by Helen Juliet
Irrationally fearful that Fynn would change his mind and come back, he bolted out of bed and spun like a tornado as he snatched up all his clothes that he’d been divested of during their tryst. He closed the now-dry umbrella and propped it against the computer desk, then securely locked the door to the en-suite behind him.
His clothes in an untidy pile, he spent a minute working out how the shower operated, then got it to a good temperature. It was probably a good idea to let it run for a little while, in case it was one of those ones that took a while to regulate itself. As he waited, he stood and took in his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that.
The way he looked wasn’t so bad; he didn’t dislike it. But he couldn’t really agree with Fynn that he’d ever qualify as ‘hot’. The skin over his small frame was pale, and he had a hefty dusting of brown hairs along his arms and legs, a distinctive trail running down from his navel into the forest around his now-limp cock. Fynn didn’t really look like he had much hair on his legs, and he definitely didn’t on his arms. Nicholas wondered if he minded the difference. Maybe he’d want Nicholas to shave, or wax? He wasn’t sure he would be up for that.
It probably wouldn’t hurt to tidy up a little for him though; trim around his groin. It was so bizarre, having to think about another person seeing under his boxers, about trying to make it appealing. He sighed and figured he probably still had a lot to learn about being with somebody else.
Stepping under the hot water, he relished it hitting his skin. As much as he liked having proof that what had happened between him and Fynn had really just happened, he felt gross with so much cum smeared all over his skin. He’d probably get used to it; in fact, he vowed to put up with it as much as possible if it meant he could keep doing this with Fynn. But it was still nice to scrub his whole body and freshen up. Besides, he still had his hickey from yesterday, just by the edge of his shoulder on the fleshy part above his collarbone. He ran his fingers over the mark as he lathered soap over himself, and smiled.
Getting naked with someone else was causing him to feel raw and exposed in a way he’d never experienced before. Afterwards, it was easy to fret that he wasn’t doing it right, that he was making a fool of himself. But during the act itself, he needed to remember that he genuinely loved it. Having the hickey was a good way to do that. It was a little bit of Fynn, etched onto his skin.
Thankfully there was an extractor fan in the bathroom, so he could keep the door closed while he dried off and got re-dressed. He wanted to allow Fynn some privacy to put his clothes back on as well. He tried to ignore the voice in his head that said he might have been eking out the time he had to hide. Instead, he insisted to himself that he was just regrouping. It was a big deal, what he’d just been through, and he was allowed time to process.
He was definitely less scared compared to yesterday when he cracked open the door and peeked out. Fynn was waiting for him on the bed, clothed and showered, and once again with his guitar out. Nicholas was immediately comforted by the sight. Today was the longest he’d gone without playing it, and it didn’t quite seem natural for him to be parted from it like that.
“Hey,” he said with a bright smile. “Find everything you needed?”
Nicholas nodded and came to sit back on the bed. However, this time, unlike the last two times he’d sat and listened to him play, he scuttled up beside him, resting his back against the pillows. “Good water pressure,” he complimented. He never thought he’d care about something so mundane, but after two terms with the dribble he had to wash with at uni, he’d come to appreciate a good, hard shower.
Fynn stopped fiddling with his strings and leant across to give Nicholas a little kiss. He didn’t ask him outright this time if he was okay with what they’d just done, but he felt the action was seeking the same answer. Nicholas grinned unabashedly back at him, and bumped their shoulders together. I’m great, he hoped that conveyed. More than great really.
“What are you playing?” he asked.
Fynn licked his lips and noodled around a bit more. “Want to hear?” Nicholas nodded. There might come a day when he got bored of listening to Fynn play, but he suspected that day was very far off indeed.
He restarted the song, chugging out several jaunty chords that immediately made Nicholas smile. Fynn’s knee bounced as he strummed, a glint in his eye.
“It’s on the wind,” he sang brightly. “It’s on the sea. It’s in the air, across the land, it’s calling me. Take your troubles out to fly, give me a wink as I pass by. And never let the sun stop shining on you.”
He looked so happy, Nicholas couldn’t help but grin at the side of his head. He didn’t recognise the song, but there had been plenty of ones that Fynn had played him over the last couple of days that he’d only known the chorus of, or not at all if they were more obscure.
Fynn was humming something that Nicholas thought might have been a hint of another instrument, although bass, piano or kazoo he couldn’t say. Whatever the song was, Nicholas was liking it already. It made him feel warm and joyous.
“Oh my love,” Fynn bellowed, drawing out the ‘o’ in love spectacularly. “Look how you soar. Come lift me away, and we’ll fly away, from it all. Oh my love. Don’t let me fall. Come lift me away, and we’ll fly away, from it all.”
Fynn struck the last chord then slapped the strings to cut them off, leaving the last notes hanging in the air like a puff of smoke from a suddenly extinguished fire. He turned to Nicholas and bit his lip. “What did you think?”
Nicholas felt that was a bit odd. Before, Fynn had certainly been keen for him to like certain song suggestions more than others, but he wasn’t so insecure to be bothered if something wasn’t particularly Nicholas’s cup of tea. This wasn’t even one for the wedding as far as he knew, just something Fynn was fooling around with.
“I loved it,” said Nicholas truthfully. “It had a great beat, and I could tell there was more going on with other parts, even though it was just you playing. The lyrics were nice too, really fun. What’s it called?”
Fynn rubbed the plectrum between his fingers, averting his eyes. “It doesn’t have a title yet,” he said, somewhat more subdued.
It took Nicholas a second to work out what he meant. “Oh shit,” he cried, lurching forwards on the bed to face Fynn. “Oh shit, that was one of yours, wasn’t it? Oh my god, that was amazing!” He grabbed Fynn’s feet and waggled them in glee. “Holy crap, is there any more? Can you play me more?”
Fynn laughed at him and shook his head. “That’s all there is for now. You sort of inspired me.”
Nicholas blinked and looked down at the guitar. “I – that was…Did you write me into a song?”
He was surprised to see Fynn look mildly abashed. He didn’t think he was capable of being shaken. “Little bit,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Mind?” Nicholas let out a snort. “That’s brilliant, how many people can say they’ve had a song written about them?”
Fynn grinned, back to his usual demeanour. “Pretty much every song out there was written about somebody.”
Nicholas slapped his leg and crawled back up to sit beside him. “Well no one I know has been immortalised in lyrical form,” he said. “I’m determined to feel special.”
“That’s because you are special,” Fynn said. He leant over and gave him a sloppy kiss, causing Nicholas to squeal in protest. He was making a spectacle of himself again, but he was caring less and less.
He sat for a little longer, listening to Fynn play some songs again that he was planning on putting in the wedding set. He was trying out some more complicated bits in and around the more basic chords, and Nicholas was happy to sit and let the music wash over him.
His mind wandered back to Fynn playing ‘Wild Horses’ the other day. Nicholas had been so caught up in concern for the person lamenting their lost love. But he now remembered how Fynn had thought it was incredible that the love – even if it had turned to pain – had created an irreplaceable piece of a
rt.
Was that what Nicholas was now? No matter what happened between them, would his song get pressed onto a CD and listened to by countless strangers who had no idea he’d had his heart broken by his first ever boyfriend?
He gave himself a mental slap. There were so many ridiculous things about that statement he didn’t even know where to start. For one, Fynn wasn’t his boyfriend. He wasn’t. They were just hanging out, and it was fantastic. He didn’t need to spoil anything by going nuts with labels. Then there was the fact that the song wasn’t even finished. Fynn didn’t have a record contract, and as long as he kept his head on his shoulders there was no cause to get his heart broken.
He needed to get a grip on this over-analysing. Couldn’t he just bask in the fact that he’d known Fynn less than a week and they’d already hooked up twice, and he’d started writing a bloody song about him. As flings went, he was pretty confident that this was off to a great start.
***
By the time Nicholas got back, it was kind of late. He’d had plenty of time on the journey home to work up a healthy amount of guilt at being out almost all day, so close to his sister’s wedding. But every time he came close to feeling bad, he remembered how it had felt to come hard and fast as he and Fynn had rubbed their cocks together, and he got over himself pretty quickly.
He was bobbing around in a daydream as he entered the house and shook his now-trusty umbrella off in the porch. His parents were in the living room watching the news on TV. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked after saying hello.
It turned out Danielle was in the den rehearsing a flash mob dance she’d secretly organised and choreographed for Clara’s friends to perform during the reception. Nicholas knew Clara’s friends, and he reckoned he could accurately predict how much enthusiasm they probably had for the notion of public dancing. He also knew they’d all probably fumble their way through it regardless, bless them.
Kinny and Ash had apparently retreated to their attic room and were watching a film with a bottle of wine. Nicholas thought that sounded like great fun and was half tempted to join them depending on the film they’d picked. But then he asked if Clara was with them, and his mum had said she was in her room, staring dreamily at her dress.
He kicked himself. It was Thursday, which meant they’d been to the wedding dress shop, done the final fitting, and brought the damn thing home. He’d completely forgotten in his own lust-haze, and his negligence made him feel guilty where most other things that day had failed.
Without a second thought, he bid his parents a good night, and jogged up the stairs, keen to give Clara his full attention and gush over the most beautiful (and expensive) dress she would probably ever own. He knocked, but he and Clara had always been close, so as usual it was only a formality before he pushed his way through.
“Hey sis!” he said as he opened the door. “I heard you said yes to the—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Clara was sobbing uncontrollably on her bed, the white wedding dress looming before her from the wardrobe door like a spectre risen from the grave.
Nicholas was assaulted by several thoughts at once. First, he slammed the door shut behind him so no one else would hear. Second, he scrambled around his brain to locate where Peter might be, but Danielle’s itinerary had told him earlier that the groom was scheduled to be taken out by his dad and uncles down a local pub for a few pints. At least that’s what he assumed. Peter had said he was unequivocally not suffering from cold feet yesterday, but…
“Clara. Clara!” he cried. He ran over to her bed, threw himself down, and grabbed her shoulders. “What’s wrong, what’s happened?”
She sniffed and hiccupped a couple of times, her whole chest jumping. “N-nothing,” she said. Her face crumbled and she snatched up another tissue from the box by her bed, so Nicholas didn’t feel bad about calling Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire.
“Has Peter,” he said. He didn’t want to put his foot in it, but he had to ask. “Um, he hasn’t, uh…”
That seemed to clear Clara’s head. “Oh no,” she all but shrieked, her fluffy curls bouncing and she waved her hands. “No, no, nothing like that, he’s great, everything’s fine.” She swallowed another sob, and Nicholas arched an eyebrow in defiance.
“So, you’re just crying your eyes out because…?”
Clara scrubbed at her face under her glasses and blew her nose. Her chest shuddered a couple more times, and she turned her big, watery eyes on him.
It was astonishing in many ways how much the three Herald siblings didn’t look alike. Clara, the eldest, was a dead spit for their mum. She had always had curves, from chubby baby fat into awkward pre-teen boobs and hips, and now what Nicholas considered to be a voluptuous woman. He teased her about being ginger, but honestly, he didn’t get why that was such a thing. Her shade of strawberry blond hair was objectively beautiful.
He and their middle sister Lauren definitely took after their dad. Although she was tall and broad-shouldered, and he was obviously not, they both had his dark hair and slim frame.
But even strangers noted when they were seen in a threesome how much their mannerisms reflected one another’s. There was a connection between them, especially with him and Clara, that bordered on telepathy. So he couldn’t unravel how, but when Clara turned her trembling lip and reddened eyes his way, he instinctively glared at the wedding dress.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked. Because he was pretty sure he’d reached Commander level of some shit when it came to dealing with wedding catastrophes, and if that dress wasn’t spot on, he was going to march right back into town tomorrow morning and cause all levels of unprecedented hell.
She sniffed and managed a sheepish smile. “Nothing,” she said between hiccups. “It’s perfect.”
Nicholas shifted on his side of the double bed. He loved that Clara hadn’t changed her childhood room much at all since she had moved out, so it was pretty much still decked head to toe with anything she had got her teenage hands on connected to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She’d had a particular obsession with all the spin-off stories about the slayers who had come before Buffy, so there were all manner of comics and drawings and sketches of badass ladies throughout the ages looking down at them from the walls. Nicholas mentally saluted them, and tried to pick out the best way to rescue his big sis in that moment.
“Who do I need to garrotte?
Clara laughed, more tears spilling from her eyes, but it was a laugh all the same. “No one.” She wiped her eyes and took a long, deep breath. “I’m just being stupid.”
Nicholas scoffed. “Try me.” He’d been more than happy to commit a murder over a harp on Saturday. He was willing to place money on Clara’s issue not being stupid.
Clara tried to speak once, twice, and then several more times. But every time it looked like words were in danger of leaping from her mouth, she buckled down and refused to let them go. So Nicholas went against his own nature for the second time that day, and simply draped his arm over her shoulders and squeezed.
“Brides aren’t…” she eventually hissed. Nicholas clamped his teeth around his tongue. “Brides aren’t…they aren’t…” She made an angry noise in the back of her throat, and snatched in a breath. “Brides aren’t supposed to be fat,” she spat out, then pulled away from Nicholas’s hug.
He was so flummoxed, he let her go. “What?” he managed to force out.
Clara bit down on her knuckle as she cried. “That dress would look so pretty on a thin girl,” she cried, her tone harrowing to Nicholas’s ears.
A flame of pure rage flared though Nicholas’s insides. He threw both his arms around his sister, and pulled her into a full body hug. “Bull-fucking-shit,” he said. “That dress is gorgeous on you. You’re pretty. And if anyone’s told you otherwise, I will…I will beat them up. Capisce?”
That had the desired effect of making her laugh at least. No one could ever imagine Nicholas beating anyone up, but he liked to think, for the peopl
e he loved, he’d try. “No one had to say anything,” Clara said, her tears falling thick on his sleeve. “I just, don’t look right in it.”
“Oi, oi,” Nicholas said, getting cross. “Do you think that’s what Peter’s going to say, when he turns around and sees you walking down the aisle?” He huffed. “I’m not quite sure you’re thinking with your sane brain here, babe.”
Thankfully, Clara chuckled again. “Um…”
Nicholas decided to lay it on thick. “Do you think he’s going to take one look at you, and run screaming.” He knew he’d made a mistake immediately.
“Maybe?” Clara whined, thick sobs rattling her chest again.
“No,” said Nicholas firmly, and he gave her a shake. “Look, when was the last time he told you you were beautiful?”
Clara took a moment to blow her nose on the damp tissue she still had clamped in her hand. “This afternoon,” she said. “Before he went out.”
“And what were you wearing?”
That got another little chuckle. “Mostly dust, sweat and confetti,” she said.
Nicholas noogied her head. “Right. He loves you inside and out. So, he’s probably going to come in his pants when he sees that dress and all the hair and makeup and other sparkly things you and Danielle no doubt have in mind.”
“Eeww!” She gave him a shove. But he felt like he was getting through. “I guess he won’t be mean or anything,” she said.
Nicholas rocked her back and forth a couple of times. “Tenner says he cries,” he said.
Clara scoffed, but then she seemed to realise he was serious. “Deal,” she told him, some of her old confidence sneaking back in as they shook on the bet.
Nicholas knew he’d been selfish spending time with Fynn all day. But now, he felt he had the chance to make that up a little bit; because when it came down to it, the one and only thing he cared about come Saturday was that Clara was happy.
