by Sidney Bell
But that’s where the picture suddenly derails, because Zac’s fidgeting, his gaze on the wall, the skin between his eyebrows crumpled, his cheeks bright red. It’s a blush worthy of Cal’s own embarrassment complex. Zac doesn’t look anything like the way Cal pictured him.
“I’m the only one he’ll let inside him.” Anya sits down beside Cal, her long legs crossing, leaning against his shoulder and tipping her mouth up toward his ear like she’s telling him a secret. “You wouldn’t believe how much he likes it, but he’s only ever trusted me enough to do it. There’s never been anyone else. That’s not something any of the other men ever got. Just me. Just someone he loves.”
“Anya,” Zac murmurs hoarsely, shifting his weight. “Come on.”
“You should see him,” she tells Cal, hushed. It sends a shiver down his spine. “He gets flushed all down his chest. He can barely talk by the time I’m in him. I bet he’ll be the same way with you.”
Zac stares at his feet. Cal stares at him, at his already-quick breathing. God, he...he wants that. He hadn’t even known he could want that, that Zac would ever be tempted.
“You think he’d let me?”
“Only one way to know.” She nudges him. “Ask.”
Cal gets up, feeling like he’s moving through white water, being battered all over by the wild currents of the day so far. He was yelling and shoving Zac barely an hour ago, thinking he was about to lose everything, and now he’s almost engaged and about to kiss Zac again, who apparently finds his toes the most interesting things in the room.
He’s never seen Zac shy before. It’s captivating.
“Hey,” he whispers, and cups Zac’s cheek. Zac’s breath shudders out of him and he turns his face into Cal’s palm. “Do you want that?”
Zac swallows hard. “I—I...”
Cal is charmed. He leans in, kisses Zac’s temple, his cheek, his throat. He can feel Zac’s heart racing beneath his lips. “We don’t have to. But it’s okay if you want to. Do you want it?”
Zac’s eyes fall closed. He manages to nod. His lips brush the base of Cal’s wrist as he does so, and it makes Cal’s whole body tighten.
“Now?” Cal asks, and Zac nods again, so Cal draws him to the bed.
Unlike in the studio, Cal takes his time with Zac here.
It turns out he has all the time he could want.
He searches out the sensitive spots on Zac’s body, nuzzling at his sides, licking his collarbones, biting gently at his nipples. He mouths every crease and bend, the vulnerable hollows of his elbows, throat and knees. He buries his face against Zac’s long, strong thighs, breathes deep. He’s seen so much of Zac in bed, and touched him, certainly, but never like this, with the freedom to do as he likes because he knows Zac wants him to.
Cal’s painfully hard already, need thrumming through him, but he tells himself to calm down. He doesn’t want to take even the smallest risk of hurting Zac by rushing.
Anya appears beside him, opening the bottom drawer in the nightstand and pulling a big flesh-toned dildo out of a box tucked inside. When Cal raises an eyebrow, she smirks.
“For when you’re finished. He can never quite get enough,” she says, and Zac moans in embarrassment and turns his face deeper into the pillow. It’s the sweetest thing Cal’s ever seen, but it makes him angry too. Someone made Zac feel bad about liking this once. Or at least Zac got the idea somewhere that this is dirty or wrong. Cal makes a silent promise that he’ll never let Zac feel anything but safe and clean when he’s in Cal’s hands this way.
“It’s okay.” He whispers the words against Zac’s throat, presses hot, wet kisses against the skin until Zac’s shivering. “It’s okay to like it. I won’t hurt you. I won’t make fun of you.”
“God,” Zac groans, eyes squeezed closed. “Stop talking. Just...just do it.”
His belly trembles under Cal’s touch, and Cal wants to bundle him up and take care of him forever. Cal gets distracted by those trembles for a minute, touching that lean muscle, sucking bruises over freckles, testing one of those perfect hipbones with his teeth.
Anya slides onto the bed. She’s wearing the harness but hasn’t attached the dildo yet. She looks like a dominatrix with all those black straps around her hips. It’s a really good look on her. She lies on her side and props her head up on one arm as she watches. Her gaze is warm. She likes the sight of them together. Cal’s relieved. He’s been worried she might feel excluded, but he can see that’s not the case.
Finally Cal sits up, kneeling between Zac’s spread thighs, only to realize that he’s not quite sure what to do next. He’s never done this before, and that pink circle of flesh between Zac’s cheeks looks very vulnerable and small all of a sudden. He’s terrified he’ll hurt him.
Anya holds out a tube of lube. “Better too much than not enough. Slow, steady pressure.”
Cal follows her directions, liking how low and rough her voice gets as she watches them, and she even reaches out once, guiding his hand to help him find the right angle. When he does, Zac sounds—oh, he sounds like he might cry. For a second Cal’s scared that he’s done something wrong, but Anya gives Cal the most wonderful smile, quiet and happy and proud, like she’s pleased to be sharing Zac with Cal because she knew Cal would take care of him the way he deserves to be taken care of. I will, Cal wants to promise her. I’ll take care of him always.
He draws it out as long as he can, working his way up until Zac can take four fingers, until Zac’s arching beneath him, half-wild. His hands scramble at the sheets. He hasn’t said an unprompted word this whole time, hasn’t touched Cal once. He won’t look at Cal, keeps his head turned to the side, even as small, helpless moans escape.
By the time Cal’s stroking lube over his dick, Zac’s completely gone, every inch of him desperate and needy and straining. Even after taking so long to open him up, it’s not easy to slide inside him, and Zac is panting for air, his spine going rigid.
“Holy God,” Zac whispers. His hand fumbles for Cal’s. “I don’t—I can’t—”
Cal freezes, even as his pulse throbs with the urge to thrust, to take, to fuck. It’s overwhelming, Zac lean and taut beneath him, knees clutching at Cal’s sides, chest heaving, sweat nestled in the hollow of his throat. “Do you want me to stop?”
It takes an age for Zac’s tense muscles to begin to unlock. “Go ahead.”
“I can wait. Take as much time as you need.”
Zac shudders under him, his hands clutching tighter. “Don’t make me beg for it.”
“Never. Don’t you know I’d give you anything, Zac?”
“Stop trying to make love to me, you nerd.” Zac laughs, a thin, desperate sound, but his fingers tighten on Cal’s. “C’mon. Do it.”
Anya’s hand on his hip helps him find the right angle again, and Zac gets quieter and quieter and quieter as Cal moves, as Cal tries to hold on, and it’s so good, it’s so damn good, Zac’s hot and tight and wet inside, clinging to Cal like a limpet now, his head thrown back, and Cal’s whole body aches to come, but he can’t, he won’t, not until Zac—
Anya reaches over, slides her hand around Zac’s cock, and Zac comes with a long sob of a sigh, his legs tightening briefly around Cal’s hips before going limp. Cal can’t hold on through that, thinks he’s never seen anything hotter than Zac giving it all up like that, so shy and lost and perfect, and he comes too, only a few strokes later, holding on to Zac tight enough that he hopes there won’t be bruises later.
After, Cal slumps onto the mattress, out of breath and rocked to his foundations. Zac presses his face against Cal’s chest, sweetly needing, and Cal holds him tight, finding his temple with his lips. He only pulls back when Zac’s body curves, his mouth going still as Anya slides inside him, the soft hum of a vibrator starting up. Cal will have to take a look at the strap-on stuff later, because he has no idea what’s going on over there, but whatev
er it is has her flushing rosy, those big blue eyes going heavy-lidded.
She’s had practice, that much is clear—this isn’t the second or third or even the tenth time they’ve done this. She knows exactly what to do, knows exactly where to cup Zac’s knee to get him to lift his hips, knows exactly how to press his thighs open to make it good for him. She’s rougher than Cal was. Zac’s breathing takes on a sharp, scraping edge, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow. He’s getting hard again already because of Anya inside him, and Cal has to kiss him again, kiss him for long minutes. Anya slows down, dragging it out, giving Zac time to recover, and she comes at some point in there, slumping down for a minute to recover before she keeps going, straightening and putting her back into it.
It isn’t too much longer before Zac is making these soft, pleading noises every time she thrusts. Anya says Cal’s name, gentle, ordering, and Cal realizes that Anya’s getting close again, that Zac can’t get there untouched, that Cal needs to help.
He extricates himself from Zac’s arms, and when Zac protests wordlessly, he whispers, “Hey, hey, easy, let me help. I’m gonna help.” He bends forward and takes Zac in his mouth.
He’s never done this before either, and though he’s only gotten head a handful of times himself, he already knows that as long as there are no teeth involved, there’s no such thing as a bad blow job. He doesn’t dare risk going too deep, but judging from the way Zac’s hands fly into Cal’s hair, he doesn’t really need to.
Zac gives the same long, shuddering sigh as before and comes. Cal swallows, unsure what he thinks about the taste but liking that he made it good for Zac all the way to the end.
Anya’s still thrusting, the hum of her vibrator a little louder now. She must have a remote or something, and the thought of it has Cal considering a bunch of other dirty implications. She’s making a low sound of need, and Cal goes up on his knees, drives his hands into Anya’s hair, clutching her close, kissing her hard, letting her taste Zac on him. He cups her breast, teasing the nipple the way she likes, and a moment later she comes again too, bucking into Zac until he shouts, oversensitive. Her back arches, her mouth parts, and her eyes squeeze shut.
For a moment, they’re all still. Then Anya pulls out, fumbling at the straps, hands clumsy. Cal helps, directing his attention to where her fingers are sloppy on the buckles. She pushes the harness to the far corner of the bed before she sags into his arms, a sweaty, pleasant weight. He nuzzles her, lowers her carefully down, draping her over the both of them.
It takes a long time for Zac to recover. Anya and Cal cuddle him until he can stop hiding his face, and they’re both very careful not to tease, because it’s obvious from the set of his shoulders that he’s afraid of it. Cal would do mean things to whoever or whatever made him feel that way if he could, for making Zac flinch like he’s battling not to feel ashamed of what he likes.
Instead, he leans in and whispers to Zac about how much he liked it, about how perfect Zac was, about how sweet he was and how much Cal wants to do it again. Slowly, Zac unfolds, starts to hold himself more like Zac.
“This is good,” Anya announces at some point. The sun is coming in through the half-open blinds, and it’s warm and humid in the room. It reeks of sex and Cal would lie here forever if he could. “This is going to be an amazing marriage.”
Cal can’t stop the little voice in the back of his head that warns him not to count his chickens. It must be on his face because Anya shakes her head.
“We’ll work on you,” she promises. “Eventually we’ll make it that you won’t be so afraid to lose good things that you don’t risk reaching for them.”
“‘Everything will be okay in the end,’” Zac says. He sounds half-asleep, and his foot fidgets out randomly a couple of times before he finds Cal’s calf for a nudge. “C’mon. Finish it. ‘Everything will be okay in the end...’”
Cal sighs. “‘If it isn’t okay, it isn’t the end.’”
“John Lennon wouldn’t lie to us, man.”
Cal shakes his head, but he can’t stop smiling. He rolls over and buries his face in the curve of Anya’s arm and half listens to them talk about nonsense until he starts to doze. He likes the words in that quote. It reminds him of what Anya said to him yesterday after his foot rub. When she told him—how did she put it? That maybe his story isn’t over yet. She has a point. He never would’ve expected today to go the way it has, to have this whole new life, this entirely possible happiness unfurling in front of him.
He sits bolt upright, startling Anya to the point where she kicks him. She instantly starts to apologize, and Zac’s teasing her, telling her that she’s a wild animal whose fight-or-flight response is stuck permanently in the “fight” category, and then Cal’s off the bed, grabbing his underwear, and hurrying out the door.
“Hey, what the hell!” Zac yells after him, and Cal yells back, “Anya’s smarter than me!”
Her laughter trails him down the stairs and into the studio. The words are nearly bursting out of him and he tears half the studio apart searching until a pen appears in front of his face.
“Thanks,” he mutters to Zac, who also holds out a pad of paper for Cal to take. Cal sits right there on the floor and starts writing. He’s vaguely aware of Zac peering over his shoulder, reading, and it’s a hot mess on the page, the notes coming out disjointed, the lyrics filling up the spaces in between.
He gets wrapped up in it, the music coming together so fast he almost can’t trust it, spiderwebs sticking together in his head from a million different sources—Zac cleaning up his tequila, Anya dancing with him under the fairy lights, PJ’s crying trailing off as he settles into Cal’s arms, the way Cal’s pulse seems to slow at the sight of the big gray house.
At some point he’s pretty sure that Zac whispers something that sounds stunned, something about it being really good, and there’s a kiss against one bare shoulder that he still feels, phantom-like, long minutes later. When he next lifts his head it must be considerably later, because the room’s gone too dark to see his own scrawl and Zac’s in the armchair in the corner, a magazine in his lap, his mouth wide open as he sleeps with his head tipped back against the wall. Cal takes a minute to look at him, and everything in his chest matches the sounds he’s hearing in his head, the notes he’s trying to capture on paper, and soon the urge to record it takes over and he turns away to grab his laptop.
He turns on a light and opens the lid. He needs references. He needs something soft but not weak. Not piddling. An instrument that can carry the earlier melancholy themes in the album forward and can also provide something airy and warm and happy, a resolution that the narrative can settle into.
He needs a cello, he decides, and winces, because he’s never composed anything for a cello before. But it’s a cello, that’s the answer. He goes online, starts searching for cello music, goes to YouTube to hear it performed, and he gets lost in it all over again, searching for the sound, the right tones, the right feeling behind it all.
He gets his bass out, starts picking out the melody, but in his head it’s not the quiet twang of his bass that he hears, it’s the rich, low murmur of the cello, the highs and lows combined into something cohesive, and it’s working, it’s real and it’s right.
It’s not the story of his alcoholism, he realizes. It never has been. It’s been his story this whole time, a story that’s about more than his drinking, and Anya was right all along: it hasn’t ended yet.
* * *
A few weeks later, Cal’s at the grocery store when his mother calls.
He’s in the bread aisle, trying to find that low-carb, low-calorie cardboard that Anya prefers, but he doesn’t remember the brand. All he remembers is that the bag it comes in has an orange rabbit-bear-pig mascot thing on the bottom. He’s picking up loaves to peek at their undersides when the phone rings.
He sees the contact name and answers in a rush: “What
happened? What is it? Who is it?”
There’s a heartbeat of pause from the end, during which he dies a little, and then she says, “Nothing. No one. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
He exhales, leaning a hip against a display that is, thankfully, sturdier than it looks. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her voice is thinner than he remembers. Wispier. Could be age. He does some quick math. It’s been almost seven years since the last time they spoke, during that disastrous Ninth Step phone call, so she would be almost seventy. He’s getting old enough now to know that it doesn’t take nearly as much time to start feeling it as he thought it would back in his twenties, and once it starts, the symptoms of aging are like a snowball rolling down a damn mountain.
Or maybe it’s his imagination. Maybe she always sounded like this and he never noticed because everything about her was so familiar. Back then, anyway. He supposes that they would best be called strangers now.
He’s lost the thread of the conversation, spun by the shock, and has to think back to what she said. “No, it’s fine.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence. Then he says, “Uh. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Another moment of silence. “Was there—uh. Did you need? Um—”
She interrupts, sounding hurried. “How are you?”
He glances around the grocery store, perplexed. The aisle looks sort of plastic suddenly, surreal. Like he’s on a movie set or something. “I’m good.”
“Really?” There’s a long hesitation, and he closes his eyes for a second, already knowing what’s coming. In the interest of efficiency, he doesn’t bother waiting for her to say it.