The Third Date (Starting Over)

by Matthew J. Metzger

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I kind of…told a little white lie.”

  “About what?”

  “His mum really wants a granddaughter, so we were going to ask at the scan and find out. But it’s Brenda, you know? So I said the midwife couldn’t tell, but she could.”

  “So? Is it a girl?”

  “Nope,” Suze said in the most gleeful tone Aled had ever heard. He laughed. “Going to have a little boy. When he feels like showing up, that is.”

  “Well, congratulations,” he said. He’d never really understood or cared about boys versus girls, or even having children in general, but Suze didn’t particularly like her overbearing mother-in-law so he could appreciate her satisfaction. “Why didn’t you tell Tom?”

  “He’d be so giddy he’d never keep it secret,” she said. “He wants both so he won’t mind which comes first, as long as he gets at least one daughter.”

  “He’ll be like you,” Aled promised. “He just wants a healthy baby.”

  “He’s getting a big baby,” Suze complained. “I feel like a beached whale. This is shit.”

  “Should have put something on the end of it, then.”

  She blew a raspberry.

  “Gabriel won’t be able to come and visit for a while,” Aled said. “He’s a bit too fragile for the car just yet. But—”

  “But you’ll come,” Suze said. “If Chris is there to look after Gabriel, you can come and visit us and take lots of pictures for them.”

  Aled hesitated. His gut clenched at the idea of Gabriel being so far out of reach, however temporarily.

  “Um—”

  “Of course you will,” she said briskly. “He’ll kick you out to make sure you do. I’ll text him and make him promise.”

  “Bitch.”

  “You know it,” she said cheerfully. “Anyway, he’s got a little time. This monster is definitely going to be late. The midwife came to see the home birth arrangements yesterday and did a quick exam and she doesn’t think he’s even in position yet. I’m drinking loads of raspberry tea to try and get everything moving, but so far, I’m just peeing a lot.”

  “Well, if you text Gabriel that he needs to throw me out, I’ll text Tom something.”

  “What?”

  “I read that the only proven way to bring on contractions is nipple stimulation.”

  “If it would get things going, I’d be up for that.”

  “Fine. Congratulations on his son.”

  Her voice dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  She scoffed. He held his ground. And after a couple more seconds, they both dissolved into childish sniggering.

  “You do feel better,” she said approvingly.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m glad Gabe’s home and he’s going to be okay. And I’ll see you hopefully in a week or two to meet your nephew!”

  “If the vertigo—”

  “Honey. He’ll be okay,” she insisted. “It could have been much worse and it wasn’t. You can handle anything else.”

  Aled chewed on the corner of his lip. For the first time since the accident, it felt like Suze was right. He’d nursed a fear of losing Gabriel for so long, the lack of pressure inside felt euphoric.

  “I know,” he murmured. “Now.”

  “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

  As he hung up and leaned back in his chair to go over the budget report, Aled finally felt as though the projections meant something, and he could keep his brain in the office instead of leaving it at home.

  But he still watched the clock, waiting until he could leave again.

  Chapter Eight

  Chris was surprised at how quickly the three of them settled into a routine.

  He got up early to go for his morning run and would get back in time to wave goodbye to Aled heading out to work. He’d shower then take the empty breakfast plates away from Gabriel and join him in bed for a few episodes of whatever garbage he was watching. Then he’d leave Gabriel for a midday nap and go downstairs to wash up, tidy or do his core training in the back garden if the sun was out and the neighbour’s wife wasn’t ogling from behind her ceanothus bushes. The afternoon usually saw more TV until Aled came home, then Chris would make dinner while they did…whatever they did, and the three of them would eat in the master bedroom like they were students living in a tiny studio flat with nowhere to put a table. Sometimes they spent the evening together playing cards or watching a film, and sometimes Chris would take refuge downstairs or go on another run.

  He didn’t move back into the spare room.

  It was surprisingly easy to share space with Aled. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable when they mutually ignored one another, and he didn’t seem especially interested in Chris’ life or presence. Some might have found it off-putting or offensive, but Chris had been shy since the day he was born, and appreciated the borderline apathy. If Aled wasn’t interested in conversation, then Chris couldn’t feel pressured into having one. And if Aled was happy to ignore him, then Chris was content to be ignored.

  And thankfully, Gabriel was too tired to push the issue just yet.

  For the first four or five days, he stayed almost exclusively in bed, Chris only being really required to help him get to the bathroom and have a shower each morning. And much as Chris wasn’t a fan of sex or nudity, the shower hugs were kind of nice. Gabriel effectively just held on to him in a prolonged hug and passively let Chris scrub him down each morning. And Chris learned that if he did it after breakfast, it would knock Gabriel out for a nap far more effectively than the drugs that the doctor had sent them home with.

  There was only one downside.

  Chris’ cock didn’t agree with the rest of him about how revolting and unnecessary having sex was. Or about how grim it was to have a throbbing erection attached to his groin like some stray mystery meat at a dodgy kebab shop. Chris could barely tolerate the presence of his dick when it was just there for pissing and filling out his briefs. When he could feel his own pulse in it and it turned a horrific shade of purple that would be a sign of a major infection anywhere else on his body? No thank you.

  And if Chris merely thought Gabriel was mildly pretty naked and covered in soap and water, his cock thought Gabriel was the sexiest thing it had ever seen.

  And Chris hated it.

  He hated getting hard. He hated jerking off. And he especially hated the wet, sticky, awkward social encounter that was sex.

  But Gabriel wasn’t up to their usual solution. Usually they would have a bland conversation while Gabriel rode his dick with as little movement and as tight a grip as possible, to keep Chris’ mind off it but his libido far more satisfied than a simple hand job would allow. And Gabriel could barely sit up without the vertigo kicking in. So Chris tried to bottle it up, having an angry wank in the bathroom the first day it happened, and crying through another on the day after that.

  But Gabriel had vertigo, not dementia.

  “Hey,” he said on the third day, as Chris helped him back into bed. “I know you’re hard.”

  “It’s difficult to miss,” Chris admitted, feeling an ashamed heat rising in his face.

  “M’just saying. I’m not wearing underwear.”

  Chris hesitated.

  “Um. No. No thanks.”

  “Okay. But the rule still stands if you need to put it somewhere.”

  Chris denied it, left Gabriel for his nap, and stared at the bathroom ceiling while he took care of it himself later.

  But—

  The rule still stood.

  If Gabriel didn’t wear underwear to bed, Chris was allowed to fuck him in his sleep.

  Gabriel liked being used, apparently. He often wanted sex without being bothered about having an orgasm himself, and he got a mental kick out of being fucked like an object rather than a person sometimes. Chris was barely aware of it. That was Kevin and Aled’s business, not his.

  Usually.

  But Aled had issues with doing
anything where Gabriel couldn’t instantly retract his consent—like sex in his sleep. He wouldn’t touch him if he wasn’t fully conscious and aware, and apparently Kevin was hung so it wasn’t possible to stay asleep. So early on in their relationship, Gabriel had asked Chris to screw him while he was out and see if that helped with Chris’ own issues.

  And…it did.

  Creepy as it sounded, the lack of response helped. It still wasn’t what Chris would call enjoyable, but it killed his libido for a good couple of weeks afterwards and it didn’t make him want to crawl out of his own skin with disgust.

  But jerking it in the bathroom did. Daily erections did. Cum on his own hand definitely did.

  And he cracked on Thursday.

  He’d taken a longer run than usual, hoping it would help, but it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. His dick started stirring the moment Gabriel looped warm, wet arms around his neck, and it rested between their stomachs, hard as iron, by the time Chris had finished washing the still-too-short black hair hiding the surgical scars on Gabriel’s scalp.

  “I’m done,” he said.

  “Sure?”

  “Shut it.”

  Gabriel smirked, but shut up. He sat on the closed toilet to carefully rub himself dry, resting his head against Chris’ waist to have his hair combed. He could have sucked Chris off then and there, but a blowjob was the worst of all possible options, and he ignored the cock waving in front of his face like he couldn’t even see it. The tug of grateful shame in Chris’ gut hurt.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Gabriel insisted on walking back to the bedroom—albeit putting so much of his weight on Chris and the walls that it was more for show than actual walking—then collapsed into the bed with a deep sigh.

  “Want anything to wear?”

  “No.”

  “Want the TV back on?”

  “No. Sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  Gabriel burrowed into the pillows. Chris kissed the back of his head, then slung the towel over the radiator and retreated to the bathroom to take care of business.

  And paused.

  Gabriel had refused clothes.

  So…no underwear.

  He’d be out like a light in a matter of minutes. And masturbating wasn’t working. Chris knew from experience that actual sex would put an end to the matter for a good few days. That was all he had to do. One fuck, then he could ignore his dick for maybe a week.

  As opposed to seven days of jacking it.

  He curled his fingers around the edge of the sink and stared down his reflection. Gabriel had given him permission. It would solve the problem for several days instead of several hours. Gabriel would even like it when he figured out it had happened. And Aled was at work, so it wasn’t like he was going to walk in to find Chris fucking their unconscious boyfriend.

  He took a deep breath and counted to ten.

  Then opened the bathroom door and returned to the master bedroom.

  Gabriel was already asleep, fingers twitching lightly on the pillow. He preferred sleeping on his front—apparently the vertigo was less impactive that way—and while his arms were coiled around the pillow, his legs were askew and slightly open. Chris gently nudged his knees farther apart and didn’t get so much as a murmur. When he knelt on the mattress, the dip didn’t seem to register.

  Gabriel was under.

  And Chris was still achingly hard.

  He didn’t mess around with foreplay. He liked cuddling and chaste kissing just fine, but even that was too much in a sexual situation. Instead, he almost clinically fingered Gabriel until he was loose and a little wet, then lay down over his back and slowly pushed his way inside.

  And gritted his teeth against the shudder that rocked his spine.

  Two parts revulsion, two parts arousal, it was a violent jerk from head to toe that finished the preparation. Gabriel mumbled as Chris bottomed out, and Chris waited for a long minute, just relaxing over Gabriel’s body and breathing through the mixture of lust and self-loathing warring in his brain.

  God, he hated this.

  God, he needed this.

  After weeks of nothing, Gabriel was even tighter than usual and it hurried things along. The almost too-hot warmth on the head of his cock and the resistance to his thrusts didn’t let his sex drive drag things out. He didn’t thrust hard, but hard enough to make a difference. And Gabriel lay asleep and unaware underneath him, as though Chris was just wanking into a warm body.

  But it worked.

  It was over quickly in a short, brutal orgasm that left him gasping for air. He pulled out in a hot, slippery rush. Cum followed. He’d have to change the bedsheets later.

  And Gabriel simply mumbled something incoherent and curled his fingers into the pillows when Chris tucked the duvet back over him.

  “Thanks,” he whispered.

  The afterglow burned on his brain as he took another shower, and his limp dick felt almost numb as he tucked himself into a pair of briefs. Satisfaction scrubbed out the shame. He wouldn’t need to do it again for ages. The endorphins singing along his muscles were like the euphoria of finishing a marathon with a personal best. If Chris could only learn to like sex, he’d be as mad about it as Gabriel was.

  But he’d tried that, and it had never worked.

  The build-up and the act itself were always far worse than the aftermath. Chris hummed a happy tune as he washed the dishes and hung out some towels to dry on the line in the garden. He put out more birdseed and watched the tits fighting over it. By the time he heard canned laughter from upstairs, it was almost time for lunch, and he felt better than he had every morning since he’d arrived.

  Gabriel was sitting up when he got upstairs and offered him a quizzical look.

  “You fucked me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s condoms in the bottom drawer if you want them.”

  Chris shrugged. “It was fine without.”

  “Okay.” Gabriel switched off the TV and lifted his arms. “Bathroom. Then downstairs for lunch. I fancy a change of scenery.”

  It was a trap. Chris stooped to help him up, and Gabriel immediately locked his arms around his neck.

  “Hey,” he whispered, kissing Chris’ ear. Chris stilled. “Did it help?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Gabriel squeezed. “I’m going to blame my wet dream on you, then.”

  Chris chuckled, and worked his arm under Gabriel’s knees to pick him up.

  “I can deal with that,” he said.

  The casual acceptance warmed him. The easy way he could just be around Gabriel relaxed him. They were polar sexual opposites, and yet Gabriel wanted to steal his cycling magazines over lunch and enjoyed a vegan bean stew that Chris had looked up online. With the ghost of sex gone, they cuddled on the sofa in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the conservatory doors, and Chris felt an entirely different kind of heat settling in his chest.

  “Love you,” he whispered.

  Gabriel squeezed his wrist and kept talking about bicycle clips.

  Chapter Nine

  By Sunday morning, Gabriel was starting to feel cooped up.

  Home was a thousand times better than hospital, but—a bedroom was a bedroom was a bedroom. He was getting bored of reruns and daytime TV. The midday nap was getting less necessary. And when he finally managed to say sitting up on the sofa all day without a single panic attack or collapse, he knew that he needed to get out and do something. Anything. Breathe some air that wasn’t filtered through the smell of their own house. Feel some plants that weren’t grown in pots. See unfamiliar faces. Stay relaxed and recovering, just…not in exactly the same spot.

  The problem was Aled.

  Chris was firm but not a natural worrier. He never had been, and he made a suitable nurse for it. If Gabriel wanted to fuck up his recovery, then that was on him as far as Chris was concerned. But Aled flapped and could be overly cautious. He always had been, and Gabriel landing himself in hospi
tal hadn’t helped matters. There was no way Aled was going to agree to going out somewhere without some significant guilt tripping.

  Unless—

  “What’s your plans today?” Gabriel asked Chris over breakfast, which was finally being taken downstairs where it belonged.

  “Depends. If Aled’s staying home with you, might take the bike out and go for a ride. If not, I don’t know. I’d like to take advantage of this good weather, though.”

  “Go for it,” Gabriel said. “I’m going to try and persuade him to take me out somewhere. I need to escape the four walls for a little bit.”

  Chris snorted. “Good luck.”

  “I know.” Gabriel eyed the ceiling. The bathroom was right above the kitchen, and he could hear Aled performing his usual trick of turning the entire place into a wetroom while he showered. “What do you reckon my odds are?”

  “At about sea level.”

  “What if I talked him into sex?”

  “Even lower odds,” Chris said. “He’s more likely to go and visit a brothel at the moment than do you.”

  “You did me.”

  “I don’t like to hit you while I have sex with you.”

  “Technically,” Gabriel said primly, “he very rarely hits me.” He left off the reason why, being that it simply didn’t turn Aled on much. Did plenty for Gabriel—except spanking, which just mystified him—but Aled wasn’t so interested. He could be a little snobby like that. Violence wasn’t as intellectually and sexually stimulating as a mindfuck, in Aled’s lofty opinion. Gabriel didn’t entirely agree, but the mindfuck was amazing so he let it slide.

  “Good luck, anyway,” Chris said as he poured out his cereal. “And don’t tell me about it if you manage to pull a miracle and get him to sleep with you.”

  Gabriel pondered it as he listened to Aled getting dressed overhead. He’d been more cheerful and relaxed since getting back to work—which was a first—but he was still…fussy. A point proven when he came into the kitchen in time to whisk Gabriel’s empty plate away and stop him leaning over to slide it back onto the counter.

  “Want anything else?”