Sharp Edges: An Urban Gay Romance

by Moreau, Lenore

  "He was still your dad. Maybe a part of you never gave up on him. Always hoped things would get better. Now they can't. It's not bad for you to feel bad he's dead. Fuck, it'd be weird if you didn't." His hands tangle in my shirt. A part of me wonders why he came to me. A guy like Kelly has to have hundreds of people that would be there for him at a time like this, all of them probably better at emotional shit than my fucked-up ass. But I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad he's in my arms, glad his head is on my chest.

  "It's just so fucked. He tried to rush a fucking cop, what the hell did he think was going to happen?" There's a note of panic in his voice. I tighten my grip around him, moving my hand in slow circles on his back.

  "Have you told the kids yet?" He shakes his head.

  "I just heard twenty minutes ago. I didn't know what to do. I just texted you and sat down. That's all I knew how to do. I don't want to wake them up. Not until I'm less of a mess." I laugh involuntarily.

  "If this is you a mess, I hope you never have to see the shit that goes down at my place when someone's a mess. You're handling it well. Fuck, as well as anyone could, Oliver. Take tonight. Give yourself a fucking break. Tomorrow we can figure out what to do next. Okay?" He nods into my shirt again.

  "Gio?" he whispers.

  "Yeah?"

  "Will you stay tonight?" He asks like he doesn't have a hope I'll say yes. I shouldn't say yes. This is shit that crosses the lines I keep moving backward, not only crosses them but stomps on their faces and dances on their graves. But he feels so small against me. His hands are still trembling in his lap. He's my friend. And he wouldn't leave me to face death alone.

  "Yeah, I'll stay. Here or upstairs?"

  "Upstairs." He rubs his forehead, pulling away from me. "I just want to lay down. Fuck, I should be doing something. I'm just so tired. How am I fucking tired? My dad just died."

  "Deep breaths," I say. I stand and give him a hand up. He doesn't let go of my hand. Just for tonight, I decide, that's okay. He knows how I feel about the gay shit and he doesn't cross my boundaries until I beg him to. And I'm not worried about him getting the wrong idea. This is just what he needs tonight. Comfort. Human touch. I can give him that. It's not gay to hold a guy's hand if his dad just died. His hand clings to mine as we make it up the stairs.

  I pull his clothes off, for once not trying to get fucked. He just doesn't seem like he can do it himself right now. We both strip to our boxers and fall into bed. He lands a foot away from me, staring up at the ceiling with wide blank eyes. It's incredible how natural it feels to pull him into my arms. I guess that's what grief does. It makes weird things natural. He shivers, body stiffening a moment before relaxing against me. He's warm. Soft. My chin finds its way to the crook of his shoulder.

  "When I was six, he took me to the circus," Kelly mutters. "It's one of the only times I remember him taking me somewhere. We went in with all the other families and it was weird. I felt like we belonged there, with those smiling people. Me, him, and my sister. And for once he wasn't drunk or high. He wasn't trying to swindle money out of anyone. He was just a guy taking his kids to the circus. When they brought the elephants out, I remember thinking he was more excited than we were. His eyes were fucking huge, and he grabbed my hand so tight I thought he was gonna break something. You know, I don't know if he'd ever seen one in person before. Isn't that fucking crazy? A thirty-something guy getting psyched about an elephant. I can still smell the popcorn mixed with animal shit.

  "You know, how could a guy who takes his kids to the circus leave them the next day to score tar off a hooker? How do those two men mix? I just- I still don't get it. When things were okay with him, they were good. But in between- god. I guess I never really got him. I never really knew him at all."

  "How did he die?" I ask before I can stop myself. I expect Kelly to pull away, but he doesn't seem phased. He intertwines our fingers together once more, pulling my hand to his chest. His heartbeat's fast and unsteady.

  "Overdose. In Utah."

  "Utah? I thought he lived up here."

  "Sometimes," Kelly sighs. "I kicked him out a couple months back. He had my nine-year-old brother out trying to score crystal for him and enough was enough. Maybe if I'd let him stay- if I found him somewhere else to live-"

  "He would still have ended up exactly where he is now," I say. It comes out harsher than I wanted it to. I take a deep breath. It's not Oliver I'm mad at. It's his stupid-ass dead father. "This isn't your fault. You did what was best for your family. Fuck, no one should expect you to do more. You're the dad those kids have never had. I mean it- it's fucking incredible the shit you do for them. I never did half that shit for my little brothers when they lived with us."

  "They're all I've got," he murmurs. "And I never had anybody to do it for me. So I figure somebody should do it for them." We sit in silence. Every inch of my body responds to his. It's not even sexual. Maybe it would be better if it were. Just holding him- it's like half of the shit he feels about his dad is moving through his body to mine, like I can take part of that pain away. I want to if I can. I'm hyper-aware of each time his chest rises and falls. His heart thumps against mine, beating in tandem with it. It's beating fast, so fast that I worry. Can heart-attacks happen from shock? Because whether or not Kelly admits it, tonight was a shock.

  His breath hitches and I reach my free hand to his face before I realize I'm doing it. It's wet. I brush his tears away without comment, their coolness seeping into my fingers before I brush them onto the sheets. Any other time I'd give him shit. Any other time I'd call him a pussy and stop seeing him. At least for a couple days. But now- the guy's father just died. Tonight of all nights I can cut him some fucking slack. Tonight of all nights he's allowed to cry. I'm helpless, though. There's nothing I can do or say that will make this even a little better. I don't have a line to the reaper. So I just hold him, listening to his breathing finally grow even, his heartbeat finally slow.

  When his weight goes heavy against my arm, I know he's asleep. Hesitantly I turn my face to his neck and breathe in his scent. My lips brush his skin for half a second before I turn away. That same smell he always has- campfire and salt- mixes into my blood. I lay awake for a long time, feeling the press of his body in my arms, before I finally pass out, Kelly's limp form still enclosed in mine.

  10

  He tells the kids after breakfast, and I thank god that it's Saturday. They don't have to worry about school for a few days. They don't have to try to think or act normal until Monday. I sit beside him as he does it, wanting to reach out and grab his hand. Even in front of all of them. How fucking queer is that? Must be the emotion left from last night. I keep my hands to myself and watch the six of them, his oldest sister holding her baby on her lap, hear the news. His sister sits stone-faced, carved of ivory and ice. The baby on her lap gurgles, oblivious to the stupid shit grownups are doing. The little ones, though. Their faces are stricken.

  "He's never coming back?" a little girl- she can't have been more than eight- asks. "He's really dead?" Kelly nods.

  "Good," the oldest-Arden, I remember- says. She doesn't sound angry. I'd be fucking angry, but she's not. She's matter-of-fact, unconcerned. "We're better off without him showing up and stealing our cash every couple months. Better off without him fucking up our lives once a year. Good riddance."

  "How can you say that?" a scowling teenager asks, his face contorting with rage. "He wasn't perfect but he was here when he could be. Until now. He never hit us or nothing."

  "I'm glad he's dead, and if you knew him better you would be too," Arden says, staring her brother down. He bolts up from the couch and moves toward her quickly. I stand in front of her and put a hand up, trying to disarm him.

  "Hey. That's not going to help anything, man." He glares at me for a moment, then takes a step back, covering his face with his hands.

  "How?" he asks. Kelly tells him. He sits back down. "Fuck, man."

  "His sister's going to bury him in Salt Lake. Something about
Mormon traditions. I thought we'd have our own memorial here."

  "I won't be involved," the girl says. She turns to a girl who's maybe two years younger. The one, if I remember right, that's smart enough to go to college. Ariel. "Come on." They pick up the two babies- Arden's kids and walk out the door together. Ariel shoots a last long glance at Kelly, her eyes wide and watery.

  "What kind of memorial?" the boy asks. His eyes are wild, flying between me and Kelly like I've got some sort of say in this thing. "What are we going to do? We can't let the little ones forget him. I don't want to forget him. Fuck- Ollie-"

  "I know," Kelly says, his face composed. Maybe he did need just one night. Now he's back to strong older brother, the guy who knows how to fix everything. The guy who doesn't have to fix himself. But there's still this hint of panic in his eyes that betrays the truth. "I know. We'll plan it together. Figure something out. Okay?" The little girl climbs into his lap and buries her face in his shoulder, sobbing. He strokes her back and turns to his brother once more. "We won't forget him. The guy was a dick, but he was our dad. No matter what Arden says. We'll get the rest of the kids tomorrow and do something in the backyard. I promise." To my shock, the teenager walks over to Oliver and pulls him into a hug. The other two kids remaining follow, and the family sits there, holding each other. Comforting each other.

  Once more I wonder who the hell this guy is. He's strong enough to beat me in a fight without even seeming to struggle. Talented enough to get a job as a mechanic. Doesn't drink to excess, even though he lives in a fucking ghetto, taking care of a shit-load of kids that aren't his. Planning a fucking memorial for a guy who he hated. The kids clearly worship him. They cling to him like he can give them something like he can fix this. Fuck, maybe he can. The full extent of the emotion makes me uncomfortable. They're all so open about it. If we did that shit at my house, we'd get the belt at best. Fists would be more likely.

  I should leave. I know I should leave. This is family shit, and Kelly's not my family. I'm intruding into these kids' lives at a time when they don't need intrusion. But the thought of leaving Kelly after how he was last night- the thought of him crying by himself hurts. Nobody should have to cry alone. I help get the kids dressed. The older ones leave for work or whatever it is they're doing, and the younger ones settle in front of the TV, sitting far closer to each other than they would normally. Kelly and I sit on the couch, watching them. His hand drifts toward mine and I don't pull away. Tomorrow I will. Tomorrow I'll reset all the boundaries I've forgotten today. But today, Kelly needs me. That's more important.

  We sit there, not looking at each other, our hands touching. The kids play, but there's something different about the way they play today. There's a note of desperation to it. A hint that if they stop pretending things are normal, even for a moment, their worlds will fall apart. I'm half surprised when Kelly pulls me to my feet and practically shoves me up the stairs.

  "The kids?"

  "Arden took hers with her. The ones here are old enough to be left on their own for an hour." I raise an eyebrow as he tugs my shirt off.

  “An hour? You're feeling ambitious." His fingers slide beneath my waistband, and his touch against my stomach sends a shiver through me. "We don't have to fuck right now. Y'know, we can just hang out if you want."

  "Who are you?" he asks. There's finally a hint of a grin back on his lips. That's the best thing I've ever seen. Means he'll come out of this okay eventually. "I want to. I'm okay. Last night was what I needed, but I'm ready to put that dick behind me. And your dick in front of me."

  "Very fucking cute," I mumble, but I stop talking as his lips close around my cock.

  He kneels in front of me, hand and mouth working my cock up and down with a ferocity I haven't seen before. It feels fucking amazing, and my hands tangle in his hair. They don't pull. They just feel him moving around me, tracing him. I gasp as he takes all of me into his throat, waiting for a moment before pulling away. I watch, helpless, as he sucks on one of his own fingers for a moment, then presses it up against my ass. His mouth returns, and my eyes roll back into my head as he sucks me and presses into me at the same time. He's still not gentle. I'd fucking hate it if he was gentle. His fingers are an assault of pleasure, rubbing against my prostate unceasingly, forcing the rough contrast between his mouth and his fingers.

  "I'm gonna come if you don't slow down," I mutter, strained.

  "Come, then," he says before returning to his ministrations. I try to hold back, try to wait longer than a freshman getting his first handy in the back of the school gym, but I can't. I explode in his mouth, my knees going weak as I come hard. As the pleasure fades, I nearly topple over. I'm dizzy and drained. Kelly catches me and tosses me onto the bed as easily as I'd throw off a backpack. "I'm gonna fuck you until you see stars," he promises. A shiver runs down my spine as his fingers return to my ass, working me open roughly. I hiss at the sensation. It's a feeling so strong it's almost painful.

  "Fuck, give me a minute," I say. He slows but doesn't stop, looking down at me with his green eyes hard. Something about that look sends a shock of desire straight through me. And suddenly I don't want him to stop. He doesn't. He works a third finger into me and pistons them in and out hard, hard enough that I'm gasping with every thrust, my hips rolling up toward his hand. Then he pulls out, grabbing the purple bottle on the side table I've learned to know so well. He squeezes a few drops of lube into my hand, and I rub my hand over his cock like I'm in a trance. Maybe I am. He's hypnotizing, mesmerizing, and I can't pull myself away. Kelly grips my wrist and pulls my hand off, watching me with a wry grin.

  "You know if you want me inside you you've got to let go," he says. I flip him off but spread my legs apart nonetheless. I'll tell him off after I get fucked. He pushes into me all at once, my legs on his shoulders. The world around us fades. It doesn't matter. How could anything possibly compare to this-this man above me fucking me hard while he holds my neck? "Fuck, Gio," he mutters, and I'm suddenly very aware of the noises coming out of my mouth. They're desperate. Helpless. I can't stop them.

  "Oliver-" I choke out as he thrusts into me particularly hard. "I need- fuck-" My hand reaches for my cock, but Oliver pulls it away, his grin growing sadistic.

  "What do you need?" he asks, his thrusts slowing. I tug at his hips, trying to make him move, to gain any fucking friction. He stills. "What do you need, Gio?"

  "Fuck you, Kelly," I mutter. He doesn't move. He simply tilts his head and watches me quizzically. I roll my hips forward, trying to thrust toward him, but his arms find a hip and my chest, holding me still. I don't want to beg, but at this point, I'm fucking desperate. The words slip out of my mouth. I can't hold them back anymore. "Please- fuck me harder. I'm so close. Need to come- please-"

  "Now was that so hard?" he asks. I glare at him, but my glare fades as he starts fucking me in earnest, holding onto my thighs to pull me into him. My eyes roll back into my head as his free hand wraps around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts until the world fades. I'm crying out his name, begging for something I can't define, arching my hips up to meet him. He groans against me, his thrusts growing less rhythmed, more erratic, and I come hard, pulling him into me.

  I need him closer, deeper, harder, and I can't fucking breathe anything but him. There is nothing but him. I'm surrounded by warm weight, campfire and salt, and nothing else fucking matters. Slowly I return to earth, realizing my limbs are still surrounding him. I detangle myself with a guilty grin, but he doesn't pull out of me. Instead, he collapses on top of me, his face against my neck, a hand in my hair. I try to catch my breath.

  "How the fuck is it better every single time?" I ask no one. Kelly laughs.

  "They say practice makes perfect. We've got to be getting pretty close."

  "I guess," I mumble. "Still. Every fucking time. I thought I was going to pass out that time."

  "Yeah, my dick's pretty great," Kelly murmurs into my ear. I roll my eyes. We get dressed and go to deal with
the kids.

  They act like little shits all day. Like, I get it. Kids only have a few emotions to cycle through. Sadness, anger, happiness. They don't get grief. They don't experience it, at least not the way we grown assholes do. They get the anger and the sadness for a while, but they don't understand those either. Not really. So they lash out against the people around them. They steal each others' toys, punch each other without good reason. Little Lily, the fragile sprite-like girl around eight, cried for an hour after she nearly pushed her brother down the stairs. And here I am like a fucking nursemaid, helping Kelly out and trying to keep them all from killing each other. I don't mind that much. Seth and Lily- the little ones- they're cute. When they're not trying to kill each other, anyway.

  By the time we finally go to bed, I'm exhausted. He must be too. He curls up against me, and I wrap my arms around him like before. I need to stop it. I really do. But it feels nice. And I figure one more night can't really hurt after all the other shit we've done. So I let him press his body into mine, let his arms wrap over where mine lay, pulling them tighter into him. And I let him push our fingers together until they're laced up. I fall asleep first, and the last thing I'm aware of is the smell of his hair tickling my nose.

  11

  When I wake, he's not next to me. That's a good thing, too, I tell myself. I don't need him pressed up against me like a chick, confusing my dreams with impressions of his body. That's the last thing I need. And today's the last day of all this domestic shit. Starting tomorrow, it's back to just fucking. I pull myself out of bed, yawning, and throw on some of Oliver's clothes. They're too big, but they're better than wearing mine for the third day in a row. If that asshole doesn't have a coffee-maker in his kitchen, I'm suing. Most of the kids are already up, chasing each other around the living room. They wave to me as I walk in, and Lily and Seth run up to me like puppies.