“Sparky,” whispered Michael. “I don’t think I could do that. You know, with you here.”
“You do it all the time when I’m in the bathroom with you,” Tristan pointed out.
“Not in a jug.” He looked at the plastic bottle in question, horrified.
“It’s not like I’m going to drink it; I’m just going to flush it the second you’re done. Michael,” he said sternly. “You do not want to fight me on every little thing. Save your strength for the big stuff, okay?”
“Okay,” said Michael. “Leave the room.” Tristan glared at him, but did as he was asked, wrapping a blanket around himself and adding another log before he went to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of herb tea in the microwave and heard Michael call out to him a few minutes later. He returned to the living room, looking innocently at Michael, who gave him the jug, his cheeks like red flags.
“Oh, yuck,” teased Tristan. “It’s warm and oh…groooooosss.” He took it to the bathroom and flushed it, rinsing the jug with hot water and antibacterial soap. “Ew, penis germs…” he called out, laughing at Michael’s discomfort.
“Ah, crap,” said Michael, turning away. “Don’t make me laugh!”
“Sorry, Michael,” said Tristan. Michael was still sitting upright on the couch, his expression unreadable. “I know that was pretty intimate, but it’s not like we haven’t been more intimate than that. I promise you I’ll take care of stuff like that. It doesn’t bother me at all.”
“It’s just that ‑‑”
“It doesn’t bother me at all.” Tristan said again. He relaxed onto his back on the futon, rocking a little from side to side to get comfortable. Michael smiled at him in a way that made Tristan think he’d mostly forgotten about peeing.
“Wish I were down there with you,” said Michael.
“Me too… I’ve slept here almost every night.” Tristan smiled up at Michael, who felt his body tighten a little in response.
“Is that so?” he asked, feeling a kind of restless energy around him.
“Mmmhmm,” Tristan murmured, working it a little. “You know, I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”
“Do you?”
Tristan bit his lip. “I do. And it’s been so long since you’ve looked at me that way.” He arched his back a little as if he couldn’t help it.
“Yep.” Michael smiled. “It has.”
“And I sort of…kind of…I don’t know, thought about this before, when you weren’t here.” He gave Michael a look that very definitely said, Let’s play.
“Ah, well.” Michael’s eyes shone in the firelight. “You see, I probably can’t do very much more than watch right now…”
“Oh.” Tristan sounded disappointed.
“But I’d like to watch,” Michael said. “I want you to tell me what you were doing without me, on this futon, in front of my fireplace while I was gone… In exquisite detail.” He snaked his foot over and removed the blanket from Tristan’s torso, exposing his very lovely body and rock-hard cock.
Tristan smiled like a debauched angel. “I was thinking about you,” he said, warming to the opportunity to put on a little show. “I was thinking about how you touch me,” he sighed, his hands skimming down his arms as he hugged himself against the sudden cold. Those same beautiful hands raked through his long red hair. “I’d imagine that you’re here with me and that I’m lying on my back, and you’re running your hands all over me.” He ran his hands down his sides and his hips, over the fronts of his thighs and back up, not touching his cock or his balls yet. “But you’re teasing me, touching me everywhere, making me need you more and more.”
“Am I?” asked Michael hoarsely. “Would I do that?”
“Mmmhmm. And then, just when it makes me insane, you take your hands away and say, ‘Touch yourself, Tristan,’ and I have to, you know, because I want to please you.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes,” said Tristan. “Because I know if I please you, you’ll touch me some more, and that’s the only thing I can think of, see. Getting you to touch me. So I’m kind of desperate, you know? And then I start touching myself, here, like this, see?” he said, referring to the way his hands stroked the hollows of his hips on either side of his pubic hair, in round little circles that seemed to make his cock jump as he writhed. “And it feels…oh…good, you know? Like a secret place that makes me…uhn.”
“Mmmhmm.” Michael’s mouth went dry. His own cock was throbbing now, so much that he loosened the drawstring on his pajama pants to release it.
“And then I think, what if you put your big, callused cop foot on my chest,” said Tristan, who was clearly getting into this. “You know, to hold me down a little and let me know I belong to you.” He gasped as Michael’s foot scraped across one sensitive nipple and then the other, exerting a small pressure on him so that he could move his hips and arch his back, but not much else. “Because I do, you know. I belong to you, Michael. And I think no one can make me feel this way but you.” Tristan began to stroke his dick with one hand. He reached down and cupped his balls with the other. “Only you,” he sighed, as he began to rock against his own hands.
“Me,” said Michael, breathing hard now. He didn’t touch himself; he was enjoying the show. His Sparky was going to burn the place down.
“And then,” said Tristan, lost now in the fantasy. “I could just imagine you touching me, you know, in deeper places. Places that make me burn,” he said, removing his hand from his balls and sucking on his fingers, pushing them in and out of his mouth until Michael could almost feel that mouth on his dick, tonguing him and making him ready. Michael removed his foot so Tristan could get the leverage he needed to finger his own hole. “It would be your fingers inside me, and I’d rock between your fingers and your hand, and either way I go…I…oh…yes…Michael,” he said, lost in it.
“Then what,” asked Michael thickly, his voice grating even to his own ears.
“Oh, then…” said Tristan. “I’d imagine you talking to me, telling me I’m your boy and that you need me to love you. You want me to come on your cock, and you want to taste it. Want me so bad…” Tristan gasped now, panting, biting his lip as he brought himself to the brink of orgasm. He moved then, coming to his knees right below Michael, so his face was looking up at Michael’s like a slave, his eyes glazed and heavy, the burn slowly creeping up his skin to his fair neck. He rocked between his fingers and his hand, jerking now, his hips snapping, and he said, “I just want to…be…so…good…only for you…so good.” He bit his lip, and ribbons of sweet white cum undulated through the air, falling in lines like silly string all over Michael, the couch, and the futon.
Michael stared at him for a second, then exploded completely without warning, without even touching himself, adding his own jets of cum to the air, which landed all over Tristan’s face and chest.
Tristan raised his hand and raked it through his hair, smoothing it down and catching bits of cum on his fingers and licking it off.
Michael slumped back onto his pillows, panting for breath. He lay there a long time, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Finally, he began to make a noise low in his throat that sounded as much like sobbing as it did laughter. He held a pillow tightly against his abdominal muscles and groaned.
“Shit, Tristan,” he said. “Nothing’s going to kill me but you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tristan went to sleep slightly subdued after his performance. He had retrieved a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned up as much as he could and tried to keep Michael from laughing, which hurt him. He’d given Michael his pain medication, making careful notations on a chart he’d made on the computer, and settled him back to sleep on the couch with a kiss.
Tristan was a little concerned by how much he liked jerking off for Michael like that. He’d really, really enjoyed that. He had discovered a kink in his own personality, and if it didn’t correspond to anything in Michael’s, he was in big trouble.
Because that? That was damned hot, and he was ready to do it again, and again, and again.
The sun was fully up on Christmas morning when they finally opened their eyes, and Tristan got up and put away the futon. He made Michael’s breakfast and sat him up with the paper, then went to take a shower. In the steamy bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror in a totally different way. He explored himself from different angles, pulled his hair up, bent over, and checked out his own ass. No doubt about it, he was an exhibitionist. Tristan studied the tattoo he’d gotten from Meghan when Michael was still in intensive care. He’d kept quiet about it, partly because he thought it would be a fun surprise and partly because it was almost sacred to him. He’d wanted to brand himself Michael’s property, and if something had happened and Michael hadn’t made it, he’d wanted a permanent reminder of his lover on his skin.
After his shower, Tristan drew on a pair of low-slung jeans and a ribbed-knit shirt that didn’t quite meet them, smiling to himself when he saw that his tattoo could be seen quite clearly between the two. He came out to the living room just in time to see Emma coming up the porch steps with Ron.
“Merry Christmas,” said Tristan, opening the door. “Michael’s just finishing his breakfast.”
“Hey, baby,” said Emma, kissing Michael on the temple. “Did you sleep well?”
Michael looked at Tristan, who was trying to look innocent. “I was up a little in the middle of the night, but Tristan got me my meds, and I slept after that.” He glanced Tristan’s way and found him turning a dull shade of red.
There was another knock at the door, and Emma opened it to find a couple of off-duty cops on the porch, along with their wives. Michael, who was watching Tristan idly, saw him exchange an odd, fearful look with Ron and leave through the dining room, effectively disappearing before their guests could come in. Throughout the morning, Tristan’s odd behavior continued. He came out and visited with Emma, Ron, and his own family when they arrived and yet made himself scarce when friends from the department came by. By the late afternoon on Christmas Day, Michael saw the pattern clearly.
“I’m tired,” he announced, and it was true. Even though he’d done nothing all day, he was exhausted. “Maybe you guys should put up the sign, and Tristan and I can get a much-needed nap.”
Emma got to her feet, pulling Ron with her. To Tristan’s family, she said, “Okay, guys, party’s moving to my place, and we’ll eat there. Then we’ll see if Michael and Tristan feel up to opening some presents later.”
“Tristan,” said Julia. “Call next door if you need anything, okay?”
“Sure, Mom. Michael’s right. I know I’m tired, so he must be totally beat.” He smiled down at Michael, who was beginning to doze on the couch.
“Sure am,” he sighed.
When the family left, Tristan dragged out the futon again and pulled the screen away from fireplace to shovel the ashes into a can Michael kept for that purpose. He matter-of-factly handed the plastic bottle to Michael, who filled it without histrionics, and started up a nice fire, leaning over and blowing on the kindling instead of using the gas to get it started.
“Sparky?” said Michael.
“Hm, what?” said Tristan, turning around for a minute before returning to working on the fire.
“What’s wrong?” asked Michael. Tristan could see he was drowsy, could tell by the way he tried to keep his eyes open that he worried.
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s different. You’re different.” Michael held his hand out, and Tristan took it.
“Things are different, Michael,” said Tristan.
“Yeah, but” ‑‑ he squeezed Tristan’s hand in his ‑‑ “I’m going to be fine. The doctors said I was lucky and am going to make a full recovery.”
“Mmmhmm,” said Tristan.
“Things are good, baby. I’ll be back to normal in no time, and then we can make this place just the way we want it.”
Tristan held onto his hand and listened.
“I’ll have to do all the psych crap. I’ll have to think about Mary.” His face folded inward like a burning ball of paper. “Oh, crap. Mary.” Michael turned his face and hid his tears.
Tristan said nothing, but came to him and held him gently.
“I had a dream about Mary,” said Michael. “When I was in the hospital. I was riding my Harley, and I thought you were riding behind me. I was so happy… Then I looked down and saw dead hands around my waist…skeleton hands…Mary’s hands.”
“Oh, Michael,” said Tristan, whose own tears fell into Michael’s hair.
“It’s going to be okay, Tristan, you’ll see…”
Michael looked at the fire, where a sudden shower of sparks caused by a shift in the wood puffed into the air like fireworks. A large chunk of ember fell from the grate onto the brick hearth.
“I’d better get that, Michael,” said Tristan, letting him go to lean over and grab a shovel. “At my house this sets off the smoke detectors.” He reached over and scooped up the smoking wood, tossing it back into the fire.
“Hey,” said Michael, suddenly. “Come here, baby.” He waved him over. When Tristan got there, Michael took his hips and turned him around, running his hand over Tristan’s tattoo.
“What the hell? That’s exactly like mine,” he said. “When did you get this?”
“When you were in intensive care that first day. Meghan did it.” He let Michael run his fingers over the swirls. The hand holding his hip tightened. “Sparky! That’s my…”
“Badge number, I know,” said Tristan. He felt Michael’s lips on the small of his back.
“Thank you,” said Michael. “How did I miss this last night?”
“I think you had your eyes on…other things. It’s not much of a Christmas present,” Tristan sighed, as Michael rubbed little circles into his tattooed skin.
“It’s the best. It means you belong to me, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” Tristan still wasn’t sure what he meant by that.
“It’s the best,” Michael repeated. He settled himself on the couch, lying down, and sighed. “I wish I could sleep on the futon with you, Sparky. I miss your skin.”
“Miss you too.” Tristan slipped down to lie before the fire. “Soon, love.”
“Soon,” echoed Michael, his heavy eyelids falling. He fell asleep with his hand grazing Tristan’s red hair.
* * * * *
By the morning of New Year’s Eve, Michael was so over being taken care of that he’d begun snarling like an angry badger, and nothing, nothing made him angrier than seeing his Sparky slink off to the kitchen or the office while his brethren in blue visited, like some hired help whose only job it was to bring out the drinks and retire till the master rang again. He thanked God every day for his ego, which did not allow him for one second to contemplate the tiniest possibility that his Sparky was ashamed of him. The way his boy kept making guilty eye contact with Ron made him think there was something altogether different going on.
So he bided his time and waited, wondering if Sparky would ever talk about what was bothering him. Yet at the same time, he was in pain, exhausted, and in no shape for an emotional scene. Right then there were no less than twenty men and women from the FPD in his living room. He’d seen his boy looking like a monkey with a shock collar someone was setting off at intervals, just for fun, and it had to end, now.
“Ron,” he caught his old friend’s attention, motioning him over. “Pull up a chair and talk to me for a while.”
Ron looked concerned, maybe even a little afraid.
“Come on, no hard feelings, you know that, right?” Michael gave his arm a weak squeeze.
“I always made you scared, after. I hated that most of all.” Ron looked down into the beer bottle he’d been holding, swirling the last of the amber liquid around.
“Scared you didn’t like me anymore. Scared I’d lost more than I wanted to lose,” said Michael quietly.
“Oh, hell, you could never
lose me. Let’s imagine that we never…”
“Done,” said Michael. “It didn’t fit, it’s over.”
“Done,” said Ron, thickly. “Still love you, buddy, like always. Real proud.” Ron turned away to hide what Michael thought might be tears.
“You like Sparky?”
“Yeah, the little turd.” Ron grinned. “What’s not to like? He hasn’t got a lick of fear, and he’s good, you know? Deep down.”
“Then can you tell me what’s up with him? Come on, I know you know what’s going on. I’m a cop. I notice things.” Michael folded his arms and waited patiently.
“Look, I don’t think now’s the time. You’ve got half the force here, man. We’ll talk later.” Ron got up to leave, but Michael caught him, grimacing in pain as the movement yanked the healing muscles in his abdomen a little.
“Oh, baby,” said Ron, sitting back down guiltily. “You hurt? Do you need your meds?”
“No, I just want an answer, Ron,” said Michael tiredly.
“Sparky and I had a talk, Michael. He was moving in here, and I asked him if he thought about what being out would do to your career, to your safety.” Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Ron went on. “Don’t look at me like that! I’ve known cops who died because people didn’t much like their lifestyle. Tougher guys than you got fragged when I was in the military, Michael, for no more than the hint that they were gay.” Michael could read the worry and the love on Ron’s face and didn’t hold it against him.
“Times change.”
“People don’t,” said Ron peevishly. “And people with guns change less than most.”
“Come on, Ron. Tell me that my boy is not hiding in the kitchen because he’s afraid he’ll get me killed.”
Ron said nothing.
“Aw, shit.” Michael caught his mother’s eye. Emma came to him, sensing the change in his mood.
“What, baby?” she asked, concerned.
“Can you make all these people go away?” he asked, feeling surlier by the moment. “I just need some damn space, Mama. Give me some time, okay?”
Crossing Borders Page 24