by Неизвестный
Mr. Fordham rests his head on top of Wesley's, his nose buried in the boy's bleached locks. As Jason watches, his eyes slip closed and the lines etched into his face begin to fade like pencil marks beneath an eraser. One hand stays pressed low on his belly, where the pain must be. His other hand eases between Wesley and the back of his chair to disappear somewhere in the folds of the boy. A faint smile crosses the kid's face and he shifts into a more comfortable position, his knees parting just enough to tell Jason exactly where that hand has taken hold. He's pulled that one himself, many times, feeling up a stiffening cock through the thin pocket of a pair of jeans. He thinks of Mr. Fordham's hand -- Grey's hand, the man has a name and it's Grey, whatever that stands for, it's odd and kind of kinky in a strange way -- and he imagines the large knuckles rubbing into his own pocket. Unaware of Jason's adulterous thoughts, Wesley lets his companion touch him secretly and breathe in the scent of his hair while he scribbles over the forms. A postcard perfect moment. Jason wants to say something to get them to look his way, to include him in the private scene, but nothing comes to mind except that hand on him so he keeps silent.
At the registration desk, the woman tells the nurse that her husband has an appointment. "Don't we all?" Jason mutters. He risks a glance at Wesley and is pleased to find the kid looking back. "An appointment doesn't mean shit in this place." Say something, he thinks, watching the thoughts turn over behind those hard eyes. Tell me to shut up even, just let me be a part of whatever togetherness you have.
Wesley scowls at him but turns back to the forms without comment. So much for conversation. Mr. Fordham looks like he's fallen asleep, all wrapped up around the kid, it's almost obscene. Jason hates him, hates them both. He presses the tip of his pen to the clipboard so hard that it tears through the paper when he tries to write his name. At the desk, the nurse says something to the old couple about filling out a few forms.
Without reading the questions about his medical history and different things he might have, Jason draws a line down the sheet of paper, running it through all of the boxes marked Never. Wesley must be on the same form, because Jason can see him make little check marks as he moves down the page. He mutters under his breath, loud enough that the geezers at the counter can probably hear him, unless they have their hearing aids turned down low. Does he talk like this normally? Jason wonders. He's sure the kid's a noisy fuck, one of those guys who sounds like a porn star when he's getting it up the ass, oh yes and harder and faster, Daddy, FASTER, uh uh uh. It must get his old man off, working a tight body like that, hearing it writhe and moan beneath him like he has a dick of gold, or something. Jason knows it'd get him off, and the kid isn't even really his type. Too skinny, not enough fat on his thighs. No cushion for the pushing, he once joked with Matt as they checked out boys on the quad between classes, but yeah, he'd do him. To be honest, there isn't many he wouldn't do, given the chance.
When Wesley hits a word he doesn't understand, he asks Mr. Fordham about it. With each question, the tone of his voice hardens, as if he's personally affronted to be asked such drivel. "Jaundice? What's that?"
His companion rouses himself. Brushing his cheek against Wesley's hair, he answers softly, patiently, the way a teacher responds to a frustrated student. "When your skin takes on a yellowish tinge," Mr. Fordham says. He tightens his arm around Wesley and whatever he feels in the kid's pocket brings a smile to his face. "Sometimes smokers get it. Sometimes --"
"You don't smoke," Wesley announces, checking off the box and moving onto the next question. A little further down the page, he stumbles over psoriasis, then hypertension. "What the fuck?" he curses. "You don't have any of this shit."
Mr. Fordham laughs quietly. Everything about this man is quiet and understated. It makes Jason wonder if maybe he isn't the one to get all worked up in bed. How old is he anyway? The oldest guy Jason was ever with was a grad student he ran into at a frat party last semester. They got it on in a back bedroom, nothing much -- Jason managed to get a hand down the guy's pants but that's about it. He had just graduated from State, came back for the party because he was an alum, so that made him what, twenty-three? If that. This guy is twice that age.
At the laughter, Wesley grins. "They're too damn nosy," he mutters, flipping the page. Jason scrawls his signature at the bottom of his own form, then moves onto the next. More questions -- he almost says something but he knows he'll be ignored.
Minutes pass slowly like water dripping from a leaky tap. The elderly couple shuffle to a pair of seats close to the nurse's desk so they won't have far to go to return the forms. Behind Jason, the door opens but shuts again, then opens wide as a woman enters. She's young, maybe a few years older than he is, and already has that frazzled look about her that he's always associated with his own mother. This woman holds a bulky baby carrier in one hand while two small children play hide-and-seek between her legs. The girl in pigtails can't be more than five, and her younger brother's buzz cut leaves his ears red from the wind outside. "Kids, come on," the woman sighs, trying to disentangle herself from the children. "Brenna, no. Stop it -- Bobby, please."
The little boy bumps the carrier and inside the baby starts to cry, a jagged wail that cut through the quiet waiting room like a dull blade. "Bobby! Watch it!"
"Kids," Jason mutters. He looks up to see Wesley frowning at the children, who have begun to chatter excitedly between themselves. Jason thinks he's probably a little peeved that someone louder than he has shown up to steal the spotlight. "Gotta love them."
"No you don't," Wesley replies. His gaze shifts to Jason and he's about to say something else when he remembers that they aren't friends. So he glances over his shoulder at Mr. Fordham to keep Jason from intruding into the small sanctuary they've created together. "How're you holding up, baby?"
Baby, an odd name for one so much older than himself. Jason watches Mr. Fordham's eyelids flutter at the term of endearment. In his mind, he hears Wesley cry out as the man moves within him. The more Jason pictures the two having sex, the more Wesley's features blur with his own, letting him in on the scene. He's more participant than watcher. He feels each thrust, and those hands on his body, those lips kissing his flesh. Grey Fordham fucks him hard and steady with languid movements while Jason drives into Wesley beneath him, a twisted threesome, something he hasn't tried yet. Would it be a bad thing, to add himself into the equation? To become a part of this relationship, to have a lover, a single lover, these two across from him who are one being, one soul in two bodies? Younger and older, the best of both worlds, lust like a bright bolt of lightning splitting the sky, love like the sturdy trunk of an ageless tree. He wants a taste of that desire raining down or thundering in the distance. He wants to get swept away in the storm. He wants to lose himself in another, one man, a lover like he's never known before. He wants to be someone to lean against like this Mr. Fordham; he wants someone to lean against him like this Wesley kid.
He wants in. Is that asking too much? He wants someone else, another half to make him whole. In this waiting room, he's painfully aware of the fact that he is the only one alone. He hates it, and he hates Wesley for the sheer fact that he has someone with him when Jason does not.
If Jason has any doubts about their relationship, Wesley kills them quick when he laughs at a question on the last form. "Last time you had sex," he says with a wide, suggestive grin. "Do they mean intercourse or jerking off?"
Jason flips through the remaining sheets of paper on his clipboard to find the question on his own form. Good one, he thinks. What exactly did they want to know? The last time he stuck it to someone, or the last time he got it himself? This past Saturday and two weeks ago, respectively. He likes the top, and there aren't many guys he's willing to put out for. But if you ask me right ... He glances over at Mr. Fordham, but the man isn't looking his way. He's nuzzling the top of Wesley's head, and from between the folds of the kid's body, Jason can see the stubbly nubs of his fingers as he strokes Wesley's stomach. An acrid bitterness ris
es in him at that tender touch. The last time I came -- blowjob? Sunday. Handjob? In the shower this morning. Alone. Thank you very much.
"They probably mean intercourse," Mr. Fordham says. His lips are buried in Wesley's hair and when he speaks, the bleached strands fan out beneath his breath. "When was it?"
Another laugh, this one childish and bright enough that the little kids look up from where they play on the floor in front of the bathroom door. "Bobby," their mother warns. She gives Mr. Fordham a distrustful glance, as if Wesley is no more than twelve and the man he's with is a perv for feeling up such a young boy in public. Suddenly the bathroom seems too close for her, but when she looks around she realizes that it's as far away from them as she can get without leaving the waiting room completely, so she settles for reeling her children in to her instead. "Come here. Brenna, stop it. I said come here."
Wesley ignores this -- he only sees his companion, and his eyes dance like faceted jewels when he looks at the man beside him. Jason wonders if there's anything he can say, anything at all, to make those eyes turn his way without hardening. "When was what?" Wesley asks coyly.
Mr. Fordham meets that laughing gaze with an amused look on his face. Wesley wants you to say it, Jason thinks. The bastard. He wants you to ask him when's the last time you two had sex so he can rub it in. Never mind the fact that he and Wesley don't know each other -- Jason feels the sting of competition in everything this kid does, his loud voice, his exaggerated motions. I'm with him, it's written between his words. He's mine, and you have no one here with you. No one at all. Every little gesture drives that point home.
"Wesley," Mr. Fordham starts. He spares a glance at the mother and her kids, at the elderly couple falling asleep over their paperwork, at Jason across the aisle who meets those soft leather eyes and holds that steady gaze until the man has to look away. Say it, he prays. The word sex would have a prim and almost proper sound to it in his voice, Jason imagines. His whole body hums with anticipation. Say it while you're looking at me. Come on. But he turns to Wesley again before he speaks, and what he says makes Jason's stomach clench in disappointment. "You can answer that one yourself."
"The last time I had sex?" Wesley asks. He laughs again and the little girl on the other side of the room laughs with him. "Or the last time you did? Because I think they probably want to know about you here --"
Quietly, Mr. Fordham cautions, "The answer to both questions better be the same."
There's an undercurrent in his voice that stills Wesley's laughter immediately. "I'm just playing," he pouts. Bending over the clipboard as if to keep anyone else from reading what he writes, he asks, "When did we do laundry? Tuesday, right?"
Jason pictures the scene in his mind. He sees them in one of the high-rise condominiums that have built up along the river in the past few years -- a guy like Grey Fordham would have an apartment up near the top, with a balcony off the kitchen that looks out over the footbridges crossing into the city. A man like him would be able to afford an excellent view, waterfront property, and a tight little boy to make the place home. Jason sees Wesley as the one who does the dishes and vacuums the rugs, probably in the nude. Long spindly legs, long torso, long arms and Jesus knows ... he curbs that thought when the pain pricks at his belly again. He doesn't have to think about how long this kid might be, or where he'd like to feel that length. It'd fill his mouth, he knows.
They would have a washer/dryer combo because all the condos have them -- Jason's been to a few on the lower side of the city, about as far away from the river as you can get, but no matter how seedy the place, they all seem to have washers and dryers stacked one on top of the other in a corner of the kitchen or in a closet down the hall. In his daydream, he sees Wesley -- naked, of course -- bending into the open closet to pull out warm, wet clothes fresh from the washer. When he stands, the damp sleeves of clean shirts slap his bare chest and stomach as he crams the clothing into the dryer above him.
In the foyer, a key jiggles in the lock and the front door opens to Mr. Fordham, home from work. Tired from a day in the office, or a few long hours in the field. With his tanned coloring, his large hands, he'd work as a dispatcher maybe, or a supervisor in a plant, something white collar enough to bring in the dough and keep him out of the heavy labor, but blue collar nonetheless. A man's man, that's what he is. He'd spend his time around guys like himself, older men who rarely talk of families or a life beyond work. When someone asks about his home life, Mr. Fordham probably refers to Wesley as the wife. Never she, never by name. "I'm only working to keep the wife happy," he'd say in that soft voice of his, or "Can't go out tonight, guys. The wife needs some loving, you know how it goes." And his co-workers would laugh because they think they know exactly how it goes, to be ruled by another they love. Only they don't know it's Wesley that Mr. Fordham goes home to. They don't know him outside of work, this quiet man who sits in a doctor's office with odd pains and holds onto his young lover like he's clinging to life itself.
When he comes home, the first thing he does is glance down the hall and he'll see Wesley, skin glistening where the wet clothes touched him, bare ass and long legs and bleached blonde hair. Mr. Fordham would close the door behind him gently, so the kid doesn't hear. He'd shrug off his coat and let it fall to the floor. Step out of his shoes as he makes his way down the hall. Undo the top few buttons of his shirt, loosen his belt, tug the bottom of his shirt out of his work pants. Wesley catches sight of him from the corner of his eye as Mr. Fordham leans against the wall, arms crossed, to watch his lover struggle with the laundry. "Hey, baby," Wesley says. In Jason's mind, he isn't as strident as he is in person.
"Hey yourself, hon." Wesley gets the clothes into the dryer and slams the door shut before starting the load. The sound of low tumbling turns around them and Mr. Fordham steps up to his lover to trace the curve of that long, thin spine with one hand. As he reaches that tender ass, Wesley turns and finds himself in a rough kiss. That hand clenches the kid's fleshy buttocks, the other strokes the back of Wesley's neck. "God," Mr. Fordham sighs -- Jason can almost hear it, can feel it, it makes his dick hurt -- and Wesley's already unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers playing quickly over the graying hair curled on his lover's chest.
With expert movements, he unfastens the belt and lets the work pants fall to the floor, where the buckle clanks on the hard wood. He's already aroused, his naked dick poking against the sheathed length in Mr. Fordham's briefs, and he'd ease the shirt off over those proud shoulders as he rubs into his lover's body. "Please," he'd whisper. Jason is quite sure the boy could whisper if it suited him. "Grey, please."
Mr. Fordham -- Grey -- holds Wesley to him as he kicks over a basket of clean, dry clothes waiting to be folded. He lowers Wesley to the pile, still warm from the dryer. He cradles his head in both hands, so large that they frame the kid's long face, and when he presses into the tight, sweet darkness, he kisses away the moan of pleasure that escapes Wesley's lips. He'd move slow, because he strikes Jason as a patient lover, and the kid would come twice before the old man managed to find release. Maybe three times, Jason thinks that might be wonderful, multiple orgasms, a string like pearls one after another. The closest he's ever come to something like that was a quick blowjob that ended in Matt turning over and jamming his ass down onto Jason's still-hard cock, but did that count? It was almost one long orgasm, not two or three. Not lying in warm clothing and feeling a man move within in him as he came again and again.
After sex, they'd lie tangled in the clean clothes and Wesley might nip at Mr. Fordham's exposed chest, his neck and shoulders and collarbone, the way an overeager puppy plays with an older dog. Grey would let him lick and bite, drowsy from their love. They'd lie curled together like that as the sun grew golden and shadows lengthened along the hall. Later Grey would make dinner while Wesley ran the clothing through the wash a second time. Two days later, pain blooms in Mr. Fordham's lower belly and Wesley calls the doctor, helps his lover dress, drives him to this waiting room, here, w
here Jason sits across from them and imagines a life like that. Would he do it? Give up his boys and his parties for one man? Could he?
He doesn't know. Last week he would've scorned the thought and now? Now he wonders if he'll ever get a chance to find out.
Jason finishes first. A perverse streak of satisfaction shoots through him as he stands and Wesley looks up -- he even permits himself a smile. What the hell does it matter? he wonders, but he can't help it. There's a part of him that wants Wesley to remember him, to think of him when he's lying in his lover's arms and wonder what it would be like to fuck him instead of the old man. And there's another, equal part that wants Mr. Fordham to take notice of him, because he's about Wesley's age and the guy apparently likes them young. The next time they have sex, Jason wants to be there, if only in their minds. He wants to be the one who eases into Wesley with measured strokes. He wants to be the young, fevered flesh that Grey cools with kisses.
He's sporting wood, he knows it, he knows Wesley knows it because the kid's gaze travels down from his face to find the tight wad crammed into the front of his jeans. Jason doesn't even try to hide it. He feels like someone took his hard dick, bent it in half, and forced it into pants a size too small for him. The pain in his lower abdomen stabs in time with the throb in his balls, the ache in his dick. He almost imagines his groin pulsing with each heartbeat. If they were alone in the waiting room -- no mother with her kids, no elderly couple -- he'd let his fingers brush across his crotch while Wesley watched him press into the pounding flesh. It's one of the things he does at parties when he's horny as hell and sees a cute guy checking him out. Trace the outline of his cock with his thumb like he's pretending that hand isn't his. It never is for long.
