Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  “Mom,” Brock began, but she shook her head.

  “Go with your—” her eyes flickered uncertainly at Gigi “—friend. And I prepared this in case you decided to leave.” She reached over to a side table and picked up a shoebox. “Things of yours.” She handed it to him. “Bye, sweetie.”

  What the . . . Was that it?

  Brock took the shoebox in one hand as Gigi tugged on the other. “Byeee, Mrs. Stubbs! Nice to meet you!”

  And Brock was pulled out of his parents’ dark house and down to the rental car by his crazy, handsome, and insanely brave boyfriend.

  Gigi threw open the passenger door and pointed at it. “In.”

  Like anyone was arguing. Brock climbed in and shut the door as Gigi sprinted around to the other side and got in. The phone was tossed onto the dash, and Gigi started the car.

  “I cannot believe you followed me,” Brock said.

  “Believe it.” Gigi did the barest of mirror checks before pulling out and screeching away. Brock caught the phone when it slid off the dash. “I’m like two seconds away from hyperventilating, boyfriend, so be prepared.” He took a deep, long breath, then exhaled. Another one. Then, “Did I just walk into your house like that? Did I just do that?”

  Brock put down the shoebox and reached over to touch Gigi’s shoulder. “You totally did.”

  “Oh my fucking God. Oh my God. I’m a trespasser. A criminal.” Gigi screwed up his face. “Sort of. Was it me or was he ready to freaking deck you?”

  “Probably.”

  Gigi began breathing even louder. “Oh Jesus. Oh my God. No freaking way.”

  “I’d’ve gotten away or hurt him first.”

  Gigi glanced at him. “I believe you, baby. ‘I will kill you.’ Damn.”

  Brock couldn’t stop grinning. He couldn’t believe he’d said that. Him. To his dad.

  “Fuck. Me. Fuck me. That was what, three minutes? Longest three fucking minutes of my life. I thought I was going to pee myself when I saw his face. Holy shit.” Gigi dragged a hand over his face and into his hair. “God. God.”

  “Nah. Just you.” Brock wanted to pull him over, shove his clothes off, and fuck him into the car seat. Was this how Gigi had felt last night? Like he was so overwhelmed with just how amazing his boyfriend was?

  Still taking deep breaths, Gigi glanced over at him, and a wicked smile curled his lips.

  Brock leaned in. “You came to get me.”

  “Yup.”

  “Even though I told you I was leaving and was being a total disappointment.”

  Gigi turned back to the road, his smile fading. “You’re not a disappointment. Don’t ever think that.”

  Oh please. “Have you been around this weekend? I don’t know if you noticed, but I yelled some nasty shit at you yesterday. I’ve basically been the crappiest boyfriend ever this weekend.”

  “I don’t see that. You had a bad weekend, yeah.” Gigi made a face. “Pretty much the worst weekend.”

  Brock snorted.

  “And you said some stuff that I think you needed to say.” Gigi reached over, and Brock took his hand. “Like, I know I’m high-maintenance and stuff. It’s okay to tell me when I’m being a total bitch drama queen. I’ll still love you.”

  “I said I didn’t mean that. I love how you’re high-maintenance. And I adore your queen. I love everything about you.” Brock hesitated. “Even if you drive me crazy sometimes.”

  Gigi beamed at him. “And I love everything about you, boyfriend.”

  Brock’s heart jumped a little in his chest. “Even during this weekend?”

  His hand was squeezed. “I think especially during this weekend. I saw some new sides to you.” An arched eyebrow. “I liked what I saw.”

  Brock had a ton of stuff to say to that, including that he liked what he’d seen of Gi this weekend too—especially just now. But there was something more urgent to do than talk. “Pull over.”

  Gigi arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Brock let go of Gigi’s hand to squeeze his leg. “Pull. Over.”

  Gigi gasped, then scanned the road feverishly.

  Brock turned all his attention to Gigi’s fly. He gently unzipped it and pushed his hand against the rapidly hardening bulge in Gigi’s pants. Gigi swore and steered a corner. Brock stroked through the material, making sure to rub his thumb against the head of Gigi’s cock. Pre-come had well and truly soaked through his boxers by the time Gigi brought the car to a stop and parked it.

  Gigi slapped Brock’s hand away, unbuckled his seat belt, then climbed over the gearstick to straddle Brock’s lap. Brock steadied him, then Gigi clasped Brock’s face, avoiding the bruises, and kissed him fiercely.

  “I missed you,” Gigi breathed.

  A lump rose in Brock’s throat. “Me too.” He drew Gigi closer, then the seat fell away under him. He jerked back with a start, Gigi on top of him.

  “There we go,” Gigi said, adjusting himself so that their crotches lined up.

  He’d levered the seat back. Fuck, Brock loved him. Brock reached forward and pulled Gigi’s pants down, then his boxers, enough so Gigi’s dick sprang free. He wrapped a hand around it and stroked, causing Gigi to arch and hiss. His cock was leaking like a dripping faucet, and the familiar smell of Gigi enveloped him.

  “Oh God,” Gigi moaned, hands pressing against Brock’s chest.

  Brock brought him down for another kiss as he kept slowly stroking Gigi’s cock. Gigi made a mewling sound when Brock flickered his tongue along Gigi’s lips, his hands bunching Brock’s sweater. Brock thumbed the underside of Gigi’s cock, where he was especially sensitive, and more pre-come ran down his length. Gigi broke away from the kiss with a groan.

  “Fuck, don’t stop.” Gigi’s hand scrabbled down to Brock’s jeans. “And don’t you dare stain my suit.”

  Brock laughed, his strokes slowing in his delight. God, what a gift this was, being here like this, with his guy.

  Gigi shoved Brock’s shirt up, undid his jeans, and pulled Brock’s cock out, sending shivers through Brock as Gigi wrapped his hand around it and brought it up to meet his own. He spat in his palm and began to stroke their cocks together, the extra slickness making the grind better. Brock groaned and pulled him down so he could kiss him some more.

  He’d missed this. The taste of Gigi, the scent of his skin and come, the feel of their bodies against each other, the tingles that shot up and down his spine whenever Gigi touched him—all of it was so familiar, yet always slightly different each time.

  Gigi’s hand picked up the pace, turning frenetic. His mouth went lax on Brock’s, and Brock took advantage of his free hands to hold Gigi close and go to town on his neck, prompting groans.

  It didn’t last much longer than that. Gigi came with a breathy gasp, pouring onto Brock’s stomach, and Brock finished himself off a few seconds later as Gigi slumped back against the glove compartment, keeping his pants well away from their combined spunk. His mouth was bruised and puffy, his hair in disarray, his bow tie slightly askew, and his shirt rumpled.

  Perfect.

  “Oh my God,” Gigi panted. “It’s Syracuse all over again.”

  Brock carefully pulled off his sweater, which had caught a few drops, and cast around for something to wipe up. Eventually, he found leftover napkins from one of their snacks on the trip up and began dabbing at his stomach and cock, then cleaned off Gigi. Once he was satisfied there was nothing left to stain Gigi’s precious suit, he pulled Gigi on top of him and held him close. It had been too long since he’d felt Gigi’s familiar warmth against him.

  “We need to do that again,” Gigi said in his ear.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And maybe without all the shouting next time.”

  “Got it. I’m sorry about this weekend.”

  Gigi reared up to look Brock in the face. “No, I’m sorry about this weekend.” He frowned. “You and I have a lot of stuff to talk about, and we’re starting right now.”

  Brock blinked. “Now? Ab
out what?”

  Gigi lightly slapped his shoulder. “About your parents!”

  Ah. Right. His parents. Brock felt the easy, happy mood slip. “You’ve seen them. What more could you want to know?”

  “Plenty. Here’s what we’re doing, boyfriend: I’m asking you questions and you’re answering them honestly. Don’t think about what I want to hear, okay? Just tell me the truth. I mean it.”

  Brock thought he could handle that. “Okay.”

  Gigi sat back slightly and tugged at Brock’s shirt, then deliberately fingered the scars along one side. “These happen because of your parents?”

  Oh man. Brock hadn’t expected him to bring those up—but then again, he’d never explained them. Not really. And knowing Gi still wanted him after this weekend, despite all the shit he’d seen, made him think maybe he’d also be okay with this. “Some of them. Others were me.”

  Gigi’s thumb rubbed against Brock’s skin, a distant sensation but still soothing. “You? For how long?”

  “Years.” He’d first started when he was twelve and had figured out how cathartic and purifying pain could feel when it was self-inflicted.

  “While we had our thing?”

  Brock grimaced. “Yes. But not as much.”

  Gigi stopped rubbing Brock’s scars and moved his hand up onto Brock’s chest, warm and solid against his skin. “And when did you stop?”

  “Indonesia. No privacy to do it, and after a while, I stopped needing to.”

  “Done it since?”

  Brock shifted; Gigi was all muscle and pretty heavy. “Nope.”

  Gigi nodded, apparently satisfied. “And you couldn’t tell me all this before why?”

  Wasn’t that just the million-dollar question. Brock sighed and dropped his head back, avoiding Gigi’s gaze. “Look, I . . . The scars are all bound up with my parents and the shit they put me through. I don’t like thinking about it. I don’t like rehashing it. It’s behind me, and I want it to stay there.”

  “But they hurt you. That kind of stuff doesn’t get left behind just because you decided it does, you know? It stays with you, baby.”

  The edges of Brock’s eyes suddenly prickled. Ugh. Was that true? Probably. He should’ve mentioned all of this to Gigi sooner. He really should have. Other people shared things, didn’t they? Like, Gi shared pretty much everything he thought with everyone, including his family. Brock had never had that before.

  Damn it. He didn’t want to start crying now, in front of Gi. “I guess it did stay with me.”

  “It’s okay, hon.” A small pause. “Did you think I couldn’t handle your parents?”

  Oh come on. How was that a fair question? “Of course you can.” But seeing as he was being honest here, he should probably elaborate. “To a certain extent. I didn’t want them to hurt you. And you’ve already been through enough shit. I saw it happen. You got it all through school, you got it from Rogers and his goons, you got it from the freaking drama group. You got it from me. You still get it, from assholes at your shows and when we go out. So why would I add to that, right? I didn’t want you to deal with any more bullshit like that.”

  Gigi’s expression turned grim. “You don’t get to decide that. I’m going to get shit for who I am all my life, and I can handle it. You know what makes it easier for me? Sharing it with you and knowing you have my back. You handle my shit all the freaking time.” He leaned in close. “I can deal with your shit too. I’ve got you. Me, my parents, my entire family, our friends: we all have your back. Understand? We’re here for you. We want to help you. We love you. I’m here for you too. I got your back. Always. I haven’t been good at that before now, and I’m sorry. But I’m yours, and I got you.”

  Brock thought he might need a tissue. Damn it, he’d already used the napkins.

  “One more thing.” Gigi held his chin so they looked at each other. “You’re such a quiet guy. Like, you just show up and do your work and pay attention to me and outside of that, you do your thing. And I love how you totally aren’t fazed by anything life throws at you. Your dad looked ready to brain you, and I was totally about to shit myself, but you were fucking stone cold.”

  “I was definitely about to shit myself.” His voice had gone thick.

  “My point”—Gigi shot him a meaningful shut up glance—“is that you aren’t fazed by me and my brand of crazy either. You, like, balance me. Ground me. And it’s so easy for me to forget that you might be dealing with other stuff, because you just handle it. If I wasn’t around, you’d be fine on your own. You don’t ask for much, but you give and give and give. Babe, you don’t always have to deal or be fine. You can ask me for stuff. You can ask me for anything, and I’ll give it to you. You’re not on some second-chance checklist, and you don’t have to prove anything. You’re it for me, and you always were. This weekend doesn’t change any of that.”

  Blood pounded in Brock’s ears, and his chest felt tight. His face was warm. This was . . . this was . . .

  Oh no. A lump rose in Brock’s throat, and the prickling in his eyes turned fierce. Tears tipped over and began trickling down his cheeks. He swiftly covered his eyes.

  Gigi made a small alarmed noise and stroked the side of Brock’s face. “Are you okay? Look at me.”

  Brock shook his head. He couldn’t. This was way too much. He needed to pull himself together, but he couldn’t do that if he was crying and oh God too much, way too much.

  Gigi kissed his knuckles, then settled against him and languidly stroked Brock’s hair.

  It was a nice feeling compared to the hot, wet mess that was currently Brock’s face. He let the tears run out, taking big, deep breaths and wiping at his face until they’d mostly stopped. His bruises throbbed, his eyes ached, and his nose ran. So attractive. He didn’t need a napkin, he needed an entire freaking box of tissues.

  Gi didn’t stop stroking his hair, but after a moment, he said, “I guess this stuff is pretty intense, huh?”

  Brock gave in and used his shirt to wipe his face. “Just a bit.” His voice sounded clogged. Ugh.

  “You better?”

  Brock nodded, then risked looking at his boyfriend again. Concern was written over Gigi’s face, which got Brock’s chest all tight once more. He didn’t want the crying to start back up, so Brock kissed him instead. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

  “You think maybe you could tell me what you’re actually thinking from now on? Because I’m not going to get mad about that.”

  “Um. I don’t think that’s something you’ll be able to stick to.”

  Gigi made a pfft noise. “Oh my God, okay.” His fingers stopped trailing through Brock’s hair, and he leaned forward so their foreheads met. “But seriously, I’m not going to flip my shit or break up with you because of whatever’s in your head. You gonna try this honesty thing we’re doing right now?”

  Brock had never felt so freaking exposed. “I can try.”

  “Good.”

  Somehow he no longer wanted to cry, but he still felt way too raw. Kind of hollow and achy, but in a feelings way. He closed his eyes, putting one hand into Gi’s hair to keep him there. It was stiff from product, but that was normal. Familiar.

  “Don’t mess up my hair.” He could hear a smile in Gigi’s voice, and he managed to give a small one too.

  “I love messing up your hair.”

  “I know.”

  Brock opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. For not telling you about this.”

  “How about for freaking me out too?” But he was smiling.

  “That too.” Something settled deep inside Brock. “Are we okay?”

  The smile faded and Gigi was quiet for a few moments. “Here’s the thing—and I was thinking about this on the way over to get you—you’ve changed, but not really? Like, I got used to the way you were when we first met, and I thought that’s who you were. Then you graduated and you got your job and you work office hours, and soon you weren’t that guy anymore. You were, what, tired or s
omething? And over the last few days, I saw this whole other side to you, and it’s fucking hot. Maybe I’m messed up, but it is. I realized it’s not that you changed, but my understanding of you that did. So I think we’re okay, but I have to be with you as you are. And you have to be open and honest about things.”

  “Okay. That’s good.” That actually sounded pretty awesome. But he really needed to unload about his job. “Look, I have to work, and sometimes that means I don’t have the time or energy to do all the things we used to do. But I am still the guy you’re dating, and I don’t know about your idea of me, but I’ll try to make more time for us. I don’t want my job to make you feel bad.” This felt like a way safer topic, and it was crazy how much easier this was to talk about than all those feelings earlier. “But I need to put in the hours to save up enough money, you know?”

  Gigi looked up at him. “Money?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gigi frowned in confusion. “What for?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? Oh. Maybe not. This probably fell under that whole openness thing. Brock felt his face warm. “Uh, us? So we can take a trip somewhere exciting? Or maybe a house, if that’s something you want to get. Or we could move somewhere else for a while. Anything.”

  Gigi’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”

  “I guess that’s a thing we need to talk about.”

  “Oh my God.” Gigi put his face against Brock’s shoulder. “Why the hell didn’t you say so earlier? This explains so much! See, this is exactly why you need to tell me things. I can live with extra work stuff if it’s for us. Jesus.”

  That . . . meant a lot. That meant everything. They really were on the same level, weren’t they? If this was what talking shit out was like, Brock was on board. Even the crying wasn’t so bad, especially since Gi didn’t seem to care, and Brock felt way better now. His whole body was lighter, somehow, and everything seemed easier. All the weird, angry vibes between them were gone, and they were back to just being each other, together and happy.

  And if it worked for him and Gigi, it had to work for him and his past. If he had issues that would affect him and his relationship like this—and he was certain he did—Brock owed it to himself to talk those out too. He would look into counseling when he got back to Toronto and gauge his options.