by P. W. Davies
Bending his knees, Christian settled his heels against Peter’s sides. His arms wrapped around the man on top of him, nails digging into his back and as Peter sucked in another sharp breath, Christian dug trenches, his body beginning to quiver. “Yes, like that,” he urged. “Please. Don’t stop that. Right… there.”
After the show he’d made of his self-restraint, Christian seemed less inclined to fight. Peter shoved into the other man a little harder, plunging into him a little faster and keeping the angle of his hips intact until he couldn’t focus beyond his own mounting pleasure. He clenched his eyes shut and moaned, feeling bliss linger somewhere just out of reach before rushing upon him, unable to prolong it any further. Shuddering and crying out, Peter released and in the seconds which followed, he swore he saw stars.
The colors that shone behind his eyelids rolled from one hue to another, the series of twitches and shocks which followed seeming to last forever. Even when they began to subside, he only became aware of his racing heart and the beads of sweat rolling down his back, mixing with the slight bit of blood Christian had drawn. The pounding pulse against him brought him back into reality; back to the man clinging onto him as if he might run away.
Christian opened his eyes when Peter did the same. As they peered at each other, an unspoken discussion took place over what felt like minutes. He hadn’t meant to surrender so much in one night, but Peter found himself looking at something uncertain and amazing all at once. ‘Why did it have to be with a hitman, of all things?’ he asked himself, and surrendered to a laugh after thinking the question.
The other man furrowed his brow, his smile broadening. “Do you find something funny?” Christian asked, sounding more bemused than annoyed.
“Yes, it’s just,” Peter began, tapering off when it became impossible to encapsulate the feelings racing through him. Instead of attempting it, he lowered himself enough to kiss Christian, smiling into the embrace. Christian tightened his hold on Peter in response, his hand clutching onto the opposite wrist so he could keep Peter as close as possible. ‘Closer than a whisper,’ Peter thought idly, remembering the half-formed poems he used to write when he was a gangly teenager, scribbling flowery thoughts about other boys. Christian kissed him back and chuckled when their lips parted.
“I hardly guessed you’d be laughing,” Christian said. “But I suppose if it provokes kisses, it can’t be all bad, now, can it?”
“No, not bad at all, I promise.”
The other man shimmied and Peter laughed again before sliding out of Christian, making sure to be ginger about his retreat. Christian’s back arched and he moaned, the sound involuntary. When Peter had finally slipped out completely, Christian slackened his hold on the other man and smiled, his face beaming with delight.
Peter couldn’t help but to be captivated by it. A man who killed people for a living and he couldn’t have looked more pleased with himself; more innocent and sinful at the same time. After ridding himself of the rubber, Peter tossed it into a nearby wastebasket and jumped onto the bed beside his new lover, certain he was wearing the same expression on his face when Christian curled up beside him. He settled onto his back and Christian rested his head on Peter’s shoulder.
“Now, tell me,” Christian said, “Was it everything you had hoped it would be?”
“Shut up,” Peter said with a chuckle. “You’re not allowed to know I’ve been thinking about this.”
“Merely hoping. I’ve been thinking about it, too.”
“That’s been obvious. You’ve been trying to get into my pants since before you were discharged from the hospital.”
“Because I knew you wanted me.” Christian yawned and gathered himself closer against Peter. “No use in denying it. I’ve been as distracted by you as you’ve been by me.”
Peter traced patterns on Christian’s back. “So, what does this make us?”
“Complicated. Hopefully delightfully so.”
“I need to go to work in a few hours.”
“Mmhmm.” Christian murmured the response, and though Peter knew the other man had heard him, he forgave him the show of apathy. ‘You can go when you need to go,’ he seemed to say, in the way his hand came to rest above Peter’s heart, his fingers fanning out as if to lay claim to as much skin as possible. ‘In the meantime, I am going to enjoy having you here.’ A bright smile crossed Peter’s lips as he realized he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame Christian.
His body conditioned to the overnight shifts, Peter had a difficult time sleeping. While Christian sunk into a deep sleep, Peter stared at the ceiling, and when Christian rolled away, Peter freed the comforter out from under them, waking the other man only long enough to coax him to be covered. “Yes, Dr. Dawes, warmth would be lovely,” Christian murmured, his accent thicker through the haze of sleep. His eyes barely opened and fluttered shut the moment he had a blanket secured over him. “Stay. Please.”
Peter couldn’t be sure whether he’d meant to make the request, but even if his subconscious had issued it, Peter smiled fondly in response. Spooning against Christian, he wrapped an arm around the other man’s waist, pushing their bodies together and burrowing his nose in his new lover’s hair. As he breathed in deep, Peter let fatigue sweep over him, surrendering to a nap. What length of time passed, and how much he slept through it, he didn’t know. He only knew two things finally managed to rouse him.
The first was the need to use the bathroom. He remembered the ajar door and slipped on his underwear and pants as an afterthought, feeling some subconscious compulsion to cover himself before walking out into the hallway. While something itched at the back of his groggy, confused mind, it wasn’t until after he’d relieved himself and flushed the toilet that he realized what had him bothered. The scent of food cooking wafted through the apartment, reaching the bathroom. Slowly, Peter opened the door and stood in the hallway, listening to the noises coming from the living area.
Sizzling accompanied the melodious sound of someone humming. When the condiments on the refrigerator door rattled, a whoosh preceding the familiar noise of the door sealing shut again, Peter realized that whoever was in the kitchen, they were none-the-wiser that anyone had roused. A flash of panic raced through Peter – what if this wasn’t Christian’s condo – and even though he knew it could mean running for the remainder of his clothing, he chanced edging closer to the living area. When he saw a man shift from one side of the kitchen to the other, Peter froze in place, afraid he would be spotted in the cook’s periphery. If he saw Peter, he gave no indication.
Instead, the dark-haired man reached into a cabinet, lowering a bowl onto the counter and opening the drawer to produce some sort of utensil. Peter leaned against the doorway leading into the main part of the condo, watching the methodical way he cracked eggs, beating them in the bowl before switching on one of the burners to the gas stove. While he knew exactly what he was doing, nothing about his appearance suggested he might be something like live-in help. Peter might have never had something like that, but he reckoned it a safe assumption they didn’t usually cook shirtless, clad only in pajama pants.
No, he was one of the occupants of this place, Peter told himself, if not the outright owner.
No sooner had Peter come to that conclusion than the other man pivoted, lining Peter in his sights. His chestnut-brown eyes settled on the other man, a smirk crossing his lips to rival the one often sported by Christian. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and despite the sleep-disrupted way his hair stuck up, resembled the sort who would decorate a place with sterile, pristine appliances. He looked disciplined, cunning, and – when Peter lapsed into a more superficial evaluation – remarkably handsome, as if all of that had been some bi-product of both nature and design.
He also looked more amused than perturbed to see Peter.
“Christian has brought people back, but I have to say, you’re the first who’s looked like a deer caught in the headlights the next day,” the not-quite-a-chef said. Turning back toward food preparatio
n, he picked up the handle of a frying pan and rotated it to swirl butter along the bottom. “Come over here and pour yourself some coffee if you’d like. Personally, I prefer tea.”
“Okay,” Peter said, sounding surer of himself than he felt. Padding over to one of the stools, he pulled one out and watched the sinew of the other man’s back shift as he attended to preparing breakfast. While coffee sounded, and smelled, divine, he hadn’t yet convinced himself he could be anywhere near this guy’s personal space. This is going to keep getting more surreal if I’m not careful and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.
Instead, Peter adjusted himself into place and folded his hands on the counter. “Does he bring back a lot of people?” he asked, idly and to make conversation.
“I wouldn’t say a lot,” the man countered. “Though I have an important question to ask you.”
Peter tensed when he set down the pan. As he turned to face Peter, he placed both hands on the counter and ensured he made eye contact. One of the handsome man’s brows quirked, a question in that gesture alone.
“Fried or scrambled?” he asked. “And would you care for bacon?”
Eight
If he had to be honest, Peter hadn’t known what question to expect, though of the list of possibilities the one presented hadn’t made the cut. Caught at a loss, he remained mute for a moment, seeing a smile ghost the other man’s lips like he offered the culinary question only to disarm. Patiently, he held the same stance, palms pressed against the counter with his face tilted only as much as needed to look directly at Peter. That his brown eyes danced with delight became an afterthought.
“Um, fried,” Peter finally said, sensing the question had lingered long enough without being answered. “Over easy. And yes, to bacon. My parents taught me better than to ever refuse bacon.”
With a nod, the other man turned to resume cooking. Cracking two eggs into the prepared frying pan, he ignored the bowl beside him and focused more intently on Peter’s request. It took a moment for him to speak again, though the silence marking the space between was hardly tense. “I take it you go by a name,” he said. “Unless you intended to have breakfast and leave without returning.”
“No. Well, I…” Peter laughed. “I’ll admit, I’m really confused right now, but no. I’m not normally the one-night-stand type.”
“So, that means you have a name.”
“Peter. And you?”
“Victor Mason. I would say I’m Christian’s roommate, but that ignores both the fact that I’m the owner of this condo and that Christian doesn’t quite live anywhere insomuch as he visits places on occasion. I happen to be one of the lucky people with whom he seeks refuge.” Victor cast a quick glance at Peter. “How did you meet?”
“At the hospital.” ‘Mason,’ he thought, remembering the pseudonym Christian had given when admitted. Something about the thought changed the way Peter evaluated Victor, calling to mind other things said and done by Christian that shed more light on the situation. Christian had referred to this place as ‘home’ without claiming ownership over it, and despite how transient Victor made him seem, it spoke volumes. They didn’t look related and Victor spoke with a neutral, American accent. “How does he know you?”
The curl of Victor’s lips broadened by a hair’s breadth. He reached into the cabinet for a plate, lowering it onto the counter and leaving it there while he paused to flip the eggs. “I’m Christian’s legal counsel, I suppose you could say,” he replied, placing a hand on his waist while poking at the eggs with his spatula. “You said he was in the hospital?”
“Yes.” The vague sense that he might be getting Christian into trouble settled over the discussion. Victor reached to make toast while Peter let himself weigh the Keurig placed at the end of the counter. Deftly, he slid off the stool, walking further into the kitchen while considering how much to keep silent. “He was in an accident,” he finally said. While he still didn’t know what to make of Victor, he at least gathered the other man cared.
“An accident?”
“Yeah, with his motorcycle. I was one of the attending physicians in the emergency room when they wheeled him in.”
“So, you’re a doctor.” Whatever Victor thought of Christian’s accident, he held that card close to his chest. His gaze settled on the other man again and as Peter turned on the coffee machine, he reached into the cabinet again and pulled out a mug for Peter. “You’ll forgive me if I say that’s more respectable than I’m used to his company being.”
“That begs the question of what kind of company he usually keeps.”
Victor shot him a look which was almost unreadable as he passed the mug to Peter. Within one breath, he seemed to make an evaluation, its outcome shrouded by the interruption of the toaster. Directing his attention back to making breakfast, Victor turned to give the eggs a final flip, settling them onto the plate he’d fetched from the cabinet. “The coffee is in that drawer,” he said, “And you know what they say about the subject. You’re as much a testimony to his company as he is yours.”
The pointed comment hung in the air between them. Peter felt the final piece of the puzzle click into place while he opened the drawer and swept blindly for one of the small Keurig capsules contained within. After starting the coffee, he turned to face Victor, pretending to watch the methodical slather of butter on toast; the precise arrangement of the eggs and bacon. Victor reached to place Peter’s breakfast on the counter in front of the bar stools and Peter reached for his cup once the coffee had finished brewing.
“Are the two of you –?” Peter paused to blow on the hot coffee and take a sip. Victor pivoted while dropping more butter into the frying pan, presumably to start making his breakfast. He raised an eyebrow and Peter felt his stomach tie into a knot. “Do… the two of you –?”
Victor chuckled. “Are you trying to ask if we’re intimate?”
“Maybe.” When Victor cast him a look of disbelief, Peter sighed. “Yes. I am.”
“I’ll answer the question if you keep an open mind.”
Peter nodded. Taking his coffee back with him to the counter, he perched onto the stool again and waited while Victor poured the scrambled contents of the bowl into the frying pan. He took a deep breath. Peter continued drinking his coffee as Victor gathered silverware and slid the fork and knife close to Peter’s plate. “The short answer is yes,” he said. “Christian isn’t a simple man, though. I hope you knew that before you became involved with him. In case you’re inclined to take exception with him for it.”
“No, I knew,” Peter said, picking up a piece of toast and taking a bite. “I’m only starting to discover how complicated.” Considering the revelation for a moment, Peter stared at his plate, caught between knowing now that the hitman he’d been seeing – that he’d slept with the night before, he reminded himself – also held onto multiple lovers. Glancing up at Victor, he paused eating, watching the other man finish his food and drink from a similar mug. “Is it just you?”
Victor spared a moment to peer over his shoulder at Peter. “That he sees regularly? Yes, I seem to be one of the few consistent things in his life.” A beat passed between his answer and the question which followed it. “What drew you to him?”
Peter fought the urge to sigh again. “He’s persistent and good looking. And knows it.”
The other man laughed. Once he had his breakfast plated, he brought it over to the counter and sat near Peter. “He’s shameless. That might be one of the things I like about him the most.”
“That he has the gift to get people bothered?”
“Call it mutual appreciation, if you will. Our relationship can be reduced down to that, in part.”
He let the words linger, the expression on his face and seduction in his chestnut irises threatening that if Christian had the gift to arouse, Victor could rival it. Looking away, he focused on eating and though Peter did the same, he felt a small tingle at the base of his spine while he ate. “Mutual appreciation,” he mused out loud
, after what felt like minutes. Too many thoughts had begun to circle around in his mind, but among them, the thought of Victor with Christian remained the most persistent. “So, the two of you are complicated is what you’re saying?”
“More or less.”
“I guess when you’re a hitman, it’s important to have somebody who sees the world a similar way.”
This time, Victor failed to look at him. Whether to conceal a reaction or pretend not to hear any hidden message in Peter’s words, he studiously attended to his meal and peered at his watch once, checking the time before proceeding onward. Peter finished eating his food, but Victor preempted him and stood from his stool before Peter could. As he watched the other man set his plate into the sink, Peter wondered if he might have said something wrong, weighing in the same breath whether it mattered, but Victor faced him again as if he sensed it.
His lips curled again, the smirk returning to his expression. “I have to get ready for work,” he said. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“See… you…” Peter began, trailing off when Victor strode past. The finality of his departure, on the heels of what Peter sensed was deliberate, meditative silence, confused him even more. By the time he finished eating, his coffee had turned cold and the sound of the shower running in the other bedroom had shut off again. He deposited his dishes on top of Victor’s and weighed, among other things, if breakfast had been a deliberate challenge, on both Christian and Victor’s part.
He could have been jealous, he told himself while walking back to the bedroom where Christian slept. Being upset at Christian for not telling him about Victor became a temptation, too, but somehow, he found himself more intrigued than angry. As he shut himself in the room with Christian, walking quietly toward the bed where the other man still rested soundly, he took a deep breath. ‘You wanted me to meet him before I formed an opinion about him,’ Peter thought. A small frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’d give a twenty to know what floats around in your head.’
