by R. J. Moray
I can’t imagine what kind of hell it’s going to be finding a unique username in like 100 years time. The government is going to have to just hand them out
What are you wearing? Is it shabby or sexy?
For that one Ewan had replied with a photo of his naked hip, cropped to keep his dick out of it. You tell me
Very sexy. Too sexy for this dinner I’m stuck at. Cruel of you.
Ewan had considered hitting Nate up for phone sex, and discarded it as reckless, regretting the photo intensely and intensely relieved he hadn’t sent a dick pic.
Because. He still didn’t know what, exactly, was happening with Nate.
He’d been short with his replies after that, letting Nate’s texts linger unanswered until he couldn’t stand it. He tried not to care that Nate seemed bored and lonely, that Nate was reaching out to him, of all people, in his boredom. Most of all he tried not to think about their date.
Nate made that difficult, simply by existing. Ewan’s pillow still smelled faintly of his cologne. The Art of Game Design still lay on the coffee table, and the memory of it in Nate's hands was sharp. Whenever Ewan looked at his phone he had notifications about Nate on Twitter, sharing photos of his dinner, the view from his hotel room, every dog he met.
And now Nate was back, and Ewan couldn’t bear it.
He wanted Nate, wanted to go up to him and bury his face in Nate’s chest, wanted Nate to laugh at him and take him home and wear him out. He wanted to kneel at Nate’s feet and do whatever Nate told him to, take whatever Nate threw at him. He wanted Nate’s attention, right now, all of it. He wanted Nate to see him, but Nate wasn’t looking.
After the meeting he stomped back to his desk. Stupid Bianca. Stupid Nate and his stupidly vulnerable neck. Why couldn’t he dress like, like an office robot? Why did Ewan have to look at him?
His phone pinged. Of course it was Nate. Lunch, today?
Ewan bared his teeth. I will be eating lunch, yes.
Of course, Nate refused to take the hint. Have lunch with me.
It was impossible. Ewan wanted to have lunch with Nate more than anything else he could think of, but to be asked like this, to have the chance to say no, everything in him shouted ‘No!’ just because he could. Just because Nate seemed to assume he might want to.
What’s for lunch? he texted instead, trying to sound nonchalant instead of desperate.
Your choice.
So, icecream?
Icecream is a sometimes food.
You said my choice.
And you immediately took advantage of my largess. Interesting. We can talk about this at 12.
Ewan wrinkled his nose at his phone and put it away, turning back to his code and trying not to think about Nathaniel fucking Scott and his muscular forearms.
It was impossible. He daydreamed all morning, half in a world of variables and methods and unexpected recursion, and half under Nate’s desk, with Nate’s fingers in his hair and his cock heavy on Ewan’s tongue. Ewan wanted to suck on him, wanted Nate to shove him down on it and fuck his face, wanted Nate to be nasty about it, with a nasty little chuckle that showed Ewan exactly what he thought of him.
He felt guilty about it, for wanting terrible things that he should not want, and for the resentment he felt when Nate gave them to him. It wasn’t fair. If Nate was too nice to him, Ewan felt like Nate was a bad Dom. If Nate gave him what he wanted, Ewan felt like Nate was a bad person. But, equally, didn’t that mean the opposite? That Nate was a good person and a good Dom, respectively? How was Ewan supposed to know?
At twelve, he found Nate waiting for him in his office. Nate smiled narrowly. “Are you sure about icecream? Or did you want to make a more sensible choice?”
Ewan didn’t even want icecream, he just wanted to push Nate’s buttons. “What happens if I make a sensible choice?”
“Something nice, probably.” Nate shrugged into his coat. “Want to find out?”
Ewan pretended to pick something off his sleeve. “Actually, I’m in the mood for pho.”
Nate grinned. “Good choice. Let’s go.”
The pho place was packed, and they had to sit outside under an awning in the rain, knees knocking together under a rickety table. Ewan got soup on his shirt and Nate laughed, dabbing it up with a napkin and smiling.
His smile made Ewan’s chest ache, and Ewan tried to hide it with a scowl. Nate didn’t need to know how fucked up he’d got over him. It wasn’t fair.
When they were done, Nate hauled Ewan to his feet and tucked him under one arm as if it came naturally to him. “This was good. Lunch again tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Ewan said, feeling like he was being pulled underwater and couldn’t do a single thing to stop it.
⁂
It’s disgusting and I hate it.
Nate grinned at his phone. It’s traditional. Eat it.
Haggis is traditional. Doesn’t mean I’m putting it in my mouth.
You’ve put worse things in your mouth than pumpkin pie, Nate teased, and Ewan sent him an eggplant emoji.
“Is it work?”
Nate looked up, guilt passing over him like a shadow. He was curled up in an armchair in the corner of Katie’s sitting room, trying not to be enveloped by faded floral chintz. When he’d arrived his sister had frowned at his jeans and his sweater, as if he wasn’t dressed up enough for family, but his nephew Cameron had hugged him and babbled at him about school, and that was the whole reason he’d come for Thanksgiving so he’d ignored the rest. He was here for Cam, and to see his Charlotte, Cam's sister, who seemed to shoot up a handful of inches every time he saw her. He wasn't here for his sisters, or whatever they had to say.
Now his eldest sister was pinched, as if she was trying desperately not to say whatever was actually on her mind, and Nate felt bad for her only for long enough to remember it was all right to feel bad for himself.
“No, not work. I’m seeing someone,” he said, watching her mouth pinch tighter.
“Is…is it serious? Or…?”
We fuck, and sometimes he lets me beat him until he cries. But what Nate said aloud was, “I’m not sure yet. We’ll see.” Then, because he was feeling bold, he added, “Maybe you’ll meet him sometime.”
“Oh, I don’t think…unless it is serious.”
Because if it wasn’t serious, then it didn’t matter. Nate shrugged it off, used to this. He thought himself beyond it all through the mandatory watching of football, while his brothers-in-law commiserated about the result, through dinner, right up to the actual pumpkin pie when Denis, Katie’s husband, cleared his throat.
“So. Nathan. Business doing well?”
Nate hated being called Nathan and he hated talking about business with his family—they never understood and all they seemed to care about was that it made the wrong kind of money. (”It won’t last,” his mother had said, hands held tightly at her waist. “Your father’s right, you shouldn’t waste your time on something so unstable.”)
But. Denis was Cameron’s dad and Nate was a guest in his house, however unwanted. So. “Pretty good, all things considered. I can’t take credit for that, though. I just write the code, it’s Jack who sells it.”
At the mention of Jack, Katie went absolutely still. Denis didn’t seem to notice, just frowned across the table. “Sounds like you got a bum deal. You do all the work and it’s Nash on the cover of the magazines.”
“Jack likes being the center of attention.” Nate shrugged. “I’m not the same kind of exhibitionist.”
Denis wouldn’t leave it alone, though. “Still, you should talk to someone about getting your contracts looked over. Maybe he’s shafting you and you don’t even know it.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d know it if Jack was shafting me,” Nate said, unable to help himself. Cameron snorted over his pie, which made Katie clear her throat.
“Liz, do you want more whip?” she asked pointedly, glaring at Nate as if this was all his fault. And it was, he supposed. He hadn’t been for
ced to come and spoil their Thanksgiving.
But Cameron had made him promise and Katie had invited him and Nate had no other plans, so here he was.
After dinner he checked his phone, wondering how long before he could make his escape.
There was a message waiting for him. Your dick isn’t as bad as a pumpkin pie.
Nate grinned, unable to help it. High praise. So, what does your Thanksgiving look like?
It’s not my anything. I’m watching Battlestar Galactica. There’s icecream and NO PUMPKINS. Then, a moment later, Yours?
I’m humiliating my sisters by existing, and trying not to argue with my brother-in-law.
Awks. Family is balls.
Nate was going to message him back something in agreement but Liz had brought him a cup of coffee, and sat down on on the end of the sofa, smiling at him tentatively. “Is it John, then?” she asked. “Katie said you’re seeing someone.”
So his sisters were swapping information. Interesting. “It’s not Jack,” Nate said. “Jack’s seeing someone too. Someone who is not me.”
She seemed disappointed. “Oh. Well. I thought…but it is a man.”
“Yes,” Nate said, wondering where she was going with this.
“I thought that maybe, if it wasn’t John, then you might go back to dating women.”
“I never dated women,” Nate said, because it was true. “I have never dated a single woman in my life.”
“But you liked girls, when you were little,” she insisted.
“I made friends with girls, but I never wanted a girlfriend.” Surely they’d already had this conversation, years ago in amongst all the yelling. “I’ve never been attracted to women.”
Liz wrinkled her nose. “But when you were a child, you didn’t hate girls.”
“I don’t hate girls now. I don’t hate women. I’m just…is this about Jack? I know Dad thinks he made me gay, but I’ve told you.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Liz said softly, and Nate resisted the urge to scrub a hand over his face in frustration.
“You’ve got it backwards. If either of us made the other one gay it was me, doing it to Jack. He had a girlfriend.” And Jack hadn’t known why he was so unhappy with her, just thought that was what relationships were supposed to be like, an unsatisfying series of disappointments. Back then Jack had never considered he was anything other than straight. Nate had always known. But he couldn’t explain any of that to his sister.
“Do you think you’ll always…with men?”
I’m thirty-six years old, Nate thought, dizzy with incredulity. I’ve been out for fifteen years. Why am I still having this conversation?
“Yes,” he said. “Listen, I should get going.”
Later, in his hotel room, Nate texted, So my sister thinks Jack turned me gay and I’ll start dating women when I’m all straightened out.
Immediately, his phone rang.
“If you start dating women, I’m out,” Ewan said conversationally. He was chewing something. It was obnoxious and weirdly endearing.
“Oh? You won’t date a bi guy? For shame.” Nate kicked off his shoes and flopped on the bed.
“I’d date a bi guy. I’m not biphobic.” He said it with such relish that Nate was almost completely sure he was making fun.
“So it’s just women you have a problem with?”
“Naw, just…don’t date anyone else.”
Nate blinked up at the ceiling. Was that…? “You sound possessive.”
“I mean, you can fuck whoever you want,” Ewan said nastily, but Nate could hear his defensiveness.
“I don’t think you mean that.”
There was a pause. Then— “No. I mean. I don’t know.” Something rustled, like a pillow being thumped into place. “Hey. What are you wearing?”
“Jeans,” Nate said, peeling off his sweater and t-shirt. “You?”
“Vest and pants.”
“A vest?”
“You know, a tank. And underpants.”
“Isn’t it cold?”
“I’m under a duvet.”
Nate smirked, closing his eyes. “Tell me about your underpants.”
“Blue boxers. Cotton.”
“Tight?”
“Loose.”
“Loose enough to jerk off in?”
Ewan laughed, soft and breathy. “Aye.”
“Interesting.” Nate unzipped his jeans, pushing them down and off, and lay on the bed naked under the heating. His dick was interested but only a little, so he stroked himself absently as he listened to Ewan’s breathing. “Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes,” Ewan admitted. He sounded shy about it, weak and small, and Nate wanted to touch him, just tease him, do something for him to take his mind off things.
“Do you have lube?”
Ewan snickered. “Maybe,” he drawled, and Nate bit his lip.
“Finger yourself.”
An indefinable noise. “Okay. Just…Okay.”
Nate slid his hand along his cock, picturing it: Ewan on his back with his knees pulled up, smoothing lube over himself and working his way in. “How many fingers?”
“One,” Ewan breathed, and then— “Ah! Two-ish.”
Whatever that meant. Nate tucked the phone into his shoulder and curled a hand around the base of his cock, fingers pressing against his balls. “So, you don’t want to see other people, is that right?”
Ewan groaned. “Fuck, I—no. No, I don’t. Nate—”
“You wanna date me?”
“I don’t know, I just…”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
Frustrated sounds. “I want you, I just fucking…want you.”
Nate squeezed hard on his balls, trying to catch his breath. “I want you too. I want you in my life.”
“You want me on my knees,” Ewan growled, and Nate grinned, because yeah.
“I want you on your knees. I want you over my knee. I want you face down on the rug in nothing but a cock-cage while I pound your ass and you beg me to let you come,” Nate confessed, pressing down behind his balls and feeling his whole body tighten with anticipation.
Ewan made an unholy sound. “Fuck! Fuck, I…I want that. Nate, I…”
“Tell me.”
“I want you to come in me.” It was like the words were dragged out of him through his teeth, and his breath had gone short and shallow. “Just…I got tested, I’m fucking clean, and I want it.”
Nate rocked his hips up, fucking his own palm. “Yeah? You want me to get you all dirty with come?”
“Mess me up, please, fuck, Nate—”
And then he broke, sobbing and gasping and cursing, and Nate stroked himself through it, riding the crest of Ewan’s distress until he crashed, spilling over his hand as his body throbbed and throbbed.
“Jesus Christ,” Ewan gasped. “Fuck.”
“Date me,” Nate panted, fighting for breath. “Or just don’t date anyone else, and I won’t either.”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
Ewan breathed out hard. “Yes. You bastard.”
Good. Better than good. “Excellent,” Nate said. “I’ll see you at work.”
Chapter 8
I want to kiss you hello.
It sparked down the length of Ewan's spine like an electric jolt. He glanced over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that Nate could see him right now, was watching him for a reaction.
It was unbelievably confronting. Ewan didn’t know what to do with it.
I want to suck your dick, he typed, but then he deleted it because no, that was crass. And sure, he was himself crass but this time? He felt like being something else.
I want to be kissed hello, he sent instead, tucking his phone away and pretending Nate didn’t exist.
The desire to be kissed by Nate—in public, in front of everyone—was intense. Ewan couldn’t tell if it was just the thrill of Nate being interested in him, of being the focus of someone so high profi
le, of being somehow chosen, or simply because the sight of Nate, just the thought of him filled Ewan with a thick giddiness, shortening his breath and coiling hot and needy in his gut.
When he checked his phone again he found Nate had replied. Have lunch with me.
Ewan bit his lip, desperately wanting to say yes. So. Okay.
Nate named a cafe; Ewan agreed to meet him at the lifts. He agonized over this as he worked through his morning, as he gathered his things and made his way out to the corridor. Nate was leant up against the wall by the lifts, waiting. He smiled as Ewan approached and lifted a hand to Ewan’s cheek.
“Hey,” he said. He was soft today, in the blue cashmere sweater that made his eyes bloom bright and crystalline, and Ewan felt his gut clench at the need to touch him.
It seemed inevitable to lean in and offer his mouth. Nate’s eyes widened, but then he leaned down, kissing Ewan chastely on the lip.
He didn’t linger, but the pressure of him and the faint dampness of his mouth stayed sharp, pressed into Ewan’s flesh like a brand. Ewan tried not to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, but ducked into the lift to get away from their imagined scrutiny.
Nate pressed the buttons, and then leant a palm against the wall, bracketing Ewan in with his body. “I missed you.”
“It’s been three days,” Ewan scoffed, unable to bear Nate’s proximity without touching him. He wished he could slide his hands up Nate’s chest, sneak them under his sweater and untuck him, press cool fingertips to his ribs and drag his nails down to mark up his skin.
“And I missed you,” Nate insisted, smiling that too-handsome smile.
“You’re getting attached,” Ewan chided him, turning his face away as his cheeks burned.
Nate chuckled. “It’s a bit late for that.” He stepped away, anchoring himself safely on the other side of the lift. “You’re quite attachable.”
“It’s funny. When you say ‘quite’ you mean ‘very’, don’t you?”
“Yeah? Why?”
Ewan shrugged. “Back home, it always meant ‘slightly’.” He went on before Nate could respond. “I don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind what?”
