A Friend in the Dark

by C. S. Poe

  Rufus brought his hands up and clasped the back of Sam’s neck. He combed his fingers through the short hair at his nape with one hand, while the other kneaded and dug into Sam’s muscles. Rufus shifted underneath and brought a jean-clad leg up, rubbing and pressing against Sam’s thigh.

  It was too much. It was all too much. Sam started shivering, and the shivers turned into all-over shakes. He had to pull away, breaking the kiss, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.” He had to cover his eyes with one hand and take deep breaths.

  “What?” Rufus asked—well, more like panted. He propped himself up on his elbows. “What’s wrong?”

  Starting at seven, Sam counted himself down. Then, no more wiggle room, no more pussyfooting. But he kept his hand over his eyes. “You know, uh, you know how the backs of your knees are ticklish?”

  Rufus drew both legs up instinctively. “Are you going to tickle me? Don’t be a buzzkill.”

  The smile broke across Sam’s face in spite of his best efforts; he dropped his hand and met Rufus’s eyes. “No. But… that’s the best way I can explain it. I told you I don’t like touching, right? Well, not because it hurts. It’s—I don’t know—overwhelming. Sounds too. A lot of the time. And smells, sometimes. My brain doesn’t know how to handle all of it. But touch.” He shivered again. “Fuck. Which is why I wear my T-shirts inside out like I never finished third fucking grade. Which is why I go commando. Which is why my socks are inside out, and sometimes upside down because of the stitching over the toe. Lots of stupid, stupid, stupid shit.” Another residual shiver worked through him. “Shit, I messed everything up. I’m sorry.”

  Rufus scooted until he was sitting upright. “It’s all right. Would you prefer I not kiss you? Would that help?”

  “You should definitely kiss me. And, uh, keep doing that thing, um. With your leg. But—fuck, why do I feel fourteen fucking years old right now? Just, if I freak out, or seem like I’m freaking out, uh, it’s because I really like it but don’t know how to handle everything going on, ok?” Sam leveled a finger at Rufus, trying to regain some semblance of self-respect. “For the record, this is why I fuck guys and send them on their way, without all the touchy-feely stuff. Not because I’m an asshole. Well. Not exclusively because of that.”

  Rufus cracked a smile. “Touchy-feely, huh?”

  Grinning, Sam crooked a finger. “I’ll show you.”

  Rufus shifted and knee-walked across the mattress.

  Hooking an arm around Rufus, Sam tugged him closer, his fingers worming under the waistband of Rufus’s jeans, sliding under the elastic of the briefs, and then he tugged again, until Rufus was almost pressed up against him. He bent and kissed a line from Rufus’s shoulder to his neck.

  “Like that,” Sam whispered, pulling back to look at Rufus, running his free hand through the red chaos of hair. “Or that.” He kissed Rufus once, and then he moved forward, his weight bearing Rufus down into the mattress again. Sam shifted until they lay side by side; he traced Rufus’s cheekbone. “Or that.”

  Rufus’s smile was bright now, encompassing his entire face. He mirrored Sam’s motions—slipping fingers through Sam’s hair before rubbing stubble along his strong jawline with the pad of his thumb. Rufus leaned close and kissed Sam’s neck. Sam shuddered again, but didn’t tell Rufus to stop—so he didn’t. “I’ve always wanted a touchy-feely kind of guy,” he whispered before kissing Sam’s mouth once.

  A smart response was probably expected. Rufus probably liked guys like that, guys who were clever in bed, who had their shit together. Sam, on the other hand, had his eyes half-closed, his breath a whirlwind in his chest. “Uhh.” Well, that was some kind of response, right? And, all things considered, with Sam’s brain overloaded and frying, with his dick so hard that he was afraid he was going to shoot from Rufus touching him like this, it seemed like a pretty good response.

  Rufus sat up. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, encouraged him onto his back, then swung a leg over to straddle his hips. “This not too much?” he asked, leaning over to kiss and gently bite Sam’s neck some more.

  Rocking up into Rufus, trying to get contact, stimulation, anything that would push him over the edge and end this, Sam just groaned again, shaking his head in an attempt to answer. His hands were trembling, and he locked on to Rufus’s thighs, running his hands up and down, the denim rasping.

  “Do I have to rip these off?” he managed to say.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Rufus said against his throat before sitting up. He lifted up, unbuttoned the jeans, then took a moment to wiggle out of them. “I don’t have enough clothes for you to be tearing them apart every time you want to get laid.”

  “Shit clothes,” Sam said on a thin breath, because most of his attention was on Rufus in nothing but a pair of gray briefs. Hooking his thumbs in the elastic leg openings, dimpling Rufus’s pale thighs, he added, “These too.” Then he ran his hand between Rufus’s legs, felt him hard, and said, “Please.”

  Rufus laughed, and it sounded wonderfully carefree. “Since you asked so nicely.” He yanked the underwear off, straddled Sam again, and firmly pressed his knees into the man’s sides. Rufus’s breath hitched a little as their naked flesh came into full contact. He rocked against Sam, held his face, peppered his mouth with hungrier, more insistent kisses.

  It wasn’t so much that Sam lost track of time. It was that he lost a measurement for time. His mind, always tuned so precisely to the persistent presence of the world, now seemed unmoored. He had to settle for new anchors. New ways of measuring time. Heartbeats, of course, although they stopped being useful as his heart accelerated. And then the rhythm and meter of Rufus’s kisses. The grit of skin against skin. The explosions of breath when everything became too much, and Rufus would ask quietly, “Ok?”

  Sam would answer something, anything, because this was more than ok. This was better than any shower fuck or midnight blow job, better than the frantic need to get off and get out, better than all the one-offs of Sam’s life stacked together. So no matter how intense it got, no matter how overwhelming, until Sam didn’t know where his body ended, he said yes. When Rufus asked, he said yes. And yes. And yes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rufus watched soap suds swirl around his toes on their way down the drain. He’d been lingering in the hot shower, one-tenth for the sheer enjoyment of not being the one stuck with the gas and water bills at the end of the month, nine-tenths because he’d had sex with Sam last night and had been on the cusp of losing his mind since the minute he’d woken up to a still-dark city.

  Sam’s confession in bed, about fucking guys and sending them on their way—Rufus had understood that. And while he was typically the one in the sent-away position, he nonetheless comprehended Sam’s situation and how different last night had been for both of them. They’d touched and caressed, and Rufus’s starved body soaked in the attention and affection that Sam provided, even when it threatened to undo him. And they’d kissed. God. Sam’s kisses were like whispers from Heaven across Rufus’s lips.

  He touched his mouth at the memory. The sensation, pressure, warmth, and rasp of stubble still lingered, as if Sam had just assaulted his mouth seconds ago and not the night before.

  Last night had been incredible and a little terrifying.

  Because now Rufus had to look Sam in the eye this morning without any idea as to what their situation was. Was he supposed to acknowledge the earth-shattering sex, or pretend it never happened? Was he supposed to say the stupid, embarrassing sweet nothings that spun around in his head like the soap suds at his feet, or swallow them down and let them simmer in stomach acid? Rufus wished he’d checked out more books from the library about relationships or communication or something like that, because he was starting to panic a little and it was mixing with his already questionable humor:

  Title: Help! I Had Sex with a Man While Investigating a Murder.

  Subtitle: I Like Him as More Than a Friend but I’ve Never Been in a Relationship, So What’s
Next? A Rufus O’Callaghan Story.

  Rufus turned the shower handle. He grabbed a towel—Jake’s, he tried not to think about that—and dried himself. He shook his head like a dog, sending a spray of water across the small room, then pulled on yesterday’s jeans, which he’d had to grope around the loft floor to find, and wasn’t that a particular sort of embarrassment. Looking for one’s pants.

  Hand on the doorknob, Rufus spared Sam’s ruck a glance. Had it belonged to anyone else, he’d have gone through it. Not to steal anything—it was just that itch for details Rufus had never been able to shake. The desire to understand the inner workings of another human. And maybe also the thrill of being somewhere he shouldn’t. But Rufus left the room without touching the ruck. It felt wrong, taking a Sam thing without asking.

  In the kitchen, Rufus stared at the Keurig on the counter, opened a cupboard, and rummaged through the contents for the coffee pods. He found a half-empty box labeled Decaf and shook his head. “Whoever you were banging, Jake, I sure hope he gave good head.” Rufus tossed the box into the cupboard again, found a supply of hazelnut a moment later, which was better than nothing, then went about filling the Keurig and cleaning out a mug. He tapped the icon for a medium-size brew and turned to lean back against the counter, still sans shirt.

  Rufus ruminated on his shower thoughts. I’ve never been in a relationship. While true, where had that bubbled up from? And why? Did he want to be in a relationship with Sam?

  Yes.

  He didn’t know much about the guy, but didn’t every relationship start out that way? People learned about each other as they went along. At least, Rufus thought that’s how it worked. Maybe some folks broke the ice playing Twenty Questions or Truth or Dare, or maybe that was why speed dating appealed to others.

  All Rufus knew was that Sam had bought him gum after losing to a fair-and-square bet. He’d asked permission for a kiss. Asked permission for more. He’d made Rufus feel loved and beautiful last night. But even if that did mean a relationship was on their horizon, what about the fact that Sam didn’t live in New York? He’d only come to the city because of Jake’s suspicious death. When this shitshow was behind them, Sam would want to leave. He hated the city. Would he expect Rufus to go with him, back to… wherever home was? Rufus had never left the city. He couldn’t imagine living elsewhere. And considering he was a dropout with an—albeit scrubbed—record, what the fuck could he do for a living that wasn’t CI work?

  Wasn’t this just fucking grand?

  Rufus took a few steps forward, grabbed the mostly dry T-shirt from the desk chair, tugged it over his head, then sank into a crouched position. He held his head in both hands while trying to focus on the gurgle and sputter of coffee. Keeping that sound in the forefront of his mind kept Rufus in the here and now. It kept the panic at bay, only barely. He could feel his fingers starting to tingle and that weird, high-pitch buzz in one ear. It was the kind of panic that stole his breath and sent him to rooftops. He squeezed his eyes shut and briefly considered whether he needed to vomit, but the physical sensation was practically scared out of him when a voice broke the stillness.

  “Morning,” Sam said, moving over to the Keurig, then padding around the apartment naked, as though completely oblivious to the fact that Rufus was right there. Sam picked up things. Put things down. Examined the towel he’d dropped on the floor as though he’d never seen a towel in his whole life. After what felt like two hours of consideration, he swung it over his shoulder and continued his naked inspection.

  Rufus stood and waited for Sam to say something, like “Why were you on the floor?” “Why’re you as white as a ghost?” “Are you going to puke?” But none of that came. Was this like what he’d done before Sam explained his tremors—pretend you didn’t see anything?

  Rufus cleared his throat and pointed a slightly shaking hand at the Keurig. “There’s coffee, but it’s hazelnut.”

  After sweeping his gaze around the apartment again, Sam seemed to realize, oh, hey, Rufus still exists, and came across the room. He cupped Rufus’s face, brushed his lips across Rufus’s, and then moved back to the kitchen counter.

  “You smell nice,” he said as he rummaged for a second mug.

  Rufus scrunched his face up while thinking. He’d spent the last thirty minutes quietly losing his mind, and after all that… he got a good-morning kiss? So had he overthought the situation, or not panicked enough? “I showered. Not that I usually don’t.”

  “Huh.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Peering into the mug, Sam worried the ceramic with a thumbnail. He glanced up. “What? Oh. Nothing.”

  Wasn’t this an epic clusterfuck in the making….

  Rufus silently joined Sam at the counter, picked up his mug, and took a sip of coffee. He was staring at Sam as he lowered the cup.

  “Are you ok?” Sam asked as he fiddled with the coffee maker. “You’re hungry. I guess normally I’m supposed to make you breakfast or something, but—” His gesture took in Jake’s loft. “So I should… go out and pick up some food?”

  Rufus furrowed his brows. “Make me breakfast?” he echoed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Are you mad at me? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not mad. I don’t understand why you’d make me breakfast.”

  The blush was barely there, just a hint, but Sam rolled those massive shoulders and played with the towel. “Yeah, that was stupid. I don’t know what to do. I kind of thought that’s what I was supposed to do, you know, when someone stays over.” Yanking the towel down from his shoulder, he took off for the bathroom. “I should get dressed.”

  Rufus put his mug down with a clatter. He spilled coffee across the countertop, the floor, and his hand. He hissed and shook his fingers while following after Sam. “Hang on. That wasn’t stupid to say.” Rufus stopped in the middle of the room, watching the bathroom as he raised his red hand and sucked the skin.

  Dragging the ruck into the living area, Sam opened the bag and pulled out a white tee, a fresh pair of jeans, and socks. He froze, stared at the towel, and then he dug around in the bag until he came up with soap and deodorant. Hands full, he headed into the bathroom.

  “Thanks,” he called over the white-noise rush of the shower starting. “But you don’t have to be nice. It’s fucking embarrassing that I’m thirty-seven fucking years old, and I have no fucking idea what to do when a guy I like is actually still in bed with me in the morning.”

  A rattle and then a clash punctuated the sound of running water, and Rufus imagined the shower doors being manhandled by an overanimated Sam. Then Sam’s voice came back through the din: “Give me ten minutes and we can pretend I didn’t act like an asshole out of a romantic comedy.”

  Rufus slowly crept into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet lid. “You didn’t act like an asshole. It caught me off guard, is all. I have no idea what to do either. I’ve never….” He sighed and put his face into his hands, muttering around them, “Fuck me.”

  The shower door rattled back an inch, and Sam poked his wet, shaggy head out, a small grin on his mouth. “I knew it. You were a virgin.”

  Rufus shot him a glare between parted fingers. “I was not.”

  Sam disappeared back behind the clouded glass, but the shower door stayed open an inch. “So this is new for you too, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Rufus said as he lowered his hands into his lap. “I have no idea what the process is for interacting with a guy I came on last night.”

  The shower door rattled again; Sam stuck his head out, short dark hair heavy with water and spiking across his forehead. “I think the only polite thing to do is come on them again.”

  Then he was gone, vanishing into the steam. But the door clattered open a few more inches.

  “You’re getting the floor wet, you know.”

  “Then you’d better decide. In or out?”

  Rufus hesitantly stood. “I already showered.” But he yanked his T-shirt off and made quick work of
his jeans before slipping into the shower behind Sam. “I’m going to get pruney.”

  Sam closed on him, drops slicking his chest, steam wicking up from his shoulders, a grin on his face as he spun Rufus into the spray and kissed him. Then, pulling back, he said with an even bigger grin, “Trust me: I know how to do things fast in the shower.”

  Sam hadn’t lied. It’d been fast and hot and a little rough, also Rufus’s first time screwing around with a guy in the shower, which turned out to be more pleasant than he’d expected. After getting dressed for a second time, his thick, fiery hair dripping water onto the shoulders of his T-shirt, Rufus stood just outside the bathroom, studying his fingertips.

  Taking his hand, Sam examined the wrinkled fingers and kissed them. Then he said, “Rufus, I need to tell you something. It’s, uh. It’s kind of serious. It’s probably going to feel really sudden. It’s going to change this whole thing between us, and I don’t know if you’re ready, but I have to say it. I need to say it.”

  “The hell are you talking about?” Rufus asked, tugging his hands from Sam’s hold and having to consciously stop himself from taking a step backward.

  “For the first time since meeting you, I think I might be hungrier than you are.”

  Rufus’s shoulders dropped and he let out a huge held breath. “Jesus Christ. You nearly made me shit myself.” He walked into the main room, picked up his Chucks, and hopped from foot-to-foot as he yanked them on. “You’re paying.”

  In the bathroom doorway, Sam stretched, huge biceps flexing behind his head as he lolled against the jamb. He shrugged. “I’m always paying.”

  “That’s because my skinny ass is always broke.” Rufus tugged his beanie down over his wet hair, slid his arms through the jean jacket sleeves, and walked to the front door. “But you wanted to make me breakfast, right?”