by Vivica Dorn
And it was lonely.
CHAPTER 9
On Monday Sam shifted impatiently in his Politics and Governance class, waiting for Michel to appear. He fidgeted constantly, glancing at the door every other moment, until Finn suddenly groaned and berated him.
“Jesus, dude, stop twitching. You’re making me nervous. Who are you looking for?”
At that moment, just when both boys had turned their attention to the door, Lance Gallagher, huge and grim, stalked into the room. Finn fell awfully quiet. Sam nodded at Lance as he walked by. Lance glanced his way, but he did not respond. His eyes flicked to Finn for the briefest of moments before he looked away, gaze dark, something unreadable in his expression.
Sam and Finn waited for Lance to find a seat, somewhere several rows behind them, before they spoke again.
“That is one crazy motherfucker, I’m telling you,” Finn whispered, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Did you see the way he looked at us but then totally ignored us? I don’t know what his deal is but I don’t like it. Why did he have to join this class? I’ll never be able to relax and focus now,” he whined quietly, slumping down in his seat.
Sam laughed without mirth and nodded absentmindedly, only half listening. His eyes still lingered on the doorway.
It had taken every ounce of self control he had not to text Michel over the weekend. He had wanted to, desperately, but knew that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Michel had practically fled from him after they had kissed, and Sam didn’t want to push too hard. Hard. Michel had been hard. Beautifully so. There was no denying it. Sam sucked in a breath and clenched his pen tightly in his fist as he remembered the gorgeous TA rubbing against him with abandon, moaning sweetly, gasping, back arched, mouth open...
The classroom door opened and Sam snapped back to reality. But it was Dr Adams, not Michel, who entered the room.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’d like to welcome you to another week at Kingston College by letting you know that you will have a quiz next week on the first two chapters we have read so far.”
Finn groaned quietly beside Sam and he smirked in response. Though, he shouldn’t smirk, he realized, as he felt woefully unprepared for a quiz so soon. So far the bargain he had struck with Michel had been completely one-sided. They had started the swimming lessons but had had no tutoring outside of office hours. Yet.
Sam frowned, pulling out his phone. Michel had given his phone number, after all. He was allowed to text him. He should text him. It wasn’t fair that so far he was doing all the work. He typed quickly, thumbs jumping over the touchscreen, below the desk, making sure to avoid the gaze of their stern teacher.
Hey Michel, just heard about the quiz, can we study soon?
Sam waited, heart pounding ridiculously hard and palms beginning to sweat, for a response. It came more quickly than he anticipated.
Absolument pas.
Sam frowned deeper, regretting not having taken French in high school. He opened a French-to-English translator online to check what Michel had said – absolutely not.
He sighed gruffly. This would be more difficult than he had thought.
I’ll take that as a yes, he responded.
Michel’s answer flashed across his screen and Sam could practically hear the annoyance in the words.
I thought I told you to email me for academic queries. Besides, I know you’re in lecture; you shouldn’t be texting in class.
Sam pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. Who the hell used a semi-colon in a text? He started typing again, paying far more attention to his grammar and spelling now than he was to the professor at the front of the room.
I know, sorry, I thought this would be more efficient. When can we meet?
A long pause that made Sam anxious, then:
Tonight, at the library. I’ll book a study room. 8:00. Don’t be late.
Immediate glee pulsed through Sam in fits and starts, sparking in his abdomen and then moving outward into his long limbs. He grinned down into his phone, already picturing being alone with the TA, huddled up together in the library, sitting close, so close...
Sam turned his attention to his laptop and whipped it open, connecting to the university’s wifi and accessing his student account on the Kingston College portal. He regarded his schedule, brow furrowed, as Dr Adams lectured and Finn scribbled furiously. With almost no real forethought on the matter – just a sudden shift of desire deep in his chest – he dropped one of his courses, Critical Literary Theory, and switched into French 100 before he had the chance to change his mind.
He closed his laptop, satisfied, and finally turned his attention to the front.
~
Sam was far less self-congratulatory as he stood outside the main library entrance at 8:16pm, a surprisingly cold wind whipping up between the old limestone campus buildings. Though they had barely reached the end of September, the weather had turned swiftly and uncharacteristically, a cold front blustering in without warning. He checked his phone for texts and emails but his various inboxes were depressingly empty. His lips pressed together as he scanned the students making their way through campus, walking in couples and little groups, laughing and chatting. Sam sighed, feeling irrationally jealous of them and of their happiness, annoyed that he was out here all alone. He wondered if Michel was already inside the library waiting for him, and he glanced at the inviting golden light spilling out of the library’s glass doors. But Michel had said he would book a private study room and there were more than fifty of those rooms in the library. Sam didn’t know which room Michel had signed them up for and he doubted that the notoriously rude, raven-haired young librarian Caspian would help him if he asked.
Maybe I should just leave, he thought moodily. He felt like a fool waiting out here under the rapidly darkening sky. Waiting for someone who, it was beginning more and more to seem, would not come after all. But then he pictured Michel, those electric emerald eyes, those full red lips, that skin, and he knew he couldn’t. Not unless he knew for sure the TA wasn’t coming. He couldn’t help but feel that Michel wouldn’t be the type to stand him up, but then again, he also didn’t seem like the type to be late. Sam cast his mind back to their last encounter, chest tightening. Maybe he really was a fool, hoping for Michel to come back after that. But he had to know for sure.
He looked at his phone once again, ready to break yet another one of Michel’s rules and call him, when he heard someone clear their throat to his right and mutter a quiet “salut”.
There stood Michel, hunching a little in a stylish black pea coat and boots, his collar turned up against the weather, his indigo jeans impossibly tight against the curves of his legs. His skin looked exceptionally fair against his dark clothing, the waves of his hair parted and sifted by the wind, his cheeks bitten red by the cold. The tip of his nose was red, too, and Sam felt a huge smile split his face, fighting back the urge to lean in and kiss the tip of that cold nose. His irritation and uncertainty from the previous moment had completely disappeared, replaced by a warm glow of affection that settled deep in his chest. And it wasn’t just affection, he noticed, his eyes falling again to Michel’s slim legs in those painted-on jeans, his cock twitching in a way that was becoming all too familiar when he looked at the TA. He ripped his gaze from Michel’s gorgeous legs, working hard to erase the sudden image of him running his large hand up and between those supple thighs...
“You’re late, for real this time,” Sam said, clenching his fists, fearing his hands would defy him and grasp onto those slender shoulders, that waist.
Michel had the grace to look a little guilty, frowning and looking down.
“Sorry about that. I, uh... something came up.”
He offered no further explanation. What Sam didn’t know was that “something” involved Michel pacing back and forth in his apartment, his heart pounding out of his chest, changing his clothes over and over again, deciding to cancel, then deciding not to cancel, then deciding to cancel again, before finally forcin
g himself out the door with a frustrated growl of a sigh.
Sam smiled brilliantly, now not caring that Michel was late, not caring about anything but the fact that he was here. He let the foreign magnitude of his emotions wash over him and almost overwhelm him, revelling in their sweet intensity. He wanted to reach out and stroke Michel’s rosy cheek, he wanted to intertwine his fingers with his, he wanted to kiss that red mouth again and again, he wanted, he wanted...
Sam realized Michel was staring at him, brow furrowed.
“Shall we go in?”
“Yeah, for sure!” Sam said brightly, striding forward and pulling the huge, heavy glass door open with ease. “After you, monsieur.”
Michel blinked at him then laughed, suddenly more relaxed than Sam had ever seen him. The bubbly, pure nature of the laughter made Sam feel like he could fucking fly. He watched with fascination as Michel threw his head back with the force of his reaction, totally letting go. You’re beautiful, Sam almost said. But he didn’t.
“Your accent! Mon Dieu, you need more help than I had thought! Maybe we should turn this into a French lesson, instead. You clearly need more help with that than with politics.” Michel snorted, grinning, still standing in the open library doorway. Then he turned and strode inside and Sam clambered after him like a golden retriever following its exquisite master.
As he followed, Sam arranged his face into an expression of mock hurt.
“Oh dear, Madame Gérard would be très désolée to hear that.”
Michel turned back to Sam, his green eyes curious.
“You know Madame Gérard?”
Sam nodded, suddenly embarrassed, though he knew he had no reason to be. Perhaps embarrassed wasn’t the right word. Vulnerable. He felt vulnerable. Though he really couldn’t put his finger on why.
“Yeah, I just switched into her class. French 100.”
Michel’s eyebrows flew up and his lovely mouth opened before he quickly whipped back to the front and led them into the library.
“She’s an excellent instructor, you’ll learn a lot,” he said, his voice softer than before.
Sam watched that slender back as Michel led them towards the stairs that took them to the study area. He was half-relieved, half-disappointed that Michel hadn’t asked him why he had suddenly decided to take a French class. He wasn’t sure how he would have answered, anyway. And really, what could he have said? I took this class to better understand you, to feel close to you, to make you look at me... It was probably for the best that Michel hadn’t asked, though Sam’s chest ached with the weight and the truth of those unsaid words. The weight and the truth of the things he had barely had time to admit to himself.
Michel took Sam upstairs to the second level, leading him to a quiet hallway lined with identical blue doors, each with a number on them, 201, 202, 203, and onwards.
“We’re in 258, I think that’s the one at the end. Since I booked it a bit last minute I didn’t have many options and I think it may be one of the smaller ones,” Michel said, walking briskly ahead of Sam to the very last door. Sam, with his long legs, had no trouble keeping up with the TA’s hurried pace, but his heart sank as he realized Michel was walking so quickly because he wanted to get away from him. Grimly, he followed Michel into the small study space.
The study room was lit softly with the same warm, yellow-toned light that illuminated the entire library. There wasn’t a desk, but just a small, three-walled private cubby. There was only one chair. The room was clearly only meant for one person and it already felt crowded with the two of them. Sam could practically feel Michel cursing silently.
Sam set his book bag on the desk of the cubby and turned to Michel who, he hated to admit, looked positively miserable.
“Well, I’d go get you chair, but I honestly don’t think it would fit in here. We can go somewhere else, into the common library area, or a coffee shop, or something...” Sam trailed off. Despite his words, he didn’t want to leave the tiny room, didn’t want to give up the forced proximity to Michel. They were so close that he swore he could see the pulse in Michel’s white throat, jumping and quick. His fingers ached to brush against that skin, to feel that rhythmic beat beneath his palm.
Michel pursed his lips, his face flushed.
“It’s too loud and distracting in those kinds of environments.”
Sam barely stopped himself from laughing bitterly. Distracting. What was distracting was the way Michel was gracefully sliding out of his jacket, the way his forest-green V-neck sweater rode up, for the briefest of moments, revealing a soft strip of pale stomach. The way he seemed to look everywhere but Sam, blushing.
Michel hung his jacket on a hook on the back of the study room door, closing it firmly.
Chin jutting out, he turned back to Sam, looking determined despite the redness in his cheeks.
“This will do. We will study here.”
“Ok,” Sam said uncertainly, trying to figure out how this would work and who would sit where.
Michel made the decision for him.
“You sit. Take out your textbook and notes. Let’s begin.”
Sam learned quickly that Dr Adams had been right – Michel was truly brilliant. And he was a demanding teacher, questioning Sam, explaining things to him curtly but expertly, forcing him to focus.
But Sam couldn’t focus.
When they had started studying, Sam had been seated and Michel had stood about a foot behind him, awkwardly leaning sideways so that he could also view Sam’s books. As the session progressed Michel moved closer and closer out of necessity, unable to read the textbook clearly from his position. Which is how Michel ended up with his hands resting on the back of Sam’s chair, leaning over his shoulder, his jaw a mere breath from Sam’s mouth. Michel didn’t seem to have noticed how close he had gotten, totally absorbed by the academic material, passionately explaining his points. But Sam noticed. His back was tense, his breath coming quickly, the side of his face nearest Michel’s on fire. His jeans tightened across his crotch as he inhaled the sweet, almond-like scent of Michel’s hair. He gripped his thighs with his hands beneath the cubby’s table, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth practically creaked. This was a nightmare. This was totally crazy.
For the first time in his life, Sam felt completely out of control, both of his emotions and his body. His cock hardened further and he knew that he was coming close to doing something he would regret. He thought that he really should get out of there – make some piss-poor excuse, grab his stuff and book it out of there as fast as he fucking could, into the empty night.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said, his voice rough, “you can’t really see from back there, huh?”
He reached back and, without another word and without waiting for a response, grabbed Michel’s wrists and pulled the shocked TA into his lap. Sam’s stomach clenched as the smaller boy’s weight settled deliciously against his erection.
“Qu’est-ce que vous faites?!” Michel sputtered, face reddening, wiggling in Sam’s grip.
“What am I doing?” Qu’est-ce que vous faites – he had learned the phrase in his first French 100 class that he had attended that afternoon – what are you doing? “I’m just trying to make sure you can see, that’s all.”
He looped his strong arms against Michel’s waist, pulling the TA’s back against his chest, going crazy with the heady feeling of having him so tight against him. He placed his chin on Michel’s shoulder, looking down at the books, doing his best to keep his expression controlled as Michel breathed furiously hard.
“Keep going, I’m listening,” he murmured, his voice coming very close to trembling. Jesus Christ.
“What?!” Michel snapped, wrenching to look at Sam’s profile. “You expect me to teach you like this? You must be out of your mind. You Americans are far too informal, far too pushy, no respect for authority!” But Michel didn’t look particularly authoritative now, Sam noticed with a throb between his legs. Michel’s cheeks positively glowed,
his chest heaved up and down with erratic breaths, his green eyes were furious and wide, his beautiful mouth parted.
It took everything Sam had not to kiss him then, not to take that mouth viciously, vengefully, claiming it, claiming him. But he knew he had already gone too far tonight, and he would be damned if he were to make another move and be rejected like last time when he was left alone and mercilessly hard in the cold water of the pool.
He kept his eyes off the other boy, looking down at his work.
“I’m just being practical,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. It proved to be very difficult to do with Michel’s hip pressing against his aching crotch. “You couldn’t see the work properly before and there’s only one chair. I don’t see another option, you were straining your neck and your eyes before.”
Michel sighed, turning to the books and shaking his head.
“But sitting like this is too strange, it doesn’t work. No,” he said, his legs suddenly moving, his hands pushing off from the cubby’s desk, about to stand up. Sam tightened his arms around that slender waist, pressed his mouth into Michel’s smooth neck, and hoarsely whispered, “stay.”
There must have been something in the way he said it, or maybe it was just the word itself, that gave Michel pause. The boy in Sam’s lap tensed at the word, sucking in a breath, and then, as if his bones had all dissolved, he sagged back against Sam’s sturdy chest, tipping his head back, baring his throat, pale skin turned golden and creamy in the light.