by Kaje Harper
“What?” John pressed his palms on the wall, trying not to lose the mood.
“Damned leg. It’s not going to hold for this. Dammit!” Ryan’s voice was shaking. Pain or need?
John turned, and kissed him hard. “Get out. Lie on your back on the rug.”
“It’ll get wet.” But Ryan carefully did as he was told, easing down and stretching his legs out.
“Who cares?”
John stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running in the background. He looked down at Ryan, laid out for him on the fuzzy blue mat. Wet skin, dark hair, nice chubby cock lengthening and hardening again as he watched. This’ll work. He reached back into the shower and found the cream, then sank to his knees, straddling Ryan’s thighs. Ry’s eyes glowed green. “What are you planning?”
John looked down and smiled. Slowly, he squeezed a white glob out over Ryan’s dick, watching it slip down toward his wet groin. Ryan shivered. “Cold.”
“Let me warm you up.” John ran his hands over the veiny shaft, stroking and squeezing. Yeah, get hard for me. He didn’t stop until he had Ryan thrusting up into his slicked hands. Then he worked his way forward on his knees, just enough, and guided that firm cock head to his ass. For a moment he stopped, looking into Ryan’s eyes. He’d never done it like this, on top. He let his weight come down slowly, watching Ry’s pupils widen, as he took that naked length inside him.
His body spread, opened, ready and willing, even though this pressed inside in new ways. He shifted, fixing the angle, taking the burn. Suddenly Ryan’s hands closed like iron on his hips, and held him still, half impaled. The muscles in Ryan’s arms flexed as he took John’s weight. Then abruptly, Ryan bucked his hips upward. John let his body slam down. Pain and pleasure rolled through him in a sweet, dark mix. His vision closed to blackness. He gasped for a breath left somewhere out of reach in the lighted world. Here in the dark, he was full and taken.
For a long moment they held still, bonded deep inside. John opened his eyes, managed to drag in that missing breath, and his vision cleared. Ryan’s fingers slid around and dug into his ass. He clenched his hands tight around Ryan’s forearms. Then they both eased their grips.
Slowly, almost gently, Ryan flexed and arched, moving inside John. John lifted and leaned forward on trembling thighs, to give him room. Ryan found a pace, slow and easy, heat and drag that was like nothing John had felt. He fumbled for the tube on the floor, squeezed it randomly, and reached between them, his fingers sliding over Ryan’s curls and hot silky skin. There. More ointment on Ryan, more on himself, and no barrier between them. He stroked with his fingers where they connected, and moaned through his clenched teeth. He flexed his hips lower, and slipped down, feeling his ass stretch wide around Ry. Oh yeah. Then he had to move his hands and brace, as they began thrusting together, a driving rhythm that stole thought, stole breath, stole vision, and filled his world.
His climax was almost unwelcome, shaking his body out of that heat. Or so he thought, until it hit again, and he was coming in thick jets on Ryan’s chest, Ryan’s face, while blood roared in his ears and the relief of it flashed through him. Dimly, he heard Ryan grunting, coming. The new liquid heat in his ass was part of it all. When his arms gave way, he slid forward into the sanctuary of Ryan’s hold.
Ryan’s mouth moved silently against his temple.
“I love you,” John whispered, below the threshold of true sound.
“Waterproof lube for in the shower, definitely,” Ryan murmured.
John had to laugh, his body shaking until Ryan slipped free of his ass, and he twitched again, involuntarily.
Ryan held him close. “What, you maniac?”
“You,” John sputtered. “Me. Us. Romance. Lube. Oh God.”
Ryan kissed him. “I love you too, John Barrett. And not just for your ass.”
John could have lain there forever, basking. But somewhere outside those closed doors, his kid might be wondering just how long his dad could shower. “Up,” he told himself.
“We need another shower,” Ryan said, wiping a glob of cum off his chest as they peeled apart.
John’s laughter threatened to erupt again. “Fast one. It’ll be cold.”
“Yeah.”
They stepped in together, sharing tepid water and handfuls of soap. John cleaned himself carefully, half wincing and half turned on by the sloppy wetness of his ass and the afterburn of using the cream. So worth it. He wouldn’t change one minute of what he and Ry had done. But he was going to invest in more lube for the bathroom. The water had gone cold as they got out, and John shut it off. Ryan tossed him a towel, and grinned. “So, how long do you think that’ll that hold us for?”
John looked at him, his chest so tight it hurt. “Half an hour?”
Ryan snapped him with his towel. “Go make dinner, you insatiable fool. It’s your turn to cook. I’ll follow discreetly.”
Chapter Fourteen
A few days later, Ryan paused as he reached the top of the stairs, heading for his bed. It wasn’t that late, only six o’clock, and Tuesdays weren’t usually a bad day for him. They’d even had Monday off for Presidents’ Day. But for some reason, he was totally beat.
He’d dragged himself home after the last class, planning to go into his own room and crash for an hour, but Mark’s door was finally open. The kid had started his new school that morning, and gone to band practice too, but he clearly hadn’t come home worn out. From inside Mark’s room, the quick tones of noodling on the acoustic guitar carried down the hall. Together with the open door, it seemed like an invitation he shouldn’t pass up.
Ryan stuck his head into the room. Mark looked up and nodded. “Hey.”
“Back from practice? I didn’t see your dad’s truck.”
“Dad had a thing to fix. He made me take the bus.”
“Me too,” Ryan sighed. “You can’t get chauffeurs like you used to.” He stepped into the room. “Can I sit?”
Mark waved toward the chair. “Sure.”
Ryan sat and watched the boy’s fingers dance across the strings. The tune became soft and plaintive. Ryan rubbed his thigh, digging his fingers in to loosen the tight muscles, and waited.
Mark looked up at him. “Does it hurt?”
“My leg?” Ryan shrugged. “Some. I lost a bunch of muscle, so I have to use what’s left differently. It aches sometimes.”
“Will it really not get any better?”
“Don’t know. This is better, though. I had a brace for a while.” Six fucking months. “Hated the hell out of that thing. Now I don’t need it.” The doctor had wanted him to keep using it, as protection. Fuck that.
Mark nodded.
Eventually, Ryan said, “School going to work out, you think?”
“Hard to say. First day. And I’m a freshman and a transfer. Lowest of the low.”
“I remember.” Ryan eyed him. “Can you do the class work? It would help your case for staying here with your dad, if you can bring your grades up.”
Mark gave a short laugh. “No sweat. They looked at my grades from Loyola, and put me in basic everything. No honors, no AP. It should be easy.”
“I guess that’s good.” Ryan leaned back in the chair and listened to the kid play.
After a while, without lifting his fingers from the strings, Mark asked, “Did you have, like, acne when you were a teenager?”
“Some. Not as bad as yours. If it’s bugging you, maybe your dad could see about getting antibiotics for it. I hear there’s more treatments now. Although I expect you’ll grow out of it eventually.”
“Not soon enough,” Mark muttered. “I get so tired of being called zit-face.”
“Already? First day?”
“I guess I was talking to this guy’s girlfriend. But we were just talking. He told me to get lost. How was I to know she was taken?”
“No one gets taken,” Ryan said, and then flashed on John, last night, underneath him. “In an ownership sense, anyway. He must be pretty damned inse
cure if he won’t let her talk to a lowly freshman.”
“I guess.” Mark squinted at him. “I can handle him. It wasn’t serious. This gay thing with you guys though. I don’t need anything else getting the guys on my case at school. You’re not going to, like, show up for teacher conferences with Dad or anything?”
“God, no. Why would I want to walk into a high school again if I don’t have to? Don’t worry. John put me down on your paperwork as an alternate local contact, because it makes sense. It doesn’t make me an alternate parent. Most likely, no one at school will know your dad is gay, unless you tell them.”
“Like that’s gonna happen.” Mark looked him over. “You’re too young to be my parent anyway.”
“Yeah,” Ryan reflected. “I’d have had to be fourteen. I was probably a virgin then. No wait, maybe not.” He grinned.
“Yuck! Jesus, TMI, dude.”
“Hey, I’m talking girls here,” Ryan told him. “Mary Jo Peterson. Red hair down to her butt, face like an angel, brain like cotton candy.” He made a face. “Man, I had bad taste back then. But she was the hottest bod in the freshman class, and at fourteen I wasn’t thinking much past that.” He eyed Mark. “Did you leave a girl behind in California?”
“Nope.” Mark picked out a dissonant chord. “Not enough money for the Loyola girls. They wanted guys with serious bank.”
“Well, now you’re in a band,” Ryan pointed out. “Lead guitar is a hot ticket.”
“I guess. Cal’s the singer though. The guys won’t even let me sing backup until my voice quits breaking.”
Ryan laughed. “Won’t be long. Is practice going to work out with your school schedule?”
“Yeah. I had plenty of time to get there today, even with staying late to get all the assignments written down. Band practice is good. Although Patrick broke up with his girlfriend. I guess she dumped him. He was pretty down.” Mark shrugged. “On the plus side, he wrote this song called Bitter that’s really cool. The melody needs a little work, but the lyrics are sharp.”
“Nothing like suffering to improve one’s art,” Ryan quipped.
Downstairs, they heard the door open, and then John’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Hey, where’s my dinner?”
“In the Domino’s Pizza oven where you left it,” Ryan yelled back. “If you call for it and pay them, of course.”
He heard John’s footsteps on the stairs and then the man poked his head in the door. “Here you are.” He smiled at each of them. “Hey, Mark, how was school?”
“Fine,” Mark grunted.
Ryan stood slowly and then turned to John, an eye on Mark as he did so. “You go shower,” he told John. “I’ll call Domino’s.” He laid a palm on John’s cheek and kissed him, lightly and briefly. Mark didn’t look up, but he didn’t wince too badly. It was a start.
****
By Saturday, he was less certain. Mark was spending a lot of time locked in his room, appearing mainly for meals. Ryan wasn’t sure if it was not wanting to see him and John together, or some other source of teenage angst. Direct questions got monosyllabic answers at best. School was okay. Practice was good. Homework was done. No, he didn’t need anything. Ryan figured they had no choice but to let him stew.
John would have backed off on any contact with Ryan when the boy was in the room. Ryan, remembering past discussions, made a point of brief hugs and occasional dry kisses in front of Mark. Despite occasional exaggerated winces and mutters of “yuck” or “get a room”, Ryan got the feeling that Mark was struggling as much or more with other issues. When the boy wasn’t paying deliberate attention, their gestures of affection didn’t even rate a glance. Mark’s studied reactions seemed more a way to guilt trip his dad than genuine. Unfortunately the guilt thing was wearing on John.
Ryan was sitting at the breakfast table, struggling with the intricacies of adrenal gland hormones, two books and a chart open in front of him, when John came back in from taking out the trash and sat down across from him. Ryan looked up, and then slid his books to one side. “Problem?”
“No. I just… parenting is the most important job there is, and you have to fly by the seat of your pants.”
I like the seat of your pants. Ryan kept the joke to himself, and searched for something supportive to say. “It’s early days yet. And Mark doesn’t seem actively unhappy. He showed me his math quiz. He got a B+.”
“Really? He didn’t tell me.” John brightened but then frowned. “How come he talks to you more than to me?”
“I matter less?” Ryan speculated.
A clatter of teenage feet on the stairs heralded the wonder boy himself. Ryan and John watched as Mark went straight to the fridge, grabbed a coke, and then turned back to the stairs. But this time he hesitated, and came back toward them. He sat at the table, and cracked open the pop top.
“Coke. Breakfast of champions,” Ryan quipped.
Mark winced instead of smiling. Okay, then.
“So, John,” Ryan said, “do you want to do the grocery run or shall I?”
“Do you have the time? I thought you had an exam.”
“Monday. It’s Saturday. Not even a crack student like me can study for forty-eight hours straight. I have time.”
“Thanks. I hate those freaking new carts,” John said, faking ease. “I took out a display of Christmas window clings with the front end of the cart last time.”
“Which tells me how long it’s been since you did the shopping,” Ryan said. “Mark, anything you want me to get?”
Mark shook his head, then stared down at his hands. “I have a question.”
“Sure,” Ryan offered.
“What should you do,” Mark began slowly, “if you think someone you know is doing drugs?”
Ryan turned to John. Definitely a real-parent question. “That depends,” John said. “It’s different depending if it’s pot or meth, and if it’s a friend or just someone you know.”
“Not pot, Dad, Jesus, I’m not that much of a ween. I’m not sure what drug it is, really. And his good friends don’t seem to be worried.”
“That’s hard,” John said. “If you like this guy and you can talk to him, maybe that’s the first step. Find out what he’s on, see if there’s a chance he wants help. Or talk to his other friends, see why they aren’t doing anything for him. But be careful. You don’t want to get mixed up with that stuff. Is this someone I know?”
“Uh-uh. Just a guy at school. But I like him, and I don’t want to see him go down.”
“If it’s meth, he needs help now. That stuff is nearly impossible to kick once you start. Otherwise… you have to decide if the teachers or his parents would be able to help.”
“I can’t tell anyone. He’d never speak to me again.” Mark sighed. “I wish I knew what to do.”
“Even adults have a hard time dealing with addiction issues. We get a whole semester class on it,” Ryan offered. “Be there, talk to him, but don’t get sucked in.”
Mark nodded silently, but he didn’t get up. He sat sipping his soda, gazing out the window. He seemed more at ease and Ryan felt his spirits rise.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “Why don’t you come along to the store? We can sneak in some more Oreos and Ho Ho’s and stuff on your dad’s dime.”
John kicked him exaggeratedly, then hesitated as his phone rang. Ryan saw John’s face go stiff, like a mask, as he glanced at the display and flipped it open, and guessed even before John said, “What is it, Cynthia?”
She’d taken to calling every day for a report on Mark, topped off with what seemed like a nasty and prolonged rant at John. Ryan wished John would just cut her off. But the man’s innate courtesy or maybe lingering guilt apparently wouldn’t let him do that.
“You are?” John’s voice was wary. “Now?” He paused. “Okay. I guess I can’t stop you. Yes, he’s here.” But he hung up the phone instead of passing it to Mark, as Ryan expected. John muttered something like a curse under his breath. “Your mother’s at the airport,” he t
old Mark. “She’ll be here in an hour.”
Mark leaped to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor. “I’m not going back with her. She can’t make me. I’ll just run away again.”
John winced.
“Mark.” Ryan nailed the kid with a look. “Pick up your chair and sit.” He waited until Mark cautiously complied. “You’re right,” he told the boy firmly. “You’re not going back with her if you don’t want to. I promise. Neither your dad nor I will let that happen.” He had to add, “Today,” because a court order might change things. He turned to John and raised an eyebrow. Your ball.
“She’s decided she wants to see you,” John said. “She doesn’t feel right making important choices about your future over the phone.”
“She’ll try to make me say I’ll come home. I mean, back to LA. I don’t want to see her.”
“I’m sorry, son. She has a legal right. I can’t just tell her to go away.”
“Fuck that!”
John closed his hands on the edge of the table, the knuckles white, but spoke evenly. “If you really want to stay here, you need to be able to look your mother in the eye and say, ‘I love you but I want to live with my father.’ She needs to hear it from you and really know that it’s your choice. Can you do that?”
Mark kicked at the cabinet with the toe of his sneaker. “Is he coming with her?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I definitely don’t want to see him.”
“We’ll be here with you,” John said. “You don’t have to do this alone. But if you’re making adult choices, you’re going to have to stand up to them.”
Mark looked down at the floor, then nodded slowly.
“So,” Ryan said, “we have an hour. Does anyone have an uncontrollable urge to clean the bathroom? Mark?”
“Do we have to?” Mark whined.
“Better cleaning than brooding. We’ll get the Sunday cleanup done a day early. And I don’t want Carlisle seeing this place in a mess if he shows up.”