of the cab, and I feel myself starting to panic, to really panic. I close my eyes and wish I had never touched him, that he’d never touched me, that we were on a regular cab ride to a regular airport to say regular goodbyes at the end of a regular long-term business trip, that I’d never let myself fall so hard.
He seems to understand, because he’s crying again, tears rolling soundlessly down his cheeks, while he grips my hand and looks out the window.
He’s leaving first, of course.
I wonder what I’ll do without him as we stand at the gate, staring wordlessly at each other in the middle of the room. I took all of our time for granted, I realize now, and we’re all out. We could have had a lot more.
We could have had so much time.
I start to tremble, wishing I’d done something sooner and wishing I’d never done anything at all and hoping I’ll never see him again and hoping the snow breaks the planes so we can’t take off and have to stay here forever and ever, all at once. But how do you tell someone you can’t live without them when you’ve only touched them a few times in your life? How do you ask someone to stay because you’ll miss their bedtime ritual if they leave?
How do you tell someone you’re in love with the sound of their footsteps?
They call his row but he still stands there, boring holes into me with his eyes, and I think I’ll turn and run, I’ll run away before I melt into a puddle of fucking goo right here in this terminal.
I don’t get the time, though, because he shoves me into a post and crashes his mouth onto mine.
People are staring, I know, and someone laughs at us, but I don’t care, because right now he’s mine and I don’t need to think about the future or the past or anything else. I can just have this, right now, right here.
A while later he pulls gently away from me, and we rest with our foreheads together, just breathing. He pulls away and I grab for him, but he backs up further.
“Scott, I c – ”
“I know,” he says. “I know, and I can’t either.”
He takes off his scarf and takes something off his neck. It’s some kind of jewelry, and he hands it to me, closing my hand over it.
“After Christmas,” he says. He kisses me on the lips one more time and heads toward the gate.
“What?” I call.
But he doesn’t answer.
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