What It Takes

by Jude Sierra

  Milo laughs lightly. “Where’s your room?”

  “Come on.” Andrew takes his hand and pulls him down the hall. There are blank spaces on the walls where Dex had hung cityscape prints. Half their bedroom is gone, making the space seem hollow. Milo hesitates, looking around.

  “Is this—”

  “It’s okay.” Andrew feels the awkwardness and hurt of what’s gone. But stronger than that, more compelling, is Milo, with him, finally. It’s the fulfillment of wishes and years of longing. “Come here.”

  They lie on the bed, facing each other for a moment, looking at each other without speaking. Andrew feels words in his chest, beating with his heart, questions he can’t ask for fear of ending this moment. He reaches over and traces Milo’s jaw. Milo kisses his fingertips when they brush his lips. His eyes don’t leave Andrew’s. He sighs, but it’s a good sound: comfortable, like relaxing into something welcome.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says. Andrew closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  “Not really,” he says. He smiles, though. “Not too shabby, but nothing exceptional.” His fingers wander over Milo’s collarbone, down the incredibly defined pectoral muscles. His finger alights over Milo’s nipple. Fascinated, he watches Milo’s skin prickle with goose bumps. The delicious line between his abs beckons his touch, all the way down to the curls of his pubic hair. His cock is lovely: soft, relaxed and tender under Andrew’s fingers. Milo’s body trembles for a moment before he takes his hand gently and moves it, rolling Andrew over, placing it on the bed by Andrew’s head.

  “No,” Milo says firmly. “You are. Your eyes—” He kisses Andrew’s eyelids when they flutter shut. “And beautiful skin, god, everywhere.” His touch is different than Andrew remembers. It’s open-palmed and sure and hot. He cups Andrew’s neck and then his chest and stomach. Andrew’s not a small guy, but Milo is big. His hand feels so encompassing over Andrew’s stomach. He bends and kisses above Andrew’s bellybutton. “Your body is beautiful,” he whispers, kissing again. Andrew’s hand finds its way into his hair. It’s such a rich, dark red against his skin. Milo ghosts a kiss at the head of his cock, barely a tease, but a little too much just yet. Andrew tugs on Milo’s hair.

  “I’m thin and totally untoned and currently sporting what could be considered a farmer’s tan.”

  Milo kneels and straddles him with both hands spanning his waist. “Stop,” he says, kissing Andrew to soften the words. “I’m the one looking at your body. It’s like you were shaped for my hands. To be under me and around me.”

  Andrew cups Milo’s face in his hands. “Would you do that?” he whispers.

  “What?” Milo kisses Andrew’s nose, then looks into his eyes when Andrew nudges him.

  “Be inside me. So I could be around you, so I can feel you like that?” Like I’ve wanted.

  “God, Andrew,” Milo says, obviously overwhelmed. “Of course. I—you—”

  “Let me touch you. You can keep touching me. You can take your time.”

  Milo’s lips meet his tenderly, over and over. They feast on kisses, slipping exhalations into each other, breathing rediscovery into each other’s bodies. Milo gets his hands under Andrew and hauls him on top of him so easily it makes Andrew breathless with a tiny thrill of desire shocking electric in his stomach. Milo arranges him, draping Andrew over his body with his legs spread to straddle his hips. He brings Andrew down for another kiss—one that lasts, that they lose themselves in, slow and growing, unfurling something sweeter in the gradually building heat. Andrew can feel when Milo begins to come apart. They pull away to look at each other. Milo touches him with tenderness that could hurt him; the memory after this night might be too much tomorrow, but right now it’s exactly what Andrew wants. His vulnerability, his love for this man, a constancy that has ached in him for so long: it’s a gift exchanged when he sees that same honesty, painfully exposed, in Milo’s eyes.

  Milo massages his fingers into the muscles of Andrew’s back, between his shoulder blades, and Andrew relaxes into the touch. Any remaining tension melts until he feels as if his body is a lose wax structure molding to Milo’s body. Milo’s fingers knead down the length of his spine. Andrew breaks the kiss with a soft gasp when Milo’s fingers start to trace gentle lines over and up his buttocks. It’s skin-prickling and shivery good. Andrew lays his head on Milo’s chest and lets himself soak in the touch. He wallows in the sensation. Milo’s fingers slip up the line between his cheeks, and Andrew whimpers, then kisses Milo’s collarbone. They are skin on skin, both sweating a little. There’s something about that barely there touch that hovers on the edge of too much: too much want; unbearable desire.

  “Milo, god, please,” Andrew begs, then sucks a nipple into his mouth.

  “Do you have lube?” Milo whispers. His fingers press in, a dry touch not quite where he wants it, but it’s enough to set Andrew on edge.

  “In the drawer.” Andrew pulls away long enough to open the drawer and search. “Here.” He tosses a condom onto the pillow, then sits up, grabbing Milo’s hand and slicking his first two fingers. “Don’t worry about being gentle,” he assures him, then leans forward and props himself up with hands next to Milo’s head. Feeling the strain against his hips, he spreads his legs farther apart. Andrew leans into the next kiss, sighing against Milo’s mouth—it’s a breath that ends in a sharp inhale when Milo slides cool, wet fingers against him.

  “God, fuck ye-yes,” Andrew hisses, groaning and feeling himself open with that sharp pleasure he loves so much.

  “I can’t believe—” Milo’s eyes are closed and his brow furrowed in concentration. When he opens them, the indigo of his eyes is the last spark Andrew needs to feel his skin light with pleasure like fire. Milo’s fingers slide in easily; he takes his time, drawing that pleasure from Andrew by increments. He pulls his fingers out and grips Andrew’s cock with a sure hand. He uses the other with deliberation and confidence, cupping and pulling a little at his balls until Andrew is whimpering from the slight pain that’s pleasure too, lips open and panting against Milo’s mouth.

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Milo whispers and slides his fingers back in, as deep as he can, swallowing Andrew’s moans with open-mouthed kisses. Andrew’s body bucks into the sensation; nerves light from his sensitive rim all through his pelvis. That feeling of fullness, that heavy need to have something inside, pulls and pulls until he’s begging for more.

  “I’ll get you there; it’s okay,” Milo assures him. One more finger in and Andrew sits up, leans back until he’s rolling onto them, working himself down.

  “Now, now,” he chants.

  “I have to—just one more. I don’t want to hurt you.” Milo sits up and kisses the hollow where Andrew’s shoulder and arm meet.

  “God.” Andrew pulls back with the last of his composure to joke, “I know you’re big, but I didn’t think you were that big... headed.”

  “Oh my god, shut up; that was awful,” Milo says, laughing so his eyes crinkle at the corners and oh, something cramps in Andrew’s heart.

  “I don’t care; it’s fine; go slow and I’ll tell you if it’s too much.” Andrew isn’t sure his body can do this, but he wants that feeling, something indelible that he’ll feel for days, in case this moment is all he gets.

  °

  Andrew is so tight it seems a near impossibility, but he’s willing—flushed and eager, all sweet hands and begging voice. Milo holds him steady at the hip and waits, lets Andrew control the pace.

  “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he whispers, over and over. Andrew has Milo in hand, holding him steady against his hole. He exhales, calming himself, and opens his eyes. They burn when they meet Milo’s. Something like his Andrew smirk, a look perfected and completely, uniquely his, crosses his face as his body relaxes, letting Milo in. Andrew works him in slowly, whimpering with each little rock of his body, and with his face screwed up in concentration.

  “Don’t—” Milo bites his lip through the pleasure of that tight, grippi
ng heat. “Honey, don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Shut up, oh god, shut up, you’re—” Andrew groans and rocks and corkscrews his hips down and down. That thrill, the blissed-out slip of his face makes something almost primal crest in Milo’s body, manifests as an almost uncontrollable desire to grab Andrew by the hips and make this rougher and faster than they want. Andrew finally bottoms out, sighs and relaxes and then tilts forward onto Milo and kisses him with lips like fever. “Now,” he whispers against Milo’s mouth. So close like this, deep inside Andrew where he throbs and sears with heat, with Andrew’s arms next to his head, with his lips all give and invitation and naked need, Milo loses himself. He moves slowly, tries to read the shuddering mess of Andrew’s body. Their foreheads grind together, and for one delirious moment Andrew writhes, frantic and reckless, until Milo puts his hand on the small of his back and gentles him.

  They’ve done reckless. They’ve done tenderness, yes, those years ago. But not like this. This is something else. This is Milo laid open and willing to take in every moment, treasure every second, to be so much a part of Andrew they won’t know how to break apart. He pulls his knees up for leverage. “Like this, sweetheart,” he says, slowly sliding into him and out.

  “Sweetheart,” Andrew answers, voice thick, honey-dazed. Milo kisses him, feels the warmth of one tear drip onto his face. His arms band around Andrew, bringing him painfully close as they move by increments. He hardly dares to breathe.

  “God, I wish…” Andrew starts, then stops when his voice breaks.

  “Tell me,” Milo says, trying to convey with his body and voice how safe he wants Andrew to feel right now—how safe he feels.

  “I want this to last, god, you inside me like this,” Andrew says after a few seconds.

  “Take a breath, then.” Milo smiles and rolls them over. He kisses the fine ridge of Andrew’s cheekbone and down the curve of his nose and the corners of his mouth and lets his body pin Andrew’s, barely moving.

  “Oh.” Andrew arches his neck, head driving into the pillow. He brings his knees up, and takes. He takes and takes, body trembling and pleasure laden and acquiescing to Milo’s pace and Milo’s body. There’s a belonging, a subsumption of their bodies Milo could never have expected; something he couldn’t have known existed.

  “Andrew,” he says, long minutes later, after bringing themselves to the brink of orgasm and down again, holding off, not wanting this to end, “Andrew, I love—” Andrew bites down on his lip, then; cuts off his words and his air and kisses him, ferocious and wracking, his body pulsing hard around Milo as he comes.

  Andrew moans, falling apart in Milo’s arms, then relaxing by increments. Milo barely moves, just lets Andrew’s body wring from him what pleasure it needs. When Andrew’s eyes open lazy and bright with tears, Milo smiles and starts to pull out.

  “No, no,” Andrew clamps his legs around him. “Stay, don’t stop.”

  “Andrew.” Milo thinks of the oversensitivity he’s always felt after he comes; that sense of something incredible fading into something not quite comfortable.

  “I like it,” Andrew admits, pink cheeked and something like shy. “You can do more. Faster.”

  “Oh—” Milo swallows down against a flutter of need and thrusts a little harder, and when Andrew cries out he only stutters for a second, because the look on Andrew’s face is pleasure, not pain.

  “Harder, come on,” Andrew goads, pulling his knees up almost to his chest. It’s fucking, hard and fast and bruising, but intimate, somehow even more so, when Milo gives in and lets himself go.

  Each thrust is met by a high-pitched noise from Andrew, driving Milo’s body’s instinctive and mindless drive to the cusp, the brink and then the blaze of orgasm. He feels Andrew deliberately clamp down on him, moaning his own encouragements as Milo comes and comes, until he is completely hulled, a trembling wreck in the safety of Andrew’s arms.

  Milo pulls out and kisses the slight wince off of Andrew’s lips. He cleans them both up sloppily, wraps the condom in tissues and drops it on the floor; shaking hands and a hard-beating heart make practicalities difficult. Andrew’s arms open for him before he’s finished, and somehow, despite their sizes, he fits into them perfectly. Andrew’s heart thrums where Milo’s cheek rests, thumping rabbit-fast against his ribs. Against his scalp is the tender sweep of Andrew’s fingers, combing and combing.

  “Will you ever outgrow this obsession?” Milo jokes through a slightly slurred voice.

  “It’s beautiful,” Andrew says softly. “Who would want to?”

  Milo kisses his chest carefully, rests his hand in the safe bowl between Andrew’s ribs and hip and feels when they both begin to slip, drifting off sweaty and sticky and still so exposed.

  chapter fourteen

  When they wake it’s bright morning; gold spills through the open window and onto Andrew’s bed. That’s not what woke Milo, the sun’s too-hot weight on his body. Andrew is no longer holding him; instead he is sleeping adorably with both hands tucked under his face. It’s so innocent, this strangely angelic and child-like self that Andrew hides, demonstrably vulnerable in sleep.

  Milo lifts the comforter and slips out of the bed as carefully as he can. He cleans up a little more in the bathroom, brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush he finds in a drawer and drinks what seems like a gallon of water. When he re-enters the room Andrew is as he was, asleep and tucked up under the covers. He’s less careful getting back in, hoping to catch the moment Andrew slides awake.

  He does, just as he settles; Andrew’s body seems to vibrate from stillness to energy. He doesn’t move, exactly, but his body comes awake, his eyes slowly open, then shutter closed. They focus slowly on Milo, dazed and then aware—a flitter of alarm and then skin-brightening joy.

  “Hey,” Andrew says in a sleep-sandpapered voice.

  “Morning,” Milo whispers. He wants to touch Andrew, his face or shoulder or hair. He wants to kiss him. He wants to say words he’s never dared allow himself.

  Instead, he smiles. Andrew’s face is buried in the pillow. Only one sleepy eye peeks adorably at him. His lashes flutter as he wakes, and Milo feels swamped with incredible love.

  “I’ve thought of you like this a thousand times,” he admits. “More, even.”

  Andrew’s face falls; he rolls onto his back and pulls the covers up, speaks a little hollowly to the ceiling. “I made myself give up years ago.”

  Milo bites his lip as the words cut through him. Andrew sighs and rolls back toward him. “Drew,” Milo says as he touches Andrew’s face gently, “I’m—I didn’t mean to make this… sex is just—all of this has always been a little hard for me.”

  Andrew snorts and moves away. “Unlike me, because I’ve always been so easy, right?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Milo sits up, snatching the sheet up to cover himself. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

  Andrew turns his face away and doesn’t speak for the space of ten long breaths, which Milo counts with increasing worry.

  “Look, why don’t we call a spade a spade,” Andrew says, sitting and swinging his legs out of the bed. He opens a drawer and pulls on a maroon pair of boxer briefs with his back to Milo. “You say you’ve thought of this; now you’ve had it, right? Now you’ve gotten what you wanted, unfinished business done now. Go home, then.” Andrew turns to him and his eyes are too bright and fierce. “Finish your journey, find the right man—”

  “Oh my god, listen to yourself for a second here.” Milo doesn’t move from the bed. “How are you being this irrational?”

  “Do not talk to me about being rational, Milo. The last time you brought rational to a conversation it was to make choices for the both of us that almost killed me.”

  “Me?” Milo cries. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who—” He does get out of bed then, searching for his own underwear, then giving up when he can’t find it. He storms into the living room in search of his jeans. Andrew follows, slamming the bedroom door behind
him with a crack.

  “I’m the one who what?” Andrew’s voice is dangerously low.

  “You told me I had to leave. You made me believe I had to move on; you took yourself away and I was so fucked up I didn’t know how to think straight about it.”

  “Don’t you dare rewrite history, Miles Graham. You were there. You said it yourself: that I’d only ever love you as some broken kid. You made that choice for me.”

  “I didn’t—you said—I can’t…” Milo stutters. “That’s not how it happened! I couldn’t think. It took me months to figure shit out, to wrap my head around everything that happened. And you didn’t give me a chance to fix anything, or set you straight—”

  “To set me straight?” Andrew’s voice is climbing, matching Milo’s now. “What the actual fuck!”

  “And I couldn’t because you broke it; you deleted yourself from my life, so don’t you dare put this on me!”

  “I couldn’t get out of bed, Milo! I couldn’t breathe; I felt like I was dying. I almost failed out of school—” Andrew stops and scrubs tears from his face; Milo swallows down a sick heaviness, tries to breathe and calm himself but can’t; he can’t, because Andrew has it all backwards, acting as if he was fine after it, that everything was his fault.

  “Do you think you’re the only one whose heart was broken?”

  “You didn’t come for me!” Andrew yells. “You let me do it!”

  “You have to be kidding me.” Milo forces calm into his voice, even though he’s vibrating with anger. “How can it be seven years later and you’re still making yourself the martyr?”

  Andrew’s face pales and his lips tighten; he takes a step forward—Milo can’t help but flinch because there is so much anger in that movement. But Andrew pulls back and makes fists. “Get out. Get out, get out,” he snarls. Milo finds his shirt in a pile of discarded clothes. Andrew is breathing hard—as is he—and not looking at him. He tosses Milo’s shoes into the hall and turns away without a word when Milo passes him, helpless to do anything but leave.