Equilibrium

by Katey Hawthorne

  "Right."

  "Hansen."

  "Hmm?"

  "Look at me."

  I did, over the counter.

  He had his shirt halfway unbuttoned, showing the white tank underneath, and the belt was already out of his pinstripes. He examined me—I mean, looked at me really, really long and hard. "You're glad I told her I wasn't taking it back, right? I wouldn't anyhow, but—"

  I mean, what could I say but, "Don't be a jackass."

  He set his jaw and threw his shoulders back. Like he was ready for a fight. I'd seen him look at defenders across the field like that a hundred times, maybe a thousand. Weird how easy it was to forget he could be scary when he wanted.

  I said. "Don't get pissed. Just—I'm glad. Yeah."

  His shoulders slumped, and he leaned on the counter, laying his belt on top of the latest pile of junk mail.

  I took the excuse to change the subject. Anything to prolong the pleasure, the pain of this unspoken arrangement of ours. Stupid, yes, but I was living in fear. "How's it feeling today?"

  "Crackly," he admitted. "Sent a little shock into the car this afternoon, but nothing bad. It feels—it's like such a major setback in my head every time, even if it's something little. Like I'm helpless in my own damn body."

  I considered briefly before saying, "Lemme see it."

  He pulled off his button-down and put it next to his belt, and I watched with a lump in my throat. If he noticed, he didn't show it. Once he was bare-armed in his undershirt, he held his hands out, splayed wide between us. His eyes fixed on them, narrowed, lashes fluttering. The little strings of lightning started seconds after, flashing from fingertip to first knuckle, then down and over his large, fine hands.

  The hands of an artist or a poet. Maybe that was why he was so utterly indifferent to his job. Meant for something else entirely, wasn't he?

  "Feels okay," he said.

  I watched the blue-white arcs flash up and down his skin like magical veins. And maybe they were—maybe this was what he was made of, made for. Maybe our minds awoke to whatever was inside us. And maybe Sam was pure electric, just like this. "It's beautiful."

  When I looked up again, he was smiling at me lopsidedly. "Think so?"

  "Can I touch it?" I asked.

  He winced, and the electricity died down, just one or two strands arcing around the fingers of each hand. "I don't know…"

  I held out my hands. "Just give it a little juice. Like that."

  He concentrated on it again, held it steady. The two little arcs swirled and bolted around his fingers like strange fairies.

  I touched his right index finger with my left and felt a tiny jolt, almost like a tickle. It raced over my finger and then back down his and started all over his hand again.

  "Whoa," I said, the aftermath dancing all through my hand, then down my arm until it died.

  "Did it hurt?"

  "No. Felt awesome."

  It hit me again, danced up my finger, then back again. That time I laughed.

  He did too and pulled his hands back, letting it all go. The lightning disappeared. "How'd you know it could do that?"

  I eyed him up over the counter, considering.

  He furrowed his brow. "What?"

  "Wanna take your shirt off?"

  *~*~*

  "It's called the trapezius, Mr. Athlete." I concentrated on my hands, let the air around them, my skin itself, speed up, then ran my thumbs down the long, tight muscle of his neck, into his shoulders. "And it's a motherfucker when it gets knotted up like this."

  He sighed into the bedspread, and half the tension in him left with it. I sat just below his fine ass, straddling the backs of his thighs, and pulled downward, heating my hands up slowly as I went.

  He had beautiful skin, clear with a healthy pink undertone that would bake into an effortless, gorgeous brown in the summer months. Under the increasing heat it flushed pinker, and the muscles, hardened by years of conditioning, seemed to melt. I worked that one for a while, until he opened his eyes again. He said, "Goddamn. I never thought of using it like this."

  "Everything's been done. Just maybe not by you. Yet."

  He shifted beneath me, a familiar snaking of his hips. "Unh. Hang on."

  I sat up on my knees, grinning. No illusions—we'd both been hard from the second he'd hopped out of his clothes and onto his bed.

  Pretty obedient, Sam. Who'd have thought?

  He adjusted his equipment beneath him and resettled, making a face that suggested that felt pretty good too. He closed his eyes.

  I leaned forward again, maybe a little more than I needed to for the thrill of it. That ass was right there, and he wasn't exactly complaining about my rubbing up on it. Another thing I'd wanted for ages: Sam between my legs. I could be forgiven for enjoying it, I figured.

  "What other tricks you got?" he asked.

  I laughed, sinking into the feeling of him again, starting near his neck and pulling down, down.

  "Unnnh." His hips executed another snaky movement.

  "Well, guess I can make you fuck the bed, for one."

  "You got a better idea?"

  I did, obviously. I slipped downward and flipped him over on his back with a few encouraging pats. Then, I showed him just how hard I could rock his entire existence with an A+ blow job. His amazing cock, my eager mouth, and years of fantasy coming to life. He grabbed my hair and screamed when he came; I very nearly came into the bedsheets myself.

  When I finished, I threw myself down beside him, feeling pretty goddamn proud. I expected he'd want a second to catch his breath, and hell, for all I knew he wasn't even interested in returning the favor in the same way—not that it'd take much.

  He attacked me, pinning me to the bed and kissing me long and hard, getting a good taste of himself on my tongue before he finally pulled back and sucked in air again. "Can I try?"

  "Sam, that is officially the stupidest question ever."

  He kissed me again, and I bit down lightly on his sweet bottom lip. He hummed deep in his chest and pulled at my shorts with one hand, sitting up on the other elbow. "Will you help?"

  I was too busy wriggling out of my underwear to understand. "Help?"

  His lips were still near to mine, his breath warm against them. "Tell me what you like and—You know. Stuff. How to."

  I smiled and kissed him while I kicked my goddamn shorts off at last. His hand strayed from my thigh until it flattened at my hip, as if to hold me in position. I couldn't help rolling against him, pressing my cock into the long flat of his belly, the lingering stickiness of my spit between his legs, the feeling of him lazy and half deflated against my leg. When that kiss ended in another bite from me and another sigh from Sam, I said, "It's not rocket science. You just kind of…do what you'd want."

  He brought his hand up to brush long strands of hair from my cheek, his chest rising and falling slowly against me. His big brown eyes might've been liquid. "I want to do what you want."

  Even through the haze of sex and sweat and hunger, a certain stuttering of my heart was evident. I nudged his shoulder until he moved off, resting completely on his elbow, and took his hand from my face. I placed it, palm flat, just above my navel.

  He spread his fingers wide, watching openmouthed. Waiting.

  "Let me feel it again," I said.

  He swallowed visibly, attention still on his hand against my stomach.

  I ran my fingers through his hair. "Did it feel good when I did it?"

  "Well, yeah. But…" He caught my gaze again. "It's different."

  I grinned. "That's the idea."

  The battle played out behind his eyes, all that internal conflict practically written on his forehead. He looked so tormented, I almost gave in and said he didn't have to, but he finally asked, "You really want me to?"

  I nodded.

  He pressed his hot hand into me, and my skin buzzed to life, a prickling static charge that stood my arm hair on end. My nipples hardened so that it almost hurt, and my ba
lls tightened. I wound my fingers tighter in his hair and pulled him down for another kiss.

  I dipped my tongue into his mouth, sinking into the wetness and the yielding softness of his lips, arching at the continued charge racing over my skin. His kiss was hesitant, barely there, but it was enough. When it ended, I was panting. He let the charge die quickly and bit at his lip.

  "It's good, Sam." Maybe something more articulate would've been better. Something about how what I wanted was him, and that was what he felt like. I thought about it even as the lingering electric thrill faded from my skin, leaving me harder and hotter than ever. But I didn't have the words to make it acceptable. To make it safe, for both of us.

  His hand slid upward, fingers finding the barely there fringe of pale hair in the center of my chest. He worried that bottom lip.

  I had to say something, but all I had was, "Really fucking good."

  It must've sounded believable enough, because one corner of his lips pulled up. I just had time to see it, to smile in reply, before he buried his face in my neck and started kissing, sucking at it. He got up on all fours, lips making their way over my collarbone, and I readjusted beneath him so he fit between my thighs. As his mouth moved down my chest, his hands were everywhere; though I knew he'd cut the electricity, I could've sworn there was some lingering current in them. They were hot and careful and curious, tracing the curve of my rib cage and my stiff nipples and the trail between my navel and my dripping cock. I wanted the electricity, wanted more of him.

  But it'd wait. Until he trusted himself, and maybe me, a little more.

  I was quick, and he was just as eager as I'd been. After I came, he eased me out of his mouth and started to sit up. I was looking around for something for him to spit into, but he swallowed and pressed his swollen, wet lips into my belly, then into my side, then my neck. He stretched out beside me and finally kissed my fingers, still held tight between his. His cock stood thick again, and he aligned his hips so it pressed into my thigh.

  That dull, satisfied ache in me began to turn, to open up into a kind of physical emptiness. To remind me that I was a silly prick who wanted more, always more of him, the more he gave.

  Not cool. For so many reasons, so very not cool.

  I meant to tell him he'd done good, but didn't have the air in me. He said, lips still brushing my fingers, "You don't even know how many nights I laid here thinking about that."

  I know I opened my mouth, but, I mean, what do you say to that from anyone, let alone a guy you've spent the last couple of years jerking off to and feeling like a complete shit for it?

  Instead, I kissed him and pulled him hard against me, and we started all over again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He curled up to me before I was quite awake the next morning, naked front to back, and arranged his wood in the split of my ass. I pressed back into him, and he sighed and pulled me closer with one arm around my middle. His hand flattened, warm and comfortable, just over my heart. He kissed my neck and said, "You up?"

  I arched my back to give him a thrill. Maybe he didn't mean it like that, but I did. Definitely up.

  "You like this?" he asked.

  Goosebumps everywhere from his hot breath in my ear. "Yeah."

  "No, I mean…this," he whispered. "Me."

  "Again with the stupid questions."

  He flattened his hand against my hip—the side of my ass, really—then smacked at it gently.

  I arched again. Now I was awake.

  "Oh. That's how it is?" He kissed my neck.

  "Mmm-hmm, I said. "Definitely."

  "Seriously." His voice got a little closer to normal volume, all super serious. "You're not dicking around?"

  Okay, maybe I wasn't that awake. "What?"

  "I'm not playing." His breath tickled my nape. "I can't be just your friend anymore."

  I pulled away and rolled onto my back so I could look him in the eye. I had no idea how to feel—I knew how he meant it, but it still stung. And seriously, how was it fair wake me up like that and then start…talking? "I am your friend."

  "That what you want?" he asked.

  I sighed.

  He frowned. "You are hot as hell, Hansen. I want to do shit to you that—I don't even think some of it is physically possible."

  I eyed his cock, still up and ready to go, like it was waiting for me to climb on.

  "But I'm too fucked up to play around," he said. "Not with you."

  I met his eyes, and my heart lodged in my throat. They were huge and brown and way too sincere for a guy sporting an erection that size. It was just absurd and—

  And kind of heartbreaking.

  I licked my lips, mouth dry. I couldn't lie. But I didn't want to be in love with him. "It's not that easy, Sammy." And then I added the first—admittedly stupid—excuse that popped into my head: "You like girls."

  He set his jaw and looked hard at the ceiling, putting both hands beneath his head. He was already deflating.

  Waste of a perfect erection. Guys always complain about girls doing it, but I have news: guys have moments when their brains overcome their libidos too. And god, it's irritating.

  "That's biphobic." He stuck out his bottom lip—also not fair. "And bullshit."

  "It's not about that," I said, even though I knew he was right the moment he said it. There was no time to unpack why that was the first thing to come to mind, either. Fuck. I was the worst. "I mean, like, are you bi?"

  "Well, maybe pan? I don't know. I guess I should think about it more," he admitted. "But I do like my own gender and other genders, clearly, so, uh…that's bi."

  This is the first I'm hearing of it. But that was just me being shitty, because I hadn't told him I was gay for four years, and he wasn't holding that against me, and it wasn't that I didn't believe him, it was just that—

  "Look," I said, mostly just to stop my own train of thought. It was making me panicky and I wasn't ready to face why. So, like a champion asshole, I doubled down. "You can see, from my perspective, how it might seem kind of experimental, or at least reboundy, so you can't blame me for being kind of weird about it, right?"

  "Your goddamn risk and reward." Sam rolled his eyes. "I guess you don't think we're in equilibrium or something."

  "Well, no—but now that you mention it, we're not. You're the hot chick."

  He glared.

  "In the example, I mean," I clarified.

  He very nearly smiled, though I could tell it was in spite of himself.

  "And I've got nothing. I want"— you, I want you, I want you so bad, so much, always have, always will—"one thing, and you want something else. So when new choices present themselves, staying where you are isn't going to look like the best option to you, and—"

  He'd stopped smiling. "You seriously think that?"

  "It's not a judgment, Sam. Just—" I'm that gross little queer kid who got pushed around on the playground, and you're the gorgeous soccer star with his pick of prom dates. Oh god, was that my problem? I so did not want to think of this, and I sure as hell wasn't going to admit to it. I stuttered for a moment, then blurted, "You like pussy. That's a fact."

  "One, some dudes have pussies." He sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

  I winced. "Right. I know. I just meant—"

  "And two, there's no law that says you can't like all genders equally. Or be more attracted to one than to others but still be bi or whatever. I know about queer stuff too, Hansen. I do, like, have the internet."

  "Don't be like that." I knew I was digging the hole deeper and deeper, but I couldn't stop talking. "I just mean I'm not sure—Like, are you sure you're not just upset and looking for comfort wherever?"

  "What, I'm a queer-by-broken-heart? News flash: yesterday was not the first time I imagined bending you over my desk and got jack shit done at work. 'Almost thought I wanted to fuck a guy, for a second there. But no-o, I'm straight, so that's crazy talk.'"

  Oh god, that was so hot, that mental image. Blue b
alls: awesome way to start the morning. "Sammy—"

  "You're not this shitty person I'm hearing this morning. I know you're not." He stood, which left me watching an ass straight off of Michelangelo's David as he collected his scattered clothes off the floor. "You think you're real fucking smart with your fancy game theory, but it's not that complicated. The whole concept hinges on successfully calculating the risk and reward for everyone involved so you know what their smartest move is. If you can't do that, you have no idea when you're actually in equilibrium, and you make a bad call. Then you lose everything."

  That…was perfectly accurate, yes. I pushed myself up to sitting.

  He pulled on his shorts and straightened his pants and undershirt over his arm. "So maybe you should ask what I want and what I'm putting on the line before you make any calls."

  "Sometimes people don't even know what they—"

  "It's not a fucking game. It's not business or politics or any of this pointless bullshit you throw up around yourself to make you feel safe. This is not a competition. We're on the same side. We were always on the same side, Hansen."

  I closed my mouth with a click—almost bit my tongue in half too.

  He looked down at me, standing there all gorgeous and angry with his hair fucked up from last night's adventures. And then he smiled, suddenly and brilliantly. As if to tell me that I would be forgiven, but I would pay for it first. "Think about that while you're beating off in the shower this morning, huh? Because you almost didn't have to, but you made the wrong call, Mr. Smart-Ass Know-It-All Economist."

  And he was out the door.

  I fell back into the pillow. Pwned. Totally pwned.

  I could calculate risk and reward fine, thanks—just a little bit too late.

  *~*~*

  Happy hour at the Pits again—and I knew goddamn well he did it just so I'd have to wait longer to grovel. I got there before him and found Daly in the usual spot, but with Vanessa and her friend Rhonda.

  Great.

  Nessa eyed me. I said hello, having trouble holding her gaze. It was like being caught out twice: once with my hand in the fire and once with it in, well, her ex-boyfriend. Not that she knew about the latter, and she was supposedly not sure about the former, but—