by L B Winter
“I’ve worked up a sweat before,” I said, pulling reluctantly off of him to walk to the bathroom.
“No, you’ve run, but not like this. You haven’t trained for a marathon.”
“If you run with me, you won’t be doing six-minute splits,” I pointed out. “I mean, I can sprint pretty fast, but I’m a solid nine-minute-miler, or worse, and that’s never for long. I can do a 10k, tops.”
“You can do more,” he insisted, following me into the bathroom. “You could run a marathon, if you wanted to. A ten-minute mile is fine for a marathon.”
“What makes you so sure I could do it?” I said, “You haven’t even done one yet, and you’re a way better runner than me.”
“In training, I have,” he said, and I turned around to see how his face was lit up with pride.
I smiled, too; he was awesome. “Well, I stand by my previous statement. You’re better than me.”
“Practice makes perfect,” he replied.
I could sense that he wasn’t going to drop this anytime soon, so I said, “We’ll see. Maybe one day.”
“Oh, you’re gonna regret agreeing to that,” he teased as we stepped into the shower.
He let me lather him with soap, practically drooling all over the sexy contours of his body, strong and lean, while he shampooed his hair. The way the water ran down him in clear, sparkling streams made me hard again, too—as hard as he was—and his skin looked delicious. There was a time when I thought I’d never want to do this again, but I found myself sinking to my knees in front of him, hands behind his thighs, eyes drawn to his cock—thick, red, just dripping with his own arousal. I loved that I turned him on; I loved that we could finally show each other just how much we felt for each other.
He was in my mouth before I could stop myself, and I was so relieved that he smelled like himself—just stronger—and he tasted spicy and salty and delicious. I hardly knew what I was doing, but I knew that if I sucked hard, he drew in a sharp breath, and if I hummed, he shivered, and if I ran my lips back and forth, he humped my mouth in the most helpless, sexy way.
I lost myself in him, and it wasn’t long before I forgot all about the last time I’d done this at the homeless shelter and just enjoyed that this man, here and now, was mine—and that I wasn’t doing this because anybody else wanted me to. It was because I wanted him in my mouth; I wanted him falling apart at my hands, moaning while I dug my fingertips into his thighs.
“I’m gonna come,” he whispered, tracing long, strong fingers through my hair. I thought about it for a split second before deciding that I wasn’t quite ready to relive that particular moment of my trauma. I pulled away, wrapping my hand around his quivering length while he shot all over me, and the steamy shower water washed it all away in seconds.
I rose to my feet, steadying him while he shook, and pulled his face down to kiss me. “Sorry,” I whispered. “After everything at the shelter, I wasn’t quite ready to—”
But he shook his head. “Paul, that was perfect. I never—I didn’t think you’d want to. You never have to, if you don’t—”
“No, I wanted to,” I said, and I smiled as I added, “I couldn’t stop myself.”
He kissed me again, a warm, affectionate smile dancing over his lips as he reached down to wrap a hand around my cock and return the favor.
We stood in the shower, wrapped up in each other, until the water turned cold. Then we got out and walked back to my bed, towel-dry and unable to keep our hands off each other. “I should wash my sheets,” I remarked, looking down at the mess we’d made.
“You were cleaning,” he remarked, and I looked up at him in question. “In the bathroom,” he said. “I saw a whole bucket of stuff in there. When I came over, weren’t you cleaning?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Like, obsessively. I felt so bad about everything, so I was just scrubbing every surface in the apartment.”
He laughed. “That’s a really good, non-destructive way of dealing with your stress, I’m impressed.”
I had to laugh, too. “Sex is also a good way of dealing with stress.”
“That explains how relaxed I feel,” he said. We kissed again, and I started to shiver with the cool chill of the air conditioning over my hyper-warmed skin.
“We should get dressed,” I said. “Go downstairs.” Seeing that my alarm clock showed it was nearly dinner time, I added, “Eat.”
“I don’t have any clothes besides those, though,” he said, pointing at his crumpled running clothes.
“I’ll throw them in the wash, too,” I said. “Want to borrow something?”
But nothing I had fit him; he was a few inches taller than me, and broader in the chest. He wasn’t as cold as I was, though, so he said, “I’ll just wear some shorts and call it good.”
When we got to the living room, I noticed my phone on the table and said, “Should we tell the guys you’re here? So they don’t worry?”
“Oh! Yeah, they’re probably wondering where I am. I should have been back, like, two hours ago.”
Yeesh. I grabbed the phone, almost relieved to have a reason to call Steven, now that I knew how he felt about our fight. But the call went straight to voicemail after ringing only once.
“I think he ignored my call,” I said as the voicemail message played.
“No,” Jamie said, “maybe he’s already on another call or something.”
I doubted that, and it was hard not to feel hurt—but then I remembered how Jamie had been the first one to decide to forgive me, just put the hurt behind him, and that led to us being here. Maybe I could do the same for Steven.
After the beep, I said, “Hey, it’s me. I mean, it’s Paul. In case you forgot how my voice sounds. Um…just kidding. That’s probably not funny. Anyway, I…didn’t call just to be not funny. I called to let you guys know, in case you were worried about him, that Jamie’s here with me at the townhouse. He ran here instead of there, and we’re just gonna grab some dinner and probably…um…probably hang out the rest of the night.” I glanced at Jamie, whose broad smile and nod proved that he had the same ideas I did. “So you can just call me if you need him for anything. Okay. Um. Yeah. That’s all. Bye.”
“Nice message,” Jamie said after I hung up.
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
“I mean it!” he said. “That was very civil.”
“I’m normally civil,” I protested.
“I know,” he said, more soberly. “I really put you through the wringer, didn’t I?”
I walked up to him and kissed him. “You put yourself through it worse.”
“Yeah. Still.”
I shook my head. “Hey, that stuff doesn’t matter anymore. Okay? I’m fine. Better than fine, actually.”
He smiled. “I think you’re ‘better than fine,’ too.”
“Aw, geez. That is such a cheesy line.”
“You like when I’m cheesy.”
“Do I, though?” I smiled teasingly, but then he pressed his forehead against mine, and I lost myself in the intensity of his gaze.
He tilted my face up toward his, standing all up in my space, strong arms resting against my shoulders. He looked into my eyes for a long moment, and I stood there waiting, expectant of who knew what, and holding my breath with anticipation. How slowly he pulled me closer, and how tightly his arms came around my shoulders, behind my back. My head was still back as far as he’d placed it, unable to move without his direction, at his mercy in every way, absolutely helpless.
His kiss was deep, thorough, demanding. I lost track of time and space in it, feeling how perfectly we melded together, no tension or reluctance between us. Only passion, affection, desire.
When we separated, he whispered, “Now am I cheesy?”
I shivered against him, and he laughed.
Standing up straighter, arms falling to my waist, he said, “So when do I actually have to go back to the apartment? I mean, I’d love to spend the night, but—”
; “You should spend the night,” I said. “I have my internship tomorrow morning, but after that I’m free. You can stay here whenever you want, as long as you want.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “You start at Thru-Line tomorrow.”
Suddenly remembering the morning, I said, “I have you to thank for that, don’t I? You told Mr. Cartwright about me.”
“I did,” Jamie said. “I remembered seeing you had that application, so I thought I’d put in a good word.”
“Thank you,” I said, looking into his eyes sincerely. “I felt so much worse about what I did when he told me that you’d recommended me for the job. Like, I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I was already doing all these mental gymnastics trying to convince myself it hadn’t been a shitty thing to do, and then to find that out…” I sighed. “I bet you wished you’d never helped me, when you found out what I did.”
“I mean, pretty much,” he answered, looking supremely uncomfortable as he walked away from me to get another water from the fridge. “But I did mean what I said to John that you’d be perfect for the role, and that you were innovative and a great leader. All true things, so.” His voice tried to be light, but I heard tightness in it that wasn’t there before. It made my heart sink into my stomach, and I remembered the expression on his face before he’d driven away that morning. This might be a sore spot for a while, even if he did forgive me—and honestly, that was fair.
I took a couple steps toward him. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” Jamie said, glancing at me from across the room. He looked a little guarded, and I ached with the knowledge that what I’d done had really hurt him.
“I should have told you I’m sorry when you were dropping me off this morning,” I added. “I wanted to. But then, I don’t know. I got really nervous that you were gonna yell at me and we would have another big fight. Plus this time, I knew I would really deserve it if you did yell at me, so…I just chickened out. And then I felt even worse, and after you drove away, I ran up to my computer to write back to the LGBTQ Office. I’m pretty sure I sent them the weirdest and most confusing, garbled up mess of an email…” I sighed. “Honestly, I have no idea why you like me. I am just…a lot.”
He laughed a little, and I looked up to see nothing but affection in his eyes. A soft smile lingered as he walked back over to me. “I love you, Paul,” he said.
I hoped he’d kiss me, and I wasn’t disappointed when he pulled me close to him again, wrapping me in strong arms before kissing me just as deeply and passionately as he had when he’d first come by, to tell me he forgave me. Oh, I could get used to being kissed like this—and at the same time, I knew it would never be commonplace. I would never take for granted that I could kiss him whenever I wanted now, no shame, no secrets—just us, how it always should have been.
CHAPTER 25
You Don’t Have to Say It
__________
We ordered a pizza and sat on the couch to eat it, something stupid on the TV, his legs stretched over my lap, crossed at the ankle. It was so comfortable, sitting like this with him. The sky was beginning to turn dark out the window when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. I looked down and saw that it was Steven.
“He probably wants to talk to you,” I said, reaching for the phone and holding it out to Jamie.
“No,” he said, “it’s your phone. You talk to him. He can ask for me if he wants me.”
I held it out to him for a moment longer, but when he waved me off again with an encouraging nod, I finally answered.
“Hey, Steven,” I said. “Are you calling for Jamie? He’s right here.”
Jamie rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. He mouthed, “Talk to him.”
“No,” Steven said, “I just got your message. Thanks. I mean…sorry I didn’t answer.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
There was a long, very awkward pause.
“Does he want a ride home?”
“Not tonight,” I answered. “In the morning, maybe.” I glanced at Jamie, who gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up.
“He’s staying over with you?” Steven asked. I could hear the curiosity in his voice, the echo of the kinds of conversations we used to have together.
“Yeah,” I said.
There was another pause, but this one didn’t feel quite as bad as the first.
Then Steven said, “Can I come over anyway? I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Are you really?”
“Well, I was driving around looking for him. I didn’t get your message right away, and I was worried, so—”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, you can come over. You know where it is.”
“Okay.” Steven’s voice sounded distressed, but it was impossible to tell over the phone what the problem was now. Maybe he was still really upset with me, and he was mad now that Jamie and I had made up. It must have been obvious enough to anybody reading between the lines that if Jamie was spending the night, then things were good between us. Still, I had no idea what Steven thought or why he deemed it necessary to come by and see us. It made me nervous. The thought of seeing him, of putting Jamie’s theory that he did want to be my friend, after all, to the test so soon after making up with Jamie... It just seemed like pushing my luck to get both of them back on the same day. Too good to be true, and too scary to find out. Too much at stake, too important to fuck up.
We ended the call, and I said to Jamie, “He’s stopping by. He said he’s in the area, so…”
“Good,” he said. “This’ll be good, Paul. Just talk to him.”
“I don’t even know if he wants to talk.”
“I didn’t want to either, when I came over earlier. And then you just hug-attacked me, and it was all I could think about for the next two hours.”
I smiled. “I can’t believe that really worked.”
“Me, neither.” He kissed me, just because he could, then said, “If Steven’s coming over, I should get dressed.” As he rose off the couch, he glanced down at his bare chest. “Do you think my clothes are out of the dryer yet?”
“Considering I haven’t moved them over from the washer yet,” I replied, “I’m going to guess ‘no.’” He laughed, and I added, “Taylor’s clothes fit you. Why don’t you check in there? He won’t mind at all.”
Jamie nodded, then kissed me again and said, “Calm down. It’ll be okay.” Then he jogged up the stairs, and I went back to the laundry closet to move the load from the washer to the dryer. I was still waiting for Jamie to return when I heard Steven’s knock on the door. I went over and flung it open, finding Steven there looking somehow older than he had last time I’d seen him, standing with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.
“Hey,” I said awkwardly, wondering how big I should smile. What’s a normal smile level for your former best friend that you’ve been fighting with for weeks? “Come on in.”
“Where’s Jamie?” he asked, glancing around in a way that at least made me relieved that he was equally nervous. He added, “I like your place. This is nice. Really tall ceilings.”
“Um…yeah. I guess they are,” I said. Then I added, “He’s upstairs, getting some clothes from Taylor’s room.”
“Oh. Where’s Taylor?”
“In New Tower at his parents’ house,” I replied. “He’ll be back Friday. He’s bringing my car then, too, since there’s parking here. Then I won’t need to borrow Trent’s so much. Not that I have lately, but...”
Steven nodded. For a moment, we stood near the door, neither saying a word. I started to wonder again why he’d come here—anxiety mixing with dread. But a moment later, I had my answer.
“Listen, Paul,” he said, a sudden urgency to his voice as he swallowed and took a deep breath. “I just want you to know that…if I had to pick a side, you or him.” And then tears were gathering in his eyes, and I knew exactly what he would say even before he said it. “I would pick you,” he said, a fierce whisper through the rapidly blin
ked-away tears. “I should have picked you.”
Whatever remnants of my anger that had stuck around to hear that totally vanished at such an undeserved, unqualified expression of loyalty. “No,” I said, stepping towards him, “you were right. I was such an asshole. I needed you to tell me that, because I should have done better.”
“Still,” he said, sniffling and shaking his head. “I never wanted to be on anybody else’s side but yours. I knew you were hurting, and I should have been there for you.” I could see that he wanted to say more. The words were dancing on the edge of his tongue, his lips still parted. But I knew it was hard for him to say the words “I’m sorry.” I’d never heard him say them, and Trent had told me before that I probably never would, no matter what Steven had done. We’d all been joking about Steven’s “egregious personality flaws”—his own words—at the time, but now I saw the conflict playing out in his face, and I knew exactly what he was dying to tell me.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”
He shook his head and said, “No, let me keep going. I need to. I don’t like how weird things have been between us lately.”
“Me neither,” I said. “I’m sorry, too.”
He laughed a little, rubbing his nose. “No. Don’t say it like that. Don’t let me off the hook. I can say it.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to say it. Really, Steve-o, I’m not gonna make you do something that makes you feel that bad. It’s me.”
“It’s because it’s you that I should be able to say it,” he answered, but now he looked less teary and more like he was gearing up to pout about it.
“Fine,” I said. “Go ahead and say it.”
He hesitated, a smile dancing behind his eyes. I waited a moment, then laughed and pulled him into a giant hug.
“Ugh!” he cried, though his arms quickly, tightly wrapped around me, squeezing for all he was worth. “I said not to let me off the hook! Why are you doing this?”
