by Eli Easton
Brian said he’d never had Indian food, and he loved it. He ate more than I’d ever seen him eat, lots of the masala sauce over rice and naan. My mom and I exchanged a pleased look. But afterward, in my room, when we tried to play a video game, his face got pale and he put down the controller.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Not feeling great,” he admitted. He rubbed his stomach. “I ate too much. Maybe I should go home. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want him to go home. I’d missed him the past two days like crazy, and I’d been stoked about him spending the night.
“Maybe if you lie down for a bit, you’ll feel better?”
He blew out a pained breath and nodded. “Okay.”
“Want to lie down in the guest room?” I thought maybe he wanted privacy.
But he glanced at my bed. “Mind if I lie down here?”
“Sure. Yeah. Absolutely.”
He seemed to be in too much pain to be embarrassed. He stood up and dropped his jeans. Wearing an old red T-shirt and a pair of navy briefs, he climbed under my comforter and lay on his side.
“Would Tylenol help?” I asked.
“I have some prescription Aleve in my bag.”
“I’ll get it.”
I found the bottle in his bag, read the dosage, and went to get some water. He sat up and took the pills, then lay back down again.
“What does it feel like?” I asked, sitting next to him on the bed.
He looked up at me, pain in his eyes. “After the surgery, I couldn’t eat much. Just liquids for a while and then soft foods like ice cream. Because they had to sew my intestines together. And there were sutures and stuff in there. So when food passed through, it hurt.”
I gritted my teeth. Fucking bullets. I rubbed his back through the comforter.
“The weird part is, the doctor says by now I shouldn’t have pain like this. Like, he thinks it’s psychosomatic or something.”
“Prick.”
Brian shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe he’s right. Sometimes it’s like… like I can feel the bullet inside. And that’s definitely all in my head. The bullet went all the way through.”
Hearing him talk about it made me feel enraged all over again. No seventeen-year-old should be hurt like this. I hated that Brian’s beautiful body had been ripped apart, that his glorious health—yes, he’d been fucking glorious—was being wasted away by nightmares and a gut that no longer worked right. I kept rubbing his back.
He barked a laugh. “God, Landon. Look at yourself in the mirror.” He nudged my arm and tilted his chin at the mirror across the room.
I looked over there. I was glowering so hard my face looked like a thundercloud. It made me laugh.
“Shut up! I can’t help it! I hate that you’re in pain.”
His smile softened. “Dude. It’ll pass. But that feels good. Could you, um, rub my back without the covers?”
“Sure.”
He pushed the comforter down to his hips, and I started rubbing the lower part of his back. He closed his eyes. “You can do it harder.”
I was worried about pressing directly on his scar, so I pushed up his T-shirt. The scar on his back was from the entry wound, small and round. It was more of a divot in his flesh, almost like a vaccination scar. I avoided it, pushing my thumb along the muscles on either side of his spine and the small of his back.
I felt Brian relax. His face went slack. He shifted to lie more on his stomach. I kept massaging him.
With his shirt pushed up, I could see the golden, lightly fuzzy skin on his back. Snug navy briefs gave me the best view I’d ever had of that amazingly round little behind. I swallowed hard and shifted to sit on his legs, so I could rub his lower back with both hands. I kept working, rubbing up with my thumbs in a way I thought would feel good.
“Is it helping?” I asked after a long while. I was surprised at how wrecked my voice sounded.
Shit. I was completely turned-on. That was embarrassing.
“It feels great,” Brian said, and his voice was shaky too.
He raised his head to look over his shoulder at me. “Would you mind doing the front? It’s tighter there.”
I hesitated. My current state would be obvious with him faceup. But how could I refuse?
“Yeah, sure.” I got off him so he could move.
My heart tried to make a suicide leap out of my chest as he turned over, pausing to strip off his T-shirt. He settled on his back, looking up at me.
Oh my God. He was so beautiful. And at the same time, ravaged-looking. He still had muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest, but I could count his ribs, and his stomach was so flat it was nearly hollow. The exit scar was big, maybe three inches. The skin looked sort of tucked in around it. And there was still some faint discoloration.
It made me want to cry. I blinked hard.
Brian reached out and took my right hand. He pulled it toward him and placed it on his stomach, on the opposite side from his scar. His dark blue eyes were burning, and his lips tugged down. “Do I look that bad?”
“No,” I said, voice rough. “God, no. You’re… perfect.”
I felt dampness on my cheeks and wiped it away.
His chest rose and fell in a heavy breath. “Right here,” he said, moving my hand to show me where to rub.
I did, trying to be gentle. I moved to straddle his thighs again, and he kicked the comforter out of the way, so we fit together better. I touched him with both palms, smoothing them over his stomach, using the heat of my hands to warm his belly, touching everything but the area right around his incision. He closed his eyes. His hands rested on my legs, just above the knees. His palms seared through the denim of my jeans.
He tilted his head back and licked his lips. I finally had the guts to look at his crotch and, fuck, he was completely hard in his briefs. A rush of fire spread through my body.
“Brian,” I groaned.
My thumbs stroked his hip bones through his underwear.
He opened his eyes and stared up at me. “Don’t stop.”
“Are you still in pain?”
He shook his head once. “The pain is gone.” Then he grinned. “Magic hands.”
I smiled too, and it knocked the tension back a little. But then I looked down at his body and it flooded over me again, a tidal wave of feels. Sorrow for what he’d been through. Want so thick I felt light-headed with it. Love.
I took a shaky breath and scooted back so I could lean over him. I kissed his stomach above the incision once, just once, then raised my head to look at him. “Okay?”
In answer, he carded his fingers through my hair and nudged my head back down.
I resisted. “Are you sure?”
“Hell yes. I’m sure. Want you, Landon. Please.”
I felt a thrill at those words, at hearing him say my name in that gravelly voice.
All right, then. I was all in.
I kissed the exit scar, softly. He spread his legs so I could settle between them. I kissed his stomach, nuzzled his belly button. I kissed his too-prominent ribs, mouthed his hip bone. His erection throbbed against my neck, and I had to stop for a minute and gasp, my forehead on his ribs. God, the smell of him, the feel of him hot and hard against my throat. I could hardly believe it was real, that he was under me like this. That this was happening.
I was shaking.
“Come up here,” Brian whispered.
He pulled me up to his mouth and kissed me. This time there was no rhythm or finesse, just tongues and teeth and trying to devour each other. We kissed and kissed, our bodies tangling on the sheets. We pushed against each other, waves of pleasure coursing through me as I thrust against his hip bone. We could have got off like that. But I’d started something earlier, and I had it fixed in my mind. I wanted to finish it.
I moved down his body, kissing as I went. I peeled down his briefs and saw him for the first time. He was gorgeous. How could he not be? I took him in my hand and then into my mouth. His groans ran through me
like electricity.
I’d only done this once before, but it didn’t matter. It was as natural as touching myself. Everything poured through me—everything I’d ever wanted to say, all the times I’d wanted to hold him, comfort him, explore him, and hadn’t dared. The life and hope I wanted to give him when he’d been dying under my hands that terrible day. All the desperate need I had for him to be okay, the pleasure and love I wished for him then and still. It was all right there waiting for me, waiting for him.
For Brian Marshall.
I gave him everything I had inside me to give, his hands soft and gentle in my hair.
Chapter 18
Brian
WE TOOK everything off but our underwear and got under the covers. I put my arm under a pillow, so Landon could lie on it, and he did, flopping onto his back, still breathing hard. I lay on my side against him, my other arm over his chest. My body was completely limp and happy. The pain in my gut had mellowed about the time Landon started touching my bare skin. Because hormones. I felt fucking fantastic.
Then I felt a twinge of guilt for feeling that way when so many kids would never have this, when Jake was gone. He would never share a moment like this with someone he was crazy about. How did I deserve to have this when he was dead?
I pushed that feeling away. Landon didn’t deserve to be stuck with a moody bastard, especially not after that. I focused all my attention on him, letting the feel of him, the smell of him, flood my mind until there was no room for anything else.
It was the first time I’d ever felt him other than a few clothed hugs. I loved his body. He was hotter than me, his skin radiating heat that warmed my soul. He was long and tight and wiry. No soft curves. But his skin was downy and as smooth as a baby’s. The contrast was heavenly. I stroked his ribs, marveling at the texture.
Everything about him felt right, clicked with something inside me, that it was like a piece of my core shifting into place. If my gayness had ever been hypothetical, now it was clear. Immutable proof meet Brian Marshall. Brian, immutable proof.
Landon stared at the ceiling and stroked my arm. “Well, that didn’t take long,” he said wryly.
I barked a laugh. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “No. Sorry. Not that. I meant… we kissed last Saturday night. Seven days later and here we are.”
I snorted. “And we didn’t see each other for two of those days.”
“True. So much for my iron self-control.”
I raised my head to get a better look at his face. “You were trying not to have sex with me? Was that, like, a life goal?”
He gave me a duh look. “Dude. You’re Brian Marshall. Do you know how hard it’s been to be close to you these past few weeks and not, like, perv on you or act like a douchenozzle? I’ll have you know, in the quest to be a good friend, I rose above.”
My heart lifted with a surge of happiness. “Sorry. Am I threatening your sainthood medal?”
“You totally are, good sir. And I deserved that damn medal.”
“Mmm. Welp, I recognize and salute your prior efforts. But thank God we’re past all of that nonsense.”
I laid my head on his shoulder and traced my finger down the slight indentation between his pecs. He made a noise like a sigh and didn’t say anything for a bit. His thumb brushed back and forth on my arm.
Who knew thumbs could be erotic? I had a new appreciation for Landon’s since that back rub.
I felt him swallow. “Did you want this to be a one-time thing or….”
I propped myself up on one arm and glowered at him.
He looked abashed. “Sorry. I don’t mean… I don’t want that. I just don’t want to assume.”
“Assume what?”
“That—” He hesitated. Then he got his serious and mature expression. “I don’t want to assume you want to be with me. Be together. Like… a couple. I know you can’t be out. I know it’s complicated for you.”
That made me feel like shit. “Yes, it’s complicated. Does that mean we can’t have this?”
“No! No, it doesn’t mean that. If you want that. This, I mean.”
Something about his earnestness made me smile. He was so, so sincere. And there was that earlier confession where he’d said how hard he had to work to only be my friend and nothing more.
He did. He totally wanted me.
I smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculous?” His eyebrows went up like he was offended, but one corner of his mouth tilted too.
“Stop trying to be all polite and let me off the hook. I don’t want to be off the hook. I like you.”
“You do?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes. I liked you before.”
“You did?”
I waged a brief but intense battle in my head. I didn’t want to be a dweeb. But there was something I’d been wanting to share with Landon for a while now.
Making up my mind to be brave, I got up and went to my backpack. I pulled out a battle-scarred gray notebook—purposefully nondescript—and looked through it. I found the page I was looking for. I folded the front of the notebook back so only that one page was visible and returned to the bed. I held it out to him.
I tried to act chill, but my heart was hammering with nerves and an inner voice was lamenting the demise of my cool factor. Rending garments over it, in fact. Oh, well.
Landon glanced at the page, then up at my face. He took the notebook. “Madison mentioned you wrote poetry.”
“For a few years now.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“What? Something wrong with writing poetry?”
“Nope,” he said decisively. “Not at all.”
He hunched over and read the poem, holding the notebook in both hands.
And man, was it terrifying watching him. The only people I’d ever shared my poems with were my English teachers and, occasionally, the class if the teacher made me read one out loud. I’d never told Jake about the poems, and I could imagine my dad’s reaction. Writing verse wasn’t exactly macho. Or even modern. But sometimes I just had to let things out. And poems were a quick and easy way to express what I felt.
I dated all my poems at the top. The one I showed Landon had been written in September, the first week back at school. I remembered the day that had inspired it. I’d seen Landon in the halls. It was the first time I’d seen him since the start of the new school year, and he’d looked older, healthy, happy. He’d been wearing a blue short-sleeved button-down shirt and jeans, and he’d had on a backward baseball cap. So damned cute. I’d seen him high-five some girls in the hall and stop to chat with them, smiling and laughing.
My stomach had flip-flopped that day, seeing how carefree he’d looked. And, let’s face it, with a good old-fashioned rush of horny want.
The poem, however, was called “Living in Your Skin,” and it was more about how I watched him from afar, how I envied him, how I wished I had the courage to be free like he was. Still, it was there, between the lines. I’d been crushing on him too.
I would never show him my more recent poems about him. Oh, hell no. No guy needs that big of an ego boost.
He finished reading it, but he continued to stare at the page, his thumb rubbing the notebook’s spiral wire, like he couldn’t look at me.
“You hate it,” I said, trying to take the notebook from him.
He clung on to it, not letting go. “Of course I don’t. I don’t know what to say. You’ve got a talent for language, Brian. It’s amazing.”
He looked at me, eyes warm. I breathed a sigh of relief. This time when I tugged, he let me take the notebook. “I just wanted to show you that I did think about you back then. Before.”
“Can I read some more?”
“Fuck no.”
We both laughed, and it broke the tension.
“Pretty please?” He pouted.
“Maybe someday,” I said archly. “If you’re really nice to me.” I got up and put the notebook in my backpack.
He sat up on the bed, folding his legs. “Since we’re confessing…. Obviously, I noticed you too.”
“Yeah? Tell me more.” I got back on the bed, lying on my side.
He made a face. “Come on. You know all the girls in school crush on you. Let’s just say I wasn’t immune and leave it at that. But—” His expression got worried and he chewed his lip.
“But what?”
“Can I ask you a serious question? Do you think this is because of the shooting? Like some kind of… transference thing? Gratitude? Because you don’t owe me anything, Brian.”
“I’ve thought about that.” I settled back on a pillow, one arm behind my head. I looped one of my calves over his lap just to be touching him. “Obviously, I have PTSD and being around you helps with that, and that’s probably because of what happened that day in the cafeteria. But this isn’t gratitude. You’re the strongest person I know. You don’t dick around with people. You try to listen to everyone, but you stand up for what you believe in. And I can’t think of another person I’ve ever met in my entire life who I think… is truly an outstanding person.” I swallowed. “Plus, you’re hot.”
Landon laughed—a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh. “Now you are definitely pulling my leg.”
“Every word is true.” I made a cross on my bare chest. “Hope to die.” We squinted at each other doubtfully. “Okay, bad metaphor. But the rest is true.”
Landon looked at me for a long moment, then rubbed his face. “God. Okay. Okay, if you really want to do this.” He sighed. “You know I’m crazy about you. It’s kind of terrifying.”
I rubbed my calf on his leg. “Same.”
He scooted around, lying down next to me. He put his arm loosely over my side and we were face-to-face.
“Your dad would freak.”
I nodded. “Is it okay if we keep this to ourselves? I know that sucks for you. Me being in the closet. But—”
“No. I agree. Totally. You’ve been through enough. I don’t want you fighting with your dad. We’ll just… leave the hand-holding and stuff for when we’re here. Cool?”