Imperfect Match

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Tell me what you want,” Lee panted, as Roman raked needy hands up and down his back and ravished his throat. “Anything. I’ll do it.”

  “Actually, I’ve been mulling over this scenario ever since I put two and two together, and realized the hot gay Boomer professor on everyone’s flapping tongue was someone I already knew…intimately.” Roman tipped Lee back onto the bed. Lee landed with a whoomph. The plastic bread pallets creaked, but held. “What I want is for you to lay there and do absolutely nothing.”

  Marital harmony was of the utmost importance, so the concept of capitulating to a partner’s request—however strange—had been impressed upon Lee from a very young age. But he wasn’t quite sure he understood what was being asked of him. “Is this some kind of roleplay? Am I pretending to be incapacitated? Are you going for a skewed power dynamic, or—?”

  Roman clapped his hand over Lee’s mouth. The tang of iron oxide tickled his nostrils. “No roleplay,” Roman said softly. “You’re you, and I’m me. And I’m gonna rock your world.”

  Being with Roman the first time, back in that cramped apartment, was indelibly branded into Lee’s memory. And yet, he hadn’t thought that there was so much more ground yet to cover. As Roman stood over the bed and peeled off his shirt, Lee realized he’d never properly seen the first person he’d ever kissed. The only person. Clothed, Roman was all hard angles and planes, but with the barriers stripped away, his physique was full of fascinating divots and swells where muscle played beneath the skin. He was wiry and hard, and the overhead light cast shadows that made each muscle stand out in stark relief. His skin was pale. And the flat expanse above his right hip bore a tattoo. A single word: Freedom.

  He was stunning.

  He didn’t stand around waiting for Lee to admire his nakedness, though. As soon as he stripped himself down, he turned his attention to undressing Lee. Shirt, trousers, underwear, socks. None of it needed patching yet, not like the overcoat that snagged on a splintered railing outside the dining hall, but someday it would. And what a minuscule price it would be to pay for autonomy.

  Roman rucked up Lee’s shirt, but left his arms tangled in his sleeves. Lee squirmed as the trail of a hot tongue and the tickle of whiskers brushed across his chest. He half-recalled Ms. Carmichael’s dull explanation of the common erogenous zones, but what he was doing with Roman here and now was so intense, it crowded out the memories of her benign voice. Where his education had been clinical, sterile, Roman was eager, even hungry. Lee shoved his shirt the rest of the way off and found Roman staring at him with cheeks flushed, and lips moist from tonguing his nipple. Disheveled. Erect.

  “Stretch out,” Roman told him. Lee reached for the edges of his mattress and felt his muscles lengthen deliciously. It had been such a long journey to come to this place, to finally be alone together in a space large enough to hold them both, it would’ve been a pity not to luxuriate in the moment.

  “Can I speak?” Lee asked.

  “I told you, it’s not a roleplay. I’m trying to make a point.”

  “You’ve got nothing to prove.”

  “The hell I don’t.” Roman sank to his knees, half on the bed, and wet the head of Lee’s cock with a hot swipe of his tongue.

  Lee had been taught to give oral stimulation, but had never personally received any. He’d read about it. Seen video. Even imagined it himself during the lesson, in a vague and distant way, mostly to try to figure out what the point of it all might be. But nothing could have prepared him for Roman’s mouth. The suction was dizzying and the delicious heat made him squirm, but pleasure was a fleeting thing. The unbridled intimacy of the act, however, would surely be scorched into Lee’s memories until his dying day.

  “Roman, wait,” he gasped—just moments after they’d even begun—because his climax was coming far too soon.

  Roman tweaked his nipple, pulsed it in time with the suction, and Lee arched up off the makeshift mattress and emptied himself in a startling, breathtaking peak.

  Roman gentled his stimulation as Lee came…but he didn’t exactly stop. Instead, he bided his time until the raw edge of sensitivity abated, and then he coaxed Lee to a state of eager readiness all over again. Lee had figured the story Dot told him about the Boomer who made his lover come four times had been embellished. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Especially when Roman introduced the lube. His second climax felt just as urgent as the first, with Roman stroking his cock, fingering his prostate and sucking his balls. And the aftermath felt twice as heady. He sprawled there as if his insides were jelly, while Roman gazed down at him in evident self-satisfaction, and wiped the lube and semen from between his fingers on a hand towel that had once been part of a baby blanket, or maybe a bathrobe.

  Roman rifled through his pockets and came up with another packet of lube. Lee somehow figured out how to form words again, and not just pleading sounds that urged Roman to go deeper. “You carry around an awful lot of lubrication.”

  “I could say I was hoping to get lucky, but in the right neighborhoods, this’ll get you nearly as far as sugar.” He trailed his fingertips down Lee’s thigh. “And I’m willing to use every last drop of it making you turn yourself inside out.”

  Gooseflesh sprang up in the wake of Roman’s touch. And then Lee’s quiescent penis shifted, and began to swell.

  The third orgasm was different from the first two, a much slower build with less direct stimulation. Roman flipped him onto his stomach with a pillow beneath his hips—the pillow he’d brought from his parents’ home—and tongued his ass until his head spun, and he humped himself to completion. As Roman settled against his back, Lee gasped for breath, panting into the mattress. Sleep was beckoning now, or maybe it was just the dizziness brought on by hyperventilation. Either way, though, it was impossible to ignore the hardness now pressed along the cleft of his ass.

  Roman traced his tongue across the back of Lee’s shoulder, a lazy, meandering path, as if he was writing a secret message. Lee closed his eyes. His body hardly felt like his body anymore, but something foreign—detached, and at the same time, phenomenally present. “You’re still hard,” Lee murmured.

  Roman gave a little grind. A kiss of preseminal fluid touched the base of Lee’s spine. It cooled briefly before Roman’s belly rubbed it away. “So, how much anal did they cover in those Boomer lessons of yours?”

  “Just theory, really. Family planning.”

  “Which means….” Roman slid a finger between them and toyed at Lee’s entrance. “This was uncharted territory?”

  An exasperated laugh punctuated Lee’s heavy breathing. “Believe me, you do not need to be jealous of my sex ed teacher. At all.”

  “Just figuring out what’s what.”

  Sure.

  Roman pressed his lips to Lee’s ear and said, “I want to fuck you so bad I can taste it.”

  Badly was actually the word Roman wanted; given the fact that the bed was currently swimming in Lee’s emissions, he highly doubted the experience would be anything but transcendent. But the correction fled from his mind as long, slick fingers began to stroke and tease. “First time can smart a little,” Roman said, “but I’ll take it slow—much as I want to pound you through the floor—and you’ll see. It’s worth it.”

  When Roman started bumping him in the prostate with each tender thrust, Lee had to agree. They labored together, clasped front to back—Roman struggling to make it last, Lee riding the knife edge of pleasure and pain. Their bodies moved in an intricate rhythm, some thrusts rocking in tandem, others syncopated and percussive, slick with sweat and stinging with pleasure, until finally Roman coaxed him to that precarious brink yet again, and then nudged him over. Roman filled Lee with his release, and Lee bucked into his hand until there was nothing left to spend.

  They lay together, sated, numb, for a long moment. While Roman caught his breath, Lee began to drift, wondering how this vessel that had housed his mind all this time was capable of such exquisite pleasures, with him not even suspecting the exte
nt of his body’s boundaries. He turned his head, sluggishly, for a kiss. Roman’s wet lips brushed his, sloppy, off-center, and Lee let his head fall back on the pillows.

  “If you give me a few minutes to recover,” Roman ventured, “I could go again.”

  If he’d been able to catch his breath, Lee would have laughed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FOR SOMEONE WHO was accustomed to sleeping crammed in a closet with his knees slightly bent, Roman certainly took advantage of the opportunity to sprawl. Early morning was peaceful in the dorms. The distant sounds of students slamming doors and snoozing their alarms was pleasant background noise. The rising sun peeked through Lee’s window, painting the far wall a warm pink.

  “Tell me something,” Roman said.

  Lee hadn’t realized he was awake. “Mm?”

  “You knew where I lived. So how come you waited this long to see me?”

  Lee watched dust motes dance in the sunbeam, then said, “I’ve always been sure about you. I was the one who needed figuring out. I didn’t know if I could hack it in the District—maybe I was too privileged, too soft. And if it turned out I didn’t fit in here—or anywhere—I didn’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  Roman smoothed Lee’s hair. “Guess we both had something to prove.”

  They lazed in one another’s arms as long as they could, but Lee had a lecture in essay structure to deliver, and Roman was expected to report to the office where he filed papers three mornings a week. Even so, after a quick trip to the showers down the hall, a stray caress led to a kiss, which led to a fevered groping that very nearly caused both of them to be late. As Lee pulled on his work clothes—a button-up shirt and jacket, but no tie, not in the District—he said, “Next time, you’re buying me breakfast.”

  Roman’s eyebrows shot up. “I was kinda worried you wouldn’t be so tasty once your squeaky-clean edges got roughened. Glad to see I was mistaken.”

  Lee was tempted to shove Roman back into bed and demonstrate just how edgy he could be…but a knock on the door interrupted them before the situation progressed beyond a kiss. No doubt the rumor mill had sent an intrepid student over for a first-hand look at the man who’d caused Professor Kennedy to fend off so many persistent advances. Lee was poised to tell whoever it was to mind their own business and get to class, so when he opened the door and found Emma on the other side, he was, for once, at a loss for words.

  “I brought that vodka you were so insistent about,” she said as she shouldered her way past him with a heavy tote bag in either hand. Behind her, Howard was lurking in the hall, looking clean, polished, and vaguely confused. Emma stopped three steps in and spotted Roman, sitting on the rumpled bed with his clothing slightly askew and his black hair sliding down over one eye. She opened her mouth. Shut it. Then turned to Lee and said, “Well, don’t just stand there, introduce me.”

  Lee herded Howard through the door and shut it behind him, in case voices were raised. Not that they wouldn’t carry through the walls to a certain extent, but it was common courtesy to play out family drama behind closed doors.

  Since he first moved into the dorms, he’d been honest with his students. Everyone on campus knew he was gay. And yet, revealing this secret to his sister—someone he’d shared secrets with all his life—felt different. It felt bigger. Like telling Emma was as decisive a turning point as moving to the District. He would have preferred to do it in his own way, on his own time, rather than being forced into the revelation by her arrival on his doorstep. But when he looked at Roman, who had the twinkle of a smile brewing in his eyes, Lee decided he was just overthinking things again.

  “Emma, Howard, this is Roman Sharp.” He took a breath, steeled himself, and added, “I can’t get married because I’m not meant to be with a woman, no matter what the Algorithm might say.”

  The meaning dawned on Howard in a visible slap. His eyes rounded and he gave a tiny gasp. Emma, however, didn’t seem particularly surprised. She simply nodded. “And when were you planning on telling Mom?”

  “I haven’t really given it any thought.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you can’t just keep shutting her out of your life. Yes, this place might be decrepit, but it’s perfectly safe, and you seem fine. I’ll be sure to tell her so.”

  “Actually, it’s really spacious,” Howard said. Lee wasn’t quite sure if Emma’s husband was mocking him. Maybe not. Not only did the two of them seem comfortable together, but there was a guilelessness to his manner that was not unlike Dad’s. “Look at the size of this window.”

  Emma went on. “Listen, Lee, you know Mom. She has to see for herself. And I think if you told her about Roman, she’d understand why you’re living here, and she could stop blaming herself for the way you turned out.”

  “I like the way he turned out,” Roman said with a smirk. He was no longer the hired help, not on this side of the border, and he could say what he pleased.

  Emma wasn’t affronted—in fact, she agreed. She tousled Lee’s hair and said, “We all do. But it’s time to stop being so cryptic and weird with the family and tell them what’s what.”

  Lee thought of his mother, bucking up and triggering the Algorithm (albeit at the last possible moment), moving in with a man with whom she had nothing in common, and cranking out the requisite boy and girl like every other obedient Boomer. “Mom would never understand.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Emma set down a bag and pulled a cloth bundle from it. At first, Lee wondered why she’d wrapped the vodka so securely; it wasn’t as if it was necessary to smuggle it in. But as she unrolled the corner to show him the blue and brown patchwork, he recognized it as Mom’s latest quilt.

  “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “I’m not. Mom is.” Emma shook it out, and he saw several borders had been added, enough to make the quilt far too big for a child’s crib. She nudged Roman off the bed, heaved open the heavy quilt and shook it out. It flapped, then settled. It made the homemade mattress look substantial, even cozy. “When I told her I was having a girl first, she decided this one was meant to be yours all along.”

  It fit the broad bed perfectly. No longer a baby quilt—a wedding quilt. They looked at it together, brother and sister side by side, and Emma brushed her pinkie against his and added quietly, “She’ll be glad to know you’re not alone.”

  Lee watched Roman join Howard at the window and point out the various landmarks of interest that could be seen from their vantage point. Even in the soft morning light, he was all harsh angles and planes—dark, rangy, and vaguely dangerous. And Lee’s heart leapt at the mere sight of him.

  “Not alone doesn’t begin to describe it,” Lee murmured. “For the first time since I can remember, not only do I think of my future with hope instead of dread, but scarily enough, I’m actually…happy.”

  EPILOGUE

  “WELL, IF IT isn’t the Professor,” Layla called out brightly.

  Lee stood in the entryway of the Sugar Bowl Cafe and weighed the probability of someone who’d grown up in the Taxable District having seen a sugar bowl in anything other than a pre-Plague storybook. And then he conjectured how common it was in the District to keep bees. And then he wondered how beekeeping might be taxed—did the Office of Levee send someone out to count the insects? And all the while, his eyes raked up and down the hundreds upon hundreds of business cards tacked around the entryway.

  Don’t trust the ones that look bent up on purpose, Dot had advised. The ones trying too hard to look old. Them are always scammers.

  Those, he’d said absently. And he’d counted himself lucky that his head had sustained no permanent damage.

  It had been a relief to decide Layla hadn’t set him up that fateful day. After a semester in the District, he’d begun to pick up on the nuances of the dialect’s more subtle cadences. It was easier now to determine who was mocking him, and who was actually being pleasant. Layla had never been anything but sincere. Lee suspected she’d always seen his love affair with R
oman as a modern-day Romeo and Juliet. Sans the poison…unless the Orange Malt were to be considered.

  He found a seat where the glass baubles cast a spray of rainbows across the tabletop, brushed away a few ants, and turned over his coffee cup. Layla bustled over with the pot. “I see you been working hard on your stitching,” she said. “You could get a pretty good side hustle going with that someday.”

  Lee ran a finger down his sleeve and traced the embroidery stitches his mother had shown him. Vines. Chains. Motifs. Blues, mostly. Some bright, some deep, some pale. All of them contrasted vividly with the dull brown of his overcoat. He’d started the embroidery at the cuffs. Soon the sleeves would be full, and he wouldn’t need to feel so dowdy in the garment. By then, though, the summer heat would have set in, and he’d have no reason to wear it. He toyed with an embroidered paisley and smiled to himself, imagining the students’ hoots and hollers when he rolled it out next fall, fully embellished. And then he considered how striking it would look with yellow accents, to match the stitching of the plaid patch. He’d have to see what shades of yellow were available on his next visit to the thread-pickers.

  Before he was too far into his first coffee, Roman dragged out the seat across from him and fell into it, all angles and planes, one long leg sticking out precariously into the narrow aisle. “Thinking more of those deep thoughts of yours?”

  Lee reached across the table and threaded his fingers through Roman’s. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just sitting here, enjoying my coffee and soaking in the ambiance.”

  Roman’s sleek black hair slipped forward to hang over one eye. Lee’s fingers itched to brush it back off his forehead, but he wouldn’t be able to reach it without knocking over the condiment caddy. Besides, it would just slide right back where it wanted to go, anyway. “So, I’ve been thinking,” Roman said…but then Layla came over to take his order, and chitchat about her brother’s band, and make them both promise to be at the next Bonfire.