(no subject)
Title: Responsibility.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Boys get injured, boys get lonely, boys fall in love? Finally, right?
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 4 of 4
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
This chapter is looooooong. Pretty sure almost as long as the other three combined. I had a lot to get through. As always, thanks and hugs to jisforjane. This was probably my favorite story ever to write slash-wise. I hope everyone enjoyed it.
One
Two
Three
I knew he was back in town because a thousand people had told me so. Or so it seemed. Each time someone said his name it was amplified in my mind by hundreds of decibels, almost making me deaf, deaf to anything but those words, "Hey, Geno's back in Pittsburgh." Fuck me. How long do you think I could stay away?
Still, I was trying not to think about it, because it hurt. Obviously. It hurt to be the asshole that I was, the asshole who would put his own happiness aside for the sake of looking like a certain person to my friends or teammates, only to realize that my unhappiness would end up spoiling everything anyway.
How did I come away from that situation as the one who felt rejected? You'd think it would have been the other way around. I let the poor boy down and he wallows in his young loneliness while I, the professional that I am, freewheel around town doing whatever the hell I like, fulfilling my lifelong dream to be unattached and rich and wonderfully handsome with the heart of a goddamned champion. Of course, I feel bad about it, but realize in my epic virtuousness that it is ultimately for the best, that I'm older and smarter and grovel as he might we just can't--
I had just kicked myself in the balls, really. I'd shut myself down. He didn't even seem to want me all that much. He hadn't seemed sorry to go. There hadn't been a regretful glance, a look of sorrow, or even a distinct look of longing like I'm sure had been evident on my own face, grimacing like a fucking retard trying to make him understand what I felt. I did it to myself. It was almost funny. And I laughed to myself about it in such a deplorably self-deprecating way, alone in bed with the sheets I'd never brought myself to wash, every single night. I'm laughing at you, Brooksie, I would think. You dumb fuck.
I thought about the potentiality that if I called him he wouldn't answer. I thought about the potentiality that if I went straight over to his house and started showing him how much I cared he would turn me out and not give a shit. I thought about the potentiality that if I let myself care it would make calling him or carting myself over to his house options impossible to ignore.
Okay. Let's take this slowly. I like him. I care about him. I've always cared about him. He's a wonderful teammate, the best I've ever had. I'm attracted to him. I wanted him. Hard. So much it hurt. He wanted me. Because he was drunk. But then because it was what he'd wanted all along. I still want him. Hard. Don't get too ahead of yourself, here.
This isn't just the way you feel about your teammates, your buddies, your best friends. This is the way you feel before you jump into water you know is cold, when all the warmth of your body concentrates deep within you, and you tense with realization that everything is about to get horribly different. You've made this commitment and it's not for fun or satisfaction or necessity or circumstance. You just can't fucking help yourself. You long to shock your system.
You're in love.
All of this realized, to myself, in bed, trying to find those trace amounts of his scent hidden in the folds of cotton. I felt my whole body tense up, a heat spreading to every corner of my body, and I curled in the smallest ball you can manage when you're as tall as I am--pressing my forehead into my knees. I didn't cry--crying's not something I do. But it was that feeling that precedes crying, that sudden loss of senses giving way to the warmth, your body trying to keep you warm as you shiver alone, in that cold water, blind to all that occurs around you. How was I going to fix this?
The next morning I tried to do everything by routine. I made toast and eggs for myself, drank a huge mug of nasty, black, cheap coffee, like I'd gotten addicted to in high school. I thought about calling him. Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn't, maybe I should forget. . .all that dicking around in my head, as usual. I could have just gone over, but I was terrified. I waited. I made my patient way around my apartment, straightening things, checking my calendar a million times, hoping that I had an appointment that day or something planned. I didn't. Every time I looked the fucking square was blank. Why wouldn't it just. . .throw me a bone here? Seriously.
The sun was heading down by the time I got my ass in the car and started heading toward his house. I had every word planned, knowing full well that by the time I started speaking to him it would devolve into something less articulate, less clear. But I hoped he would know. I hoped maybe I could say, "I love you," plainly and simply and it would be the happy ending to a film, where we kiss and make up and realize how painfully gay we are and everything is perfect for eternity.
Goddamn it.
I almost passed out at the first red light. I felt like I was on fire. But I just had to get it over with.
By the time I hit the backed up road construction traffic I was talking to myself. He didn't live far away but it seemed like it was taking years to get there.
When I finally found myself parked in front of his house, it was dark and I was totally fucking frozen. I didn't want to move, didn't want to go to the door, didn't want to say anything I had planned on saying. I sat in my car for a few minutes. I didn't stare at the house--I didn't want to be creepy. I played with my cell phone and organized my glove compartment. And I almost jumped out of my skin when there was a tap on the window of the locked passenger side door, and it was Evgeni standing there, out in the American summer night at 10PM. The thought suddenly struck me that this was a kid from an industrial town in Russia. We were worlds away, our job the only thing in common, his being here pure luck. Our knowing each other a huge coincidence. I unlocked the door and let him sit next to me, wondering which of us would speak first.
"I'm not stupid, you know," he said, before I could even manage to look him in the eyes. He had taken a minute to find the word "stupid" but he obviously wasn't fucking around.
"Of course I know you're not stupid," I said, having a war of epic proportions in my head about whether or not I should offer a reassuring hand on his shoulder, whether or not I should meet his eyes with tenderness, whether or not I should lean in and make myself closer and more immediate, whether or not I should crumble there and show him how sad I really was. I ended up awkwardly leaning in, my eyes looking a bit glossy, I'm sure, and sliding down in the driver's side seat. I bet I looked drunk or high or wracked with some chronic disease, more fit for a streetcorner than a late model SUV in a respectable part of town. I'm sure I'm exaggerating here. Maybe I hadn't shaved or something. But I felt like crap and I suddenly had nothing intelligible or meaningful to say.
"I know the difference between," he stopped here, for whatever reason. "Sex and love? You didn't have to try to. . .teach me a lesson? Tell me things?"
"I'm sorry for talking down to you, Evgeni, I really didn't mean it," I said, pleadingly, again ashamed under his gaze like some kind of little kid. He didn't say anything. I was suddenly reminded of myself as a teenager, of all boys as teenagers, in that invincible stage where every girl (or boy, for that matter) wants in your pants, you're the best player on the team, and your car beat your buddy's car in a 3AM street race. When you face rejection by the best-looking girl in school, when you find yourself out of position for each of your team's goals against one night, when you crash that car into the fucking river--those are the times when you figure out how mature you are. You find out how well you hold up when all the illusions are exposed. You looked stupid at prom with that senior bitch. You're a total loser. You're broke every Friday night. You rated a -4 last season.
I was absurdly juvenile. I had been talking and living out of my ass for years. I'm sure I'd hurt a ton of people, people whose names I probably didn't remember. I didn't care about them obviously. I'd done well for myself but I had yet to do right by a single other person. I could tell he kind of knew what kind of person I must be. He probably knew a lot of people like me, people who he'd labeled throughout his life. His selfish linemate or chickenshit drinking buddy. Who was I going to be?
"I love you," I said, looking at him totally straight for the first time. I didn't blink. I let the words come out softly. I wanted them to come out all velvety, smooth, rich, and unquestionable. Instead they came out cracked, a bit beat up around the edges. My voice was trying to escape my throat and it was hitting some serious walls. But I felt it was sufficiently honest. I felt I'd said what I meant to say how I'd meant to say it. I'd had my turn to speak.
"That's true?" he said, his accent almost making the words indistinguishable for me. I was trying to read the look on his face in the dark. I hoped he was doing that smirk he always does when he's flattered or surprised, or at least looking at me very levelly and not letting his emotions get the best of him--unless they were telling him to kiss me; I could get into that.
"Yes," I said, as if it were obvious, almost losing my composure and retreating into condescension like I always did. "It's truer than anything else I've said to you, that's for sure. Choose to believe it or not, but I'm sure of this. And you know why? Because no one else has ever made it as long as you have without bullshitting me. I should have shown you the same courtesy."
"Bullshit, that is a word for it, for what you did."
Render me stunned over here. "I'm sorry. When I was with you, though, that wasn't bullshit, man, that was as real as it gets. And I loved you for who you were. And how you made me feel."
"I understand," he said, almost flatly.
"What were you expecting when you came over that day?"
"Nothing, just a talk. Whether you wanted to, er, be with me? If you wanted to have sex again. If you really like me, if I really like you. . .it was complicated."
"But I thought it was so fucking simple, didn't I?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, looking out the window, across the street, at the lights on in his house. I could see his face now and I remembered how ridiculously soft he was when I'd touched him, kissed him, tackled him to the floor. . .
"I'm so sorry. I never should have made assumptions about you. You probably know more about what's going on than I do." I stammered a little over the words. It took me a long time to get them out. "You're so smart. And so honest. And I trust you completely," I said, this part coming more and more easily with each syllable.
"I have to admit," he said, his face screwed in concentration, "that when you are not. . .bullshitting. . .I can love you, too."
We looked at each other, and it seemed like by the time one of us managed to blink we were kissing, mutually, slowly, nothing touching but our mouths, his tongue seemingly developing an instinct for how I liked to be kissed. His hand came up then to the side of my face, his manner almost demure, embarrassed again, where he had moments ago been reigning his superior emotional awareness over me--he was still shy inside, not too shy to kiss me but too shy to take charge. For once in my life, I was the same way. I felt my face getting warm, relieved, the muscles relaxing to just enjoy this one kiss, because I'd always remember it. Nothing like the first time, or the second time, or even when we'd had sex--this time, I was who I wanted to be. There was depth to it. I smiled into it, ever so slightly, taking a slight, loose fistful of his hair and feeling the softness that was there, too. He touched where my stitches had been, with his hand that had been broken. Things were different now. This wasn't just because we were restless from not playing, not just because we were lonely.
Our weights shifted, trying to get closer to each other. I came up higher than he did, and I put my tongue deeper into his throat. He almost giggled into it. We were getting a little too carried away to be in the car.
"Inside?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, just breathing the word into my mouth, and we exited my car and ran across the street without looking to see if anything was coming. I've had to run from the cops once, in the middle of fucking August when I was about fifteen. It reminded me of that.
He was inside first, leaving the door open for me, a big wood-and-glass thing that was ridiculously thick, heavy, unwieldy, probably dangerous and probably expensive. As soon as I got beyond the doorway, he was slamming the door shut and then slamming me into it, falling into my arms familiarly as he finally let go of some of that shyness. His kiss was brutal, if I might use that word, blatant in what it was trying to accomplish. By just kissing me he managed to get every single one of my senses involved. I could smell his recently washed hair, taste the sweetness of his mouth, feel him close and pressed up against me as the slamming of that huge door echoed throughout his house, hurting my ears a little but not distracting me from him in the least.
"Where's your bedroom?" I asked him, breathing heavily, hating the fact that I had to break the kiss to speak.
"We can't go in bedroom. Fuck. There's no bed. I painted it today, all the furniture is against the wall in. . ." I couldn't resist. With his mouth open I had to kiss it, to grab his ass. "In the hallway upstairs. . .and there's paint everywhere. . ." he finished, gasping a little.
I looked past him, through the hallways of his house, into what must have been the dining room, its windows wide open to his backyard, bushes of flowers creeping in and the curtains blowing into the room.
"Come on," I said, kissing him gently just below his ear and biting at him there, too, before breaking us apart, a cold space left in front of me, and guiding him there. Evidently there wasn't much dining going on in the dining room. There was paperwork strewn all over the middle of the long table and its linen tablecloth. It was right underneath the chandelier, which was glass, turned off, rendered a leaden gray by the moonlight coming in. Since the papers were obviously in no particular order, I didn't feel bad at all when I backed him onto the table and pushed him further back, using one of my arms to sweep all of that stuff onto the floor before he got there. Crickets and dogs barking filtered into my ears from the open window.
We were still kissing. He didn't say anything about the mess I'd made of the room or how we were probably going to ruin the tablecloth or the table or how the windows were open. I just got him naked. First he kicked his shoes off, and I took care of his t-shirt and his shorts and his socks. He got me naked, too, pulling my shirt up over my head, undoing my belt and my jeans in a way that seemed way too expert, way too prepared. I kissed him again, reassured by the feeling him comfortably underneath me, his legs wrapped around me, and I was completely lost inside him, our movements completely in tandem. The breeze had stopped from outside and it was just sex, stationary in a room, swallowed by a warm vacuum and a haze of cursing and grunting.
We weren't close as this was going on. I was as upright as I could be, looking down at him, watching him make his noises of pleasure, surprise. I reached my hands down to touch him everywhere I could. I came down to kiss him near the end, both of us totally enveloped in that late summer heat, and I could have sworn we were senseless then, having melted into the tablecloth, our legs stretched outward, trying as we might to occupy the same space despite it being physically impossible. That was it. That is how you fuck someone you love.
He still had an erection, though, I noticed as we came back to Earth there for a second, and he deserved more than a blowjob but it was all I had to give. I took him in my mouth, made it part of my breathing and part of my being to please him. I teased, I paused to bite him at his hip bones, to run my fingernails down his sides and look up at him looking down at me. I licked the shaft, slowly, sparing no attention to detail before taking it fully in once more and eventually losing myself in the process all over again. He came in my mouth without saying anything, but I didn't mind--I was no stranger to this type of situation, after all. Blowing dudes, that is. I can't say that before I'd given my services to someone that I thought I might repeat the process with. Someone that I might come back to again and again because they didn't like or want the bullshitter--they wanted me. Somehow. I swallowed and wiped my mouth and came up to hold him. I wondered why.
We languished in our own sweat and the breeze that had just decided to put on an encore performance, making the glass parts of the chandelier glance against each other--lightly clicking, still catching the moonlight, creating a small kaleidoscope above us. "I know why I love you, Evgeni," I said, exhaling hard. "But why me? Why would you ever, ever think it a good idea to love me? To let me do all of this?"
"Anyone can tell when. . .when you care. And when you care, it's, it's beautiful."
I hoped that it had been that obvious all along. I knew it hadn't been. I knew there was a trail of disappointment all over that ended with me, shuffling my feet and claiming innocence. But that part of me was changing, that part of me was growing. Who knows why or how, but I think I know at least the person who is to blame, and he's probably too modest to confess. I am responsible for everything--all of the bad, all of the shitty things I did. And hopefully now some that will be good.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Boys get injured, boys get lonely, boys fall in love? Finally, right?
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 4 of 4
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
This chapter is looooooong. Pretty sure almost as long as the other three combined. I had a lot to get through. As always, thanks and hugs to jisforjane. This was probably my favorite story ever to write slash-wise. I hope everyone enjoyed it.
One
Two
Three
I knew he was back in town because a thousand people had told me so. Or so it seemed. Each time someone said his name it was amplified in my mind by hundreds of decibels, almost making me deaf, deaf to anything but those words, "Hey, Geno's back in Pittsburgh." Fuck me. How long do you think I could stay away?
Still, I was trying not to think about it, because it hurt. Obviously. It hurt to be the asshole that I was, the asshole who would put his own happiness aside for the sake of looking like a certain person to my friends or teammates, only to realize that my unhappiness would end up spoiling everything anyway.
How did I come away from that situation as the one who felt rejected? You'd think it would have been the other way around. I let the poor boy down and he wallows in his young loneliness while I, the professional that I am, freewheel around town doing whatever the hell I like, fulfilling my lifelong dream to be unattached and rich and wonderfully handsome with the heart of a goddamned champion. Of course, I feel bad about it, but realize in my epic virtuousness that it is ultimately for the best, that I'm older and smarter and grovel as he might we just can't--
I had just kicked myself in the balls, really. I'd shut myself down. He didn't even seem to want me all that much. He hadn't seemed sorry to go. There hadn't been a regretful glance, a look of sorrow, or even a distinct look of longing like I'm sure had been evident on my own face, grimacing like a fucking retard trying to make him understand what I felt. I did it to myself. It was almost funny. And I laughed to myself about it in such a deplorably self-deprecating way, alone in bed with the sheets I'd never brought myself to wash, every single night. I'm laughing at you, Brooksie, I would think. You dumb fuck.
I thought about the potentiality that if I called him he wouldn't answer. I thought about the potentiality that if I went straight over to his house and started showing him how much I cared he would turn me out and not give a shit. I thought about the potentiality that if I let myself care it would make calling him or carting myself over to his house options impossible to ignore.
Okay. Let's take this slowly. I like him. I care about him. I've always cared about him. He's a wonderful teammate, the best I've ever had. I'm attracted to him. I wanted him. Hard. So much it hurt. He wanted me. Because he was drunk. But then because it was what he'd wanted all along. I still want him. Hard. Don't get too ahead of yourself, here.
This isn't just the way you feel about your teammates, your buddies, your best friends. This is the way you feel before you jump into water you know is cold, when all the warmth of your body concentrates deep within you, and you tense with realization that everything is about to get horribly different. You've made this commitment and it's not for fun or satisfaction or necessity or circumstance. You just can't fucking help yourself. You long to shock your system.
You're in love.
All of this realized, to myself, in bed, trying to find those trace amounts of his scent hidden in the folds of cotton. I felt my whole body tense up, a heat spreading to every corner of my body, and I curled in the smallest ball you can manage when you're as tall as I am--pressing my forehead into my knees. I didn't cry--crying's not something I do. But it was that feeling that precedes crying, that sudden loss of senses giving way to the warmth, your body trying to keep you warm as you shiver alone, in that cold water, blind to all that occurs around you. How was I going to fix this?
The next morning I tried to do everything by routine. I made toast and eggs for myself, drank a huge mug of nasty, black, cheap coffee, like I'd gotten addicted to in high school. I thought about calling him. Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn't, maybe I should forget. . .all that dicking around in my head, as usual. I could have just gone over, but I was terrified. I waited. I made my patient way around my apartment, straightening things, checking my calendar a million times, hoping that I had an appointment that day or something planned. I didn't. Every time I looked the fucking square was blank. Why wouldn't it just. . .throw me a bone here? Seriously.
The sun was heading down by the time I got my ass in the car and started heading toward his house. I had every word planned, knowing full well that by the time I started speaking to him it would devolve into something less articulate, less clear. But I hoped he would know. I hoped maybe I could say, "I love you," plainly and simply and it would be the happy ending to a film, where we kiss and make up and realize how painfully gay we are and everything is perfect for eternity.
Goddamn it.
I almost passed out at the first red light. I felt like I was on fire. But I just had to get it over with.
By the time I hit the backed up road construction traffic I was talking to myself. He didn't live far away but it seemed like it was taking years to get there.
When I finally found myself parked in front of his house, it was dark and I was totally fucking frozen. I didn't want to move, didn't want to go to the door, didn't want to say anything I had planned on saying. I sat in my car for a few minutes. I didn't stare at the house--I didn't want to be creepy. I played with my cell phone and organized my glove compartment. And I almost jumped out of my skin when there was a tap on the window of the locked passenger side door, and it was Evgeni standing there, out in the American summer night at 10PM. The thought suddenly struck me that this was a kid from an industrial town in Russia. We were worlds away, our job the only thing in common, his being here pure luck. Our knowing each other a huge coincidence. I unlocked the door and let him sit next to me, wondering which of us would speak first.
"I'm not stupid, you know," he said, before I could even manage to look him in the eyes. He had taken a minute to find the word "stupid" but he obviously wasn't fucking around.
"Of course I know you're not stupid," I said, having a war of epic proportions in my head about whether or not I should offer a reassuring hand on his shoulder, whether or not I should meet his eyes with tenderness, whether or not I should lean in and make myself closer and more immediate, whether or not I should crumble there and show him how sad I really was. I ended up awkwardly leaning in, my eyes looking a bit glossy, I'm sure, and sliding down in the driver's side seat. I bet I looked drunk or high or wracked with some chronic disease, more fit for a streetcorner than a late model SUV in a respectable part of town. I'm sure I'm exaggerating here. Maybe I hadn't shaved or something. But I felt like crap and I suddenly had nothing intelligible or meaningful to say.
"I know the difference between," he stopped here, for whatever reason. "Sex and love? You didn't have to try to. . .teach me a lesson? Tell me things?"
"I'm sorry for talking down to you, Evgeni, I really didn't mean it," I said, pleadingly, again ashamed under his gaze like some kind of little kid. He didn't say anything. I was suddenly reminded of myself as a teenager, of all boys as teenagers, in that invincible stage where every girl (or boy, for that matter) wants in your pants, you're the best player on the team, and your car beat your buddy's car in a 3AM street race. When you face rejection by the best-looking girl in school, when you find yourself out of position for each of your team's goals against one night, when you crash that car into the fucking river--those are the times when you figure out how mature you are. You find out how well you hold up when all the illusions are exposed. You looked stupid at prom with that senior bitch. You're a total loser. You're broke every Friday night. You rated a -4 last season.
I was absurdly juvenile. I had been talking and living out of my ass for years. I'm sure I'd hurt a ton of people, people whose names I probably didn't remember. I didn't care about them obviously. I'd done well for myself but I had yet to do right by a single other person. I could tell he kind of knew what kind of person I must be. He probably knew a lot of people like me, people who he'd labeled throughout his life. His selfish linemate or chickenshit drinking buddy. Who was I going to be?
"I love you," I said, looking at him totally straight for the first time. I didn't blink. I let the words come out softly. I wanted them to come out all velvety, smooth, rich, and unquestionable. Instead they came out cracked, a bit beat up around the edges. My voice was trying to escape my throat and it was hitting some serious walls. But I felt it was sufficiently honest. I felt I'd said what I meant to say how I'd meant to say it. I'd had my turn to speak.
"That's true?" he said, his accent almost making the words indistinguishable for me. I was trying to read the look on his face in the dark. I hoped he was doing that smirk he always does when he's flattered or surprised, or at least looking at me very levelly and not letting his emotions get the best of him--unless they were telling him to kiss me; I could get into that.
"Yes," I said, as if it were obvious, almost losing my composure and retreating into condescension like I always did. "It's truer than anything else I've said to you, that's for sure. Choose to believe it or not, but I'm sure of this. And you know why? Because no one else has ever made it as long as you have without bullshitting me. I should have shown you the same courtesy."
"Bullshit, that is a word for it, for what you did."
Render me stunned over here. "I'm sorry. When I was with you, though, that wasn't bullshit, man, that was as real as it gets. And I loved you for who you were. And how you made me feel."
"I understand," he said, almost flatly.
"What were you expecting when you came over that day?"
"Nothing, just a talk. Whether you wanted to, er, be with me? If you wanted to have sex again. If you really like me, if I really like you. . .it was complicated."
"But I thought it was so fucking simple, didn't I?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, looking out the window, across the street, at the lights on in his house. I could see his face now and I remembered how ridiculously soft he was when I'd touched him, kissed him, tackled him to the floor. . .
"I'm so sorry. I never should have made assumptions about you. You probably know more about what's going on than I do." I stammered a little over the words. It took me a long time to get them out. "You're so smart. And so honest. And I trust you completely," I said, this part coming more and more easily with each syllable.
"I have to admit," he said, his face screwed in concentration, "that when you are not. . .bullshitting. . .I can love you, too."
We looked at each other, and it seemed like by the time one of us managed to blink we were kissing, mutually, slowly, nothing touching but our mouths, his tongue seemingly developing an instinct for how I liked to be kissed. His hand came up then to the side of my face, his manner almost demure, embarrassed again, where he had moments ago been reigning his superior emotional awareness over me--he was still shy inside, not too shy to kiss me but too shy to take charge. For once in my life, I was the same way. I felt my face getting warm, relieved, the muscles relaxing to just enjoy this one kiss, because I'd always remember it. Nothing like the first time, or the second time, or even when we'd had sex--this time, I was who I wanted to be. There was depth to it. I smiled into it, ever so slightly, taking a slight, loose fistful of his hair and feeling the softness that was there, too. He touched where my stitches had been, with his hand that had been broken. Things were different now. This wasn't just because we were restless from not playing, not just because we were lonely.
Our weights shifted, trying to get closer to each other. I came up higher than he did, and I put my tongue deeper into his throat. He almost giggled into it. We were getting a little too carried away to be in the car.
"Inside?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, just breathing the word into my mouth, and we exited my car and ran across the street without looking to see if anything was coming. I've had to run from the cops once, in the middle of fucking August when I was about fifteen. It reminded me of that.
He was inside first, leaving the door open for me, a big wood-and-glass thing that was ridiculously thick, heavy, unwieldy, probably dangerous and probably expensive. As soon as I got beyond the doorway, he was slamming the door shut and then slamming me into it, falling into my arms familiarly as he finally let go of some of that shyness. His kiss was brutal, if I might use that word, blatant in what it was trying to accomplish. By just kissing me he managed to get every single one of my senses involved. I could smell his recently washed hair, taste the sweetness of his mouth, feel him close and pressed up against me as the slamming of that huge door echoed throughout his house, hurting my ears a little but not distracting me from him in the least.
"Where's your bedroom?" I asked him, breathing heavily, hating the fact that I had to break the kiss to speak.
"We can't go in bedroom. Fuck. There's no bed. I painted it today, all the furniture is against the wall in. . ." I couldn't resist. With his mouth open I had to kiss it, to grab his ass. "In the hallway upstairs. . .and there's paint everywhere. . ." he finished, gasping a little.
I looked past him, through the hallways of his house, into what must have been the dining room, its windows wide open to his backyard, bushes of flowers creeping in and the curtains blowing into the room.
"Come on," I said, kissing him gently just below his ear and biting at him there, too, before breaking us apart, a cold space left in front of me, and guiding him there. Evidently there wasn't much dining going on in the dining room. There was paperwork strewn all over the middle of the long table and its linen tablecloth. It was right underneath the chandelier, which was glass, turned off, rendered a leaden gray by the moonlight coming in. Since the papers were obviously in no particular order, I didn't feel bad at all when I backed him onto the table and pushed him further back, using one of my arms to sweep all of that stuff onto the floor before he got there. Crickets and dogs barking filtered into my ears from the open window.
We were still kissing. He didn't say anything about the mess I'd made of the room or how we were probably going to ruin the tablecloth or the table or how the windows were open. I just got him naked. First he kicked his shoes off, and I took care of his t-shirt and his shorts and his socks. He got me naked, too, pulling my shirt up over my head, undoing my belt and my jeans in a way that seemed way too expert, way too prepared. I kissed him again, reassured by the feeling him comfortably underneath me, his legs wrapped around me, and I was completely lost inside him, our movements completely in tandem. The breeze had stopped from outside and it was just sex, stationary in a room, swallowed by a warm vacuum and a haze of cursing and grunting.
We weren't close as this was going on. I was as upright as I could be, looking down at him, watching him make his noises of pleasure, surprise. I reached my hands down to touch him everywhere I could. I came down to kiss him near the end, both of us totally enveloped in that late summer heat, and I could have sworn we were senseless then, having melted into the tablecloth, our legs stretched outward, trying as we might to occupy the same space despite it being physically impossible. That was it. That is how you fuck someone you love.
He still had an erection, though, I noticed as we came back to Earth there for a second, and he deserved more than a blowjob but it was all I had to give. I took him in my mouth, made it part of my breathing and part of my being to please him. I teased, I paused to bite him at his hip bones, to run my fingernails down his sides and look up at him looking down at me. I licked the shaft, slowly, sparing no attention to detail before taking it fully in once more and eventually losing myself in the process all over again. He came in my mouth without saying anything, but I didn't mind--I was no stranger to this type of situation, after all. Blowing dudes, that is. I can't say that before I'd given my services to someone that I thought I might repeat the process with. Someone that I might come back to again and again because they didn't like or want the bullshitter--they wanted me. Somehow. I swallowed and wiped my mouth and came up to hold him. I wondered why.
We languished in our own sweat and the breeze that had just decided to put on an encore performance, making the glass parts of the chandelier glance against each other--lightly clicking, still catching the moonlight, creating a small kaleidoscope above us. "I know why I love you, Evgeni," I said, exhaling hard. "But why me? Why would you ever, ever think it a good idea to love me? To let me do all of this?"
"Anyone can tell when. . .when you care. And when you care, it's, it's beautiful."
I hoped that it had been that obvious all along. I knew it hadn't been. I knew there was a trail of disappointment all over that ended with me, shuffling my feet and claiming innocence. But that part of me was changing, that part of me was growing. Who knows why or how, but I think I know at least the person who is to blame, and he's probably too modest to confess. I am responsible for everything--all of the bad, all of the shitty things I did. And hopefully now some that will be good.