by Rachel Ember
He kissed Emile close-mouthed, grazing his lower lip with his teeth, and then maneuvered them into the living room and sank into his usual armchair. Emile instantly knelt before him and, letting out a shuddering breath, rested his forehead against Jay’s knee.
Jay began to stroke his hair, but grimaced when he felt a twinge of soreness in his arm, hastily switching hands before Emile would notice and worry.
Emile loved him. And Jay loved Emile. If the only price they had to pay was keeping it a secret, Jay would pay it.
“I love you so much,” he told Emile, knowing that when he was like this, at Jay’s feet, Emile was mostly nonverbal. So, he kept talking to make it clear he didn’t expect an answer. “I don’t care if it’s too soon for me to say I’d follow you to Chicago. I would. Okay? I would.”
Emile had been tense, like he often was for the first few minutes he knelt, but now he relaxed. His head lolled in a nod, and a long sigh left him. Jay leaned his head back… and the next thing he knew, he was waking up without realizing he’d drifted off. The house was dark; he didn’t know what had disturbed him. Emile’s arms were draped over his lap, and his head rested on them. Jay sat up and pulled Emile, half-asleep, to his feet, so that he came stumbling against Jay’s side all the way to the bedroom.
He stripped off Emile’s socks and the track pants that Emile had worn for Godot’s late-night walk, and hesitated when he saw a bulge in Emile’s black briefs. Glancing up at his face, Jay was surprised to see him raised on one elbow, eyes sleepy but focused on Jay, his lower lip between his teeth.
Jay smirked and palmed him roughly through the silky fabric of his underwear until Emile threw his head back, and then Jay pushed up his thighs, tugged the underwear out of the way, and bent to lick his hole.
Emile whimpered, and Jay cocked his head, working a fingertip in beside his tongue. “You want me to fuck this tight little hole, don’t you?”
Emile whimpered again, with an affirmative lilt. Jay licked him once more and then pushed firmly with the pad of his finger against the quivering muscle. “If you want my dick, you’ll have to work for it,” he said, pulling back and looking up at Emile, who was gripping his own thighs to hold himself open, and blushing hard. “So, do you want it?”
A slow nod in answer, and Jay grinned.
“Okay,” he said, kneeling up and pulling his jeans open and then down his thighs, one-handed. He was hard already, of course, but he didn’t let himself moan at the sight of Emile, or the relief of the friction of his hand as he stroked himself. “Get me wet.”
Emile turned onto his stomach, and then his hands and knees, crawling across the bed to Jay and immediately sheathing him with his mouth, his swirling tongue working all of the moisture in his mouth over Jay’s shaft.
“Good,” Jay said, a little tightly. “Time for the condom.”
Emile pulled off without a word and went to the nightstand, still wearing his shirt and briefs, and still hard, but wholly focused on fulfilling Jay’s instructions. It made Jay’s heart thud with pride.
“So good for me,” he told Emile, noticing that, at the praise, Emile’s hands shook, almost fumbling as he tore open the condom wrapper. “I love your hot mouth, baby.” He held himself steady with a hand at the base of his cock while Emile rolled on the condom and then looked up at him expectantly for the next order.
“Get on your hands and knees,” Jay said. “Ass to me.”
Emile took a deep breath and then crawled back onto the bed—starting to reach for the waistband of his briefs, but freezing when he saw Jay shake his head. Then, he settled into position on all-fours, briefs still on, and waited.
“Pull them out of the way, baby. Show me.”
Emile lowered himself awkwardly onto one elbow, then reached behind himself to pull the briefs away from his hole. Jay loved how his skin was ruddy here, in his crease. He loved the thicket of dark curls. He walked on his knees into position between Emile’s calves and slapped Emile’s crack with his condom-sheathed cock. As usual, Jay’s libido was racing ahead of them; his balls were already drawn up, and if he jerked himself fast and hard a few times, he knew he could come, just like that. As usual, he was struggling to hold himself back until he could get Emile to the edge with him.
“Okay, baby,” he said, “if you want my dick, come and get it. Fuck yourself.”
For a moment, Emile didn’t move, and Jay began to wonder if it was too much. But then, his hips eased back toward Jay so that the head of Jay’s cock bumped his hole—not precisely lined up, and without lube and Jay’s assistance, there was no way it was going in.
Emile made a muffled noise of frustration, his hips swaying, seeking, and the next time he rocked backward, Jay’s crown caught his rim, and they both hissed.
“Jay,” Emile said, sounding beautifully broken. “I’m too dry.”
Jay leaned down and spat against Emile’s hole. He was a little shocked at himself, both for having the nerve to do it and for the way his cock jumped in his hand until he clamped down on the base, forcing back the instantaneous urge to come.
Emile cried out, too. “Fuck. Oh, God,” he groaned, even as he spread his fingers so that he could keep his underwear held aside and rub Jay’s saliva into his hole at the same time. “Fuck, fuck,” he chanted, his hips lurching again, forward and back. This time, Jay couldn’t bring himself to tease them both anymore; he held himself firmly in the path of Emile’s backward thrusts, and his cock slipped an inch inside.
Emile froze and groaned, and then pushed back harder. Jay had to grit his teeth and hold his breath; Emile was deliciously, painfully dry and tight, a vice around the first few inches of Jay’s cock. Still, he forced himself back, taking ragged breaths until Jay was locked inside his body and Emile was shaking, and tears were streaming unchecked down Jay’s face.
And then Emile began to move, the back of his shirt damp all the way through with sweat, and the air punched from him every time Jay bottomed out. He was more or less rocking, dragging Jay out of him through a couple inches of almost excruciating friction and then punching his way back down. When Jay cupped his hand around his cock, still trapped in his briefs, which were wet from his leaking precum, his movements turned frantic until a wet heat burst against Jay’s palm and Jay finally let himself go, too.
He’d been teasing a little when he’d started calling Emile his muse, but it felt like the truest declaration he’d ever made in this moment, feeling like he’d gathered up all the color in the world with his body, and all of the light and shadow, too, and poured it into Emile—and with his body, Emile had given it back to him again.
Later, after they’d drifted off while tangled together, sticky with cum and sweat, and then woken yet again to stumble into the shower before falling asleep once more, Jay woke to Emile’s small, mid-sleep stirrings, and watched the way his back rose and fell while he breathed. When he’d given up on falling asleep again, he left the bedroom and found Godot awake and sitting next to the glass doors in the kitchen.
Jay let him outside and followed him, feet bare in the grass. He looked at the overgrown shrubs and tall grass that had invaded the rock terrace climbing steeply up the rear of the lot to the property line, and he had a vision of it being full of things that were blooming and verdant. He’d been paying attention to the landscaping in the houses that were in the background of TV shows and online ads that caught his eye.
He’d never had any interest in this kind of thing before, but for some reason, his imagination had latched onto the idea of working back here in Emile’s yard. He’d outlined a rough plan for what he could put in when spring came. He hadn’t been sure how to ask Emile; it had felt presumptuous to imply that they’d still be in each other’s lives in a time that was still months away. But now he knew that Emile wouldn’t mind. That, in fact, he’d be happy to talk about the near, and maybe not-so-near, future.
Jay imagined lilies, and a white spray of blooming forsythia. He paused when he remembered Chicago, but he w
asn’t bothered. He could plant a garden for Emile in Chicago, instead—or anywhere else Emile wanted to go.
Epilogue
Emile
August, two years later
When he heard the door open, Emile set down his pen and stretched his arms above his head, wincing as a muscle between his shoulder blades protested. He had a habit of a hunched posture when he wrote longhand.
Jay’s voice carried through the house, lowered to the coo that meant he was speaking to Godot and didn’t realize anyone could hear him. Emile smiled. It wasn’t dark outside yet, but he imagined the mosquitoes had chased the pair inside from the backyard, where Jay had been weeding with Godot’s supervision.
The dog appeared first, his pricked ears relaxing and his tail wagging when he saw Emile and trotted over to the desk. Emile smiled and drifted his hand down his fluffy back as he pushed back his chair.
Jay leaned through the office doorway with a wave and an expression that was half-smile, half-grimace. “I’m going to change,” he said. “I’m all sweaty.” He pulled off his shirt, which left Emile staring helplessly at his perfectly toned abdomen. Though Jay hadn’t returned to the soccer team after his freshman year, his body was still perfectly honed. And although Emile was never interested in exercise more rigorous than a long walk, Jay claimed to enjoy his punishing gym sessions. Emile sometimes wished he’d spend those hours punishing Emile instead, but Jay’s commitment to physical fitness had its upsides.
Seeing Emile’s eyes lingering on his naked stomach, Jay trailed the back of his hand over his sweat-damp pecs and grinned. “Later,” he said with a wink, and then he disappeared.
Emile didn’t doubt that Jay would later fuck him senseless, just as he did almost every night, but he was still tempted to chase him into the bathroom and beg him to let Emile lick the sweat off his chest. Almost two years together hadn’t made him any less impatient for such things.
In the midst of that daydream, Emile caught Godot gazing at him and felt strangely awkward, even though he logically knew that his dog wasn’t a mind-reader. He cleared his throat. “You hungry, sir?”
Godot bumped past his legs eagerly at the familiar phrase and waited by his bowl, tail wagging, while Emile dispensed his kibble. While Godot ate, Emile got the salad he’d made for dinner out of the refrigerator—just in time for Jay to breeze back in, his hair wet from a quick shower and his stomach growling audibly.
“Wasn’t it my turn to make dinner?” he asked, already reaching for a bowl.
“I was tired of frozen pizza,” Emile said, winking to soften the blow.
Jay laughed, and then sighed. “I need to up my game. I promised your mom I’d take good care of you.”
“You take excellent care of me,” Emile murmured, trailing his hand across Jay’s lower back as he reached for the silverware drawer.
Jay grinned, leaning against the counter and turning to look at him. “Well, yeah, but I can’t tell her about that stuff when she calls to check in,” he murmured, kissing Emile’s shoulder and then accepting his fork and knife.
Reminded of his mother’s “check-ins,” Emile shook his head ruefully. If he’d ever doubted that Jay and his mother would get along like a house on fire, he’d been wrong. She called even more often than she had before they’d gotten together, and spent just as much time on the phone with Jay as she did with Emile, grilling him about his applications to physical therapy programs and how the garden was coming along.
Emile’s relationship with Jay’s parents was slightly more strained, but they’d invited him for Christmas last year, and all in all—somehow—the visit had included more good moments than awkward ones.
After Jay had eaten one heaping serving of salad, he set down his fork. Having expected him to refill his plate at least twice, Emile looked up from his own food in surprise.
“I have something to tell you,” Jay said, his expression so serious that Emile stiffened at the expectation of bad news. “I transferred to Deacon.”
Emile had no idea how to react, except to stare.
“I’m not a Walland student anymore. It’s all official. I didn’t want to say anything until it was a sure thing.” He studied Emile’s face.
“Because of me,” Emile said. A statement, not a question, because they’d had an argument the year before when Jay had raised the topic of a transfer.
“Because of us,” Jay said, sliding his hand into Emile’s lap and squeezing his thigh.
“I told you not to do that,” Emile muttered, staring at the table, though he didn’t bat away Jay’s hand.
“I knew you didn’t want me to,” Jay went on quietly. “I knew you’d feel guilty. Like you’ve messed up my education or something. But that’s bullshit, and you know it,” Jay said simply. Before Emile could wince, Jay went on. “You made a big decision for our sake when you turned down the job in Chicago.”
Emile looked up at him, and Jay was right; it was guilt that was making his stomach churn. And Jay was also right that his guilt was irrational.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from protesting, “That’s not the same.”
Jay nodded. “I know you think that. You think that if I make decisions about school because of us, then you’ve disrupted my life by being with me, and that makes it wrong.” Jay smiled down at Emile with so much warmth and love that Emile’s doubts were silently paralyzed. “But, baby, I’m already disrupted. You changed my whole life. You’ve made me so happy. And I don’t care where my degree comes from, so long as I get my prerequisites for PT school. Deacon is twenty miles away and I don’t even have to move to go to class there. And I don’t want to hide our relationship from everyone but our best friends and our families anymore.”
“I don’t want to hide us, either,” Emile admitted. “I wish we’d talked about it, but… I won’t pretend I’m not happy.” He imagined the simple pleasure of him and Jay walking Godot hand-in-hand in the daylight, and his eyes filled with tears as he pushed his chair away from the table and slid to the floor so that he could bury his face in the hard, warm muscle of Jay’s thigh.
“Baby, your knees,” Jay said in quiet protest, because though he’d happily had Emile on his knees in a variety of ways and rooms in the house, he knew that the kitchen’s tile flooring was too hard on them.
“Just for a minute,” Emile insisted.
Jay chuckled, stroking Emile’s hair and then the back of his neck. “So, we’re happy about this, right? We don’t have to fight?”
“We’re happy,” Emile agreed.
“Good,” Jay said. “I have some ideas about how to celebrate,” he added. “I want to take you to dinner.”
Emile smiled against his leg at the simple, sweet thought, and then Jay went on in a slightly lower voice.
“One of those places with the big table cloths that go all the way down to the floor. That way, you can slide right under the table and kneel just like this.” He spread his legs and cupped himself through his loose sweatpants, showing Emile that he was getting hard.
Emile wasn’t sure whether he was being teased or made a promise, but either way, he felt breathless at the idea. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” The hand that had been petting Emile suddenly cupped the back of his neck to pull his face toward Jay’s bulge. Emile obligingly opened his mouth and breathed hotly against Jay’s cock, making it jump under his clothes. Jay groaned. “You’d have to make me come before you could get back in your chair. And then, when you did…” he shifted his leg so that his calf was between Emile’s knees, and then rubbed his shin against Emile’s cock—the pressure painfully and beautifully rough through his pants—“I’d let you rut against my shoe until you came, too.”
“Jay,” Emile gasped. “Fuck.” He tilted his head back so he could see Jay smirking down at him while Emile rolled his hips against his leg, already desperate.
“Then, I’d fuck you in the bathroom,” Jay finished almost sweetly, his thumb stroking under Emile’s ear as he continued to hold him
firmly by the neck. “Just like I wanted to the night we met.” His wicked smile turned earnest, and the tears that Emile had fought off a few minutes before filled his eyes again.
“I love you so much,” Emile managed, and with a groan, Jay hauled him into his lap, his hands everywhere at once—Emile’s hair, his ass, and on the backs of his thighs.
Just as Emile spared a thought as to whether or not the antique chair could survive their combined weight, Jay stood up. With a sound that could only be called a squeak, Emile wrapped his legs around his waist, marveling at Jay’s strength as he carried him with astonishing ease straight into the bedroom.
No, he wasn’t complaining about Jay’s long sessions at the gym. Not at all.
Later that night, Emile woke to the distant sound of a dog barking, only to find Jay’s side of the bed empty.
Jay woke often in the night, but he always returned to Emile’s side before morning. His restless sleeping habits didn’t alarm Emile, but when their sex was particularly rough, Emile got particularly needy. He wanted Jay touching him, so he slipped from the bed to find him.
Godot was at attention in the living room, undoubtedly roused by the same canine shenanigans that had woken Emile, but far more concerned about it than his owner. He looked Emile’s way, thumped the floor once with his tail, and then returned to his vigil. Jay was sitting in the armchair holding a familiar, leather-bound notebook.
A year before, Emile had explained the significance of the notebook—that it was the place where he kept his finished poems. He’d told Jay that he could read from it whenever he liked, and Jay had taken him up on it; Emile was fairly sure he’d read it cover-to-cover a dozen times.
Jay looked up with a smile, patting his knee, and Emile went to his place at his feet with a contented sigh.
“There’s a new one here,” Jay said quietly. “I was just about to read it.” Emile felt a rush of uneasiness, and Jay, picking up on it as easily as he did all of Emile’s moods, cocked his head. “What, baby?”