by Max Hudson
Mark hissed, his breath hitching as he ran his hand over Tristan's jeans, feeling the impression of Tristan's cock growing hard. He had an instantaneous reaction as soon as he met Tristan's zipper, a shimmer of cold goosebumps fluttering over his arm as he ran his fingers repeatedly over the fabric of the jeans. He gulped as he watched Tristan fall into a fit of pleasure, continuing to rub the outline of his cock.
I'm not supposed to care, Mark thought. So, why do I care so much?
Chapter Ten
Tristan arched his back. “Will you touch me?”
He released a shaky sigh as he angled his hips forward, coaxing Mark to touch him. While he unzipped his jeans, Mark shed his own shirt and pulled Tristan forward, lounging one of Tristan's legs over his leg. He yanked on Tristan's jeans and removed Tristan's briefs, revealing Tristan's cock at full mast.
Mark smiled. “Beautiful.”
He gripped Tristan's cock gently, stroking Tristan's shaft in slow, rhythmic motions. While he continued rubbing Tristan's cock, his other hand slid up Tristan's shirt. Tristan took this as a cue to peel up his shirt, revealing his broad chest and orange-blond chest hair. Mark ran his fingers up through the curly collection of hair before reaching Tristan's throat, gently stroking around Tristan's neck as he kept stroking Tristan's cock.
“That feels good,” Tristan whispered breathlessly. “Can I touch you, too?”
Without hesitation, Mark removed his own jeans and tangled his legs with Tristan's, scooting close so Tristan could reach his cock. As Tristan gripped Mark's cock, Mark shuddered visibly and gripped Tristan's cock harder. He leaned in close to Tristan's ear and pressed his lips to Tristan's earlobe.
Tristan cooed softly as Mark stroked his cock, coaxing him to rest his cheek against Mark's shoulder. His heart rattled inside his rib cage as his shoulders tensed and relaxed, muscles aching as his cock throbbed in Mark's hand. Their connection intensified as he suckled on Mark's skin, prompting Mark to groan contentedly.
Tristan dragged his lips with complete abandon up to Mark's chin, planting small kisses along Mark's jawline. He lovingly created a path up to Mark's lips and pressed hungrily, eagerly, to Mark's mouth. As he parted his lips, he welcomed Mark's tongue and suckled on it gently before nuzzling against Mark's nose.
Tristan simply couldn't find one place to settle—all of it was amazing. Every inch of Mark tasted incredible and felt perfect, a delicious combination of rapturous joy and exciting new territory. This was different than the closet encounter—this was passion. As he stroked Mark's cock in increasingly faster pumps, he felt Mark shiver into him.
While welcoming Mark's lips to his neck, he sought Mark's shoulder again and nipped carefully, determining how hard he could bite. When Mark responded with groans of pleasure, he nipped a little harder and giggled as Mark returned the favor.
“That tickles,” Tristan whispered.
“Does it?” Mark playfully bit harder. “How's that?”
Tristan groaned uncontrollably. “Fuck...that's amazing.”
Mark chuckled and stroked Tristan's cock faster. As Tristan nuzzled Mark's neck, he felt their rhythm harmonize and rolled his hips forward, encouraging Mark to stroke harder. Mark was receptive to each movement he made and every sound he uttered, surprising him at every turn. His thighs twitched and his shoulders shook as Mark stroked him into heated surrender.
“Slow down,” he begged. “I don't want to come too soon.”
“I can't help it...”
While panting, Tristan buried his lips into Mark's, devouring them. He slipped his tongue inside Mark's mouth as his stomach did flips, coaxing a moan to erupt every time Mark's hand surfaced to the head of his cock. When Mark nipped his lower lip, he squeaked and chuckled, scooting closer so their cocks nearly touched.
Mark leaned back and smiled. “I've got an idea.”
Tristan watched as Mark stood up, exposing his nude body in all its gorgeous glory. He admired the curve of Mark's cock that leaned slightly to the left and studied the way Mark's thighs flexed as he moved. Mark repositioned Tristan on his back and steadily climbed over him, coaxing him to open his mouth.
While Mark devoured Tristan's cock once more, Tristan parted his lips and accepted Mark's cock. He hummed as he sucked slowly and sensually, gripping Mark's hips to control how fast they moved. He extended his tongue and gently dragged it up the length of Mark's cock to the base, pushing Mark as deep into his throat as possible. When Mark bucked, he choked.
Mark muffled a “sorry” before continuing to suck Tristan's cock, drooling over every inch possible. He gripped the base of Tristan's cock and followed his hand with his mouth, prompting Tristan to gasp and suck harder. Tristan felt his stomach flip again and invited the sensational warmth that grew in his pelvis. He was getting closer.
A primal urge to buck overcame Tristan, prompting him to move his hips again. He did his best to control his heated drive, yet each moan from Mark only encouraged his body to react without any control. He let go absolutely and followed his body's motions, widening his mouth to accommodate for Mark's cock. He clutched the skin of Mark's hips and used it to move Mark's cock in and out, sliding seamlessly with each stroke of his tongue.
Mark groaned. The sound came in a low moan at first, greeting Tristan's ears and causing him to smile. But it slowly rose in the quiet apartment and became a rapturous growl, inspiring him to suck faster. He felt Mark's cock twitch and gripped Mark's hips with determination to get Mark off. He sucked sloppily and slurped loudly while Mark reflected his motions, causing him to groan uncontrollably.
As Tristan's thighs tensed, he aggressively bucked his hips as his orgasm came without a second thought. He dug his nails into Mark's skin as he released one final yelp, muffled by Mark's cock occupying his mouth. In the same instant, Mark exploded into Tristan's mouth in short bursts which Tristan swallowed happily.
Tristan released Mark's cock and panted as he relaxed his head against the couch, not realizing that most of the muscles in his neck were cramping up. He groaned again and positioned his head so he could see up Mark's side. “Are you okay down there?”
Mark chuckled. “Beyond okay. You?”
“Exhausted, but so good.”
Still chuckling, Mark stood up carefully from the couch and helped Tristan to sit up. He collapsed next to Tristan and rested his head against Tristan's shoulder while attempting to catch his breath.
Hot, sweaty, and weak with satisfaction, Tristan wrapped his arms around Mark's bare shoulders. He planted kisses on Mark's neck and snuggled in tight, feeling elation that their skin was touching in every possible place.
“You're such a giving lover,” Mark whispered. “I love it.”
“I'm glad you're receptive to my touch.”
“I honestly can't help how I feel. It just makes me warm.”
“I'm glad.”
Tristan heard his phone ringing in the distance. Frowning, he turned toward the sound that came from his bedroom. He didn't want to leave Mark on the couch. This position was comfortable and loving, a true bonding experience that only confirmed his belief that they were meant to meet. When his ringtone faded, he relaxed into the cushions and sighed, allowing every muscle in his body the opportunity to chill out.
He rubbed his nose against Mark's neck. “Are you hungry?”
“Oh, yes. I think I need to refuel after that.”
Tristan giggled. “I can get you a snack.”
“I'd rather stay here for now. I'm really enjoying this.”
“I can't argue with that.”
The phone started ringing again.
“Do you want to go get that?” Mark asked.
Tristan released an exasperated sigh and tapped Mark's shoulder, indicating that he was about to rise up. “It might be important. I'll be back.”
He wandered barefoot and sleepy into his bedroom where he found his phone charging on the nightstand. Derrick was calling. He answered immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Nope
, nope, and nope. I'm definitely not okay.” Derrick sniffled. “Are you busy? I need some strength.”
“What's going on, hon?”
“God, I don't even know how to say it—it's Sal. He's just gone. I came home tonight after checking on mom and he was just...his things are gone, Tristan. All the furniture is here, but his clothes are gone and his suitcases are gone. I don't know what to do. I just...I...”
Derrick's voice broke and a shuddering cry filled the phone line, prompting Tristan to sit down on the bed. He waited patiently and quietly as Derrick continued to cry and blubbered incoherently into the phone. When his crying had faded to sniffling, he took a deep breath and said, “I don't know.”
“It sounds like there's not much you can do about it right now.”
“Well, there must be something, Tristan. My husband just took off. What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Do you know where he might have gone?”
“No.”
“Is there a note?”
Derrick sniffled and sighed. “No. There's nothing.”
“Do you think he might have gone to see his parents? I know his dad's health wasn't the best the last time we all talked.”
“His dad is fine. His mother is fine. I have literally no idea why he would just disappear like this.”
“Well, take a few deep breaths. Cry if you need to. I'm right here.”
“I just can't even... handle this right now. We were supposed to start this bakery. I was getting all the papers together. You know how much I hate filling out papers.”
“I know, honey. It's going to be okay.”
“But it's not okay, Tristan. It's not okay right now.”
Tristan sighed while leaning his elbows against his knees. “You're right. It's not okay for him to just take off like that. What you're feeling is valid.”
“Where do I begin? I can't even think straight.”
“Well, that's because you're not straight.”
Derrick snorted and laughed, prompting him to cough. “God, you always know what to say. How are you so amazing?”
“That's the second person to ask me that today.”
“Shit, I'm interrupting your date, aren't I?”
“Technically, yes. But it's okay. I always have time for you.”
“No, it's not okay for me to do this. I can't just barge in on your life when mine is falling apart.”
Tristan shushed Derrick. “Hey, don't worry about that. I'm always here when you need me. Remember when that shit went down with Gregory? I ran back to Georgia and you took me in. It's okay.”
“I know. That was such a rough time for you, but it doesn't mean I can trample on your happy existence whenever I please.”
“Derrick, don't be so hard on yourself. Something unexpected and heartbreaking just happened. You're entitled to feel upset.”
Derrick sighed. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“Listen, try to process whatever you can out of tonight. Get in a good, hard cry and maybe do something for yourself. Take a hot bath and drink your favorite wine. Worry about finding Sal tomorrow.”
“You're too good to me. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I'll let you go. Can I check in tomorrow?”
“Of course, you can. Please, call me.”
“I will.”
Click.
Groaning, Tristan planted his face into his hands. He could feel the stress crawling up his back and invading his shoulders, settling between his shoulder blades where it always ended up sitting. As he rolled his shoulders, he heard shuffling in the living room, reminding him that Mark was still present.
He rose from the bed and walked into the living room with a sullen smile. “Sorry, I was just--”
Mark was standing next to the couch with all his clothes on and his phone in his hand. There was no smile of greeting or warm words coming from him. It made Tristan tense up more.
“I have to get going,” Mark stated.
Tristan sank emotionally, feeling the weight on his back grow heavier. “Right, of course. It's late. I suppose you have work this weekend.”
“I do.”
“As do I. I have to go interview those galleries.”
“So, thanks for tonight.”
Tristan watched as Mark headed for the door. Once he broke out of his daze, he rushed to open the door for Mark and tried to lean in for a kiss. Mark stepped back.
“I guess I'll see you soon,” Tristan whispered.
“Yeah—soon.”
And with that, Mark walked away.
No hug, no kiss, no sign of affection at all—it was just a void. Tristan shut the door and recalled the events leading up to the phone call. He had cuddled Mark, kissed Mark, and joked with Mark. There didn't seem to be anything unusual there. If it was the phone call interrupting their down time, then a simple explanation might have convinced Mark to stay.
But would Mark have stayed?
Chapter Eleven
Mark tapped his pencil against his canvas pad. The page remained blank despite having been marked and erased several times. Light poured in through the blinds from the window and spilled over his desk, but it did nothing to inspire him. He felt blank, much like his paper.
He tapped his pencil rhythmically. “Great—another slow Sunday.”
He closed his eyes only to find a vision of Tristan with each attempt to concentrate. This was becoming a nuisance. As much as he wanted to push Tristan out of his mind, he couldn't find the strength to resist the beautiful features of that handsome ginger. He had felt it the other night—that beautiful familiarity indicating a strong connection—but now he felt like everything was a void.
Of course, it was a void. He was a nihilistic vat with nothing to believe in and no friends to turn to. How else was he supposed to feel about somebody as wonderful and talented as Tristan? He continued tapping his pen against the page as his heart fluttered with each progressive thought, taking him right back to Friday night where they had made love on Tristan's couch.
That part was great, but not the following events. He had heard Tristan retreat to the room and answer the phone. He had heard the muffled conversation. And he had wondered in that moment whether it was muffled for a specific reason other than not to disturb his peaceful moment on the couch.
When he rose to eavesdrop near the door, he had heard those dreadful words come from Tristan's lips: “I love you.”
A massive stone had dropped in his gut, taking him right back to the couch where he had sunk into the cushions while determining his next course of action. And suddenly, everything seemed to make sense. All the events leading up to that date on Friday night were indicative of Tristan's loose ties to Mark.
“Did he mean it?” Mark pondered aloud. “Who was he even talking to?”
It's none of your business, Mark.
He knew it wasn't, but he couldn't help pondering. He couldn't help the thrum of thoughts against the inside of his skull providing one red flag after the other that this was a sticky situation. The emotional damage that could arise was something he wanted to avoid.
But how in the world was he going to avoid someone he worked near?
Mark stared at the page. There was a smudge in the center where he had originally started drawing and hadn't erased, looking like little loops of indecipherable blobs that he couldn't figure out. He applied his eraser to the leftover pencil smudge and vigorously removed it, feeling the tension growing in his stone-riddled gut.
“He's been using me to forget someone,” he considered. “It all makes sense. Why else would he mention his ex?”
Though there was no tangible proof, he felt convinced. He could feel the certainty growing the more he erased the marks on the page. As the light dimmed and shadows danced across the page, he glanced up at the open blinds and gazed lazily outside.
He watched the trees shudder in the breeze, the branches swaying and bending at the will of the wind that silently blew beyond t
he pane. He studied the birds hovering listlessly in the sky, likely chirping and singing their midday songs. A long line of cars passed by along the street—the usual early Sunday traffic of church-goers and errand-runners that were preparing for a long week ahead.
He sighed. “I have a long week ahead.”
Another glance at the page forced him from his chair violently, sending him flying across the room to the kitchen where he shoved a cup under the faucet of the sink and filled it up. He chugged the water down in seconds and slammed the cup on the counter, turning his attention to the wilting chrysanthemum.
The flower had looked so lovely days ago. Now, it sat in a depressed droop, reflecting how every muscle in Mark's body felt. He wanted to droop forward, to lazily swing his head toward the ground while attempting to hide from the world. He identified so deeply with the flower that he plucked it up from its vase and took it with him to his closet room where he planted himself on his stool and began slapping paint onto a bare canvas.
Specks of acrylic flew about, speckling his cheek and his band shirt that had already seen hell as far as paint went. He slathered globs of leafy green, teal, forest emerald, and juniper, all over the white, filling up as much space as possible with the flower's bent stem. Then came the brush, full still with chunks of rich, fertile green slathered with dandelion, blond, and pineapple.
Each new shade enriched the scene, brought it to life, and even inspired Mark to perk up, leaning toward the painting with renewed vigor. He heard the familiar notes of his phone ringing in the background, but ignored it in light of the circumstances. This painting was important—it needed to be finished.
He slapped butterscotch yellow on top of the chrysanthemum petals and dragged his brush down the edges of the canvas, framing it entirely with yellow, yellow, and more yellow. There was enough Tuscan yellow to cause a headache, at least for Mark who was far from used to such a bright and intense painting.
When he sat back, he was panting. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and pooled over his eyebrow. The chrysanthemum sat in his left palm, crushed under the weight of his passionate glory; under his own raging and conflicting lust. He shivered even though he was warm, and felt himself crumble forward, falling down from the stool and tumbling to the ground where he curled up into a ball.