by Неизвестный
While We Wait
by J. M. Snyder
Copyright © 2006 by J. M. Snyder
Please do not copy or reprint without permission.
Author: [email protected]
Website: http://jmsnyder.net
Jason is the only person in the waiting room when the two guys enter. As the door opens, he looks up from the magazine he isn't reading and almost smiles because the first guy is a kid his own age, early twenties, with a shock of bleached hair that hangs in front of his face. But when he shakes his head, throwing the hair aside, Jason sees the hard green gaze staring him down and his smile dies. The kid steps into the room and stops, the way a prospective buyer steps into a run-down apartment and studies his surroundings -- with an air of vague disgust, as if one can't possibly believe he might be interested in this place. He takes in the overstuffed furniture in muted pastel hues that hint at color, the leafy potted plants in the corners, the low wooden tables covered in old issues of People and Sports Illustrated, and his expression never changes. The glare in his eyes never fades.
He holds the door for the man behind him. He's older than the kid is, much older -- the first thought that pops into Jason's mind is this is Dad, only there's no family resemblance between the two. The kid is tall and thin, almost gangly, all elbows and long limbs, and while the man is roughly the same height, he's well-built, stocky in the places where men over thirty-five usually are. An uncle then, a good fifteen, twenty years older than the kid is. His skin is deeply tanned and lined like old leather, his short, dark hair peppered with gray. When he walks, he favors his left leg. The kid frowns at the leg as the older man passes him. "Does it hurt much?" he wants to know. He speaks loudly, like he wants the whole waiting room to overhear, then glances around to see if anyone's listening. Quickly, Jason drops his gaze back to the magazine open in his lap.
"It's okay," the man replies. Jason hears the door latch shut and dares to look up again. Seeing him, the man nods, a polite gesture that makes the boy with him scowl harder. A thin hand takes the man's arm possessively, then trails down the sleeve of his bulky winter coat to lace through his thick fingers. An uncle, Jason thinks again, as the kid guides the man to the reception desk.
Before the nurse behind the desk can speak, the kid tells her, "We have an appointment." No shit, Jason wants to say. He refuses to look up from the magazine again because he knows that's what the kid wants. He can practically feel those eyes boring into him, begging to be acknowledged. Jason isn't playing the audience here. "At ten o'clock," the kid continues in his loud hear me voice. "With Doctor --"
"Sign in, please," the nurse interrupts.
Jason senses the kid's irritation. It radiates from him in waves like summer heat. Jason ducks his head and raises the magazine to hide his smirk. Put you in your place, didn't she? They're both here for appointments. It's a freaking doctor's office, for Christ's sake. What, does he think Jason's just sitting here for the hell of it?
"Wesley," the man warns. His is a deep voice that rumbles through the room, soft and commanding like distant thunder. From his weary tone, Jason suspects he has to reprimand the boy often.
Wesley sighs. "Sign in, she said."
Without raising his head, Jason watches them over the top of the magazine. The man signs the clipboard -- left-handed, because his other hand is held tight between both of Wesley's own. The closer the kid leans into him, the more Jason begins to think maybe an attraction stronger than family binds the two together. His groin stirs at the thought, because the boy is nice looking and the old man isn't that old, but then the pain in his lower belly flares to life and he stifles the thought. "Put my name, too," Wesley murmurs, watching the man write. Even when he's trying to keep it down, Jason has no trouble hearing him halfway across the room.
"I'm the patient here," the man replies. There's a faint humor in his tone, as if he thinks Wesley's being cute. Silently, Jason agrees.
"I'm here with you," Wesley argues. "Put me down, too."
Behind the desk, the nurse rolls her eyes, annoyed. "Whichever one of you has the appointment," she tells them.
The man gives Wesley an indulgent smile that lights up his brown eyes and takes years off his weathered face. "Me," he says. There it is again, something Jason can't quite place that hints at more than avuncular affection. The eyes, maybe, or the fingers that squeeze Wesley's own. With the slightest tug, he starts to move away from the desk.
"I'll need to see your insurance card, please," the nurse says. She glances at the clipboard and adds, "Mr. Fordham?"
Mr. Fordham stops. "Right." Awkwardly he digs into his back pocket and extracts a wallet as battered and worn as his lined cheeks. Without letting go of Wesley's hand, he tries to extract a thin card from the folds of leather. "I've got it here --"
Wesley takes the wallet, which Mr. Fordham surrenders. "In the front part, hon," he says, watching the kid root through plastic and cash for the elusive insurance card. Jason is sure he hears him say hon, though the man speaks softly and he's half a room away. Hon, worlds more intimate than son. If Jason's right and they are lovers ... the thought makes him want to swoon, it's too precious. He's picked up boys at clubs and parties -- one of the reasons he's here now, to be honest, because he can't keep his pants on around a pretty face or a hard dick -- but he doesn't move in circles where he sees men together very often. He sees them hook up, blowjobs in restrooms and quick fucks in the back of a car at the edge of a dark parking lot, but this is his first couple, with the exception of Robin Williams and what's-his-face in The Birdcage. At twenty, away from home for the first time in his life, Jason doesn't look at a boy he likes and think forever. To him, sometimes? When he's horny and looking to score, he can't think into the dawn, let alone years down the road.
But Wesley can't be much older than he is himself. Hell, who's he kidding? The kid is barely legal. This Mr. Fordham must have money, then, Jason decides, if he can keep a boy like this interested. In Jason's mind, there's nothing all that great about one dick over the next, so he doesn't see any reason to tie himself down to just one man. He likes variety. He likes partying. He likes checking out of the dorm Friday night and cruising with his boys -- his boys, he's had them all, at one time or another, they're a fun bunch -- hopping from party to party, getting high, getting drunk, getting laid, crashing somewhere to sleep it off and starting all over again the next night. Every weekend's the same, party through Monday, isn't that what college is all about?
"There," Mr. Fordham says, easily snagging Jason's attention. "Right there, Wes. That's the one I use."
Wesley pulls out the card in question and hands it to the nurse. She disappears into the back and Mr. Fordham starts to head into the waiting area, but Wesley doesn't move. Between them, their arms stretch out, bound by their clasped hands. "She's going to give it back," he says. "Or do you need to sit down? Grey? How's it feel?"
"I'm tired," the man -- Grey? -- says in response. Another squeeze of Wesley's hand and he lets go. "You get it, will you?"
"Sure." Wesley watches him move toward the chairs where Jason sits. His green eyes soften as he looks after the older man, but when he flicks that gaze to Jason, they harden again. You want to fight about it? those eyes ask.
Jason isn't sure what he could possibly be so pissed about, but he turns back to his magazine. He doesn't want to find out.
When the nurse comes back with Mr. Fordham's insurance card, Wesley asks, "Is there anything he needs to be filling out? Because like I told you on the phone this morning, he's in too much pain to be getting up and trotting over here every time you feel like calling out his name."
Jason glances at Mr. Fordham, who found a seat across the aisle fro
m him. He sits with his head back, resting against the wall behind him, face etched in pain. One hand hovers above his stomach. Jason wonders if he's got the same thing he himself has -- a sharp stabbing in his lower abdomen that he first noticed Monday night. If that were the extent of it, he could live without seeing a doctor. Cramps, he thought at first. A good dump would clear it out.
Only yesterday morning he woke up to pain like a dagger twisting in his gut, and every time he has to piss, a line of fire shoots through his dick. That shit isn't something he can tolerate. He puts off going to the bathroom for as long as he can and when he does, he has to hold onto the back of the toilet to keep from buckling with the pain. Today he actually moaned, it was so horrible, flames burning deep in the middle of his half-hard cock to spread through his balls and groin like aftershocks following an earthquake. Sweet Jesus, he can't take much more of that. He almost passed out from it this morning, what will tomorrow bring?
He refuses to think about that, the same way he refuses to think what might be festering inside him. Where did he stick that thing this weekend? At least three different mouths, a willing ass or two, he doesn't know for sure. He used condoms though, that's the thing. As long as he keeps it covered ... isn't that how it works? Shields engaged, no Klingons breech the hull, and the bridge is safe, right?
Right?
Through half-closed eyes, the older man notices Jason's look and gives him a wan smile. At the desk, in that confrontational voice of his, Wesley tells anyone who cares to listen, "You can give me the card. I'm his companion." As if the nurse might argue the point.
Companion. For some reason the word calls to Jason's mind images of the two men strolling down leaf-strewn paths or lingering in bed naked between the sheets. He wonders who tops who. He's heard older men can hold out during sex, make it last, keep it up longer and harder and damn, but that makes him hurt. In his mind he sees himself spread out across an unmade bed, white sheets twined around his legs and pillows crammed beneath his head and chest to prop him up. He sees this older man above him, this Grey Fordham, dark hair streaked with age curling over tanned skin. He imagines a man like him would be gentle, with his large hands and blunt fingers. His kisses would be soft, damp, his touch trembling, awe-struck above Jason's young, tight flesh.
He's staring, he knows, but he isn't seeing the man anymore. He sees deeper, past the confines of clothing and the strangeness of unfamiliarity -- the thick chest bared, ruddy nipples peeking through tufts of graying hair that curve over the once-smooth stomach to gather in a wild patch at his crotch. A man like this would be hung, Jason thinks, a big dick that he can wrap both hands around, a thick shaft that would ease into him as he arched back, slow movements measured throughout the years to perfection. His hands clench the magazine in unconscious fists and the pain in his belly sharpens with the thought of being pierced by Mr. Fordham. Does Wesley call him Grey when they make love? Does he hold onto this pissy attitude of his, or crumble apart beneath those loving hands? Who sets the pace between them? Fiery and fast like the brash youth, or deliberate and unhurried like his partner? If he wasn't here because of his own careless exploits this weekend, or if that damn kid would smile at him just once, or if Grey Fordham looked at him a little more encouragingly, Jason would try to find out. The three of them crammed into the small restroom just off the nurse's office ... who would object?
Footsteps approach and Jason looks up as Wesley stops in front of his friend. He holds a clipboard out to Mr. Fordham but scowls across the aisle at Jason. "What the hell are you looking at?" he wants to know.
Nothing, he thinks -- so much for a quick romp with this kid. He's the type to get offended if Jason suggests it, even if he is thinking the same thing. Which he's not, that's obvious. Jason drops his gaze to the magazine again, his lips pursed, as his throat tries to work around a reply. Jesus, dude, keep your old man. He ain't worth getting all worked up about, you know?
Before he can reply, though, Mr. Fordham takes the clipboard and Wesley's wrist. His hand surrounds the boy's easily. "Wesley, sit," he murmurs. When he gets no response, he adds, "Come on, hon. You're making me nervous. Have a seat."
There's that hon again. It works on Wesley like a magical charm, dropping him into the chair beside Mr. Fordham's without argument. "Keep your fucking eyes in your head," he growls.
"Wes," his companion cautions. Oh no, you didn't, Jason thinks, gripping the magazine to keep from saying anything out loud. Trying to diffuse the moment, Mr. Fordham flips through the papers on the clipboard and asks, "I'm to fill these out?"
Wesley sulks in his chair, glowering across the aisle at Jason. "Yeah." He kicks out his long legs and one sneaker strikes the table by Jason's chair with a faint thud. As if he likes the sound, Wesley does it again. Jason's arm vibrates where it rests on the edge of the table. Wesley kicks a third time, harder, as if taunting Jason to look up and acknowledge him, to say something that will start a fight between them. Just call me back to see the doctor already, Jason prays. He's been sitting here for too long as it is. A little burning sensation when he pees, is that too hard to fix? He glances at the reception desk and stares at the nurse but she ignores him. Call me back and let me wait in one of the examining rooms, please. Just get me away from this jerk.
A fourth kick draws Mr. Fordham's attention away from the clipboard. "Wesley, please," he says in his gruff, soft voice. From the corner of his eye Jason sees him place one weathered hand on Wesley's knee. For a moment Jason thinks he'll kick the table again anyway, just out of spite, the way little kids try to get in one last swing after an adult has broken up their fight.
But no. Wesley pulls his legs beneath his chair, out of harm's way. Then he covers Mr. Fordham's hand with one of his own. Long, thin fingers slip between the hand and his knee. The older man sits up, leaning over the clipboard that is now balanced precariously in his lap. Once again, he doesn't let go of Wesley as he writes. "Be good," he whispers.
Jason barely hears the words, but he sees the smirk they bring to Wesley's face. Is it my turn yet? he wonders, glancing at the nurse. This time she looks up from the computer and sees him. She looks over at the two men across from him and reaches for another clipboard, then turns her attention to Jason again. "Mr. Harraway?" she asks, holding up the clipboard and a pen.
God. He feels Wesley's hot stare as he folds the magazine and sets it on the table. He knows the kid is watching him -- would it look really bad if he took another seat on the other side of the room? Away from these two, and whatever relationship ties them together. Why didn't he talk one of his boys into coming with him today? His roommate Matt, for instance, or Chris, who lives down the hall from them. Then he'd have someone to turn to so Wesley's dumb anger wouldn't fall on his shoulders alone. Check out the grave digger, Chris would say -- his term for young boys who date older men. They'd get a good laugh over that. Or Matt, he has no pride, he'd lean across the aisle and ask straight up if the old guy's a good fuck, and Jason would giggle so damn hard, his stomach would ache for days.
It already aches, he reminds himself. At the reception desk, he takes the clipboard that the nurse offers him. "How long do you think this will take?" he asks, glancing over the paperwork. Medical history, health insurance, shit like that. He's never had to fill this out before -- his mom always does it back home. "My appointment's at 9:45."
"Just fill those out please," she replies.
He realizes that isn't quite an answer. When he starts to rephrase the question, the nurse gives him the same no-nonsense look she gave Wesley when he was up here. "I need those filled out first, Mr. Harraway."
Jason nods and drifts back to his chair. His gaze trails over the floor, Mr. Fordham's dark leather loafers, Wesley's bulky sneakers, denim-clad legs and the hands clasped on a bony knee. For some reason he can't quite articulate, those hands bother him. Such a small gesture, nonchalant and so damn intimate that it hurts him in places he doesn't like to think about.
Fill out the forms, yes. See t
he doctor, get something for his stupid dick and get back to the dorm. To other boys his own age who don't glare at him, boys who like what they see when they look his way, boys who share among friends and don't cling to only one old man.
Jason can't concentrate. Every time Wesley shifts, his chair groans beneath his weight, and Mr. Fordham constantly rustles his own forms, it bothers him. And those hands, ugh. Why didn't he insist that someone come with him? Chris said he felt a little funny the past few days. He should be here, probably has the same thing Jason does. Didn't they get together Sunday night? In the front seat of Matt's car, a blowjob on the way home. Jason remembers because even then he had a tickle in the tip of his dick, though when he came in Chris's mouth, he forgot all about it in the pleasure rush. If Chris were here, they could snigger about these two freaks across from him and when the nurse finally got off her lazy ass and called him back, they would fool around in the examining room. Chris is a trip -- he'd rummage through all the drawers while they waited for the doctor to appear, he'd find the hidden stash of lollipops, he'd swipe a few of the tiny trial-size tubes of lubrication for later on tonight. Yes, he should've brought Chris. He flips through the papers on his clipboard and sighs. There are so damn many left to fill out.
Mr. Fordham is thinking the same thing. He stretches his hand the way people do when they've been writing for too long and their muscles are starting to cramp, and with a slight laugh, he says, "All these questions."
Though he isn't talking to him, Jason looks up anyway. Beside Mr. Fordham, Wesley straightens in his chair, reaching for the clipboard. "I'll do this for you." If he's trying to keep his voice down, he fails miserably.
As the clipboard changes hands, a door opens and Jason turns around. An older couple enter the waiting room, an elderly man and his wife, the both of them hobbling on canes and holding tight to each other. Great, he thinks, pissed for no real reason. When he gets back to the dorm, he's going to roll Matt's lazy ass out of bed and spend the rest of the day trying to forget how alone he feels right now. The couple creep towards the reception desk and across from him, Wesley pulls those long legs of his up into the chair. Turning sideways, he leans back against Mr. Fordham's shoulder, the clipboard propped up on his thighs. He looks like a praying mantis, curled into himself like that. Jason resents the fact that he has someone to touch.
