“You and I, we’ve got privilege. And I have more than you. You know I had a kid come into my office today because he’s afraid his family’s going to get deported? We can stay here and fight for what’s right because this is our country too, or we can get up and leave. I don’t feel good about leaving. It would feel like failure, like I didn’t care enough, I didn’t try hard enough, that I was being selfish. I don’t think I could live with myself if I left. And I’m not sure if I could live with you either.”
A knee to the crotch couldn’t have hurt more than those words. To lose Sean’s respect, to lose his trust, to lose his love… Isaiah was a big man. He could lift heavy shit and tote it around like it was nothing. He could reach things that were beyond most people’s grasps, and he had stamina like an ox. But this stringy little man in front of him could knock him out.
The room felt too small, and like it had been filled up with water, like he was treading water to keep his nose and mouth above the surface but soon it’d be up to the ceiling and he’d be helpless to do anything but take it into his lungs. Succumb. Leaving without Sean would be like leaving without his heart. Couldn’t do it. But staying felt just as impossible.
He needed to get out, needed to clear his head. Needed to feel, for a while at least, like he could breathe. All the words he wanted to say were cruel because his emotions were running riot and taking over his higher reasoning. He was a logical human and he prided himself on it but for serious, what the fuck good was higher reasoning if you were barely surviving in a hellscape that only showed signs of getting worse? But he’d learned long ago to keep a lid on that shit because it wasn’t fair, and cooler heads would eventually prevail. Sean too had learned that sometimes it was best to let Isaiah be instead of forcing him into saying something they’d likely both regret.
So Isaiah took a big breath, filling up his lungs with what felt like the last air in the room. “I’m going out.” Sean’s face crumbled and the hurt in his husband’s eyes made him feel wrung out. He was too angry to offer much in the way of comfort, but he could offer one thing even if he wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was true. “I’ll be back.”
5
He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. Sean didn’t like it when Isaiah walked away from their fights, but he knew why Isaiah did it. Had even agreed that he’d rather Isaiah walk away, take some time to sort his thoughts and come back once he could do something more than rage because they’d both be happier with that. But the understanding didn’t make it easy.
Feeling like the tin man, Sean took the glasses to the kitchen and dropped them on the counter before heading back to the dining room where he picked up the dishes from the dinner he’d made and toted them back as well. The filet wouldn’t keep well so he scraped it into the trash. The roasted potatoes and green beans followed, partially out of spite.
What would he do if Isaiah gave him an ultimatum? What would he do if Isaiah told him he could stay but that he’d be on a plane as soon as he’d gotten a job? Would he stay? Would he go? And what would he do if they left?
Isaiah spoke French well, but Sean’s was more like tourist pidgin. He liked to think he could get his point across, but it wasn’t elegant, he couldn’t convey sophisticated information, and he sure as fuck couldn’t be a school guidance counselor or even a teacher. In addition to being fluent in French, Isaiah spoke the lucrative language of science so it wasn’t surprising he was unconcerned about his own ability to communicate or find employment. Had he even thought about what Sean would do?
The idea of being a house husband and cooking decadent meals and maybe taking some cooking classes had appeal. But would he be able to live with himself for doing that while Brady and Miguel and millions of other people were suffering? Having their rights and their livelihoods and their families taken away? He didn’t think so, no matter if he might finally master making macarons and meringues. Guilt would haunt him and make everything taste like sawdust. But for now, he’d down this glass of wine, chug it even though it was meant to be sipped because if they were all doomed to the apocalypse, what the hell did any of it matter anyhow?
He poured another glass of wine since it was open and they had a rule in the house about bucking up and finishing the bottle, because it wouldn’t be as good the next day. And if it practically sloshed over the rim of the wine glass, then it did. That’s what sponges were for. Sean would fucking well hold up his end of this bargain at least. It was a full-bodied Syrah and he ought to savor it, but Christ he’d rather taste it on Isaiah’s lips, on his tongue as he invaded Sean’s mouth. Filled him to the brim until he was practically overflowing like the wine glass.
Isaiah wasn’t here to do that though. So Sean plunged his hands into the sink, sucking air through his teeth because he’d made the water too hot, but not taking his hands out. Nope. He gritted his teeth and bore it, as painful as it was. He should get used to it.
Yes, he was a bit of a masochist, but he’d always thought of himself as a fun masochist. Not masochistic in the nihilistic, everything-is-pain-anyway sort of way. But here he was, turning his milquetoast hands and arms a shade of lobster and for what? It’s not like Isaiah would enjoy this or be pleased by it. Not like bruises or hickeys or bite marks, he wouldn’t like the physical evidence of pain endured. No, he’d scold Sean and probably make him lie down with some cold-water soaked cloths wrapped up to his elbows while Isaiah finished the dishes himself.
He was being unreasonable and moody and infantile and he should stop. Be ready to listen to Isaiah when he got home, because clearly he’d need someone to talk to.
Sean flicked the faucet to cold and added water to the sink until he no longer felt scalded and finished up the wash before taking his wine to the couch and pretending to read. He usually preferred the other side of the couch but over here he’d be able to see Isaiah approaching their front door so he sat in the unfamiliar spot and sipped at his wine, waiting. Waiting and hoping.
Isaiah was an asshole. An asshole who’d walked fast enough and far enough without realizing it that it took him almost two hours to make it home again. Part of him hoped Sean would be in bed and asleep already because the man needed to get some rest. But most of him wished for Sean to be waiting up so he could kiss the worry away. Fuck him until he couldn’t see straight never mind fret.
His heart cracked when he opened the front door to an empty living room. The fissure got deeper when he went into the kitchen and saw everything had been cleaned up and put away, and that there was an empty wine bottle waiting to go in the recycling bin in the garage. That earnest-as-hell motherfucker had finished the bottle on his own. Someone else might’ve dumped it down the sink or corked the bottle and left it out, but not Sean.
After taking out the trash and the recycling because he needed to do chores to dull the guilt a bit, he headed upstairs and came into a dark bedroom without even the muted glow of Sean’s open laptop. He got ready for bed and climbed under the sheets. Stared at the ceiling and tried to quiet his mind enough to sleep.
It didn’t work.
He knew too that Sean wasn’t asleep, because when you’d been with a person for ten years, that was the kind of thing you knew like the back of your own hand. How your lover sounded when they’d found the peace of sleep.
Regret consumed him, ate at his mind because he could’ve handled things so much better. Should’ve, in fact, because he knew his husband well enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to shrug off Isaiah’s suggestion. Would take it to mean that Isaiah wanted to get out of this hellhole more than he wanted to be with Sean, which wasn’t true. He could’ve prefaced the whole damn thing by telling Sean about Pam, which he would’ve understood. Maybe they could’ve commiserated instead of sniping at each other.
Being in a marriage was hard enough under the best of circumstances, but everything and everyone was being tested at the moment. Everyone was tired and overwhelmed and stressed and set on a hair-trigger because being alive right now was hard.
It was fighting and making choices and deciding what to speak up about and what to pass by, and then worrying that you’d made the wrong choice or that you were a horrible person for letting anything go. But how was a person supposed to maintain a career and their relationships while also being a fulltime social justice warrior? And how were you supposed to live with yourself if you weren’t?
These were the things that made Isaiah want to toss and turn, but he didn’t. It was foolish, but he didn’t want to disturb Sean even in his not-sleeping. If Sean had rolled over and asked to talk, he would’ve taken him gratefully and gladly into his arms, but if Sean wanted to be angry and cold for a night, well, he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve that.
On the other hand, if Sean were waiting for him to make the first move toward reconciliation, apology, and he was just lying here staring at the stupid ceiling with his fingers knitted over his stomach? That made him kind of a dick.
Isaiah wouldn’t change a damn thing about Sean because if he pulled one string, Sean would unravel, and he didn’t want that at all. But that had also meant being careful with his words because Sean took things so deeply to heart.
Saying something like wanting to move to France with no context was the sort of thing he ought to have thought through. He’d have some explaining and reassuring to do. Not that he wouldn’t still move to France given the opportunity, but he sure as hell wouldn’t make a unilateral decision about it and was well aware he could’ve done a better job bringing it up.
It was a foot and a half. Maybe two. But the gap between them felt like a great expanse, an ocean of cold, unwelcoming cotton, and Isaiah had to take a few fortifying breaths before he could attempt the crossing. It would be okay. It would. What was the worst thing that could possibly happen? Sean could tell him it was too late, that he should go and not come back? Or maybe an indifferent shrug would be worse because then he’d know there was no coming back from the hurt he’d caused. Sean would be as good as lost because outwardly he’d still belong to Isaiah, but inside he’d be adrift.
Yes, that was as horrible as it sounded. But if he didn’t even bother to try? That would be far, far worse. Knowing there might have been a chance to make things right and not having taken it? All the wine in Burgundy wouldn’t make that right again.
So he slipped across the chasm toward Sean. There was still no light from his computer, and his breathing hadn’t settled into the unconscious space-taking soft snore so he wasn’t asleep, not yet. Probably awake and fretting, awake and worrying because he’d taken everything in and was still trying to figure out how to filter and dispose of it so he could take on still more tomorrow. His husband was an everyday, underrated hero.
Sean stiffened as Isaiah came close and laid a hand on his hip. It poked at his heart, that Sean would have that reaction when it wasn’t so long ago that he would have closed the gap between them with a scoot back to be the little spoon or rolling over so they’d be face-to-face. It hurt. Scored his heart.
“Sean.”
A pause, but then Sean rolled to his back, his chest bare and vulnerable in the low light of their bedroom. In their bed.
“Yeah?”
“I…” In the moonlight, he could barely see the freckles he knew covered the crest of Sean’s cheeks. But they were there. He was as certain of them as he was of anything in this world, except perhaps one thing. That he loved this man more than anything or anyone under the sun. The world seemed hopeless and uncertain sometimes, especially now, but maybe he could let Sean be his beacon, his hope. If Sean still wanted the job anyhow.
Sean blinked at him, eyes wide with uncertainty, maybe fearing the worst. But what would the worst be? Isaiah wasn’t so sure anymore.
“I don’t want to go anywhere without you. Not anywhere. I’d give up my ticket to Utopia if you didn’t want to come with me. And you stubborn, gallant fucker, you wouldn’t, would you?”
Sean’s mouth tugged to the side and he breathed out through his nose. The combination was apologetic and defiant all at once. “Not if we were leaving everyone else behind.”
“You’re a better person than I am, you know that?” He leaned over Sean, planting a hand on the other side of Sean’s ribcage, hoping he was making Sean feel loved and sheltered instead of trapped. He wanted desperately to kiss his husband, press his lips softly against Sean’s willing mouth, but he wasn’t sure he’d earned back the privilege yet. And that’s what it was, a privilege to have this man next to him, under him.
“I’m not.” Sean’s protest was accompanied by a shake of his head, his reddish hair flopping around on the pillow. “You’re the best person I know. You do all these things I could never do and you make a difference to so many people, and I—”
Isaiah was right, he knew he was right, and he didn’t want to listen to any more of Sean’s spurious arguments. So he shut him up with a kiss. It started out as a meeting of their lips, but it quickly became more than that. A lick at the seam of Sean’s mouth, a nip at his narrow bottom lip, and soon Isaiah was slipping his tongue into his lover’s mouth, exploring the wet, welcoming warmth, and feeling the blood start to flow to his cock because Sean still turned him on like no one else. Especially when he made a breathy moaning sound into Isaiah’s mouth and pressed his body closer. Sean wanted to be closer to him, and he wanted that too.
It would be so easy to turn this into making love, or hell, just an energetic and angst-relieving fuck, but there were more things to be said. On the other hand, he was more confident now that there was more time to say them, and why couldn’t something be easy for a while? Weren’t they both paying far over their dues and weren’t they allowed to take a breath, take a break? Recharge so they could fight another day? Isaiah thought yes, and Sean wasn’t protesting, so for now he’d love him the best he knew how.
Kissing Isaiah or rather being kissed by Isaiah—because there was no way to argue that Isaiah hadn’t taken over this enterprise—was one of his favorite things on earth. And why shouldn’t it be? All elegant power as he lowered his bulk to force Sean’s body further into the mattress while he took Sean’s mouth. Explored him and probed him, always seeking and searching for any spot of pleasure he might have missed or a change in the sensual landscape.
So often Isaiah was concerned with the big picture, and yet when he devoted his attention to Sean, it was as though he was the only person alive. It was at once delightful and terrifying, decadent and a massive amount of pressure. To have this incredible man give up seconds, minutes, hours, to doing nothing but pleasing him. It filled Sean’s heart and nearly spilled over in the form of tears from his eyes. It was so much.
He had to hold on, lest he be swept away in this tide of emotion. And the most solid thing he knew of was right above him. So Sean reached for the mass and breadth of his lover’s shoulders, digging fingertips into the wings of his shoulder blades and trying to pull Isaiah down so his heft could anchor them both—in what was real, in what was important, in what mattered and what would be constant. They weren’t going to leave, and Sean wasn’t going to have to make an impossible choice.
There were choices to be made for sure, but they would make them together, and they wouldn’t let the strain of the state of the world destroy them. Don’t let the bastards get you down? Was that the saying? Sean felt like it was okay to be down sometimes because it was fucking exhausting, but it wasn’t okay to be out. No one should ever count them out.
Isaiah lowered himself onto Sean and the weight didn’t make him feel smothered, it made him feel safe, warm, and sheltered. His gratitude took on a patina of lust as well because Isaiah’s thick, hard cock pressed against his own. What he wanted was to not have even the thin layers of their cotton shorts between them. He wanted skin against skin, to feel the gentle scrape of Isaiah’s furred thighs against his own, to have nothing in the world between them.
After being conquered by his husband’s kisses, Sean took a breath and looked up at Isaiah with wide eyes he knew would poke at all th
e soft, squishy places Isaiah had. “I want you, please. I don’t want anything in between us and I want you to rut against me. Take me over. Please, Isaiah. Please.”
Begging was always a good tactic, and it worked now. Sean found himself divested of his boxers in short order, and Isaiah stripped off his boxer briefs as well, coming to rest over Sean as soon as it was over, pressing his erection against Sean’s own, making them both gasp and grunt. Then Isaiah was using his knees to make space between Sean’s thighs to honor Sean’s request, rocking his hips between Sean’s spread legs.
Their cocks rubbed together, the friction and the pressure delicious, made Sean’s back arch because he wanted more of Isaiah, always more. They frotted against each other, rocked until they were nearly there and when they started to lose their rhythm, Isaiah reached into the drawer, grabbed the bottle of lube and squirted an imprecise amount into his hand before wrapping it around both their dicks. The closeness, the motion, the slickness, the intimacy of their shared breaths as their foreheads pressed together and they shared the very air they breathed, it was all so much it made tears gather at the corners of Sean’s eyes.
Isaiah was his for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. They’d figure all this out, together. It was that knowledge, that security that let Sean loosen up enough to spend all his tension into Isaiah’s fist and onto his own stomach where Isaiah’s climax soon followed. Hot, sticky evidence of their lovemaking spread over his soft midsection as his breath came in shudders. With that kind of release, it was impossible to hold tight to the rest of his feelings. The tears spilled over and Isaiah kissed and licked them from his cheeks.
Rogue Affair Page 4
