by Quin Perin
“Duh,” he muttered when Donovan approached. “Did you honestly think I called in just because you’re an asshole? Jesus, that makes you more of an asshole.” He shivered, and Donovan knelt in front of him.
He put his hand on Sam’s forehead and found it distressingly hot. “Christ, you have a fever.”
“I know, you idiot.” He coughed again and burrowed further into his huge blanket.
“How high?”
“It was one-oh-two last I checked.”
Donovan reached into Sam’s fabric haven and pushed sweaty hair off his face. “You look awful.”
“Don’t care. Probably dying.”
“Have you eaten?”
Sam sucked snot into his head. “Gross. No.”
“You need to eat.” Donovan stood and looked around.
Sam’s apartment was smaller than his but still clean and modern with huge windows. The décor was simple, minimalist—everything in its place, which was adverse to Sam’s space at work. Donovan assumed there was a personal office somewhere down the hall, probably overflowing with sketches and more brilliant, mad ideas.
In the kitchen, Donovan went through cabinets until he found a can of cheap chicken noodle soup. While waiting for the soup to warm, he went back to check on Sam, who looked like he’d fallen asleep. Donovan couldn’t help himself: he pet Sam’s head some more and smiled when a sleepy, sick Sam nuzzled against his palm and hummed in his sleep.
Donovan basically force-fed Sam the soup. He kept grumbling around every spoonful.
“You’re the worst at being sick,” Donovan said.
“Well, you’re just the worst, so there.”
Despite this accusation, after the soup, when Donovan sat on the couch, Sam flopped over and around until his head was on a pillow in Donovan’s lap. “Why are you here?” he mumbled. His raspy voice was so raspy, it sounded painful.
“Because I was angry with you.”
“Can’t believe you thought I was fake sick.”
Donovan coughed and felt suddenly so, so tired—which was when he realized that he’d been sharing an awful lot of spit with Sam lately. If Sam was sick, Donovan was possibly right behind.
Sam sniffed. “So you were angry with me. Now, you’re not angry with me. Why are you still here?”
“I missed you today.”
Sam’s congestion rattled on a sigh. “I missed you, too, you huge moron. Can we go to sleep?”
Donovan moved a soaking wet tendril away from Sam’s eye. “It’s only six o’clock.”
“And I care?”
Donovan paused. “You want me to stay?”
Sam blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. “Dunno, do you want to stay?”
“This is an annoying conversation.”
“Well, you’re an annoying human.” Sam tried to sit up—and succeeded for a second, before veering wildly right.
Donovan steadied him by grabbing a handful of blanket. “All right, let’s go to bed.”
Carefully, Sam stood and didn’t move for a second, as though getting his bearings. Then, he shuffled around the couch and down the hall. Donovan didn’t even consider not following.
Sam’s bedroom was like the rest of the place: neat and simple with some black and white photos of Cleveland on the wall. From the doorway, Donovan watched Sam wrestle and kick at the blankets on his bed before settling in, half his face mashed by the pillow. He didn’t issue a formal invitation, but when Donovan felt a slight shiver, he thought maybe bed was indeed an excellent idea.
He took off his suit coat and tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. He kicked off his shoes but kept on his socks and trousers after removing his belt. As soon as he slid between the sheets, already warm with Sam’s fever, Sam rolled across the king-sized bed and curled up along Donovan’s side.
He woke when Anna shifted next to him in bed. Her ass nudged the side of his hip, and she was so warm—maybe too warm. Speaking of, Donovan was freezing, possibly because his clothes were damp with sweat. He moaned quietly and rolled over, spooning his wife. She pressed her ass back against him, which was when Donovan realized he was hard. He pushed forward, gently thrusting his morning wood against her. He moved to pull her closer, slide his hand up between her breasts … but when he slid his hand up, he didn’t find breasts but a slim, very male chest.
“Mm,” Sam hummed. He rubbed his ass against Donovan’s dick.
Donovan’s eyes probably made an audible sound when they popped open, not that it helped much. It was the middle of the night, considering they’d gone to sleep at six. As his eyes adjusted, he recognized Sam’s dark hair and the side of his face. Of course his profile was as perfect as the rest of him, especially with his full lips parted as he breathed heavily through his mouth, his ass grinding back against Donovan.
“Uh, Sam?” he whispered.
“Donovan?” His voice was heavy with sleep and sickness.
“You’re awake?”
“Yeah, and with a boner you wouldn’t believe.”
A week ago, that statement would have sent Donovan running, but he had just learned something, something important. He thought he’d been in bed with his wife, but he’d been relieved to feel Sam in his arms instead. More than relieved. His dick could have cut diamonds.
It was now or never, and Donovan felt pretty confident with their current position. It would be almost like jerking himself off, right?
He buried his nose in Sam’s hair and kissed the side of his neck. Sam hummed in reply, and his ass did not cease its tempting rhythm against Donovan’s cock.
Donovan ran his hand down Sam’s chest, over his ribs, and across the concave curve of his belly. His fingertips toyed with the top of Sam’s sweatpants before slowly, cautiously venturing beneath.
Donovan’s fingers caressed soft skin. “Do you shave?”
Sam nodded but didn’t speak, too busy biting his bottom lip.
Donovan couldn’t wait to see, to look his fill, but touch would have to do for the moment. His hand slid lower until he felt hot, hard flesh. Sam’s breath shook as Donovan wrapped his fist around his cock. It was official: Donovan was touching another man’s cock.
Sam made a sound like a whimper, and Donovan clenched his jaw and thought about lawyers and legal fees to keep from coming on the spot.
He used his hand as he would on himself, using a bit of pre-come to aid in his movements. Sam was a little smaller than him, so it was easy to set a rhythm, especially when Sam’s hips canted forward and back, farther into Donovan’s hand and then thrusting against his dick. It was a hot push and pull that had Donovan panting, open-mouthed, against the side of Sam’s neck.
Sam’s eyes squeezed shut as he repeated “fuck” like a mantra. Then, he whispered Donovan’s name and came.
Donovan was desperate. Hand still covered in Sam’s spunk, he untangled himself from Sam’s embrace and rolled the younger man onto his stomach. With very little thought—all the blood in his body was decidedly not in his brain—he unzipped the front of his trousers and shoved them down enough to release his painfully hard dick. He dragged down Sam’s sweatpants, revealing just the top of his tiny ass. Three quick thrusts against Sam’s crack, and Donovan dry-humped himself to completion, only just shoving Sam’s shirt up his lower back before shooting all over it.
Dick still out, he flopped onto his back at Sam’s side. And coughed. “Jesus, I’m sick.”
Sam snorted and didn’t move. “If you think that was sick, this relationship is never going to work.”
“No, Sam. I’m sick.”
That got his attention. No matter the mess on his back or in his sweatpants, Sam lifted up onto his elbows and stared. In the near dark, Donovan could just make out an adorable little wrinkle across the bridge of his nose. “Oh. Shit.” He reached his hand out and covered Donovan’s forehead with his palm. “Well, you’re not dead, but I can’t tell if you have a fever. Don’t move.” He pushed himself up and stood before peeling off his t-shirt and using
it to rub at the skin of his lower back. In shadow, he also removed his pants and did a similar clean up. Although dark, Donovan could make out the paleness of Sam’s tall, slim form—but he wanted more.
“Hey.” His voice cracked, throat sore. “I want to see you.”
Sam lingered in the corner, naked but shrouded in shadow. “Am I dreaming?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s just …” He paused. “Two nights ago, you were literally scared of my penis, and now, you just jerked me off, humped my ass, and want to see me naked, so … Excuse me if this feels surreal.”
Donovan felt too sick to smile, but he did reach a hand out, beckoning Sam closer. “Please.”
Head dipped slightly, Sam shuffled forward. He’d never looked younger, never so unsure of himself. From what Donovan had previously seen, Sam Shelby was always confident and cocky, so who the hell was this nervous kid?
Stopping at the edge of the bed, Sam tilted his head—hair a wild bedhead halo—and stared doe-eyed down at Donovan. He held his hands clasped in front of his junk, but that wouldn’t do.
“I want to see all of you.”
Sam shook his head. “This is ridiculous.” He moved to turn away, but Donovan grabbed his wrist.
“Why are you trying to hide?”
“What if you don’t like what you see?” He shrugged. “I’m not a woman, Donovan.”
“I know.” He moved, carefully, up onto his knees and knelt on the edge of the bed right in front of Sam.
Sam sighed but did finally straighten up and face him, hands hanging limply at his sides. First, Donovan studied him with his eyes. Once his painter’s gaze had studied enough, he allowed his fingers to wander, starting with Sam’s prominent collarbone, down to his small nipples. He wrapped his palms around both sides of Sam’s slim ribs and squeezed just once, then moved down to his hips and across the sides of his thighs. He didn’t revisit his cock—not yet—although he admired it as a sculptor might: its length and shape and the soft, hairless skin around it, pale as the rest of Sam.
His Sam.
So he said it: “Mine.”
Sam chuckled and rested his hands on Donovan’s shoulders. “You can’t just say that without asking.”
“Be mine.”
Sam took a slow, deep breath that ended in a sneeze. He rubbed his nose with the back of his arm. “I never make important decisions after two AM. Now, get out of those stupid business clothes and under the covers. I’m getting us water, and we’re going back to sleep.”
Donovan did as instructed. In nothing but his boxer briefs, he huddled under the covers of Sam’s bed. Despite his stuffy nose, he recognized the scent of Gain detergent. A few minutes later, Sam made him drink some water before joining him in bed. They tangled their bodies together, a big pile of long limbs—a cocoon of coughs and sneezes.
Sam called the office first thing and told them he needed another sick day but that he’d be back the following morning considering he had an important client meeting. Donovan waited ten minutes to call Monica and do the same.
Using a delivery service, Sam ordered a day’s supply of Gatorade and chicken soup. Since he was feeling moderately better than Donovan, he was in charge of keeping them hydrated and fed. When not doing that, he cuddled around a shivering Donovan on the couch. Together, they watched old episodes of The X-Files.
“How do you even know about this show?” Donovan asked from beneath his pile of blankets. “Weren’t you a fetus when this first came out?”
“How do you remember this show? Don’t you have Alzheimer’s by now?”
Donovan coughed. “I’m going to kick your ass once I feel better.”
“Empty promises, dude.” He slurped some Gatorade—the blue kind. He said he liked the blue kind. He sat upright with Donovan’s feet across his lap. Every once in a while, he blew his nose. The coffee table was covered in snotty tissues. “Why’d your wife leave you?”
Donovan scoffed. “It’s a good thing you’re hot, because you say the stupidest things.”
“Unless I was hallucinating, I believe a couple hours ago, you asked me to be yours, so you apparently like my stupid things.”
He did, God help him, even the colorful socks and ugly sweaters—even the bitchy attitude. Due to his illness, Donovan felt emotionally numb, so he figured why not talk about his marriage? “She said I didn’t love her. That I’d grown cold, miserable. I’d lost my spark.”
“She was right,” Sam said.
Donovan was too tired to be offended. “You think?”
“Maybe.” He squeezed Donovan’s foot. “But maybe you’re finding it again—your spark.”
Donovan smirked against his pillow. “Because of you?”
“I didn’t say that, but I might be a symptom of you searching for your spark. Searching for happiness again. But you can’t depend on someone else to make you happy. You have to do that for yourself.”
Donovan stared at the TV, at Mulder and Scully fighting over the existence of aliens. “It’s really annoying how smart you are.”
Sam laughed—and coughed—and laughed some more. “No. I’ve just … I’ve based my own happiness on relationships before, and that’s never a good idea, because if the relationship ends, then what are you living for? You’ve got to be able to stand on your own—brave and lonely against the world. And if you find someone who wants to stand with you, that’s an added bonus.”
“And what if they leave? That someone?”
Sam massaged Donovan’s calf. “You’re still you.”
“But what if I’m awful?”
“You’re just unhappy, Donovan.” He sipped Gatorade. “And only you can fix that.”
Thursday morning at Stoker and Steele, Monica was not at her desk ... because she lingered in Donovan’s office like a gargoyle in an immaculate green business suit. In fact, he almost ran into her when he walked inside.
“Jesus!” He startled backwards.
“Feeling better?” She pushed her cat-eye glasses further up her nose and smirked.
“Why are you in my office?” He walked past her and set his bag on the desk before taking off his thick, winter coat. “Yes, I’m feeling better and back at work today, in particular, because we have meetings with not only Progressive but also Great Lakes Brewing, okay?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied, but he still had no idea what he’d just walked into.
“You called in sick yesterday, and you never call in sick. Do you know who else called in sick yesterday?”
Oh, shit. He stepped toward her because his office door was still open, and he didn’t need the whole damn office hearing what his observant assistant of ten years might be about to say.
As he swept past her, she said a name: “Sam Shelby.”
He closed the door and rested his weight against it, eyes closed.
“You’ve been awfully happy lately, Donovan. It’s very disconcerting. And then, Sam gets sick, and then, you get sick.”
“It’s flu season?”
She ignored him. “Are you dating Sam?”
He sighed. “Why can’t you just be clueless like everyone else in this stupid office?”
“Oh, my God, you are!” She practically did a grand jeté across the room, stopping right in front of him. “I didn’t know you were bisexual,” she whispered.
“I’m not. It’s just … Sam.” His cheeks heated at the admission, especially as he recalled how they’d rutted against each other on Sam’s couch the night before until they’d both come in their pants. In his mind, he could still see Sam’s O face, all that beauty scrunched up, more concentrated, and if possible, more addicting.
“Wow,” Monica said. “So this is, like, a serious thing for you?”
“Monica, no offense, but I really don’t want to talk about Sam with you.”
She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Donovan jostling forward as someone tried unsuccessfully to walk
through the door he leaned on. Out in the hall, he quite clearly heard Sam say, “Ow.”
Donovan rolled his eyes, stepped away from the door, and opened it to reveal Sam in the hallway, rubbing his nose.
“Rude,” Sam said.
“So is walking into someone’s office without knocking.”
He groaned and sauntered right in. “Morning, Monica.”
She made a high-pitched squeak and grinned.
“Oh, for the love of …” Donovan gestured to his assistant. “She knows about us.”
“Hmm,” Sam nodded. “Well, then, good morning, babe.” He kissed Donovan’s cheek, and Donovan batted him away.
“Don’t call me babe.” He turned to Monica. “He doesn’t call me babe.”
She snorted. “This is how you two are all the time, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, kinda,” Sam said.
Meanwhile, Donovan’s eyes widened. “You’re wearing a suit.”
Sam looked down at his outfit: a slimly tailored three-piece with thin black and white stripes. Then, he looked at Donovan. “So are you.”
“I didn’t think you owned a suit.”
“Of course, I own suits.” He snapped his fingers in Donovan’s face. “Are you still sick? We have a big fucking meeting today, dude.”
“Stop.” He caught Sam’s fingers in his hand. “Monica, would you give us a few minutes, please?”
She eyed Sam before she left. “I want the number for your tailor. The perfection of that cut should be illegal.”
He winked, and the office door closed behind her.
Donovan didn’t let go of Sam’s hand—just held it pointed upwards between them as he stared at Sam. Sam in a suit. Saminasuit.
“Oh, you like me in a suit,” Sam said.
Donovan’s mouth felt way too full of spit. He licked his bottom lip and bit down.
“Jesus, your eyes are practically crossed.” He freed his hand from Donovan’s grip, took hold of his suit lapels, and shook. “Wake up! No lust haze! Important meeting!”
Donovan laughed, a sound his sterile office hadn’t heard since … he couldn’t remember when. “Okay, okay. You could have warned me.”
