Fragile Ground

by Louisa Keller

  Olivier considers for a moment. “I don’t know if this is something you’re into,” he starts, a soft pink flush rising high on his cheekbones.

  “Hit me,” says Auriel. “I can almost guarantee you that you’ve already told me whatever you’re about to tell me.”

  “Ok, I just…there was this guy in college who I hooked up with a few times. He turned out to be super clingy so I cut it off pretty quickly, but he did this thing that drove me absolutely crazy.” By now Olivier is looking anywhere but at Auriel, and the blush has reached the back of his neck.

  Auriel thinks he knows where this is headed. “What was his name?” he asks.

  “Chris,” says Olivier.

  A smile tugs at the corner of Auriel’s mouth, but he tries to rein it in lest Olivier thinks he’s laughing at him. “Right, Chris.”

  Olivier’s eyes snap up to meet Auriel’s. “Did I tell you…?”

  “That he used to eat you out?” asks Auriel, shrugging. “You may have mentioned it.”

  “Oh God,” moans Olivier, hiding his face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry if that grosses you out or whatever.”

  Auriel can’t contain the laughter that bubbles up form his chest. “Olivier,” he says, reaching to lace his fingers with Olivier’s. “For your birthday this year I rimmed you until you were begging me to fuck you. It must’ve been at least thirty minutes.”

  Oh shit, Auriel thinks immediately. That might have been too much.

  By this point Olivier’s jaw is practically on the ground. His hand tightens its grip on Auriel’s hand, and his eyes are wide. He’s fumbling for the right words, and Auriel waits patiently, hoping he didn’t cross a line. Finally Olivier says, “is that something you’d be willing to do again?”

  Relief floods Auriel. “I mean,” he drawls, nodding toward Olivier’s cock. “I don’t think you’re going to last half an hour at this point. But we can give it a go.”

  “Seriously?” Olivier leans over to kiss Auriel, filthy and open-mouthed. He runs his hands up Auriel’s sides and straddles his lap. Auriel’s hands settle on Olivier’s ass, squeezing as he hums into the kiss. He lets one of his thumbs dip into Olivier’s crack, rubbing the fabric of his boxer briefs into the sensitive skin around his hole. “Jesus Christ,” Olivier breathes into Auriel’s neck. He bites down, and Auriel can feel the indentation of Olivier’s teeth, knows that they will probably leave a mark.

  “You like when I touch you there?” Auriel asks, as if he can’t see and hear and feel Olivier’s arousal.

  Olivier shudders against him and groans an affirmative.

  There’s a primal part of Auriel that wants to do this right here on the kitchen floor. He wants to feel the hardwood against his knees as he kneels between Olivier’s spread legs, wants to have bruises to remind him of the sensation for days afterward. But for all intents and purposes, this is Olivier’s first time with him. And while Olivier himself doesn’t seem all that concerned about where they do this, Auriel wants to make sure that he feels cared for. They’re rebuilding trust from the ground up, and this seems like a golden opportunity to show Olivier how good they can be for each other, to each other.

  So Auriel places his hands on Olivier’s waist, where it tapers gently inward between his hips and his ribs. He pushes gently until there are a few inches of space between them, and looks Olivier right in the eye. “D’you mind if we take this to the bedroom?”

  “I mean, we can,” says Olivier, looking slightly put out at the pause.

  “It’ll be a lot comfier. Come on, get up,” coaxes Auriel, reaching up a hand once Olivier is standing so that he can pull Auriel to his feet.

  It takes a while to get to the bedroom because they keep pausing to make out against walls, riling each other up with roaming hands and dirty words whispered into bare skin. By the time they finally collapse onto the bed in the master bedroom they’re giddy, nearly drunk off each other. Auriel sets to work ridding them of their remaining clothes, and then kisses a trail from Olivier’s collarbone to his hipbone. Olivier is spread across the heavy duvet, his limbs sprawled every which way. He’s flushed, from pleasure rather than embarrassment this time, and he smiles down at Auriel who is slowly guiding his legs apart.

  “God,” Auriel breathes, “look at you.” He’s struck with a sudden bolt of emotion, mostly awe and gratitude, but also a searing nostalgia tinted with the shadow of grief. This sight is so familiar, and it seems impossible that Olivier is essentially experiencing this for the first time.

  Olivier reaches down to stroke his fingers along the sharp line of Auriel’s jaw. “Hey,” he murmurs, his smile still firmly intact. “It’s okay.”

  Auriel nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sorry, I just got lost there for a second.”

  “Do you need to stop?” Olivier doesn’t sound disappointed or upset. He sounds like he genuinely cares about how Auriel is feeling.

  Auriel licks his lips and meets Olivier’s gaze. “I definitely don’t want to stop.”

  “Good,” says Olivier. “I want to do this with you.”

  The words make Auriel’s heart soar, and he reaches up to trace the delicate line of Olivier’s wrist. Then he pushes Olivier’s legs slightly further apart and begins kissing his thighs.

  “Should I turn over?” Olivier asks.

  Auriel is inundated with images of the many different positions they’ve done this in. He swallows thickly and nods. “If that’s how you’ll be most comfortable.”

  They settle with Olivier on his stomach, legs parted and hands clutching one of the fluffy down pillows that litter the bed. Auriel repositions himself so that his legs won’t cramp, and reaches out to caress the gentle curve of Olivier’s ass. “Hattie’s not home,” he says quietly.

  Olivier turns to look over his shoulder. “I know?”

  Auriel plows on. “So you should feel free to be as loud as you want.”

  A smirk settles across Olivier’s features. “Roger that,” he says, saluting Auriel mockingly. Auriel smacks Olivier’s ass gently, playfully, in retaliation. Then he pulls Olivier’s cheeks apart and leans in to kiss him gently right over his entrance. Olivier swears, twitching beneath Auriel’s lips.

  “Good?” Auriel asks, not moving away.

  “Obviously,” snarks Olivier.

  Auriel grins before licking across his hole. He cherishes the keening noise Olivier makes, and begins laving him in earnest. It doesn’t take long for Olivier to start pushing his hips back, clearly craving move sensation. He provides a running commentary on how good it feels, which Auriel finds both flattering, and an indication that he needs to crank things up a notch. He grips Olivier’s hips firmly and pulls back to wipe his own mouth against his arm.

  “Why’d you stop?” Olivier whines, sending a magnificently bitchy glare over his shoulder.

  “You’re awfully coherent,” Auriel says. “Do you mind if I take this a little further? I want to make you lose your mind.”

  “Yes please.” There’s a flash of pure arousal in Olivier’s eyes, and then he’s flopping back down and shoving his ass up toward Auriel’s face.

  Auriel flicks his tongue against Olivier’s entrance, quick intense flutters side to side, and then pushes his tongue in to breach Olivier. He begins pulsing his tongue in and out, pulling Olivier toward him by the hips. Olivier deteriorates into a whimpering mess as Auriel fucks him with his tongue. Olivier reaches to jerk his own cock, his movements desperate.

  “God, Auriel, I need—”

  “I know, baby. I’ve got you,” Auriel says. “Can you reach the top drawer of the bedside table?”

  Olivier fumbles with the drawer, continuing to jack himself with his left hand. He finds the lube after a moment and tosses it back to Auriel, who places a final filthy kiss against Olivier’s hole before slicking his fingers and sinking one into him.

  Ordinarily Auriel would start thrusting his hand immediately, might even start with two fingers right off the bat, but he remind
s himself that Olivier doesn’t necessarily know that he likes that yet. So instead Auriel says, “tell me when you’re ready for me to move.”

  “Fuck,” Olivier murmurs. And then, “yeah, you can go for it.”

  Auriel draws his finger almost all the way out and then pushes it back in, slow and gentle. Olivier’s breath hitches. Taking that as a good sign, Auriel begins thrusting in a steady rhythm. He’s familiar with Olivier’s body, and it only takes a couple of thrusts before he brushes across Olivier’s prostate, causing him to let out a hoarse shout.

  “More, give me more, please Auriel,” he rasps out, and hearing Olivier saying his name makes Auriel shudder. He pushes a second finger in and notches up the speed until he’s milking Olivier’s prostate. Olivier is fucking into his own fist, gasping, and then he goes completely silent, his body tensing as he comes.

  It occurs to Auriel in that moment just how beautiful Olivier is, head thrown back and ass squeezing around Auriel’s fingers. He’s utterly shameless about his pleasure. For the first time, Auriel dares to think that he might just get Olivier back even if his memories of the past couple of years don’t return. Because this is the same man he fell in love with two years ago, but this Olivier is choosing to trust Auriel so much more quickly.

  Then Olivier is flopping down onto the duvet, boneless and seemingly unconcerned with the fact that he’s lying solidly in the wet spot. Auriel withdraws his fingers and heads to the bathroom to grab a wash cloth. When he returns he finds Olivier in the same position, grinning at him lazily.

  “That was…something.” Olivier’s voice is like warm honey, a balm for all of the turbulent emotions Auriel’s been feeling over the past week.

  “Just say the word if you want to go again,” Auriel offers, tossing the washcloth to Olivier, who manages to smirk even in his sated state.

  “Give me an hour to nap, then we’ll talk.” Olivier pats the bed next to him, and adds, “get your ass over here and spoon me.”

  12

  Olivier

  The next couple of days seem to fly by. Olivier is shocked by how comfortable—even settled—he feels in this new life. He’s still struggling to wrap his mind around the whole situation, but he no longer feels constantly overwhelmed. Rather, he finds himself eager to learn more about himself, about Auriel, about the relationship they’ve built together. Olivier is constantly asking Auriel questions, following him around the house and demanding attention.

  “Sorry if I’m getting annoying,” Olivier says one afternoon as he finds himself leaning against the back porch railing, watching Auriel water the wild, overgrown garden.

  Auriel looks up from where he’s squatting beside a frankly terrifying plant. He’s got dirt smudged across his face and his hair is rumpled. Olivier revels in it.

  “You’re not getting annoying,” Auriel replies.

  “Oh come on,” wheedles Olivier. “Not even a little bit? I keep bugging you, wanting to know everything about—”

  “A couple of weeks ago I thought there was a very real possibility that I would never hear your voice again. Trust me, your incessant questions are anything but annoying.”

  Olivier decides to believe him, in part because Auriel is so damn earnest. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  Auriel stands up and wipes his dirty hands off on his jeans. They’re worn at the knees and fraying at the cuffs; clearly they’re reserved for the long hours he spends in the garden on his hands and knees. He turns off the hose and coils it neatly before setting it by the corner of the house. His features are calm, as they always are after he spends time tending his plants. Olivier has noticed that Auriel’s mood is directly influenced by his actions. Cooking and gardening bestow upon him a sense of serenity, as though his thoughts and feelings have been neatly organized and he can finally breathe again. Cleaning the house, on the other hand, seems to be a compulsive and unpleasant experience for Auriel. His features tighten as he scrubs and folds and tidies. Olivier is awed by Auriel’s complexities and idiosyncrasies.

  “What’s that look for?” Auriel asks, stepping close to Olivier and sliding his fingers through Olivier’s hair.

  “What look?” Olivier asks, a blush rising high on his cheekbones. He’s so damn affected by Auriel, it’s embarrassing.

  But Auriel clearly thrives on it. He leans in and kisses Olivier passionately, sucking lightly on his lower lip before pulling away.

  "You know what I'm talking about. You're looking at me like I'm something glorious."

  "I mean, I'm not going to disagree with that," Olivier says.

  Auriel rolls his eyes and sighs. "I should probably get cleaned up."

  "Right," says Olivier, though he vehemently disagrees. He loves seeing Auriel disheveled. He thoroughly enjoys doing the disheveling as well.

  But Auriel is walking toward the master bedroom, tracking dirt through the house, smearing it across the hardwood floors with the worn hiking boots he always wears out in the yard.

  Olivier hurries to the linen closet and grabs a towel, wanting to clean up the mess before Auriel can start to get worked up about it.

  "You don't have to do that," Auriel calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the master bedroom. "I'll take care of it after I shower."

  Olivier opts to ignore him and muses over the fact that such a compulsively neat person allows himself to get the house dirty like this.

  There are times when Olivier is utterly confounded by Auriel. Not just his honey brown eyes and long eyelashes, not the way he smiles with his entire body, not the absurdly formal outfits he wears around the house. He's blown away by this man who loves fiercely, lives his life with arms open to vulnerability, sets himself up for heartbreak and rejoices when things turn out well.

  Olivier wanders into the kitchen once the floor is clean, and opens the fridge. Leaning against it he sighs dramatically, thinking idly that there are an awful lot of ingredients in there, but no actual food. The berries from the farmers market are long gone—eaten by the handful, baked into a cobbler, blended into smoothies—and he hasn't the faintest idea what half of the vegetables in the crisper are. It's pretty easy to distinguish Auriel's food from Hattie's at this point. They've both been feeding Olivier, so he hasn't had his own train wreck of pre-packaged meals mixed in with their stuff. Hattie tends to lean toward things that are healthy and quick...cans of organic soup, apples, and the kind of peanut butter that's made of just salt and peanuts. Auriel, on the other hand, is all about making things himself, with high quality ingredients and expensive kitchen appliances. He's a member of a CSA for christsake, as Olivier had discovered when a large wooden crate of unintelligible produce appeared on the kitchen table the day before. He'd picked through it, his curiosity melting into something like horror when he saw the sheer amount of okra hiding beneath something long and red that turned out to be rhubarb.

  Auriel comes into the kitchen, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel and wearing just a pair of boxers. He laughs as he catches Olivier midway through a futile search for food. "You hungry?" he asks.

  Olivier closes the fridge and surveys Auriel's bare chest. "It can wait," he says, his eyes firmly locked on Auriel's pecs. God, he's in good shape.

  "You sure?" Auriel asks, and Olivier knows him well enough now to be able to tell that he's teasing.

  Their eyes lock and Auriel quirks an eyebrow, casual as can be. "Uh, yeah. Positive," Olivier says, moving forward to rub himself against Auriel like a cat.

  "I mean, I was planning on taking you out for dinner, but I can always make you a snack here first," Auriel says, still coy as fuck. It drives Olivier crazy.

  "How about…" he suggests, taking one of Auriel's nipples into his mouth and sucking hard. He pulls off to continue his train of thought: "…you lick some of that Nutella off of me, and then we work your appetite back up before going out to dinner?"

  Auriel, who is panting slightly under Olivier's ministrations, says, "I'm not the one who's hungry. You might have to be the o
ne licking off the Nutella."

  Olivier pulls back to assess Auriel's degree of seriousness. He's still getting a feel for what kind of stuff they were into before, and he's all about trying everything. But there's also a level of teasing that happens when they're working each other up, and he has a feeling that the jar of Nutella isn't actually going to make it into the bedroom.

  "Or we could ditch the snack and just eat each other instead," Olivier suggests.

  Auriel grins. "God, you're shameless and I love it."

  The praise goes straight to Olivier's dick, and he leans back in to pull Auriel into another kiss. They make out for a while, hands roaming, and then Olivier leans in to whisper in Auriel's ear, "can I fuck you?"

  It's something he's been thinking about, starting to crave, and they haven't fucked each other yet. There have been plenty of blowjobs, jacking each other off, Auriel's tongue and fingers in Olivier's ass. But there's something about fucking—dick-in-ass, carnal fucking—that Olivier hasn't been able to get enough of since the first time he experienced it.

  He had been eighteen, at his college pre-orientation over the summer. He'd been excited and nervous about moving away from home at the end of August, and had dragged his feet about enrolling for the week-long program. In the end he wound up missing the deadline for the much-coveted hiking orientation that took pre-frosh students along the Appalachian Trail for seven days. Instead he had ended up on the Volunteer Venture, which meant spending his days working with local non-profit organizations and his nights sleeping in one of the campus dorms. By the second night he had become absolutely enamored with a guy named Harris who was totally game to make out in secluded corners when nobody was looking.

  For years Olivier had fantasized about the gay men he would meet in college. He had imagined well-coifed guys in soft sweaters, thick-rimmed glasses perched on their faces. He would have bet money that they could all speak at length about Tom Stoppard and Albert Camus and the Trolley Problem. Harris wasn’t how Olivier had envisioned a College Gay at all; he was a sophomore who wore a lot of Hollister and Abercrombie. His hair was cropped short and he didn't have the interests that Olivier had expected. He played soccer and was studying business and liked to host impromptu keggers at the house he shared with three friends just a couple of blocks off campus. Somehow, Olivier had found himself in Harris' bed on the last night of orientation, trying to keep quiet so his roommates wouldn't hear. Making out had led to jerking each other off, then struggling out of their pants, and then suddenly there had been a condom and a half-empty bottle of lube.