by Jerry Cole
“I slept better with you.”
And God, God if that doesn’t send a bolt of white, hot lightning straight through the most tender parts of Scott’s chest. You can sleep with me every night, he wants to say, wants to reach out and wrap Evan up in his arms and whisper I don’t have to let go unless you want me to, but the words catch against the backs of his teeth and all he can manage is a strangled quiet, “That’s all right.”
***
It’s strange, accustoming himself to being in Evan’s space again. A week together had hardly made up for the three months apart, and Scott is finding it both jarring and intensely familiar to be stuck in too close quarters with Evan again. His heart still jumps into his throat every time Evan brushes past him or lays a hand firm and warm somewhere against his skin, but it’s nice. It’s simple. It tears Scott into a million little pieces and somehow still feels like this is where he’s always been meant to be.
He leans back, stretching his spine against the backrest of the couch, dropping his head to watch upside down as Evan flits in and out of the kitchen. This isn’t quite what he had expected. He had been half-ready to pull a moping, lifeless Evan up by the bootstraps, but Evan seems to be doing much better already, even if all Scott’s done is sit around and take up space. He supposes it’s the company that keeps Evan going, the reminder that Scott is there, breathing his air and watching his television and being a general nuisance.
Dinner is quiet and uneventful, microwave meals eaten at the kitchen counter. Scott forgoes the table in favor of leaning up against the granite bar separating the kitchen from the living room, and it only takes a moment before Evan is scrambling up to join him, perching himself on the lip of the counter and swinging his legs as he eats reheated lasagna directly from the microwave tray. There’s a moment, a split second where Evan stretches and reaches behind him for a glass of water just out of arm’s reach. His shirt rides up his waist, exposing a thin strip of pale skin stretched out just above the jut of his hip, and Scott wants to get his mouth on it so badly that he forgets what he’s doing and chokes on an entire mouthful of pasta.
Other than that, though, it’s just easy. It’s simple, simple as breathing to be around Evan, like Scott coming back to a home he hadn’t ever realized he had left.
The real test comes later in the evening, after the disposable trays have been done away with and the television has shifted from late night reruns into cheap, gag-inducing infomercials. Evan’s all but asleep on the other end of the couch, pointedly keeping his distance but somehow still managing to sandwich his feet between Scott’s calves for warmth. He yawns, stretches just as a woman onscreen spills a blender full of juice all over her countertop, reaches up and back to scratch at his shoulder blade.
“Come to bed?” he asks, all soft and sleepy, and Scott’s heart dances a full Irish jig in his ribcage. He has to push down the swell of affection in his chest for a moment, remind himself that this isn’t his, not yet, maybe not ever. Evan might be tired and lonely and in desperate need of someone to curl up with at night, but that doesn’t make him in love with Scott, no matter how much Scott might wish that were true.
God knows he’s in love with Evan enough for the both of them, at least enough to get Evan through the funeral.
Not for you, he reminds himself, even as he rises to his feet and pads down the hallway just a breath behind Evan’s tiredly shambling figure. It takes work, to ignore the heat and the clamminess in his palms, the lump in his throat that doesn’t seem to go down no matter how many times he swallows. When he had crawled into bed with Evan a few nights before, he had been half asleep and too floored by the shock to really think about it.
Now he’s fully lucid, walking directly into the fire with full knowledge of every step he takes toward Evan’s bedroom.
Evan takes the right side of the bed, falling into it and closing his eyes even before he gets the blankets situated. Scott tries very hard not to think about the fact that Evan leaves him more than enough space on the left side of the bed, refuses to wonder if Evan knows that’s the side he sleeps on at home. He’s far too awake to sleep, restlessness thrumming just under his skin like an electrical current, but he lifts the blanket and shifts down into the bed anyway. Scott’s skin burns like a firebrand at all the points of contact between them: arms, thighs, Evan’s forehead nestled into the crook of Scott’s shoulder.
It’s a feeling not very different from loving the sun, Scott realizes, and if he thinks about it that way, he can just about come to terms with it. It’s not very comfortable, certainly not very enjoyable, but he can’t exactly pick the things his heart chooses to gravitate toward.
Absently, he wonders what things will be like when Mitchell comes back, when Evan stops aching for a presence in his bed at night. It’s not like Scott can turn back. He’s done, the game is over, the set point called. He’ll feel like this, like he’s burning up from his bones outwards, and his life will go on.
Or, some small part of him says unbidden, he can press his lips to the crown of Evan’s head and hope that the walls don’t crash down hard enough to injure him in the fall.
He doesn’t realize he’s done it until he feels Evan shift beneath his lips, blinking the sleep from his eyes and squinting up at Scott like he’s trying to figure out whether he imagined the kiss or not. God, his eyes are so green up this close, like emerald pools clouded over with a tired haze. They go wide, impossibly sad, and Scott struggles to keep his expression as neutral as he can.
“You kissed me,” says Evan, a statement, a fact. Scott doesn’t answer.
After a moment, Evan seems to shake himself awake, coming to more lucidly than he had been a moment before. “You kissed me.”
Scott winces as the hint of accusation in his tone. “Sorry,” he says, more of a sorry if I hurt you than a sorry for kissing you.
Evan blinks. “You kissed me,” he repeats, like he can’t quite believe it. “You kissed me before, too. It was always you.”
It takes Scott a moment to realize he isn’t talking about the kiss on the head, but rather about the first kiss, all those months ago in Scott’s apartment. He nods once, a note of finality to it.
Evan seems to think this over for a moment. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worries it with his teeth, scrunches up his nose and eyebrows like he’s trying to solve a calculus problem instead of just wrapping his head around the fact that Scott kissed him.
“It should have been me,” he says after a moment, and Scott stops breathing. “I didn’t know it back then, not until I left, but—”
Warmth presses against Scott’s fingers, and he looks down to see Evan’s hand twining with his own, fingers fitting together like they were made to.
“I knew, I just didn’t want to risk it.” His voice is soft, and Scott drinks it in. “And you were always so kind, and so sad. I didn’t want to be a replacement for her.”
“You never were,” Scott says quickly, squeezing Evan’s hand gently. “You never were.”
“The only thing I know how to do is run away,” whispers Evan. Then, softer, “I’m so sick of running away.”
The brush of lips against lips is nearly imperceptible, nothing like the first crushing kiss they had shared. This one is sweet, tender, full of longing built up over months and months. There’s no undercurrent of coffee or alcohol here, just the mint of Evan’s toothpaste and that taste that’s so uniquely him that it makes Scott heart stutter and skip beats in his chest.
It’s not an expectant kiss, not something that promises roaming hands or the heavy press of bodies, and Scott’s okay with that. He lets himself sink into it, savoring the easy silence of the moment, the way Evan’s hand comes up to cradle his jaw. This is what you wanted, a voice says in the back of his mind. This is everything you could have asked for.
For once, he doesn’t argue.
They kiss softly, gently and slowly with mouths closed and lips sliding against each other. It feels like they have all the time i
n the world, and as Scott lets himself drift off quiet into sleep, he wraps himself around Evan like a second skin and thinks that maybe, just maybe, that’s true.
***
He wakes up the next morning in a cocoon of warmth, and for the first time he finds himself completely content with seeing the way Evan’s hair splays out over the pillow. There’s no worry, no fear that Evan will run off again, no guilty thoughts of a girl five years gone. It’s just him, just him and Evan and the morning sunlight streaming in soft and warm over the blankets.
He’s loath to get up. His stomach growls in want of food, but he just can’t quite bring himself to slip out of bed this time. It’s a strange feeling, a magnetic pull that keeps him there, that guides his hand up to brush a stray curl off of Evan’s forehead. He could spend hours like this and never tire of the view.
A glance at the clock on Evan’s side table tells him it’s far too early. He can deal with the outside world another time.
For now, he curls up into Evan’s embrace, closes his eyes, and falls back into blissful sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Heavy woven blankets shunted off to the side, satin pillows thrown haphazardly to the edges of the bed, soft sheets tangled around Scott’s midsection, Evan’s smile. In spite of the sticky summer heat and the whir of the air conditioner breaking the silence, Scott has never felt more at peace.
Evan shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at Scott. His hand skates lightly over the planes of Scott’s waist, trailing underneath the covers before resurfacing. Scott cups his cheek, strokes a thumb across the faint golden stubble dotting his jawline. His expression is soft, tender, his green eyes partially opened and pupils blown wide, and Scott can’t get enough of it.
There’s really nothing, Scott thinks, nothing in the world quite like being able to look into Evan’s eyes and seeing the gaze returned. There’s vulnerability there, the kind he had been grasping at for months and months, everything laid open for him like the pages of a book. The intimacy of it tears at his skin even more than the desperation of their first misguided night together had, and it’s made all the more visceral for the fact that Scott isn’t afraid. He loves Evan dearly, so dearly.
Even more incredible, he thinks, is that Evan loves him back. He can read it in the laugh lines of his face, can peer into those deep green eyes and pull out the truth that Evan had kept locked up for so long.
Scott folds Evan into his arms like it’s a natural instinct, like nothing was ever quite complete until he had Evan pressed up against his chest. Evan pulls him close with an arm hooked around his waist. His eyelashes brush the skin stretched over Scott’s collarbones, and he inhales sharp and soft when Scott bends down to press a kiss to his temple. It’s tender, sexual but not in the way it had been the first time, open and inviting and made sweeter by the slide of Evan’s bare left leg between Scott’s thighs. He pushes himself up, walks his fingers up Scott’s chest and drops soft butterfly kisses across Scott’s cheeks, eyelids, lips. He shifts, Scott parts his lips and feels warm breath against them.
He loses count, eventually. One kiss becomes two, three, five, and the blankets are a braided vice around Scott’s right leg by the time he’s moved around enough to fully embrace Evan. They’re a tangle of limbs, close enough that Scott can’t exactly tell where his skin ends and Evan’s begins, only that they’re pressed together and melting deeper into each other with every brush of lips and tongue and teeth. Warmth radiates out from every point of contact. It’s not the sticky, unpleasant warmth that comes with summer sweat. It’s an easy warmth, one that feels like melting, like the sun is trying to find a home under Scott’s skin.
All this, and it’s still not nearly enough. Scott would stay like this forever if he could, would pull Evan so close they’d become inseparable. He kisses Evan again. It doesn’t even begin to undo the tangle of nervous, buzzing warmth in his chest. Scott wants to do everything, be everything, wants to hold Evan and stare into his eyes for hours until every last secret comes to the surface, wants to kiss him and have backbreaking sex with him and then still be there in the morning to wake him up and listen to the sound of the ocean float through the open windows together. Scott wants to press his ear to Evan’s chest just to hear the beat of his heart, and he can do that last one, so he does.
Evan laughs, breathy and surprised at the brush of Scott’s hair against his bare chest, and Scott drinks in the sound like it’s milk and honey. There’s a feather-light touch against his shoulder and suddenly Evan is there, gliding his hands down Scott’s bare back, underneath the tangle of sheets, then dipping lower to trace the deep “V” of his pelvis. It’s a few moments of this before Scott has to pull away, has to tug his lips from Evan’s so he can snort incredulously at the palm fully splayed out across his left ass cheek.
“Really?” he asks, his voice playfully deadpan.
“What?” Evan rebuts, whining and leaning up to kiss Scott again. He misses the first time, pouts, nails the target the second. “It’s right there.”
Scott laughs, retaliates by pinching Evan’s thigh lightly, dodging a kiss begrudgingly in order to keep the conversation going. “You won’t run away on me this time, will you?”
“How can I?” Evan asks, his tone teasing. “You’re in my house.” He gives up on trying to kiss Scott’s lips, turning his head to press his nose into the curve between Scott’s neck and shoulder instead. “And you promised me pancakes. I can’t turn down pancakes. I’m holding you to that, by the way.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you,” Scott murmurs, smiling when Evan nuzzles into him. For a moment, he lets his eyes flutter closed, savoring the stillness of the moment. The first time, it had been all rushed, tearing clothes off and kissing like the world was ending and trying to get each other off like it was a race. Now though, Scott feels like he has all the time in the world. He does, too, now that he’s gotten his promise that Evan won’t go anywhere.
Scott eventually manages to pull Evan back up from where he’s nestled into the crook of Scott’s neck, coaxing him along with a kiss. Scott’s glad they’re already stripped down to their briefs. It saves them from having to pull away to undress. Like this, Scott can keep himself connected to Evan’s skin, trailing his lips from Evan’s mouth down his jaw to press against the curve of his throat. It’s smooth and soft, the prickle of stubble from Evan’s cheeks not quite grown out enough to extend down to his throat. Scott parts his lips to lay an openmouthed kiss along the sensitive spot right beneath Evan’s jawline, feeling his swallow his gasp and shudder at the sensation. With a quiet, barely there noise, Evan detaches his hand from where it had been resting along the curve of Scott’s ass, brushing up along his spine to settle splayed out in the middle of his back. He pulls Scott closer, and Scott goes willingly.
In a single smooth movement, Scott pushes at Evan’s shoulders, rolling him over onto his back and bracketing him with his arms, laughing softly when the sheet tangles between their legs and pulls tight like a vice. He takes a moment to look down, take in the sight. He runs his fingers through Evan’s curly mess of hair and presses one, two, three soft kisses against his cheeks. It’s breathtaking, the way Scott can feel the lean strength in Evan’s arms as he reaches up to thread them around Scott’s shoulders and pulls Scott close to his chest. Scott’s glad they don’t have to pause to undress. He could spend hours just like this, existing in the slow slide of lips against lips.
Eventually, Scott manages to piece together enough presence of mind to pull away from Evan’s mouth, stroking back the hair that falls across his face. He looks like a dream bathed in gold, with his lips parted and panting quiet breaths of air, his eyes wide and his smile open and relaxed. There’s trust there, in his eyes, something Scott realizes he’s been taking for granted since the start, overlaid with a sappy, besotted filter that he’s pretty sure Evan can see in his face as well. It makes him shiver, tremors sparking down to his spine deep into his
soul.
“Take a picture,” he says, feeling his lips stretch into a lazy smile. “It’ll last longer.”
Evan barks a sharp, surprised laugh at that, hooking a leg behind Scott’s thighs to roll them over again. He perches himself on Scott’s lap, bracketing Scott’s legs with his own, an incredulous sort of amusement on his face. “Terrible joke. Terrible.”
“You love me,” Scott says, and feels an odd little flutter in his chest at the way Evan doesn’t even try to deny it. “Come on, you can’t tell me you've never wanted a little boudoir shoot of me, I know you.”
Evan laughs, unsticking himself from Scott’s frame and pulling himself free of the sheets to hop off the bed. Scott whines a little when he goes, reaching out and making a grabby come back motion with his hands, and Evan sticks his tongue out when he notices. “It’s not a bad idea actually. You’re the one who brought it up in the first place.”
It’s cold without Evan in bed, something Scott never thought he would say in the middle of summer. The ocean breeze rolls in steady through the crack in the window, brushing across the bare, sweat damp patches of Scott’s skin and raising goosebumps along them as Evan roots around on his desk for his camera. Scott props his head up on one arm, surreptitiously pulling the sheet further over him, figuring he’ll play it off as some artsy Renaissance painting style look if Evan tries to make fun of him for getting cold in the middle of July. When Evan turns around, he gives Scott a dorky little thumbs up, waving the camera in his other hand.
It takes some maneuvering, but Scott eventually manages to get himself into something resembling a pose, with the sheet tangled artfully around his legs and waist, leaving his thighs bare but covering up just enough skin to keep the shot tasteful. Evan isn’t subtle at all. Scott watches as his gaze trails down the folds of the blanket, following the planes of skin on display. It gives him a heady, excited sort of feeling. He doesn’t think he’s unattractive, per se, but the way Evan is staring makes him feel like he’s about to be eaten alive.