by A. F. Henley
Jordan handed Ian the plates and cutlery and set down two plastic cups. "I hope Kool-Aid's all right. I'm trying to save the juice."
"We should have stopped for beer," Ian suggested. "Or wine."
Jordan began snapping open boxes. "I'm not a big drinker. Not when Cole's around anyway. Just in case something goes off."
Ian wasn't sure if Jordan would take offense to the question his tongue was itching to ask. He went ahead and said it anyway. "He's autistic, isn't he?"
"Chrissy tell you that?" Jordan asked and Ian nodded.
Jordan snorted his derision. "His official diagnosis is Asperger's Syndrome. It's just easier to say autistic to the more simple-minded. I don't have to explain as much that way."
"Must be difficult," Ian said, accepting a box of rice and shaking some on to his plate.
Jordan's tone was clipped when he replied. "It's not his fault."
"Of course not," Ian agreed. "I'm just saying, you're, what, twenty-two I think you said? That's got to be a lot of work."
Jordan didn't answer.
"How old is Cole?"
"Why?"
Ian frowned at his plate, fork hovering mid-lift. "Conversation?"
Another sideways glance was sent Ian's way and Jordan took two mouthfuls of food before he finally answered. "Eight."
Ian choked on a swallow. "Eight? But you're twenty-two! So you were only fourteen? How in the hell did that happen?"
Jordan reached for the TV remote and pressed the power button. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Your parents—"
"I don't want to talk about them either."
Channels began to pass quickly as Jordan skimmed through the few available. "How about a movie? I mostly have Disney, a couple of anime ... Oh! I could …" He flashed a quick glance at Ian's still stunned expression. "I could put on porn if you wanted. I've got a couple. Not very good quality or anything ..."
All right, so he didn't like to talk about his past. Ian could live with that. Things would come out. Eventually. They always did. The people that made another person into the person one became couldn't stay hidden forever. Parents hit pretty high on that scale. As did the woman that somehow gave one a son when one was only fourteen, and then turned that son over.
"I assume she's not in the picture then?" Ian said, continuing his own thought aloud and confusing Jordan to no end.
"There are no she's in my porn," Jordan replied with his forehead pinched into a furrow.
"I meant—" Ian cut himself off with a chuckle. "Never mind."
Sudden inspiration hit him. "Wait a minute! Chrissy's not Cole's mother is she?"
"What?" Jordan looked disgusted. "God, no!" His tone darkened. "And what about 'I don't want to talk about it' are you missing yet again?"
Ian winced internally. "All righty. So porn it is."
*~*~*
"Why do I get the feeling that you're just using me for my body?" Ian teased as Jordan moved against him. Even through clothing, arousal was obvious for both of them. Jordan was latched without pressure onto his neck, tasting, mouthing, enticing flesh to rise in thrilled bumps and flushes. Their cocks grinded against one another, hip-to-hip, pelvis over pelvis, and every move made Ian want to throw Jordan to the floor and ravage the young man until Jordan screamed his name.
Jordan merely grunted his reply, shifting position from prone to seated over Ian's lap, and began to tug at his own fastenings. "I can help," Ian said, letting the words fall short as Jordan dug into his jeans and freed a rigid body so hard that Ian was sure he could feel the throbbing on Jordan's behalf. "Damn, Jordan," Ian slipped his fingers over Jordan's straining head. "That's beautiful."
"Fuck me," Jordan demanded.
"My pleasure," Ian agreed, his hands ignoring both command and promise to grasp at Jordan's hips and draw Jordan up, over his chest, and into his mouth. Jordan fell forward with a moan, fingers scrabbling to hold the arm of the couch where Ian's head rested, then using that hold to thrust between Ian's lips.
That right there, Ian told himself. That was the taste his tongue had craved all week. That was the fill his throat had been trying to relive. It was a short-lived reward though.
"What—" Ian didn't need to finish the question as Jordan scooted back and began to undo Ian's belt. He couldn't take his eyes off Jordan's fingers as they pulled leather from where it tucked into itself, as it fumbled various forms of metal away—buckle, button, and zipper—and then drew his slacks off. Ian lifted his hips to assist the movement, bent first left, then right leg to unsheathe completely, before Jordan stood and followed suit.
Ian sat up, leaned forward and caught Jordan around the waist as Jordan stood in front of him. "I fucking love how much your body loves this," he sighed against Jordan's stomach. His lips brushed sparse hair, tight muscles. He dropped a kiss, another, before moving lower again.
"No," Jordan caught his chin. "Lay back and shift down a bit."
"Like this?" Ian's question faded to a soft groan as Jordan crawled on top of him. Knees seated beside his head, forearms stretched alongside his thighs, and memories of their first meeting came flooding back as Jordan touched tongue to cock and began a slow swirl. For a moment Ian did nothing more than watch: watch the flesh above him twitch, watch jaw tendons strain to accept his cock, enjoy the view of stomach muscles tensing and legs tightening, until Jordan's eyes found his own and gave him an upside-down smirk.
"You just going to eyeball me or what?"
"As often and for as long as I can," Ian told him back.
Jordan's grin was enough of a reply for Ian. He sought out the tip of Jordan's cock and the two of them lost themselves in the slippery sensation of lips and tongue, suction and friction until shaking and moaning gave way to explosive, mutual release.
*~*~*
Ian woke up alone on the couch, but not alone in the room. The hushed sounds of cartoon characters babbled in the background. I'm here, he thought. Still. He hadn't been nudged at godforsaken hours to be rushed from the apartment, or insistently told that he leave the moment they'd got off. That had to be some kind of a good sign.
"Morning, Cole," Ian said, turning on his side to study both television and child. There was no indication Cole had heard Ian speak, he didn't turn, his gaze didn't appear to leave the television set.
Bright, cheerful voices trilled words too soft for Ian to understand but they seemed to hold Cole's attention well enough. Ian tried again. "You like this show?"
"I've never seen it," Ian continued as though Cole had answered. "But that one guy there is pretty cute. What's he supposed to be? Some kind of mutated bunny or something? I used to watch a bunny too. He was a cool bunny though. Have you ever seen—?"
Cole turned suddenly with a grunt of something that had the potential to be a sound of pleasure and pointed. The cartoon had ended. The plink-plunk of piano music played to the line of dancing characters. Cole tilted his head and coerced a strange smile out of his facial muscles. It shouldn't have made Ian's heart jump the way it did. But it was more than just an expression from a child. It was the first time Ian had something other than rage, confusion, or a total lack of emotion on Cole's face.
He sat up slowly. "What's that there, Cole? What do you like?"
The bizarre almost-smile on Cole's face grew.
"The dancing? Do you like the dancing? Or is it the colors?" The blanket Ian didn't realize he'd had on him began to slip to the floor and he grabbed for it quickly. "Tell me, buddy."
As abruptly as the change had fallen, it disappeared. The show switched over to a new song while it ran its few credits, an electronic number, and though the cartoons continued their dancing march down the side of the screen as the words rolled by, Cole's delight had faded back to mild disinterest.
Ian tilted his head. The piano? Had it been the piano music?
He reached for his pants and shuffled them on underneath the blanket. "I'm going to make breakfast, Cole," Ian said. "Does your daddy like eggs?"
<
br /> Cole's body stilled. He turned his head the smallest degree to peek over his shoulder. "Bye, bye," he murmured.
"Do I take that as a no on the eggs?" Ian grinned. "Will peanut butter toast save me from getting kicked out?"
He was whisking eggs in a bowl when Jordan stumbled into the kitchen, peering through slitted eyes at the clock on the wall. "Late …"
Ian stopped stirring. "You have work?"
Jordan flopped into a chair. "Not until tonight. I'm just surprised Cole let me sleep. He's a schedule kid, freaks out if things get thrown off. Usually I have to get up at six and watch cartoons with him."
"Apparently one does not need to be awake to watch with him, one only needs to be in the same room," Ian smiled. "I took your place this morning."
"Hunh."
Ian's smile deepened at the sincerity of Jordan's surprise. "Oh, and about the eggs, if you were saving them for something I'll replace them. I just thought you might be hungry."
Jordan leaned back in the chair and grinned. "You don't think I'd already got my fair share of protein last night?"
"Hardly," Ian set the bowl down, wiped his fingers on the dishtowel and walked towards Jordan. "As a matter of fact, that's the kind of good-for-you stuff that you can never, ever get enough of."
He dragged a chair over the linoleum and sat in front of Jordan, right knee touching Jordan's left. "Are you working tomorrow as well?"
Jordan shook his head.
"Good," Ian reached out and traced Jordan's knee. "Will the two of you come over for dinner?"
"Why?"
"Nourishment?" Ian offered. "And free nonetheless." Fingertips slipped off Jordan's knee to trail up his thigh. "Besides, I have something I'd like to check on."
"You've seen just about all of that there is to see," Jordan teased.
Ian smirked. "Again, never enough. However, that's not what I meant. Well, not entirely what I meant." He lifted his hand and rested the back of his fingers on Jordan's jaw. "Will you? Please?"
Jordan snagged his wrist. "Ian, nothing's changed, okay? I'm not looking for a wedding ring here. So long as you get that."
"I know."
"I just don't want you to end up thinking I've led you on or anything."
Ian laughed. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
Jordan's expression darkened. "I'm serious."
Ian pinched Jordan's chin with a mock growl and dropped his hand back to his lap. "What time does Cole eat? I don't want to throw his schedule off."
"Supper?"
Ian stood to hide the grin. He's caving, Ian thought. He just hasn't realized it yet. "Yeah, supper."
"Six."
"I'll send a cab for the two of you." He picked up the bowl, flashed another smile and held up the whisk. "So. There we go. What do you like in your omelet?"
Cadenza
The windows of the loft were open, the breeze doing its best to draw out the smell of snuffed candle wax that continued to linger around the dining table. Ian had lit, then doused, re-lit and extinguished, then completed the process yet again, and each time the ghost of wax had left a stronger presence. It didn't bode well with the already strong odor of fish. He'd chosen salmon, since tuna had been the only meat product he'd seen in the apartment, then worried if the color of the flesh might seem too strange for Cole and picked out a milder perch as well. While his research into the intricacies of autistic-based disorders had been short, he did learn that a disruption in routine could cause severe anxiety. So if fish was Cole's preference, he'd decided that fish it would be, then spent the next several hours kicking himself over the decision. What if it wasn't a preference at all? What if it was merely a matter of being all Jordan could afford to buy? Maybe the assumption would seem callous somehow? Maybe they were both sick to death of tuna and would be disappointed with fish? A harried run out to the grocers followed the internal berating and roast chicken breast was added to the menu.
He'd debated pasta, considered potatoes, and thrown both thoughts aside for a rice dish. Then he'd tossed a simple salad and made a weak vinaigrette as dressing. Dessert: a chocolate torte and plain old-fashioned vanilla ice cream, and wine, a light Sauvignon Blanc, completed the menu.
He'd lowered the lights, then turned them back up. He'd put on music, switched genres twice, and finally settled on a classic station that was having a program on piano concertos. A lucky find, considering. And when everything was set: the food prepared and waiting, the lights just so and the wine chilled, Ian painstakingly polished the one item of his grandfather's that graced his living space so eloquently–an 1877 Steinway upright piano. It was rosewood and inlaid with delicate fretwork, worn at the edges but with a finish that never let one down if one offered a diligent dusting. It was one of the few that Ian had seen that looked quite so ornate. But even if it had been a beat-up, scratched and marred box full of yellowing keys, Ian would have still loved it. Memory alone heightened that devotion.
Ian had never been a strong pianist. His grandfather, on the other hand, had loved it and excelled at it. Though his granddad had never played professionally, he was always called out to play, be it at a church or pub. It was the Sunday afternoons and the after-dinner "leave the women, Ian, and come on up here beside me" moments that Ian had loved the most though.
Ian didn't see the cab pull up though he would admit to more than a few quick walks towards the large windows to peer down into the street. So when he finally heard the harsh buzz that told him company had arrived, his face broke out in a wide grin.
He pressed the intercom and leaned towards it, "May I help you?"
Jordan sounded tense. "It's us."
"Us who?" Ian teased.
"Just us," Jordan growled.
"Us-we're-random-strangers-who-want-to-break-in-and-kill-you?" Ian responded. "Or us-Jordan-and-Cole-and-we've-missed-you-so-much-and-we're-dying-to-see-you?"
"Do you answer your intercom like this with all your guests—"
Jordan's admonishment was cut short by a sudden, bright, and clearly shouted, "Cole!"
They both fell silent. Ian took too long to think before good sense clicked in and the "reward good behavior" came forefront. "Great to hear that, Cole! Why don't the two of you come on up then?"
He tapped the returning buzzer quickly; praying Jordan was close to the door, knowing the sound would not be a welcome one to the boy that had so sweetly announced his arrival.
They didn't take the elevator, not that it surprised Ian in retrospect. Cole would probably be uncomfortable in such a clangy, closed-up apparatus, but more so it was a bitch to figure out. They'd get used to it though.
The thought gave Ian a giddy rush–they would get used to it. The more they came, the more they learned, the longer they knew each other. Like his heart had already decided that they would.
Jordan gave him a quick once over and nodded as he walked down the hall. "You look nice. I didn't …" He bit his lip and looked down at Cole. "We didn't dress up. Sorry."
Ian smiled. "I didn't expect you to. Besides, you obviously look awesome in whatever you decide to wear."
It was just simple denim, nothing more, but on Jordan's shape it could have been silk. It clung to everything it should, yet still managed to move and drape. A simple brown t-shirt hugged shoulders and chest, kissing a level just above crotch in a distracting, eye-stealing way, the color highlighting the darker tones in Jordan's eyes. And just like that Ian was lost: gazing into Jordan's eyes as they stared back, watching mysterious emotions flicker through them, and all he wanted to do was draw Jordan against him again. Taste him. Enjoy him.
He tucked the temptation away and swallowed against a suddenly tight throat. "Thanks for coming. Was the cab ride okay?"
Jordan shrugged as if it was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "So, this is kind of weird for a guy like you. You sure this is your place?"
"Yes, well …" Ian grinned. "In here actually. Come in, please."
He led them through the entrance, shut
the door behind them, and studied Cole's face for any duress. The industrial dreariness of the hallway was instantly forgotten on entry to the loft. It was everything an up-and-coming executive would want in an apartment. With nothing but support beams to block off any space but the bathroom, the entire level could be taken in from where they stood. Elegant furniture in a deep, chocolate leather (Aubrey's choosing due to his "definitive lack of taste" when it came to such things) blended with dark walls and flooring. Area rugs in cream, brown and teal marked off areas of interest: dining, entertaining, lounge and bar. The kitchen, blocked off in one corner with a large marble countertop and stainless steel appliances was offset with the opposing corner by a winding metallic staircase. If one had the interest to follow it up, the staircase led to the elevated platform that hid a ridiculously large bed.
Jordan whistled. "Pretty posh."
"Nah," Ian chuckled. "It works though. Can I get you a glass of wine?"
"Sure."
Jordan bent to remove Cole's shoes and the moment his feet were free Cole began to wander. "Is he allowed?"
"Of course! Please!" Ian winked at Cole. "Enjoy yourself, buddy."
*~*~*
Ian set the last plate in the dishwasher and closed it with a flourish. "See? Done."
"Still," Jordan mumbled. "I would have helped."
Ian waved Jordan off, handed him a freshly topped glass of wine and motioned to the couch. "If you'd like?"
Dinner had gone well once Cole had begrudgingly discontinued his roundabout trail of the loft. Ian was more than sure if they'd had a way to mark the pattern Cole had walked, again and again and again, it would have been a perfectly shaped infinity.
They'd both eaten with gusto, which was entirely too satisfying for Ian. He took more pleasure in watching them both sample and enjoy then he did eating it himself. He didn't even mind the chocolate crumbs on the floor, or the ice cream spatters on the table. And that was a fact that ended up as a pleasant revelation. Ian didn't usually take to disorder anymore than Cole took to disruption.
"I was wondering if I could try something?" Ian said after they'd settled on to the couch and Jordan had tucked his legs up underneath him.
