Be My Best Man

by Con Riley

  Jason mentally shuffles through everything he knows about Vanya’s living situation, finally accepting he knows precious little, apart from the fact that he only moved in recently to a new place. He crosses to the table and lifts a wine bottle out of the way.

  “Thank you,” Vanya says very quietly, wiping the spot where it stood.

  Jason doesn’t answer. He watches instead and then pours the last of the wine into both their glasses. When he turns, Vanya faces the sink again and doesn’t answer when Jason says his name.

  “Hey,” he tries again. “Vanya?” Then he sets both glasses down to the side and puts a hand on Vanya’s shoulder. A barely contained tremble prompts him to speak. “Hey. What on earth’s the matter?”

  “Is nothing.” Vanya’s glance his way is fleeting. “Make mistake in English,” he says while swiftly nodding. “Is still embarrassing.”

  Jason’s not sure that’s the true reason for whatever’s going on with him right now. Replaying the words in his head doesn’t point to an obvious syntax error. If anything, it was the content rather than the way his words were strung together that caught his attention. “Hot water is a luxury? You don’t have any at your place?”

  It’s a direct question that requires a direct answer.

  Vanya shrugs and changes the subject.

  “Think they will be with Chantel’s father for long?” He edges towards the doorway. “Could go for walk? Maybe along river?”

  “We could do that,” Jason agrees, keeping his tone casual. “Or maybe you could tell me what’s wrong with the hot water supply at your place.”

  Vanya lets out a sigh. “Nothing is wrong.”

  “Listen.” Jason moves into his direct eye line. “If there’s a problem and your new landlord is being an arsehole about making repairs, just say so.” He catches hold of Vanya’s shoulder again—still more rigid than it should be during a simple conversation. “I know a lot of tradespeople.” He chances a smile that’s only faintly mirrored. “Or I could come round and take a look myself. I am pretty handy.”

  “No.” The shake of his head is emphatic, only slightly softened by Vanya saying, “Is not a problem,” like the conversation’s over.

  “Okay,” Jason answers, not certain whether he’s any closer to understanding. “But I can talk to your landlord on the phone, if you want. About anything. It can’t be easy.” He imagines negotiating life in another language all over again, as he has so many times in the last few weeks. Everything has got to be so much harder. “Only it’s definitely getting colder. If you have a hot-water problem, it might affect your heating system as well. I don’t want you freezing your balls off this winter.”

  “Won’t freeze in England,” Vanya quietly insists. “Russia is colder. Coldest, but thank you.” His eye contact is steadier, as is his voice. “If I’m need help, you would be first choice.”

  It’s a simple statement that’s intensely warming like the kiss that follows, softer too than any of their others, wrapped up in a feeling he doesn’t exactly have a name for. His lips part, and Vanya’s follow—sure and slow and drugging. Jason can’t help but gather him close, oblivious to still-wet hands at the nape of his neck and to the world outside the kitchen window. Instead, all he sees are Vanya’s eyelids up-close, laced with tiny veins in shades of blue and violet, a filigree he’s never noticed on anyone he’s been this close to.

  He’s never wanted to pay this much attention.

  Now closing his eyes seems wasteful.

  He does, though, as their kiss deepens. It’s still slow, rather than fevered, and doesn’t demand release in any way that feels hurried. In its place, Jason’s half aware of something different building—a new urge that only grows as Vanya sighs again against his lips, the sound tinged with deep relief like he resolved a problem.

  Jason wants to do that for him.

  He wants to make everything easier for him, if he can.

  They’re joined at lips and hips and ankles, dovetailed as they kiss like a craftsman put them together. Jason reaches out with one hand and catches hold of the counter.

  He has to when he’s so close to falling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Vanya has to breathe soon.

  He’s not sure when he stopped inhaling, but right now, only one thing seems certain: pulling away is impossible, even though his vision spangles. Fiery embers spark across the insides of his eyelids before he cracks them open. The light outside has dimmed as if more time has passed than he was aware of. They now stand half in shadow, and from this close, Jason’s eyelashes are tipped with a hint of ginger he’s never noticed.

  Maybe he’s not seeing clearly, lack of oxygen affecting his vision.

  He needs to take a deep breath, but first he’ll keep this kiss going for as long as he can, and not only because it stops Jason’s probing questions.

  No.

  It’s because this feeling—this feeling right now—is something honest he can give him.

  There’s nothing false about how good Jason’s hair feels under his hands, no lie in wanting it to slide his fingers through it for even longer. But guilt still laps his ankles, regret welling as Jason holds him, both emotions meeting like the two rivers outside this cottage until Jason is all that moors him.

  He’s lied about so much to this man already—white lies, at worst, designed to keep him and his friends safe, but there will be no way back if Jason ever finds out where he’s living.

  At least Jason doesn’t notice his flash flood of remorse.

  He only pulls him closer, widening his stance, immovable and sturdy as this solid building. He’s been honest from the outset about his mistakes with the people he loves, and he’s still trying to right them. Jason shouldn’t share so easily with someone who can’t even tell him the truth about where he’s living, and yet…Vanya can’t let go.

  Not yet.

  Not now.

  Not while Jason is his one good thing in this country.

  Vanya’s breathlessness increases as they embrace, his chest extraordinarily tight like his ribs can’t fully expand while white lies constrict them.

  If only their first meeting had been different.

  They could be happy like this for real instead of only one of them being truthful.

  All his false pretences will surely trip him up, sooner or later. He can only dodge direct questions for so long. Look what slipped out already when he wasn’t thinking—tripped up by the temperature of dishwater, for fuck’s sake. Getting caught by immigration officials for earning money doesn’t seem the worst possible complication, right now. Jason discovering his current address would feel worse.

  But he can’t keep on lying.

  He can’t.

  Jason finally breaks their kiss, steadying himself with one hand against the counter. His voice is wrecked, hoarse and low-pitched. “They’ll be gone for a while.” His glance to the clock on the wall is quick, his pupils blown wide when he says, “We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before they get back. You want to—?”

  “Yes.”

  This might be the one time Jason still wants him, because he has to tell him the truth—about not being a personal shopper and about everything else.

  He has to, even if that means they’re over.

  Lying by omission is no way to continue.

  “Yes,” he repeats in no more than a whisper.

  “Yeah?” Jason’s pupils don’t contract at all as he tugs him close all over again. If anything they widen. “What do you want, exactly?”

  “What do I want?” It’s the pure truth that drips out when Jason kisses his neck. “Anything. Everything. I’m want you.” But guilt still saturates him. He tacks on a quick admittance. “But should talk.”

  Jason misunderstands him. “I can talk, if you want.” His hands are so warm on Vanya’s stomach after he slips them under his shirt. “You want to build your vocab?” His amusement is audible as he unthreads Vanya’s belt and pops free his fly button. “But I want to
blow you.” His smile is quick as he says, “So, that means we have a problem.” Vanya’s trousers fall to mid-thigh when Jason shoves at them. He slides his thumbs under the waistband of his boxer briefs, the circles he rubs at the hollow of Vanya’s hips wonderful—just firm enough not to tickle. “You see, Mum taught me it’s rude to talk with my mouth full.” His crouch is sudden, as are Vanya’s next few inhales, shaky when Jason pulls his underwear down just far enough that his cock bobs between them.

  Any thought of confessing dies when Jason says, “I’m going to put this in my mouth.” All he can manage is a nod when Jason adds, “And then I’m going to suck it.”

  Words in any language aren’t under Vanya’s command from that point.

  Jason’s mouth is so warm and wet, the grip he keeps on Vanya’s hip firm and steady. He’s pinned in place, the cool countertop gradually warming against the bared skin of his behind until Jason suddenly stands up. It’s a loss that provokes a wordless whine, and Jason’s smile only broadens. “Hold on,” he says, as he hefts Vanya up like he last did in his own kitchen, the granite cool when he sits bare-arsed on it. “I want to take my time with you, but I’ve spent too many years on my knees at building sites. Try not to fall in the sink.” It’s a near thing when he blows Vanya some more, his mouth sinking much lower now, his tongue curling where the head of Vanya’s cock flares each time he lifts his head.

  He still holds Vanya’s hip, and a thumb still rubs small circles, but his other hand is slick with spit, stroking him off each time he takes a breather, his grip spiking such intense pleasure that Vanya’s almost speechless. Jason wanks him steadily the next time he pulls off, his lips plump and shiny, his grin wide and happy. “You want to talk now?”

  Vanya doesn’t mean to speak in Russian. “No,” he says, voice coming out in gasps. “Suck me again. Please. Please, do it.”

  Jason does like he understands, slow and steady, each move bringing Vanya close to an edge he can’t quite topple over. Then he speeds up, and something in Vanya coils tight, poised for release at any moment. His hands in Jason’s hair pull in desperate clutches as he warns, “Now. Now. I’m going to—”

  Jason’s last suck is devastating, his gaze darkly focused afterwards. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand as Vanya’s shudders ease off, tone rough when he admits, “That’s the first time I’ve blown someone in here.”

  “First time?” Vanya can hardly hear beyond the hammering of his heart. “In kitchen?”

  “This one? Yes,” Jason says like that’s not surprising considering the length of time he lived here. “I didn’t ever bring boyfriends back here.” He steadies Vanya as he slides down from the counter, casual as he wipes the surface clean like he hasn’t just dropped the B-word. His shrug is simple as he straightens Vanya’s rucked shirt, his embrace a warm, relaxed hug.

  Spoiling this golden moment by telling the truth is out of the question when Jason adds a final comment. “And now I’m glad about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought I was done with first times a long time ago.” Jason’s hard-on glances Vanya’s hip, tough to ignore even though Jason makes doing so seem easy. He doesn’t press Vanya to return the favour. “Now all I can think about is everything else I’ll get to do for the first time down here with you.”

  Part of Vanya’s own truth slips out. “Was also first time.”

  Jason blinks fast a few times, then again much more slowly. “The first time you got blown in a kitchen?”

  It’s the heat of the Aga nearby that makes his cheeks heat, Vanya decides. He turns his face from Jason. “First time in kitchen,” he confirms. But honesty is like water—it finds a crack to seep through. “First time ever.”

  He focuses on a calendar fixed to the refrigerator rather than make eye contact. Chantel’s crossed each day through with coloured pens that glitter, marking each day closer to her wedding with a dash of sparkle. Today’s date, marked visit Dad is the only one written in plain black ink. It’s a small distraction to the persistent hard length of Jason’s cock when he presses closer.

  “You never got a blowjob before, but you gave one?” Jason asks. He’s quieter when Vanya doesn’t answer. “What have you done so far?”

  The next words should be simple.

  The honest truth is not much, but for some reason right now, Vanya can’t make himself voice it. He’s almost twenty-three, for God’s sake, and still jumping at shadows. Twenty-two when he first arrived in Britain in no physical state to seek hook-ups. Twenty-one when he switched universities to spend his final year in Moscow.

  Sweat springs from nowhere to bead his brow and his heart rate upticks.

  He truly thought that move to the city meant freedom—to experiment, to experience, maybe to find someone special.

  What has he done so far?

  Jason’s asking about sex, but Vanya’s been on a very different journey.

  He startles a little when Jason asks another question. “What do you want to do?”

  What does he want?

  He wants what other people take for granted—the right to love, free from fear of persecution. And he wants to stay in the UK to have that.

  But he also wants to see his family again, so badly.

  There’s no way he can voice that, not when Jason cups his face, his hold gentle if rough, kind when he backs off with that same work-worn hand extended. “We have the house to ourselves for a while longer.” His smile is warm, his face so plainly open.

  “If you want to, you can take your time to show me.”

  They pause on the way to the bedroom when Jason’s phone chimes. He checks it, giving Vanya a perfect close-up view of what frustration looks like on him. “Hold up.” His grip on Vanya’s hand tightens. “Fucking typical. They’re coming back sooner than they expected.” He lets out a sound that’s close to a sigh.

  Vanya wonders aloud. “Think her father forgot their visit?”

  “I don’t know. The calendar in the kitchen was pretty clear about the date and time. It didn’t seem like a casual thing. If anything, it seemed like a particularly big deal. Chantel mentioned before that they weren’t getting along. She seemed excited about this visit.”

  “How long until they come home?”

  “Maybe thirty minutes?”

  It’s not long, but now that Jason’s opened the door to going further, Vanya doesn’t want to close it, especially not when every bad thing that’s happened to him has rushed back in the last few minutes. Pushing all that out of his head would be a relief, even if only for a short while. He pulls, and Jason follows until they’re together in the bedroom, the door firmly closed behind them.

  His touch to the front of Jason’s jeans is slow, hand shaking with residual adrenaline.

  Jason misinterprets that as hesitation. “You don’t have to—”

  “Want to.” And Vanya does, even more than when he believed his move to Moscow would lead to freedom instead of covert observation. But no one’s watching here in this bedroom filled with things that speak of Jason. The bed is wide and solidly built, the sketches of buildings on the walls similar to the art in his home in London. He sits down, patting the spot next to him.

  Jason kisses him as soon as he’s seated. He doesn’t resist when Vanya pushes him down. Instead he only acquiesces, lying back, his hand at Vanya’s nape as their shared kiss lingers. He’s easy going when Vanya unbuttons his shirt, letting him take his time to kiss what he uncovers—throat and chest and belly, following the passage of hair south. He only tenses slightly when Vanya fumbles his belt, sounding as hoarse as earlier. “You really don’t have to blow me.”

  “I’m really want to.” That must come out as truthful, because Jason helps then, unfastening and shoving down his clothes until his cock is uncovered. Like the rest of him, it’s substantial, rooted in hair that’s coarse under his fingers. It’s a lot to take in—texture, scent, and the helpless hitch in Jason’s breathing as he touches.

  He can
’t help taking his time.

  “You really don’t—”

  “Stop.” It comes out like an order.

  He’s thought of this so often. Watched porn over and over, stopping movies at this same moment, wondering what it would feel like to touch his lips to someone this way, never thinking past the mechanics. But now he’s so close, he can’t help noticing what porn couldn’t convey. Jason tenses, minute contractions of muscles beneath every spot Vanya touches. Each of Vanya’s exhales has effect—hairs on Jason’s thighs rising as his breaths coast their surface. Then there’s the slightest tremble where Jason’s torso meets his groin that fascinates him. It’s a tiny thing, that quiver, which he very lightly kisses.

  He’s only half aware of Jason’s breath catching again, too immersed in other senses. He turns his head and deeply inhales, his own cock stirring while Jason’s strains, rosy and so hot when he finally holds it, a clear bead of precome nestling in his slit, sparkling like one of Vanya’s new shirt buttons.

  Jason interrupts his progress, his voice low and gravelly. “I don’t want to hurry you, but anytime this week would be good.”

  Vanya can’t help smiling as he strokes him. It’s a brand new angle compared to what he’s used to, but he figures it out, watching closely for clues that he’s doing okay.

  Jason gives verbal feedback. “Yeah. Now faster.” His hips curl up by fractions as the tension in his belly tightens, and he jerks, spitting out a guttural, “Fuck!” when Vanya catches a drip of precome with the flat of his tongue.

  It’s a distinct flavour.

  Vanya wants to try more.

  He kneels between Jason’s legs, and his next taste takes longer.

  He sucks—weird when his lips sting at their corners; right when Jason’s cock fills his mouth completely; satisfying when his lips finally meet his fingers; exhilarating in a way that defies logic when his air runs out and he chokes.