“ARE SURE they’ll deliver this?”
He’s licking an envelope closed as he looks at me. He puts it down on the table before he speaks. “I mean, they have to, right?”
“Right,” I reply, laughing. “Good point.”
He walks over to the sofa and sits down next to me. Even though he’s not touching me, I think I can feel the warmth of his skin. He sighs before he leans his head on my shoulder. I wasn’t expecting that, and his mohawk is tickling my face but the last thing I want to do is move away from him.
I grab his hand. It’s cold and sweaty. He inhales deeply before he speaks. “You can’t come back.”
“I can try,” I say. “I mean—”
“No,” he says. “You can’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“It’s fine. I’m not worried about it.”
He sits back and looks right at me. “I am. So please, don’t, okay? I don’t want you to hurt yourself more than you already have, because of me.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. “But that’s not fair. I want to see you. I don’t understand why I can’t get to see you.”
“You do understand,” he says. “You just don’t like it.”
I rub the bridge of my nose. I’ve had a dull headache ever since I got here, but now it’s starting to get worse. I was able to forget about it when I was still waiting to talk to John, but now it seems to have come back with a vengeance. It’s probably nothing, but I want to have a clear head if this is the last day I ever get to spend with John.
Hopefully it won’t be.
I close my eyes before I speak. “Do you have anything for headaches?”
He looks up while he tries to remember. “I have weed.”
“Yeah, that’ll work.”
WE SMOKE a spliff in contemplative silence. I think. Or maybe it’s sad or awkward. I’m not sure. I definitely wouldn’t describe it as comfortable silence, though, because neither of us is making eye contact. I can’t look at him because every time I do, I feel like I’m about to burst into tears. The reality of the situation has finally become tangible. I’m never going to see him again. If I do, he will be old, and he probably won’t even remember me.
I hand it to him and watch him. He hands it back to me once he’s done, but I shake my head. I keep forgetting this eighties weed is serious shit. It’s gone straight to my head. Normally I can easily pace myself, but. Mostly because of him. He makes me forget everything, and only when the pain gets too much, or when I have to go home and face the consequences of my actions, that’s when I remember.
“When do you have to go back to work?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says. “I told Sam I was doing a half day today.”
“Oh. Did he ask why?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I told him you were coming to say goodbye.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so scared of him,” I say. “He didn’t strike me as scary. A little eccentric, maybe—”
“It’s just, when your livelihood hinges on someone who is, I don’t know, a little eccentric, it’s really easy to worry about losing that. Because you don’t know what kind of mood he’s going to be in the next day and that could change everything. If Sam didn’t want me around anymore, I’d have to go home and then—I don’t know. I don’t know what’s expected of me, to be honest. Probably get some girl pregnant.”
“That’s expected of you?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, all of my brothers have done that and my parents like them more than they like me, so maybe.”
“Well, I’m not your parents, but I like you a lot,” I say.
He smiles. “Is that so?”
“Yep,” I say. It’s the last time I’m going to see him so I guess now is the time for confessions. “So do you remember the first time I came over to your place and your heating wasn’t working?”
He nods.
“Well, you put this coat on me and my shirt—”
He has this smile on his face now. I think he knows where this is going. Maybe not how far this is going.
“It smells like you,” I say, looking away from him. “So I keep it under my pillow. But I swear I’m not a crazy stalker or anything, okay?”
He laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Right,” I reply, and look away from him. I’m blushing and starting to feel incredibly self-conscious. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that up. He’s looking at me like I’ve said something really weird, which is fair. I don’t know if I would like to hear something like that about me. He doesn’t say anything for a moment before he starts to take his shirt off, bunches it up, and hands it to me.
I grab the shirt, barely looking at it, too distracted by how gorgeous he is when he’s shirtless.
“That one should actually smell like me,” he says.
I nod.
“For longer,” he says. “And that’s my favorite shirt, so, you know—”
“Oh,” I reply.
I move it so that it’s next to me before I kiss him. I’ve tried to resist for what feels like forever, but after this I can’t help myself. He’s being so nice to me and that was so sweet. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to take the day off. He didn’t have to give me his clothes.
I put my hand on his cheek and keep kissing him, hungrily, desperately. I guess it’s not a surprise there’s something frantic about the way we’re touching, the way he’s kissing me back, the way his hands are working to undo my belt and my buttons. He leans back so I’m on top of him as I kiss him. I’m holding on to him too hard because when I let go of his arms there are white marks on his skin. I think I’ve been trying to prove to myself that he’s real, that I’m here, that we’re doing this. He is real and warm, and it matters he’s here in my arms, under me. That he’s present. I kiss his neck and he throws his head back and makes this guttural noise that is just so fucking hot.
I move my hand to his stomach, stroking the trail of hair on his abdomen before I stick my hand down his trousers.
His eyes widen when I grip his cock. He’s really hard and his jeans have to be uncomfortable.
“Take them off,” I say as I get off him. He nods, grunting again, bending his knees as he starts to peel off his trousers. He’s sitting up now, so I shift my attention from his neck to his chest. He throws his trousers on the floor without actually moving much. His fingers dig into my skin as I kiss his chest, then his stomach, then right above his dick.
I move his underwear down slowly before I look at his cock. I’ve never really been a cock person—I mean, I like them, for sure, but I’m not one of those gay boys that is really into the way cocks look or whatever. For me it’s more about the experience and the other person’s body. And the way John feels under my touch, the way he moans and writhes and squirms when I pleasure him, that’s almost enough to drive me over the edge. But I also want to know every part of him. I need to know every part of him, because I have a feeling that I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life, and I want to remember it right. I want to remember him right. I want to make sure that when I close my eyes and think about him, I can think about every imperfection on his skin, the way his cock curves slightly upwards, the way his muscles tense when my mouth is on him.
I lick him before taking him in my mouth. He whimpers before he puts his hand on the back of my head. I work on his cock as his grip on my hair seems to tighten and his hamstrings contract. I stroke the inside of his thighs softly, eliciting the quietest of noises, a moan that manages to be both uninhibited and sweet.
I take my time to suck him off. I take him out of my mouth to kiss the tip of his cock while I stroke his balls. His breathing has gotten quicker, just like mine, and when I take him into my mouth again, in his entirety, his legs shake and I can’t help but make this strangled noise as his entire body trembles under me.
“I’m so close,” he says.
That probably means he wants me to slow down, but I can’t. Not when he’s throat-fucking me, not when I feel like I need him so much. I want to taste him. More than I’ve ever wanted anything else, I want to taste him, I want to feel his dick as he comes inside my mouth, I want to lick him dry until he’s shivering and whimpering and crying and begging me to stop touching him, because he just can’t help himself. I should probably tell him this is what I want, but I’m busy. I speed up and lick him, from the base to the tip. I know from the way that he’s moans that he’s about to shoot his load.
“Damien,” he says. “Oh my God. Wait.”
My eyes meet his and I shake my head. He smiles before he closes his eyes and his mouth opens. His hips thrust forward as he finishes inside of me, the sweet salty taste spreading through my mouth as I run my tongue along his cock. His legs are twitching and I only take him out of my mouth when he squirms a little and starts to laugh.
I look at him and wipe my mouth off.
He sighs as he leans back, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. “Jesus.”
“That’s not my name,” I reply.
“Isn’t it? I think I forgot your name,” he says. “I think I forgot my own name while you were doing that.”
I sit up next to him and lean into his shoulder. He puts his arm around me and kisses my head.
“I want to do you, now,” he says. He’s still all breathless and beautiful and his limbs are kind of unsteady and trembly as he holds me close. “Do you want me to?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course I want you to.”
It’s not like he needed verbal confirmation. He could have just looked at me. I’m so hard for him, for this.
He sighs. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath. Honestly sometimes I can’t tell whether I’m in love with you or I’m in love with the way that you give head.”
I look at him, waiting for him to say something else, wondering what I should reply. That is a strange and casual way to declare your love to someone, but I understand it too. He’s in that brief moment where everything is bliss and there’s no need for a filter. Plus it’s not like he’s ever going to see me again after this, so if it’s the time for confessions for me, it makes sense that it would also be the time for confessions for him.
He doesn’t say anything else before he kneels down in front of me and takes off my jeans. I don’t even have time to think before he’s working his tongue on me. He’s not the best blow job I’ve ever had by a long shot, but it’s him, it’s John, he’s the one who has my dick in his mouth, he’s the one who is swirling his tongue around it as if I belonged to him.
Which I guess I do.
It feels like every one of his kisses, every time his tongue presses against me, every time his nails dig into my skin, are part of some sort of ritual where he is claiming me.
Something about the way he’s careful to imitate me, to make sure to look at me, to check in with me so that he’s making sure that this is good, something about that makes this so much more intimate than any contact we’ve ever had before. It’s less instinct and more romance. It feels like it’s part of his love.
I can’t really help myself when he starts speeding up, because no matter what, there’s still this gorgeous man that is doing all of this because of me, because he wants me, because he’s in love with me.
He takes me out of his mouth and starts to work on my cock with his right hand, using only his spit as lubricant.
“I want to feel you on me,” he says, his voice gruff and his eyes half-closed. That’s all it takes. He keeps moving his hand up and down as I come all over him, all over his face, and his chest and maybe even his hair a little bit. Trying to control my aim is useless and it doesn’t seem to stop, and I’m fairly sure I’m actually screaming, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I let out a deep breath before I look down at him. It’s strange, but it feels like I’ve not been breathing for the last few minutes. “There’s some—shit, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says, smiles at me before he licks his lips. “I like it.”