Poster Boy

by Anne Tenino

  “This isn’t just sex.” Toby could barely speak above a whisper.

  “Can you really be wondering about that?”

  “Well.” He forced a shrug. “I mean, I guess you wouldn’t give just anyone a friction burn.”

  Jock smiled. “No, only guys I’m serious about.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” Toby whispered. “I know it’s not just sex now, but someday we have to go home, and what if it’s not the same?” Jesus, what did he think he was asking for? Promises? Jock would be convinced this shirt would be fit him just as well and be just as comfortable at home as here, and be as wrong as Toby’s mother always was. “Never mind.”

  Jock used the hand on his neck to guide Toby closer, pulling his forehead onto Jock’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s just being here. I think, if we were still at home, we’d have gotten together by now, or we would soon.”

  He could believe that, or he could go on torturing himself. Toby chose to believe, nodding his head and wrapping his arms around Jock’s waist. Relief soaked through him, along with the enormity of what was happening. He was falling in love with this frat boy and he wanted it to be mutual so badly. That was the root of his insecurity. Jock was so young, regardless of how much control he took in bed or how mature he seemed sometimes. He didn’t have Toby’s experiences. It wouldn’t stop him from falling in love with Toby if he was going to, but it might stop him from recognizing it.

  And really, was that so bad? It was all a gamble, regardless. He’d told himself he was going to see what happened, float with the current, and that’s what he’d do, moments of doubt aside. It was exhilarating. But of course the “B” side of exhilaration was terror. Given the choice between experiencing neither of them or taking both, Toby knew he’d take both every time. And giving up on Jock now was simply not a choice at all.

  “I don’t get what that had to do with the burn,” Jock said in his ear, still rubbing the back of Toby’s neck.

  “Honestly? Neither do I.”

  Hours later, making out lazily, Toby was soaking in sensation. Provençal scents from the soft breeze drifting through the window tickled his naked skin. And Jock, similarly naked, was utterly bursting with potential stimulation. For example, lips like his boyfriend’s needed special attention, nibbles and sucks and thorough exploration. After a while Toby moved on, testing Jock’s jawbone with his teeth, until his tongue could work its way up behind Jock’s ear and make him moan.

  “Wanna make love to you,” Toby mumbled into Jock’s hair, half to himself, more caught up in the slide of his thigh between Jock’s than what he was saying.

  Jock froze, then jerked away from him, pushing himself up to kneeling on the bed, leaving Toby blinking and a little motion sick. Until his words replayed themselves in his mind, then he just felt sick. Fuck, had he actually said that? Judging by Jock’s wide-eyed horror, yes, he had.

  How did he take it back?

  Did he want to take it back? Those particular words—and the sentiment—they weren’t really a bad thing, were they? Not if he meant it. When he prodded at the feelings, both sensory and emotional, that had prompted him to say them, it confirmed that yes, he’d been sincere. They didn’t sound bad. They sounded true.

  His heart thumped extra hard, a happy burst of emotion radiating through him, and he started to reach for Jock again to make the words happen.

  But Jock still looked horrified. Terrified.

  Obviously, his feelings weren’t nearly on a par with Toby’s own. Toby dropped his hand, propping himself on his elbow. “That just slipped out.”

  Jock swallowed, adjusting himself on the bed, sitting and pulling the sheet over his lap, making it really obvious he wasn’t going to erect any tents over what Toby’d said. He’d so fucked this up. Assumed way too much about how Jock saw the relationship, and how deeply it went for him.

  “I don’t want . . .” Jock began.

  Toby tried to quell the sick feeling in his gut with the power of his rational mind. His rational mind was outgunned, though. Sick feeling had his heart on its side. “You don’t want what?”

  Jock’s eyes were pinging around the room. Looking for an escape.

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  Jock huffed out a breath like Toby’d punched him in the stomach. “You mean, if I don’t, like, put out, we’re done?”

  “No.” What? “I meant if you aren’t comfortable with what I said, I understand if you don’t want to stay.” Tonight. “I don’t . . .” He had to finish the thought. “I don’t want to end things, though.”

  Jock wrapped his fists in the bedding. “Even if I never let you fuck me?”

  Toby’s brain recalibrated, zeroing out everything he’d been thinking and starting over. So it isn’t the love thing, it’s about bottoming. They’d never even talked about it again since that night Jock had said he wasn’t ready, and Toby hadn’t cared because he hadn’t been missing it. Yet. He’d just sort of assumed one day it would happen.

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” he said. Except maybe it kind of was. Possibly. He didn’t know exactly what he’d been wanting, not in physical terms. Only emotional ones. Shit shit shit.

  “What did you mean?”

  Oh, this wasn’t a potential minefield or anything. “I simply said it, like, sort of an endearment. I wasn’t thinking of any particular act.”

  Jock furrowed his brow. “So, you don’t want to fuck me?”

  Toby took a moment to settle his back against the wall, next to Jock. Trying to figure out how to answer. “I do, if you want me to.” He reached for Jock’s hand, unwrapping it from the sheet and stroking his fingers. “I’ve never bottomed this much for anyone in my life.”

  Jock swallowed. “If you didn’t want to—”

  “I did. Every time. Do you think I could fake it that well?”

  He nodded once, staring down at the bedding. “Um, you know, before we ever hooked up, I was talking to Brad . . .”

  Toby waited him out.

  “He said you were versatile, so I knew that you liked it both ways.”

  Jock had talked to Brad about him? Before, when they were still in Oregon. So maybe that shirt would fit when they got home. Toby squeezed Jock’s hand. “He was right. I used to top more than bottom.”

  Jock looked at him blankly a second. “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyebrows scrunched up. “You don’t seem like a top to me.”

  Toby sighed. “I don’t feel like one with you.”

  The edges of Jock’s lips turned down, weighted by the hurt anger that he was sometimes prone to.

  “I kind of want to bottom with you,” Toby said before the frown could grow, turning to face him more fully, sitting next to him and keeping hold of his hand. “I mean I do want to, I don’t know why. It’s just . . .” He shrugged. “We work together best that way. It feels good to me. Physically and otherwise.”

  Jock was still frowning at him, but it wasn’t the hurt-angry one anymore. It was the frown that tried to make sense of things. “You prefer it with me? But didn’t before, with other guys?”

  “Yeah.” Toby swallowed. This shouldn’t be so hard to admit, should it? “It’s different with you. Everything is different with you. Sometimes I feel like a different person.”

  Jock jerked his head back, fingers squeezing into a fist around Toby’s for a second.

  “Not like I’m not me,” Toby said quickly. “Just as if parts of me are becoming more prominent, and others that were at the forefront are becoming less so. If that makes any sense.”

  “So . . . you don’t like that?”

  Toby ran his hand down Jock’s face, trying to figure out what and how much to say. “I don’t really care,” he said. Jock kept looking at him as if waiting for more. “I like you. And I like myself when I’m with you.”

  Jock reached for him, working his fingers into Toby’s hair and cupping his cheek. “I like you too. And I like the way I feel with you.” He took
a breath and added, “You make me feel understood.”

  “I’m trying, baby,” Toby whispered, leaning closer for a kiss, up on his hands and knees and then straddling Jock’s thighs, holding his face. “I understand being scared to let someone fuck you. Lots of guys are.”

  The way Jock’s eyes flickered away was his first clue that he might not have this quite right. But he met Toby’s gaze again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “How does it feel?”

  Toby half smiled, stroking Jock’s jaw. “Well, I like it now, I think you know that.”

  Jock smiled back at him, although it was on the faint side.

  “But the first time wasn’t so great. It hurt, but that’s because the guy I was with knew as little as me.”

  Jock rested his palms on Toby’s thighs where they straddled him, watching them. “That’s not exactly what I was asking, I guess. Um, how does it feel, like, to let someone . . .”

  It took a few seconds for Toby to figure out what he meant, but of course it was about one thing with his boyfriend. “Let someone have that kind of control over me?”

  Jock nodded quickly, pursing his lips.

  “It depends,” Toby answered carefully. “With you, it’s like . . . riding a roller coaster. I’m a little scared, but mostly I’m excited.”

  “Do you ever feel like . . . the girl?”

  Toby’s fingers tightened on Jock’s face, then he let them drop away. The sick feeling came rushing back. “I’m not a girl.”

  “I know, I know that,” Jock said, squeezing Toby’s thighs. “But, I mean, you let me, like, have you.”

  “Wait, you think of it that way? With me? Like I’m, I don’t know, lesser or something because you stick your dick in me?” Toby shoved off Jock’s legs, pulling out of his hold, then off the bed. Fuck, where were his briefs? He couldn’t stand here naked right now.

  Jock followed him, standing also. Toby backed up when he got too close, finding his underwear when he stepped on them. “I’m sorry,” Jock said. “It’s not like that. I don’t think less of you, I just . . .”

  Toby planted his hands on his hips, glaring at him. “You just think it would emasculate you.”

  Jock swallowed, looking at the floor and shifting his weight.

  “Christ,” Toby muttered, dropping onto the edge of the bed and burying his head in his palms. “So, like, every time you fuck me, you think . . . what? I’m not a man?”

  “No!” Jock said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “It’s got everything to do with me. I’m the one you’re fucking.” Toby dropped his hands and stared at Jock, trying to figure out how to explain. What Jock had said about feeling understood? It was true, Toby understood him, which made things difficult right now, because a lot of Toby was pissed off and hurt and wanted to storm out, but the rest of him could see it from Jock’s point of view.

  Then suddenly he was seeing Jock from a new point of view. Dropping to his knees in front of Toby, holding him the way he had at Barbegal, arms around his hips and head at Toby’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said, and his eyes were utterly sincere. “It’s not about how I think of you, though. It’s about how I think of me.”

  Which was exactly what Toby already understood. “I know,” he admitted. He stroked Jock’s hair off his forehead, sighing. “But, baby . . . why did you get pissed off thinking I’d put myself in the same position you did when that guy took the picture?”

  Jock’s brow wrinkled up. “Respect,” he whispered.

  Toby nodded. “If you don’t want to do it because it emasculates you, than how can you respect me when I let you fuck me?”

  “It’s not like that,” Jock objected. “It’s like, something I’m scared of for reasons I don’t even understand.” He swallowed, gripping Toby tighter. “I even sometimes want it with you, but it’s like there’s something holding me back. Instinct or training or something. I don’t mean to always bring it back to hockey, but I got sort of indoctrinated into thinking being in control all the time was absolutely necessary. Or maybe it’s my personality, I dunno. But it’s got nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  “I get it,” Toby said, stroking Jock’s jaw. “I know you mean it, but I don’t know if I can let you do it again knowing how you see it. How could you think it makes you less of a man, but not see me that way, even just a little? It’d be different if you just weren’t into bottoming, I could work with that, but this isn’t that. This is about self-worth.”

  “I don’t want to lose you over this,” Jock whispered. “Just, give me time, okay? I’ll work it out.”

  Toby nodded, pulling in a shaky breath. “I might . . .” Ugh, saying this was going to gut him, but he couldn’t not say it. “I need some time too, baby. If I let you keep fucking me, it might destroy everything we have.”

  Right before Jock dropped his head, hiding his face, pain rippled across his eyes like the tide coming in. And there it was, the gutting of Toby. He didn’t want to hurt like this, and he really didn’t want Jock in pain over it. He’d do almost anything to avoid it, but even thinking about letting Jock top him right now . . .

  Jock could say, and even believe, that he didn’t think any less of Toby, but how much weight did his words carry when his actions didn’t follow suit?

  Toby leaned forward, bending over his boyfriend and resting his cheek on the top of Jock’s head, heart bleeding for both of them.

  “What are we going to do?” Jock’s question floated up to Toby’s ears.

  Toby lifted his head, and Jock met his eyes again. His irises had turned dark blue, weighted down with whatever was going on inside him. “Um . . .” Toby took a deep breath, trying to think. “I guess you have to dec—”

  “Dude! Tobes!” Danny’s voice blasted through the doorway, making both of them jump, followed quickly by a pounding fist.

  “Oh no.”

  “Ignore him,” Jock urged, fingers digging into Toby’s thighs.

  “Tobes, we got some serious shit happening, here. If you don’t open the door, they’ll bust it down like they did at the frat.”

  “What?” Toby stood up, Jock moving quickly out of his way, before finding his briefs and hopping around on one foot, yanking them up, but he’d barely regained his balance when something else started slamming into the door. Something much, much heavier than Danny’s fist. The door shook with each blow.

  “What the fuck?” Jock said, stepping forward, but Toby grabbed his hand, yanking him back just as the door burst open, a bunch of guys with black ski masks on spilling through after, guns pointing at them.

  “Dude, it’s the cops,” Danny was yelling over the confusion and orders being barked at them in French. Toby caught “Restez ou vous êtes!” and his brain supplied the translation—“Stay where you are!” Neither he nor Jock was having any problems complying—they were too shocked to move.

  Someone gripped his arm, twisting it behind his back and wrenching his hand from Jock’s, then snagging his other wrist. Before he knew it, he was standing in the middle of his formerly cozy little cabanon, staring at his similarly cuffed boyfriend. Thank God he got briefs on, too. Toby was too shocked to think about practicalities for the first few seconds, but the flexing of Jock’s jaw muscles and the way he stared icily over everyone’s head forced Toby into dealing.

  “English,” he said to the guy speaking to him in French, gripping his arm still. “We need a translator.” They had to provide one, right? Should he ask for a lawyer now?

  “Okay.” The office nodded and waved to another guy in a ski mask near the door, of about the same build. Looking around, Toby finally registered three black-clothed officers, “DCRI” printed on the breast of their jackets. How do they tell each other apart? Glancing outside, he saw a fourth clone guarding Danny. His hair stuck up everywhere, hands behind his back, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open.

  As soon as Toby caught Danny’s eye, before the new officer
could say anything to him (presumably in English), Danny yelled out, “They’re arresting us for terrorism.”

  Toby locked his knees against a wave of dizziness. “I never should have let you guys believe in beermageddon.”

  Jock should have been focused on his arrest, but sitting in the holding cell in Marseille, he mostly thought about Toby. Wondering if his room also had a bench built into the wall with a thin vinyl pad on top. Jock had a feeling he was supposed to be able to lie down on it, but it looked about a foot too short for him.

  He knew they’d all been taken here—each of the guys in a separate black, tinted-window car with two officers in the front and a cage barrier between the backseat and them—so Toby was probably in a similarly uncomfortable room with similarly bright white walls and high-wattage fluorescent ceiling fixture.

  Or being questioned. Alone. Jock had fantasies of punching through the wall and finding his boyfriend on the other side, cuffed to a chair and being questioned by a cigarette-smoking Frenchman with sallow skin. He’d punch the guy out and escape with Toby, chair and all.

  Unlikely. He knew it logically, but his hands kept bunching up into fists whenever he wasn’t forcing them to relax. A month ago he might have actually tried it, but things had changed. He’d changed, because of Toby.

  But not enough, or he wouldn’t feel like an anxious rat was gnawing its way out of his stomach every time he thought about their last few minutes together before the cops had shown up.

  He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to think about something else. Wondering what time it was. Way past midnight, definitely. It might have been that late when the cops broke down the door. They’d uncuffed him and let him get dressed in the clothes he’d had at Toby’s, but he hadn’t been allowed to talk to or really even see any of the other TAG brothers, and they’d separated him and Toby immediately, leading Toby outside and away. For all he knew, Toby was still in navy-blue briefs with white trim.

  Hope not. He’d be cold—they had the AC on in this building. And other guys might be checking him out.

  The worst thing about being arrested: he was stuck alone in this holding cell where he could only keep his mind off of Toby for short periods. It kept drifting back to their conversation. To Toby asking how Jock saw him when they were together, like, sexually. A few more seconds and maybe he could have told Toby what he’d figured out, kneeling there in front of him. It had been hearing himself ask, What are we going to do? that jogged sense into his brain, but he’d still been absorbing it when Danny had started yelling outside. His mind hadn’t quite made the connection yet, hadn’t quite worked out what his heart had already known.