by K-lee Klein
“Why do you always hide those?” Devon fished the piece of paper out from beneath the pile, lips pressed against Scott's neck as he spoke. “I don't mind helping and I do have talents outside the bedroom, you know? Laundry’s no big deal. Are you afraid to bring your skivvies out in front of me?” He paused purposely while heat trickled into Scott’s cheeks. “Hate to break it to you honey, but I've seen what you put in those drawers a whole lot of times.”
Scott cleared his throat, but ignored the latter part of Devon's teasing, fearful he'd blush even more like a schoolgirl. “Now wouldn't that be the perfect Sunday activity for the two of us—you helping me with my laundry.”
Devon clicked his tongue. “I don't mind. I could bring mine over and we can do it together. Seems like the practical thing to do.”
Suddenly breathless, Scott flapped his lips a few times like a fish gulping air. He tried to ignore the anxiety swarming his head, shoved it down so it didn’t have the chance to infiltrate the rest of his body. Normal. Stay normal. “You…you…you…” He struggled to stay upright, grabbing the edge of his desk and taking slow deep breaths.
Not now. Please not now. “In. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Two M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Three M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Out. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i,” Scott mumbled to himself.
“Whoa, you okay? Why don’t you sit down sweetheart?” Devon wrapped a gentle arm around Scott’s waist, his tenderness another contradiction in Devon's bag of contradictory tricks. “Scott. Tell me what I can do to help.”
“Just…have to b—breathe,” Scott answered but didn't look at Devon. He didn’t sit but instead bent in half, flattened his palms on his thighs, digging his fingertips into the muscles. “In. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Two M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Three M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Out. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i…” he inhaled sharply, letting the air leak out slowly.
Devon waited him out, not interfering with Scott's routine but rubbing a hand lightly over his back. It was a mild attack, but still left Scott feeling like a wet noodle.
“Scott,” Devon whispered, once Scott had stopped his chant. “Better? Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” was all Scott managed because he couldn’t say, “Sorry, beautiful boy. I'm having an anxiety attack because you mentioned washing our clothes together, in the same washer and dryer, in my own house like domesticity was a regular part of our routine.”
He felt more than saw Devon step away, but he quickly reappeared winding an arm around Scott's shoulders and pulling an unmanly squeak from him. Devon held a glass to his lips and Scott sipped the cool liquid with hesitation. It was funny how even in a state of panic, his brain still worried about how Devon would perceive him.
They stood that way for what seemed like an eternity; Scott bent over in a most unsexy way with Devon leaning over him and holding the water glass close. Scott breathed slowly, reciting his mantra until he didn't feel ready to burst out of his skin or fall in a heap to the floor. He'd swear up and down to have never met a more patient man than Devon DuCaine, but that didn't mean Scott wasn't still mortified to reveal his weakness.
“Can I do anything else?” Devon asked close to Scott's ear. He rubbed circles between Scott's shoulder blades but didn't crowd him.
Scott forced a pained smile even though Devon couldn't see it. One more Mississippi and he felt ready to speak. “No,” he said, breathing deeply as he straightened his spine. “Thank…thank you. I'm okay.” He feigned another hopeful expression when Devon's frown didn't turn upside down. “What? Never seen someone freak out before?” he scoffed.
But Devon didn't flinch an iota at the harsh question. “I wouldn't say you freaked out, but I have seen a few panic attacks in my time. Never know how to act when it happens though. Do you get them a lot?”
“Don't I seem the type to you?” Even Scott couldn't understand why he was being such a sarcastic little bitch. Answering questions with questions was much more his mother's schtick.
Devon didn't take the bait. “Not sure there's a type,” he replied with a shrug, his hand still a strong presence on Scott's back. “Everyone has their own thing, you know? “
Scott exhaled the last of his anxiety, at least the bits that weren't a constant reminder under the first layer of his skin. They always seemed ready to burst free. “I guess. I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean to be rude. Thank you for trying to help.”
“No thanks needed.” Devon's crooked smile was so much prettier than his frown. “Some of the strongest, most put-together, and awesome people I know deal with shaky nerves.”
“Shaky nerves? Really? It's a bit more than that.” Scott wasn't convinced that Devon knew anyone like him. “Have you ever had that, you know, issue?”
Devon threaded fingers through his hair, gathering it one-handed into a tail at the back of his neck. “On occasion,” he admitted. “Never had a full-blown panic attack but I've wanted to throw up a few times because my stomach was in my throat before a g—an event.” He beamed stupidly, but even looking like a complete dork, Scott still wanted to kiss him.
Of course, he didn't. Instead, he stretched his neck and back, moving away from Devon's strong fingers tapping softly along his vertebrae. “Um…your tea should be ready,” Scott said, uncomfortable with the silence and Devon's gaze boring a scorching hole in his skull.
He heard Devon trail him into the kitchen, but Scott was still battling his obsessive brain. He knew better than to let Devon's off-the-cuff comment stick inside his head, even if it was only about doing laundry together. It was a strange thing to say, right? Scott didn't even know anymore.
What he did know, and learned from the beginning of meeting Devon, how kind a man he was. Scott hadn’t known that men, or anyone for that matter, could be so conscientious. He considered himself to be a responsible adult but Devon was more the above and beyond kind of guy. Surely, the fact that after they’d only been dating a month, Devon had apologized backwards and forwards about ditching Scott on Christmas and New Years’.
He had plans to go out of town with friends and Scott hadn’t expected him to change them, or even expected any sort of contact during that time. But Devon had texted him at least once a day and even called on the actual holidays. When he returned to Vancouver on January 3rd, he’d spent six days making it up to Scott, and make it up to him he had. Scott has almost needed a vacation himself when he returned to work after taking the company-sanctioned first week of January off.
Devon continually tied his internal organs in knots, good and bad. And he knew the speculating, hoping, and anticipating would only give him an ulcer faster than any other stressor in his life, not to mention the sudden burst of panic that tortured him whenever he dared to wish—wished to keep Devon, forever.
But Devon wasn’t his to keep. The idea was fantastically absurd. It was important for Scott to play it cool, but where Devon was concerned any form of coolness was getting harder and harder to fake.
“Hey, you know what?” Devon said after Scott had spaced out enough long enough for him to pour them both a cup of their preferred beverage—right down to the single packet of sweetener in Scott's coffee.
He'd also been staring at, or through, Devon. “Um, sorry? What?” he asked, heart settling into a dull roar in his ears and his nerves itching under his skin again. He sighed when the first sip of caffeine burnt his tongue, rubbing his bottom lip over the rim of the cup. He waited patiently for Devon to regale him with his brilliance. And that wasn’t even a joke. Scott hung on every word Devon said, always.
Shifting closer, Devon rested his firm butt against the countertop. Scott mirrored his stance, purposely averting his gaze so Devon wouldn’t see the heart-shaped glow in his eyes. He was positive that's how he looked. There was something about being with Devon after an anxiety attack. The anxiety wasn't necessarily gone of course, but Devon was a calming presence for sure.
Devon reached for him, arching a brow when Scott flinched. “S'okay.” He traced a fingertip over the arm o
f Scott's glasses. “I was only saying contacts are nice and all but guys in glasses are super sexy.” Scott held back a gasp, but he involuntarily fingered his thick, black-rimmed glasses—not the designer type which were all the rage, but rather the real prescription kind that would be Coke-bottle thick if not for good lens technology. Did Devon expect an answer to that out-of-the-blue compliment? If he did, Scott did not have one. Not that he ever did. “Not a lot of guys can pull it off, but it's one of the first things I noticed about you.”
“My glasses?” Okay. Was that a compliment or was some juvenile four eyes comment immanent? Scott certainly didn't care one way or the other—he could tell himself that at least—necessity was necessity, and all contacts did was make his eyes itch and burn. His one attempt at trying them was not worth the hassle or discomfort they’d caused.
Devon nodded and motioned to the small kitchen table. They sat while he explained. “Yeah, I'm serious. I'm an eye guy, you know? No lies. Not that I don't appreciate all your parts.” He paused, and Scott wondered how he could look so lecherous and innocent at the same time. “But there's something about eyelashes and pretty eyes hidden behind nerdy glasses that gets me going. Yours are especially amazing, sweetheart, and I mean nerdy in only the best way.”
Scott had never admitted—would likely never admit—how Devon's endearments set his heart racing. He didn't take compliments well because he'd never been dealt a whole lot of them in his life. It would've been different if Devon only used them during sex, but he didn't. Scott thought they were more honest that way, and Scott always blushed. Devon was very good at making them sound genuine too.
“Thank you,” Scott mumbled, ducking his head so he didn't have to meet Devon's heated gaze. “Um, breakfast? I think it's your turn—choice today.” Alternating breakfast options was another domestic habit they'd gotten into; one that Scott, again, tried not to put too much stock in. It had been Devon who’d insisted on helping Scott with the cooking and the cleaning up. He hadn't taken no for an answer, and Scott was secretly pleased.
“Hmm,” Devon pondered. He slurped his tea, bottom lip coming away wet and quickly sucked between his teeth. Scott really wanted to help with that. “Oh! I know. Have I made you my mama's special omelet yet?”
“Don't think you have,” Scott replied, trying not to stare. “Do I have everything you need?”
“You always do,” Devon purred, or growled, or used some voice that sent shivers all the way down Scott's spine. “But yeah, that's why it's special. All you need is whatever's in the fridge.” Devon smirked at his own joke and Scott hopelessly mirrored the look. He got up from the table, ruffling the top of Scott's hair before setting his sights on the refrigerator.
“So, your mom taught you to cook?” Scott couldn't think of a more foreign concept, especially growing up with a paid cook in his home. And if his own mother taught him anything, it was only the proper way to behave in society. But Devon mentioned his mom a lot, little comments here and there. It was sweet.
“My mom was Sicilian.”
Scott eyed him with suspicion. “Not to pry but I have to ask.”
“Shoot,” Devon said.
“Your mom is from Sicily, you have a Southern accent that sneaks in once and a while, but you live in Vancouver, British Columbia.”
Devon snickered. “Is there a question there?” Scott didn't reply, and Devon must have gotten the hint. “My mom moved to the States when she was a young woman because she fell in love with a man from Mississippi. My dad died the same year we lost our house, and well, everything else, to Hurricane Katrina.”
Scott gasped and pursed his lips. He tucked a hand over Devon's arm. “I'm so sorry.”
“Yeah, tough year, but my mom was tougher.”
“Why here?’ Scott asked, curious. “Seems like a stretch from New Orleans or Sicily.”
“Mom had a cousin here. She needed her family.” Devon paused to clear his throat. “What about you? You go to school here too?”
“On the island actually.” It may have sounded matter-of-factly but Scott had no intention of having the conversation turn to his dysfunctional upbringing and family, so he brought the subject back to something more comfortable and interesting. “Tell me more about your mom.”
“Cooking was always a big part of her life. She believed everyone should be able to cook,” Devon said. Scott could hear the smile in his voice. “Especially young men looking for a wife or husband.”
Scott twisted to watch Devon, indulging himself in the way his jeans stretched tight across his butt and thighs when he bent over. “She did not say husband.”
“Did so,” Devon replied, sounding like an obstinate toddler. Scott found it very amusing.
“Well she sounds really nice. Are you finding anything you like here? I mean in the fridge.” There were times when Scott could hardly breathe let alone talk when Devon was around. He embarrassingly became an inarticulate clown in the face of beauty. And turned all shades of red in the process.
Devon straightened, and Scott quickly concentrated on his coffee mug again, tapping his foot under the table to calm himself. “Your fridge is always stocked. No worries there. You mind a little heat with your eggs?” He turned to Scott, various vegetables held tight to his chest.
Scott did not say, “Can't get much hotter with you around.” Instead, “Food is one of the things I'm not too fussy about. If it's in my house, I'll eat it.” It was mostly true, but Devon didn't have to know about Scott's strange aversions to certain foods; texture, color, smell. He didn’t need to reveal all his quirks, right?
“Outstanding!” Devon exclaimed with a sexy sneer. He turned to the task at hand after that, humming, oblivious to the hitch in Scott's breath as he sat appreciating the view again.
He didn't mean to sigh, but it seemed Scott couldn't be in the same room with Devon for any amount of time without the main question in their relationship popping into his head—more like knocking him in the skull. But in all fairness, his ruminating was just as bad, probably worse, when Devon wasn't there. Because really, were they simply friends that fuck? Of course, not being friends first, Scott wasn’t sure that wording even sufficed. Sex buddies then?
Did Devon only visit when he needed to get off or were there actual emotions behind the intimacy that Scott felt? Surely a young guy who looked like Devon didn't have a problem getting sex anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted. Not that Scott would say that to Devon since it might scare him off or make him rethink their time together. He was good with how things were, at least for now. Or he could tell himself that anyway.
“So, what do ya do?”
Devon's question came out of nowhere, leaving Scott gape-mouthed and reeling for a moment. The answer normally sent any temporary lovers in Scott's life running for the hills. It had taken far longer than usual to be brought up, likely because he and Devon hadn't exchanged much information during their time together. But that didn't mean he necessarily wanted his buff guest to know what he did, at least not yet. Disclosing his own occupation was usually a mood killer in a big way.
It bothered him sometimes, not understanding how he could feel so close to Devon, how he could experience such a level of intimacy for so long, without sharing more personal details of their real lives. He didn't know if it was purposeful on Devon's part, and truthfully, Scott was afraid asking would lose him what he had now. It wasn't something he was willing to risk until he really had to. Apparently his time had run out.
“Um, sorry. What?” How had he got into the habit of constantly answering Devon's questions with another question, usually one that made him sound like he was never paying attention. The urge to dig a hole in the middle of his kitchen floor so he could crawl into it, was strong. Instead, Scott concentrated on keeping his breaths even, slow, and his billowing feelings in check.
“Job, occupation or whatever? I'm assuming you aren't a millionaire who doesn't have to work. Nothing wrong with that I suppose. I know a few of those and they're not
different than anyone else. Obviously a little more well-off, but they do stuff to keep busy and vital I guess. Anyhow, I promise not to judge one way or the other.”
Scott hid a smile behind his hand while Devon rambled. Eventually, he turned to look into those sweet puppy dog eyes. “I'll give you a hint. What do you think would be the most boring job in the world?”
Devon didn't hesitate with his reply, his crooked smile giving way to a sour grimace. “Oh fuck. An accountant for sure, man. All those numbers to keep track of. Gives me a headache just thinking about it. I swear my uncle went to an early grave because he was an—”
Scott unsuccessfully stifled a groan.
“Oh shit, you're an accountant, aren't you?”
When Scott rose to refill his mug, he avoided Devon's regretful gaze. “Thankfully, I'm not in my grave yet though.”
Devon groaned behind him. “I think you proved that this morning.” The teasing twist of his lips returned when Scott turned around—accompanied by two pretty dimples hidden under the scruff—and a wave of pleasure and relief shot through Scott. “…and twice last night.”
Scott reddened, heat trickling from his neck to his cheeks again. Devon's wide, mischievous smile made him want to drag them both back to the bedroom to prove how alive he really was. Devon was even more amazing when he smiled or frowned, or well, did anything at all.
Goddammit. Scott had it bad. He watched Devon gather eggs and a frying pan, then proceed to cut vegetables, throwing everything into the pan on the stove. The silence wasn't awkward, rather familiar in a way Scott consistently tried to not think about. Getting too comfortable would only cause him more pain later.
Devon pivoted to peer at Scott as he popped a grape into his mouth. He settled his hip against the countertop, gaze never wavering from Scott. “Accountant, huh? Guess that means you're as smart as I thought you were.”