Minority of One
Title: Minority of One
Author: Mia
Rating: NC-17. Very much so ;)
Pairing: Jack and Ennis, set in the modern day
Summary: The boys both live in London- Ennis is a reticent university student and Jack is a successful, debonair stranger who just happens to be at the other end of the bar one long, lonely night ;) Eyes meet and sparks fly.
Warnings: Older/younger theme- Ennis is 18 and Jack is 30. Not too scandalous but feel free to skip if that’s not your thing =)
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these boys, but I love them and I can’t stop writing about them
Feedback: Oh yes. You know it.
Author’s Notes: Hi guys =) Seeing as I’m so wrapped up in IPOH-land, I was very surprised to get the inspiration for anything else- but here I am, going back to my roots with a slashy one-shot ;) This story is kind of an exploration of modern day homophobia, though not in a conventional way, and there’s no violence. Expect sex (explicit; lots), angst (plenty, you know I can’t help myself) and a happy ending (always.)
Just a note for those of you who are reading IPOH: I will of course get back to my boys as soon as possible, but it will probably take me until next weekend to update. I’m so sorry! In the meantime, hopefully London!J&E will be a worthy substitute ;) I hope you enjoy it!
“I’ve been roaming around/ Always looking down at all I see/ Painted faces fill the places I can’t reach/ You know that I could use somebody/You know that I could use somebody/ Someone like you.”
Kings of Leon- Use Somebody
Minority of One.
Alcohol, spilt on the surface of the bar, glistens like oil, and glass bottles half obscure a mirror laying against the back wall. What Ennis can see in the gaps- if he chooses to look up- is his own reflection, familiar, shimmering eyes, shoulders set in a hard line that says Don’t touch, and he means it. It’s been three hours, maybe less, maybe two; there were still dark silhouettes cascading up into the streets from the underground, not all that long ago. The clock above the glass bottles, a relic from another age with its peculiar elegance, has stopped on midnight, so Ennis isn’t sure of the time, and none of that matters anyway. He will stay here until dawn breaks if that’s what’s needed to prove something, to himself, for himself, a little message to the world. Posted in a bottle, out to sea if he wishes. In the meanwhile, he’s thinking of all the places he could be right now instead of here, the ideas ticking in a slow arc across his mind, and perhaps this experiment just might have been a bad call on his part, to come here, to be a part of the furniture. Well.
It was easy to feel ready with the lure of redemption pushed up against his back, moving in like the men around him, and now- But this is where Ennis always goes wrong, too much thinking, all the possibilities, limitless, uncurling beneath him. Just stop. Wait it out. He’s made it this far and nothing; the crowds are thinning out to mist, and crushed flowers of cocktail umbrellas drop to the floor. Ennis is going to step on one of those umbrellas when he heads for the door- alone- and listen to its tiny wooden spine shatter, the backbone of this unknown world broken away from him. He decided that a long time ago, to make the medicine a little less bitter to swallow, he thought. The phrase, in all its connotations, feels loaded, like a gun with the safety off; it might lose control at any moment.
If Ennis can leave unnoticed, then he can put this idea, this whimsical prospect that he might not be- normal - to bed, lay it down slowly and kick it beneath a wave of evidence to the contrary. Every man- there are no women- who leaves without so much as glancing at him is a personal victory, a vote of confidence. They don’t see it in him. They should be the ones to know. Somewhere in the midst of trying not to consider the chances, Ennis has wondered what might happen if all this innocuous time is just a fluke, what might happen if he doesn’t get to leave here unnoticed in the end. The idea makes him feel weird, he can’t see it in his mind’s eye; it’s so far removed and flickering, the image grainy, as if from an old black and white movie. A man’s touch on his arm, his face, how would that feel? Wrong, somehow, crossing a boundary that’s there for a reason. Trespassing on property meant for someone else. The man Ennis wants to be doesn’t belong in this place, but the answer to the question he’s afraid of asking is parcelled away inside these four walls, and he’s going to find it. One way or the other.
*
Suddenly, dreadfully, it’s over, and there are no thoughts left to grant him a small piece of cold comfort. Ennis is here to find invisibility, but now it’s too late, in this moment; one was all it took, a single second to drive every snippet of his blossoming relief away and scatter it to the four winds. Like wishing on the feathery seeds of a dandelion as they blow away; I wish, I wish, but nothing is enough now. It can’t be changed. There’s a man at the other end of the bar. Watching.
*
The first glance could have been explained away, simple curiosity; there’s no one else to look at now, they’re alone after all. A sidelong flutter that seemed to be all eyelashes coming from Ennis’ right, but the second look is more distinctive; it sticks, brands like fire. He stares down into the glass tumbler in his hands, which are shaking, and watches the amber liquid mimicking him, trembling with slight ripples, with fear or anger. Something like that. He wants to go, get up and walk away with leaden stomach and bowed head, but there’s no escape from the jaws of this perplexing monster and he doesn’t move, not an inch. The well-known feeling of being trapped is upon him again, seems like no matter how fast he runs, Ennis never quite gets far enough away. He’s done with it, worn through to the bone. This man, this unwelcome intruder on his security, is hateful, Ennis despises him for seeing, for smelling it on him, finding his molten core with a single enduring look; he’d like to hit him, to bite him. He thinks of the word snap, like the forgotten flowers on the floor that he will not get to break, not now, but it barely helps to ease off the ache. This man knows. All these years of wrapping it tight and close to his body, no entry, marking it off, police line do not cross, and still, still someone made it through. A minority of one.
Ennis won’t look at him.
*
He’s not sure why he came here tonight, an old haunt, from the days when it was a regular thing, the drinks and the men and the come-to-bed eyes. For the past few years he’s walked past this place more times than he can count without sparing it so much as a second glance, the palimpsest of stale memories etched out of his thoughts. He was younger then, naïve, but he’s been over that phase, come through the other side fully grown and it’s not the way he works, not any more. Jack has a good job and the home he always wanted and his money is as green as anyone else’s; he doesn’t feel like he needs to settle for all the half-hopes and empty promises, which he did. Before. The aftertaste was always bitter; he wasn’t good at it, never could quite detach the morning after, hated the slim silences swelling to fill the bedroom from floor to ceiling until he thought he might be pushed, unwilling, from his perch on the tangled sheets to fall out the door, still naked. The men were always the same underneath. There was only the light thrill of flirtation and a dull flush of physical pleasure, but too much pain to balance the scales out even, and Jack likes to think that he walked away whilst he still could, whilst the alternatives still presented themselves clearly.
Yet somehow it made sense to walk through the faintly familiar arched doorway, duck along the low-ceilinged hallway and step into all the memories once more. Jack is questioning why; or rather, he was, until…He glances again, can’t quite help himself, it’s so compulsive, that feeling of want. It’s been several months too many to remember how to command it, lead instead of follow, lingering desire in his bloodstream like alcohol, but heavy with warmth. Such a long time since someone caught his eye like this and the sensation comes as a shock, like the dip of a finger running along his spine, and Christ, yes, that man is the stuff of fantasies. Jack knows he is aware of him, can tell by the way that lean body is straightening up, no intention but it happens anyway, and Jack’s seen it before on less beautiful men, a hundred times. Never took in the full meaning of it, such a subtle invitation, but seeing it on this one might just be the most prepossessing image that he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s young, in the low light he looks as though he’s heading for his mid twenties at best, but that’s okay, just. He’s new at this, Jack can tell by the way he doesn’t take the cues, doesn’t look up and meet Jack’s smouldering gaze with his own, doesn’t saunter over and offer a drink, and he’s glad. Reassured, almost. Jack needs time, to dive back into this world where anything is possible for a few hours at least; he needs to slip into it again like an ill-fitting silk glove, too tight to keep on but too seductive to take off.
Right now he feels absent, and with unseeing eyes he dips the index finger of one hand into his drink, lets the icy surprise of it hit his system as he runs the moisture around the shivering rim of his glass. Feels the tension thrum down into each tight molecule and reverberate back out, slow and easy, all in a rush, the blood sings beneath his skin. The glass, or his touch, makes that yearning sound that is somehow slightly impolite, an admission of something private, the sound that’s like both floating and drowning, like a twig cracking in a silent forest, like electricity snapping off bare skin and speaking in rhythm to another flesh. Just like that, a gaze rises and comes to him, waits for the next move, which Jack will make, soon.
*
It goes like this for several minutes, with the barmen’s eyes carefully averted from what is so obviously playing out in front of them. Jack knows he has a while before closing time; it’s only emptied out so fast tonight because it’s a Tuesday, the responsibilities of the working week and all. The brand of men who come here will have board meetings tomorrow, a series of letters after their names on professional documents, degrees, fresh new doctorates, and in the case of a few, pretty young wives to get home to who know well enough to keep their mouths shut. Even the stock of sex comes up short against that of making money, at least until Friday night. Jack knows the type from a mile away and how to avoid them; but he’s taken aback, a little amused maybe; you can smell the dark gloss of money here, and he never fancied this place for an old boy’s club. Not that it’s quite the conventional type, but, well. Close enough. Perhaps he’s got no right to cast a cynic’s eye on proceedings anyway; it’s not like he’s all that different, at least not financially; an office job though, the thought makes him slightly dizzy, glad he got out of that trap fast, escaped. Though he’s here, isn’t he? The rich boy’s playground, and he knows where the rest will be, somewhere crowded, hot, none of the stupid euphemisms where Gentleman’s Bar is used to blunt the soft blow of Gay Club, and the cocktails make faint allusions to sex, on the beach or otherwise. Jack sighs, feels like a snob, but how was he to know it would be like this? Besides, that scene was never his, not even way back when; this is as close as it gets to something Jack feels comfortable with, and still, it’s lacking.
The object of his affections is nowhere near comfortable, but he hasn’t left. Jack knows he would have by now, if he really wanted to say no, if he really had conviction over it. It’s thrilling, somehow, all the little things that he can figure out from the actions that are not made, rather than the ones that are. Talk about reverse psychology. There’s a soundless communication between them, travelling through the open space on waves of whisky-sweet air: neither one is going to be the first to leave, and Jack’s not intending to leave without company. He likes this other guy, in more ways than one, not that he has much to go on, but it’s nice, how he doesn’t fit, with the skinny jeans and the slumped shoulders; it’s not giving out the prerequisite attitude for this bar, and Jack is left wondering if his silent friend just stumbled in here unawares. He looks- what’s the word? - Sweet. Yes, or at least he would be if he’d let the threadbare façade of nonchalance fall. Jack wants to hug him and tell him it’s okay, though he knows it won’t be believed, but he gets that. It’s not always easy. Some nights, you just feel like going home.
Jack smiles. Gotcha.
*
Ennis is about to give up, in as much as he’s willing to admit that he was waiting in the first place. He’s thinking of what might have been, and of what will be, of all the things that have happened tonight and all the things that won’t. They feel like hollow thoughts, like mist in his mind, not from the alcohol because he’s scarcely had any and maybe he should have more, have enough to stop the threat of feeling disappointed when the other man walks away from him. Enough to stop himself thinking about the what ifs, which are circling like vultures, just waiting for him to hit the floor. He won’t be getting any sleep tonight, but not for the reasons he was beginning to contemplate. It’s probably better this way. A neater cut; less messy. If he makes being gay sound like a wound that just has to be stitched up, it stops being so much of a danger, becomes a sterilised toxin. Snip with the scissors and let it fade to a scar, just barely. Faint silver.
A tiny white bird, ivory, flutters down past his shoulder and lands on the edge of his glass, teeters there precariously as though unsure of which way to go; stained with amber by his alcohol, or tarred with the sticky residue on the bar. Ennis plucks it up gently between his fingers; it’s not a bird, no, that was just a thought, some sort of poetic ideal flowering in his head. It’s paper, folded, that’s all, but it takes a moment to open it out, smooth it on the cold surface under his hands and read it, he’s slow with nerves and the words register but don’t sink in, it’s not happening, it can’t be. Ennis skims the words again, again; it’s like being taught to read when he was a little boy and sounding out every painstaking syllable, to try and understand it, to try and put the sentence into context, Mary and Alex are playing football and Jane has a blue dress but this doesn’t fit in the same book, it could be another language, he wishes it were but the meaning falls with a devastating pang to the pit of his stomach, at last.
Come home with me.
It’s unembellished, so bold, Ennis has never been like that with a girl before, but perhaps this is how it goes between men? He’s walking blind. Clueless. The writing can only be described as pretty, it loops and swirls like something out of an eighteenth century diary, it would be better if it were hard to make out, if he could contort the words to pretend they said something else, something that lacks in all the connotations. It’s all too clear, he needs some ambiguity. He’s reeling, drunk with uncertainty, he’s glad he barely took in any alcohol after all, and suddenly there’s a hand on the bar beside him and he doesn’t look up. Ennis is so afraid of what he’ll see in that face, emotions that are mirrored in his own, lust. Beauty. That’s what frightens him most, the vague, pounding thought of seeing everything that he’s ever wanted to. Eyes that can read him when he wants to be a closed book; hands that pick apart feelings that aren’t meant to be for sale.
He knows Jack, then, not by name and face, but by his hands, at first, and the few stolen glances that he took when he felt sure he wouldn’t be seen. Ennis commits Jack’s hands to memory, long fingers and the strength of them, the tendons and close-cut nails; how would they feel running down the skin of his back? He wishes he didn’t want to know, wishes there was a wire he could cut or re-circuit in his brain, to make it stop, to wash it away, but the thoughts flow freely in the face of this new provocation, like dirty water. Ennis shakes his head very softly, negative in answer to the question, not tonight, not ever, but it’s too soft, he can’t bring himself to host certainty and Jack doesn’t even see. Lips, soft, brush over his ear, and Ennis can barely hold back the low moan that catches in the back of his throat like a cobweb, the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck ghosting up, up against his skin.
“Does this mean yes?”
Ennis tries to breathe, stares at his glass in his hand and realises it’s trembling again; this man can see that, can see his fear, his hesitation, he feels ripped open like meat. The air is so heavy with expectation and the sound of Jack’s voice laces around his spine and burns all the way to the base of it, like a candle lit low, flame fluttering by the wick. It’s the accent that lures him in the end, the kind of London accent that makes him smile, cut glass, so well heeled, and Ennis knows that this torturing angel must be older by a long way; it drenches him with a sort of exquisite fear. Ennis had been so excited to study in London, not his London with the orderly suburbs and quiet streets, but the buzzing mess of it, the lights and sparkle and the smell of success everywhere; the real London, the sprawling city that this man belongs to. Just being near Jack gives Ennis a buzz, with the light fragrance of his cologne flooding through his senses until he can taste it on the back of his tongue and feel the moisture of it against his fingers. Limes, and something else that he can’t figure out.
He’s nodding without really knowing it, like saying something in another language. His mind follows later; he’s standing up, guided by the easy stride in front of him, falling into line although it doesn’t feel that way deep inside. It’s like being in freefall but too light to care, falling to the ground fast but landing as softly as a petal. Ennis’ stomach clenches.
*
The warm air outside hits him like a punch and invades every pore of his skin. Summer moonlight sifts down, swirling like snow, and is this the same street he walked down earlier? It ought to have changed, reconfigured to suit these new events, but the same knotted tree drifts cherry blossom over his and Jack’s heads like wedding confetti as they pass beneath it, and the statuesque stone white buildings line the street like dominoes, as they did before. Tip one over and they all go. It smells like honeysuckle out here, and this is bad; he wishes Jack would take him down to the grit and grime of the tube station, lead him somewhere sleazy in the cramped confines of the train carriage, to a house that belongs in the city’s underbelly. It would be easy, easier than this, Jack turning to his left, walking a couple of strides ahead and taking him down a street, one he passes often, with friends, alone. He recognises it, and the realisation of this is momentous and yet simultaneously obvious. He should have known.
Ennis wants to say something, to tell Jack that he’s been here before, that this street is his too, after a fashion: though it doesn’t matter, though it changes nothing, he would like to claim the familiarity for himself, because he has very little else in this moment. It unnerves him in a way he hasn’t experienced before; youth is ignorant of such things, and so what does that make this? Coming of age. This- labelling it, putting it in a category- makes it more bearable, if he can just get the lid to stay down on it after tonight. Like Pandora’s box, sealed and secreted, but that’s not as bad as the alternative; from this perspective, it looks like an unpleasant thing, a necessary thing, like life insurance. Damage control.
He wonders if he and Jack ever passed in the street, one morning, their exhaled breaths condensing into fine fog with the cold, mingling together like a kiss, unseen. It’s so strange, for it to have ended up like this, and he wishes that it had all sprung into life back at the bar, but he sees now, he was fooled, it started so long ago; it started when the supple leather of his bag brushed against the sleek chrome of Jack’s car parked outside the house, it started with the peach flush of Jack’s lamp guiding him along this street late at night, when all the other lights were blind eyes, black. The beginning and end of their relationship, whatever the nature of it may be, spirals out in both directions; escaping into the future, sneaking up on him from the past.
Ennis considers saying something, something stupid that doesn’t belong here, something about “so near and yet so far”. A phrase that could be from a romance novel. He thinks that would probably be a bad idea, though, so he stays quiet in the end. Silence could be his best defence, after all, but he starts to slip when Jack reaches past Ennis- hunched by the door- to unlock it, and of its own accord, his hand reaches out, for a moment. For touch, which he is not supposed to want. The tip of his little finger grazes the inside of one pale wrist, where it’s most sensitive; he knows because he feels the skin shiver, like it does when a chill of fear goes through you, but different because Jack isn’t afraid; it’s a nameless thing, curious, and he draws himself away. Each breath feels like a bubble, bursting in his lungs, he’s surprised how much it hurts.
“No.” Gentle in his ear, the warmth of Jack’s thigh pressed against his own and he shifts; he can feel the strength there, the power. His jeans are tighter, and Ennis is ashamed of being so easy, though that’s the word they use for girls; well, someone has to take on the role, he supposes. “I want you to touch me.”
The contact of Jack’s skin with his own makes Ennis flinch against the clumsy pleasure solidifying in his blood, a newborn emotion taking its first steps. Jack takes his hand and puts it back on his wrist, precisely, and there’s something to his touch; Ennis would like to know what he does for a living- he uses his hands, he’s sure- but it’s too mundane a question, it must be, although he doesn’t know the protocol for a situation like this. His hand is moving without command: a pilgrim on fresh soil, it travels over the pale tan of flesh, slips against the dark hair lining Jack’s forearm lightly, feasts itself on the thick base of muscle that lies beneath, and he feels a crazy urge to do everything that will come next, from this one touch, out in the moon’s clouded lemonade light. They could have cherry blossom for a bed.
*
Jack leads him into the house by his hand; he’s getting used to the feel of it against his skin, but Ennis is still afraid to look at him, although what is there to lose now? He lost this game a long time ago, when he stood up in the bar, when he held Jack’s message in his hand, when he ordered a drink and sat down, the day he was born, infinite eternities into the past. His parents did something wrong, or else it’s genetics, some codified piece of internal make-up that means he can’t look at girls the way he’s looking at Jack right now, wide eyes to drink it all in. Ennis has never stood this close to another man before, except maybe when he plays sport, but the comparison is so lacking in weight that it almost makes him want to laugh and he’s distracted anyway; it’s worse than he thought, he feels it more than he’d even anticipated. Looking at Jack’s face makes his synapses snap with lust; it bolts down his back lightning fast, pools in his stomach and glowers fiercely, diving lower and lower still until he’s so achingly hard that his hands feel numb with the loss of blood and yet, every nerve and sinew still reacts, synthesised to liquid when Jack reaches up and tugs his beanie hat off. Ennis sways with the touch; puppet-boy, and there’s no doubt who’s pulling his strings right now. His hair tumbles down and he feels too aware of it, golden curls scattering down in tandem with the lurch of his stomach and Jack, gentle, calm before the storm, sweeps them out of his vision with the pads of his fingers, steps back slowly, measured, once and then once more. Ennis feels the rhythm of Jack’s breathing running over his skin, and he recalls this feeling from the dark shadows of the bar, the sensation of being observed, though the man opposite him is making no effort to conceal the fact now. He thought he knew intimacy, but it seems like he still has a lot left to learn.
The quiet has started to rub abrasions onto the bare skin of his hands by the time that it’s finally broken. Standing in the understated luxury of the living room, everything is painted with summery darkness, the kind that drains to a sugary pink ember before dawn even breaks, and Ennis struggles to figure out what this older man could possibly see in him; why he would be drawn to so little when he clearly has so much. The mirror behind Jack’s head reflects a soft ghost, shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath, skin magnolia white against the backdrop of shadows, almost translucent, and he thinks suddenly of the mirror behind the bar. Before. He doesn’t look any different, like how he expected to.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jack murmurs breathlessly, stepping forward until their chests are almost touching. It’s a scarce percentage of what he’d like to say, but Ennis stares at him disbelievingly, looking for a moment as though he might leave, and Jack knows that even if he does, even if he’s left standing here like a fool with his heart in his mouth, he’ll never regret telling the truth. There is nothing tailored about Ennis, and so there is also nothing blemished about him; he stands coltishly, awkwardly graceful, and Jack doubts that anyone has ever told him he’s beautiful before. Wonders if the revelation of it is what’s simmering behind those expressive eyes that flash every so often, backlit with a flicker of smouldering heat, but he’s wrong, that’s not it at all; Ennis is afraid, startled by his reaction to the compliment, by the desire to approximate the same response from the wellspring of feelings that have bloomed, unbidden, in his chest. He wonders if it feels the same way for girls when a man makes their pulse race.
Though it blots him with shame, he leans forward and kisses Jack on the cheek, to thank him. The words won’t come, and Ennis feels stained, like the surface of the bar, like paper soaked through with ink. Thin and easy to tear. Stubble rasps slightly against the tender skin of his mouth and he can feel the warmth of their bodies beginning to bleed together, and he doesn’t dislike it, feels the shame and conflict starting to drain slowly, which is wrong, so wrong, and maybe that’s why it’s beginning to feel like the opposite. He needs to hold onto it, his regret, hold onto himself like the string of a kite threatening to drift out of reach lest he gets lost inside this tarred trap of lust and never finds himself again, the scattered remains of his former self fossilised beneath the mud of his own treachery. Nothing can adequately prepare him for the feeling of a gentle hand settling on his hip, fingers slipping up across skin so soft it feels damp, almost, tracing the arch of one hipbone and he’s slipping, wishes he were strong enough to walk away but he’s not. This is the weakest he’s ever been, and yet in the slight space between his and Jack’s lips, just before there is nothing, just before they kiss, there is starlight. For a second, fractional, he thinks of pulling back, hears that tenderly persistent voice responding, whispering in his ear, Not without kissing, and sees the way that he melts, hears the soft slide as their mouths come together. This man, this stranger, has won, will always win, and because of this, because there’s no way to score back all the points that he has lost, he lets their lips touch. Lets Jack groan quietly, lets him map the contours of Ennis’ lips with the delicate tip of one finger.
They’re on the sofa, somehow, even the idea of not knowing how sounds ridiculous but he doesn’t, doesn’t know if he walked or was pulled and he’s so hot, no use fooling himself that it’s the heat outside because it’s all in him, the dam bursting and showering him with sparks, he’s too ready for this, the deep pressure of a man’s body on top of his own. Ennis feels ripe, overripe, like fruit about to burst and split open with the weight of its own juices, syrupy and sugared; he’s kissing back helplessly, the heat of Jack’s hand still branded on his hip even as it moves up into his hair, their bodies clinging to one another as though they’ve been apart, as though this is a reunion and it is, it feels that way, it feels like the end of a long, tiring journey to find something that Ennis was afraid to know he was looking for. He wants it to be less, he wants to reduce it down to a fuck, wants it to be cheap, but Jack kisses him as though they are both worth something and that scares him the very most; if he can be this and still be someone, someone worth caring about. He doesn’t believe it, but this man cares about him, he can tell by his touch, by the way he smoothes his hand over Ennis’ face, caresses him with his lips on his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose and the small scatter of freckles across his collarbone; he’s losing count of all the ways Jack touches him that he’s never known before. Butterfly kisses down his neck, eyelashes fluttering like wings, and he has to bite down on the noise arching up from his throat, wants to explode with the way it makes him feel to be treated like this, and how, how did he never know?
*
Ennis isn’t sure how long it is before Jack stands up, breathing hard, and holds his hand out, slowly. They both know where they’re going, if he chooses to follow. Jack’s eyes are wide and sincere; his hand is shaking the way Ennis’ did in the bar and it softens something in him. Like looking into a mirror, almost, and he’s standing up, letting fingers touch his and take them, letting himself walk up the stairs and down the hallway, past three open doors until they come to the fourth and oh God, just seeing the bed there like a talisman with the moonlight spilling across it is enough to make him even harder; the idea of it, all his darkest hidden thoughts, all his crimson red secrets, are written on that perfect unspoiled bed, silk sheets with not a crease in them.
Jack takes one look at him and drops to his knees, which Ennis would like to hate him for; it would feel better, surely, better than this aching desire that eats away at each of his reservations slowly, relishing every bite as it kills them off one by one. A systematic serial killer; honed technique. He looks down at the luminous eyes shining in the dark, down at Jack’s knees folded beneath him, feels himself standing and knows that he is really here, not dreaming or dying but standing in this very room. Present. It makes him think of marriage for some reason, maybe the analogy of going down on one knee paying its price on him, for turning his back on the sanctity of it, though Jack goes down on both knees, and proposes only pleasure, which he is fractured enough to take. The knowledge of this burns brightly in his mind, but doesn’t change the way his eyes fluke shut at the feel of hands working the zipper of his jeans, or the urgent thud of his heartbeat when warm breath tickles the downy hair on his thighs, agitating the skin just so. Even the cotton brush of his underwear as it’s eased down brings him faintly closer to coming; and the heat of a tongue tracing delicate lines on the cut of his groin makes him feel nauseous with arousal, the sweat percolating somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach and pushing up through his blanketed layers of nervousness, adorning his skin like jewels and he wishes, suddenly, that the weather would break, break him, this burning tension too much to take.
It feels like that, like summer rain, like lightning splashing down wet sparks onto bare earth, when Jack takes him in his mouth and he folds down heavily on the edge of the bed, fingers clutching at the sheets. He can feel the muscle in his jaw working with the effort it takes not to moan, his whole body cold and aching when the soothing warmth leaves him, only for a few moments, long enough to discard with his jeans and underwear fully before it returns, the suckling feeling on the head of his cock almost painfully intense, but better for it. He ends up lying back on the bed in nothing but his t-shirt, legs spread wantonly and Jack knelt between them on the floor, the taut magic of his mouth working its spell on Ennis’ nervous system until he’s fighting not to come with every shallow breath, an arm thrown over his eyes to block it out, clamp it down; suppress the opiate effect that is drugging his body and dragging him underwater. As though he hasn’t had enough of swimming against the tide by now. He shivers, waiting for a sharp stinging when his most tender flesh, just beneath the head of his cock, is drawn between teeth momentarily; he’d deserve it, he wouldn’t blame this man if it happened, if he bit down, but instead there’s just a teasing shimmer of orgasm, the slightest thread of it beginning, but stopped before it can progress further than the top of his spine. It’s always like that for Ennis, starting with a brief flicker of fireworks in his head and gravitating down throughout every part of him; a full body experience, and is he willing to share that, to give over such intimacy, with a stranger? But the question is useless- he is, Ennis knows he is. Jack doesn’t feel like a stranger, and it’s a relief, a break from the constant ecstatic agony, when he’s left bare at last, Jack resting his head on his knee for long minutes, fingers petting at Ennis contentedly, a sort of gentle thank you, for what he isn’t sure, but he senses it nonetheless, puts a hand in the dark silk of hair that’s lying spilled across his skin. Strokes it rhythmically. It would feel unkind not to, but that isn’t the reason why he does it.
He thinks of Jack undressed in his mind, whilst he listens to the sound of buttons being popped open from the foot of the bed. Looking, watching, feels like too much, as close as he is, and he doesn’t have to imagine any more when the real thing climbs bare and hot on top of him, peels Ennis’ t-shirt away from his sweat slick skin and brings their bodies together, inch by inch. Caught somewhere between hating and adoring the sensation, Ennis opens his eyes to decide but gets no further than Jack’s face; it’s the look in his eyes that is so terrifying, the compassion, the understanding, it feels as though Jack is looking into him instead of at him, as though his chest is made of glass to be seen through, heart pumping against it until it cracks and shatters at last. The stillness of this room is fathoms deep, and he’s on his stomach, there are hands tracing over his shoulder blades blindly, where Jack thinks his wings should be. Fingers walk his spine, unhurried, trace down further and Ennis gasps; he’d considered if they might end up here and yet now that the chances are frozen into immediacy, he wishes he had decided whether he was willing or not. He wasn’t; Ennis is sure of it, but then he wasn’t willing to meet Jack, wasn’t willing to go home with him, wasn’t willing to kiss him, all of which are things that he has done and so where does that put him now? Treading water, sink or swim and he has no answers, just Jack’s warm kisses on his hips, tongue tracing a wet path across the sensitive hollow at the base of his back, equal attention given to the left and right side. Slow and confident; done this before, oh yes, he could care; he could be envy itself, the very essence. His skin’s buzzing, his head is buzzing and it’s so hard to think, so hard to-
Oh. Ennis hasn’t considered this, hasn’t ever even heard of this, Jack’s mouth there, he’s flushing all over, blood rushing up across his body, beneath his skin. He feels like a balloon, bloated with blood, he feels like he could bleed. At least this is easy, to degrade, to make into something dirty, barely even have to try but the problem remains that no matter how he struggles to negate it, whichever way he goes around it, this is still his body trembling and his tongue fighting the urge to beg for more; he’s not detached enough, he would like to be out-of-body right now. Face down in the pillows feels safest; he can muffle his stuttering breath though not the speed with which it comes, gushing in and out of him uncontrollably like a burst pipe, and this way Jack can’t see how hard it makes him, or how he’s leaking, painting the black sheets with slick trails of silver. Soon enough, those hands that he feels an artless love for, why he doesn’t know but there is something to them, something wonderful, are turning him onto his side and Ennis gasps at a new touch, an ache beckoning deep within. Jack’s lips brush the nape of his neck, lick salt lines into his skin and Ennis, suddenly apprehensive, bucks away, but that just changes the angle of contact and he’s keeling against the pillows desperately, the feeling like liquid shots of gold emulsifying inside him whilst a strong arm wraps around his waist, holding him and now he has to fight so hard not to sob his pleasure. Impulsively, he clutches at Jack’s palm, feels their fingers enfolding and it comforts him more than it should, soft reassurances said in hushed tones into his ear and he believes them, shhh, honey, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay, I’m not. Ennis feels his body go lax, the affectionate honey reverberating in his mind and the way he felt a kiss on his hair is unsettling; he knows it’s honey because that’s the colour of his curls, and this in itself is the sort of tailor-made closeness that he’s afraid of. He wishes it had been something less personal; generic. Baby would have been easier, would have been something that men say in the heat of the moment all the time, but honey is for the soft moments, the quiet, slow ones. Ennis would prefer to be a spectre of chaos, or rather he would prefer it if that were the way he felt. Secretly, he likes being honey much better.
After a moment, he feels himself empty again, it’s strangely lonely after being so full but Jack is rustling in the bedside drawer and that silvered tongue is back beside his ear, filled with sweet pleading and so earnest that Ennis brushes his hand in a sweeping arch over one strong forearm, just for that.
“C’n I- can I be inside you?” A soft moan, Jack’s erection pressed against him, not forcing. Gentle. “Please…”
Ennis doesn’t even have to speak, though he wants to, almost, it’s such a battle to be quiet when everything inside him is singing with ecstasy. He squeezes Jack’s hand and hears his breath hitch, sound of foil being ripped open with unsteady hands, and Ennis knows how much they’re shaking because he’s been holding one, like a trinket; he likes it on some gloriously simple level, the way their hands fit just right. A pause and then slow pressure, a strange feeling but Jack is as good as his word and there’s no pain except for the clench of Ennis’ heart when he hears the low moan of pleasure behind him, feels Jack’s stomach, hard muscled and silk skinned, pressed to his back tightly, as though he wants to sink his whole body inside and maybe, just maybe he does. Ennis recognises that he’s about to pull back, mourns the loss of this completeness inside him before it’s even gone and finds his tongue at last.
“Don’t,” he whispers, “Just- just let me…”
“Okay, I- okay, just- tell me when, when I can…” Jack puts a hand on his stomach, as if to centre him, palm spread carefully over his skin and they’re breathing in rhythm. Time to regulate. Ennis can feel the sensations seeping into his bloodstream; he might die if Jack doesn’t move soon but he waits until the very last second before he nods, gasps raw at the feeling of it; oh God, it’s so much better than he ever thought it could be, the strength and the pressure combining and changing, becoming something else that has him reaching back to clutch Jack’s hip behind him, to draw him in deeper and he wishes it weren’t this way, wishes he weren’t this way. If someone were standing outside the door listening to his keening sobs right now, they would know, would know he was in the arms of another man; it must be so obvious that no woman could make him ache like this and he’s turning over onto his back, the pressure getting to him, sweat dripping down Jack’s jaw with the effort of supporting himself when he moves back inside but he can, shoulders and arms and chest muscular, drenched with moisture now, and it’s like seeing him for the first time, no soft-focus but the real truth of it, how gorgeous he is, bluebell eyes and rosebud mouth; Ennis wants to give him flowers.
He needs a name to cry out. Jack seems to understand this, picking up on the livewire communication between them, mumbles it into Ennis’ ear and he manages to reply with his own as he smiles; Jack suits his name, he would say that if he weren’t so caught up in the rhythm, swept up by the tide of feeling that is so much better than thinking though he does, still, on some lower level that is starting to drown out like a phone line crackling, breaking up, yet still audible somewhere in his mind as it speaks poisonously about how Jack doesn’t spill a single drop of this precious trust and that part of Ennis wishes he would, just do something to ruin things, to stop it being right. Vandalise; but he’s so careful, tender, it’s the intimacy he’s afraid of because that will be the glue that makes it more than a one-night stand, that’s what makes him weak; he mustn’t, mustn’t, but he can’t help it, he wants it to be ugly but he’s never known anything so beautiful as this, Jack’s body stretched out over his, and his own hands clutching, feeling skin hungrily, Jack makes him crave and he’s so full of yes, the burning heat addictive, body opening up wide with want. All the anonymity is gone, irrecoverable: this won’t be forgotten, too much has been done; water under the bridge and he’s gasping, so fucking sweet, unable to stop it, body folding in on itself and Jack, muscles burning but he wants to, has to, reaches down fast and touches his cock in some way that he’s never had before; Ennis doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s all he needs and he comes, back snapping up into an arch, wanting to keep his eyes open to watch Jack but he can’t, pupils blown with the sensation and his eyelids flutter down of their own accord whilst his body convulses over and over. He can feel Jack so much better like this, tight inside his body, his rhythm starting to get shaky and erratic and Ennis wants him to come right now, with him, strokes the soft blush of Jack’s nipple with his tongue and somehow he guessed right, clicked into the way Jack’s body works because he’s biting his lip hard, sunk as deep as he can go and it still doesn’t feel like enough, but he’s right there, Ennis can feel the heat as he comes, incinerating, even through the barrier. Jack moans, shivers, pulse threading wildly at his throat, buries his head against Ennis’ neck whilst his thrusts even out with his orgasm, deep and then shallow, soft, before finally he drops down with his full weight and muscles that sting from exertion.
Ennis wonders if this is all it means to be gay, if it’s really so simple. He looks at Jack, eyes closed in blissful relaxation, a gentle smile playing around his mouth, body still twitching with aftershocks, and envies him his peace of mind, though he’s glad that Jack has it. They lie this way until their breathing comes back to normal and then Jack speaks so softly that Ennis picks up the words through the vibration of his voice rather than by hearing it. Speaking in shadows.
“You okay?” Jack asks. He has a lullaby voice. His hands are stroking Ennis’ hair, his face, he’s nodding. “I didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” Ennis says in reply; he almost wants to laugh. It couldn’t possibly have been further from pain, though what he’s starting to feel now, in his head, in his heart, that’s not so far removed from it, creeping shame crowding back into empty spaces. Jack runs his index finger over his jaw slowly, speaks carefully.
“Then why do you look so sad?”
“I’m not sad,” Ennis murmurs, “Just tired is all.” It’s a lie- although he should be bone-deep weary, Ennis feels jittery, like he’s buzzing on caffeine, but maybe the words don’t sound so thin to Jack. Ennis doesn’t know how often he does this, could be the kind of thing he’s accustomed to. He looked at home sitting in that bar and suddenly his head is filled with it, dark thoughts of Jack pulling his name as a moan from another man’s throat. “You do this a lot?”
It comes out completely wrong, the irrational sting of jealousy peaking his blood, though he has no right to lay claim on the man lying in his arms right now, eyelashes brushing against his neck delicately, even if he wants to, and Ennis finds that he does.
“No,” Jack replies, sounds a little wounded. Ennis thinks of Jack shaking whilst they made love- he wishes he could put another name to it, but nothing else fits- and of the way he cried out when he came, the expression of long-forgotten bliss on his face, and he believes him. Guiltily, he kisses Jack’s forehead to apologise, wishes he could say things better. Never been good with words. “I wouldn’t have time to, anyway, not any more. Tied to my job, though I love it.”
Ennis gives him a questioning look, and Jack smiles. He has a sweet smile, and Ennis thinks it was the smile of a heartbreaker, once upon a time. Jack has the feeling of someone who’s grown into their skin over the years, but didn’t wake up feeling comfortable in it; Ennis hopes he’s going to be the same one day. He’s broken out of his thoughts by Jack talking softly, in that way he does, saying everything as though it’s private, a secret held just between the two of them.
“I work in a restaurant. A few restaurants,” Jack explains.
“I don’t know any waiters who can afford a house like this,” Ennis offers, and Jack blushes, laughs a little.
“I’m not a waiter. I was once, before I qualified, but now I’m the executive chef in a couple of places. Well. Three,” Jack tells him, shy, though there’s a hint of quiet pride too. Ennis thinks he should have known: the lightness of touch, the way Jack poured him out on the bed like warm chocolate, spilling through his fingertips.
*
Jack’s bathroom is at the other side of the house, looking out onto the garden, and Ennis stops to marvel at it for some time. There’s another cherry tree hanging over a pond, petals drifting down to layer over it like ash after a fire, milk-white under the moon’s gaze. A thin seam of rose petal pink lies flat along the horizon; dawn is breaking and he turns away from it, sighing, sits on the edge of the bath carefully to avoid the just-born ache, though it’s slight. The mirror opposite shows him the same face that was there the previous morning, and the one before that; the only change is on the inside, he supposes.
“Hey…” Jack, standing in the open doorway, holding a bundle of clothes in his hands. “Thought I’d bring you these, in case you’re getting cold camping out in here.” It’s gentle, not an admonishment, and he switches the light on, steps across the aqua blue tiles; bare feet, though he’s dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants now. The room is bathed by the apricot glow of light, soothing amber that turns the sky outside pale technicolour; Ennis takes the clothes from Jack- not his own, he sees, but a similar version to what Jack has on- and thanks him, but makes no move to put them on, though he feels shy sitting in just his boxers with this man so nearby. How do people look at each other, after…?
He sees them in his mind’s eye, naked on the bed, hears his own desperate cries and Jack whispering to him. Blushes, and Jack sits at his feet and rests his head on Ennis’ knee, the same way he did after he took him in his mouth. A second episode of memory recall follows, and Jack looks up at him, touches his face, studying him: Ennis can see the exact moment that realisation dawns- they’ve only been in the dark so far, how was Jack to know? Ennis can keep a secret well, after all.
“I think-“ Jack pauses and starts again, gently, no anger. “I thought you were about twenty-two, twenty-three, but now I’m looking at you in the light and…you look younger. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know. Am I wrong?”
Ennis shakes his head slowly. No point softening the blow; he can’t keep it to himself forever.
“I’m eighteen.”
Jack stands up and for one moment that is half relief and half horror, Ennis thinks he’s going to walk away, but he doesn’t, gestures for Ennis to come into his arms and stands there rocking him from one side to the other, slowly. It’s surprising, how good it feels.
“I’m thirty, Ennis. I- I’ve never been with a younger man before, especially not…not to this extent, and if I’d known you were eighteen in the bar, I wouldn’t have let anything happen. But I’m not gonna say I wish you’d told me before we slept together, because it’s a lie and I owe you more than that. I do- I still really like you. I know I shouldn’t say this; I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but, look, I mean if you want to, you’re welcome to stay around, you know? Maybe we can figure it out together.” Jack pulls back, kisses his face, smiles with a halo of light behind his hair. Angelic. Ennis doesn’t think he looks thirty. “And hey, if you don’t want to stay, then I get that. I remember what it’s like, when you’re just starting to figure it out, okay? I won’t hold it against you. You just have to do whatever feels right.”
Ennis nods, quiet, tries to smile but it’s hard. He has to walk away; he promised himself it would just be one night, and Pandora’s box is waiting.
“I’m gonna go back to bed now,” Jack says softly, looking into Ennis’ eyes. “So you know where I am, if you want me.”
“Yes,” Ennis replies, his heart breaking. How absurd, to be so attached after so little time.
“Good…and, Ennis.” Jack puts his hands on his shoulders, squeezes. “Whatever happens, own it. This…being gay…it’s a part of who you are. I know it’s tough sometimes. My parents didn’t get mad at me when I came out to them, and when I asked my dad why not- because I always thought they would- he said that it’s not what it is; it’s just what you make of it. Never forgot that. I know it sounds stupid, but you don’t have to wear it like a brand; there’s nothing to be ashamed of, I promise you.”
He goes from Ennis with a backwards glance and the early morning birdsong left for company, does as he said he would and goes back to bed, though he won’t sleep. The conflicting feelings of guilt and hopefulness swirl in his stomach and Jack waits for the sound of footsteps, sends up a silent prayer that they’ll walk towards him and not away. It’s been a long time since he felt peaceful, the way he did with Ennis. The quiet felt right, and- oh. Someone moving; slow, heavy hearted, perhaps. Walking away. Jack hears Ennis coming into his room, and for a moment the ghost of a smile curves his lips, but then there’s the sound of discarded clothes being picked off the floor; jeans, a t-shirt, the zipper that he opened with eager hands being done up again. Shit. He tries not to let the disappointment taint him too deeply, tells himself they would never have worked out anyway, but he doesn’t believe his own false advertisement. Wilts into the pillow like a crushed spring flower as Ennis heads along the hallway, over the one floorboard that always creaks, down the first stair. Silence.
Jack tenses, his heart pounding, closes his eyes tight. Makes a wish; come on, Ennis. The waves of hesitation reflect back at him from the staircase, and he can feel the gaze running over his skin. Holds his breath, but, no, he’s lost, a second stair creaks and- he listens carefully. Not a different stair, the same one as before. Maybe. Socked feet padding back across the hallway, and yes, yes, that zipper coming undone; he can almost feel the heat of Ennis’ skin back against his and then finally there he is, gloriously naked and nuzzling into Jack’s shoulder, making a soft sound in his throat. He turns over and kisses Ennis soundly, wraps him up in his arms.
“Why’d you stay?” Jack asks, curious.
Ennis thinks of the message Jack wrote to him; the ivory bird.
“I just felt like coming home,” he says, and smiles.
*Finis*
Author: Mia
Rating: NC-17. Very much so ;)
Pairing: Jack and Ennis, set in the modern day
Summary: The boys both live in London- Ennis is a reticent university student and Jack is a successful, debonair stranger who just happens to be at the other end of the bar one long, lonely night ;) Eyes meet and sparks fly.
Warnings: Older/younger theme- Ennis is 18 and Jack is 30. Not too scandalous but feel free to skip if that’s not your thing =)
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these boys, but I love them and I can’t stop writing about them
Feedback: Oh yes. You know it.
Author’s Notes: Hi guys =) Seeing as I’m so wrapped up in IPOH-land, I was very surprised to get the inspiration for anything else- but here I am, going back to my roots with a slashy one-shot ;) This story is kind of an exploration of modern day homophobia, though not in a conventional way, and there’s no violence. Expect sex (explicit; lots), angst (plenty, you know I can’t help myself) and a happy ending (always.)
Just a note for those of you who are reading IPOH: I will of course get back to my boys as soon as possible, but it will probably take me until next weekend to update. I’m so sorry! In the meantime, hopefully London!J&E will be a worthy substitute ;) I hope you enjoy it!
“I’ve been roaming around/ Always looking down at all I see/ Painted faces fill the places I can’t reach/ You know that I could use somebody/You know that I could use somebody/ Someone like you.”
Kings of Leon- Use Somebody
Minority of One.
Alcohol, spilt on the surface of the bar, glistens like oil, and glass bottles half obscure a mirror laying against the back wall. What Ennis can see in the gaps- if he chooses to look up- is his own reflection, familiar, shimmering eyes, shoulders set in a hard line that says Don’t touch, and he means it. It’s been three hours, maybe less, maybe two; there were still dark silhouettes cascading up into the streets from the underground, not all that long ago. The clock above the glass bottles, a relic from another age with its peculiar elegance, has stopped on midnight, so Ennis isn’t sure of the time, and none of that matters anyway. He will stay here until dawn breaks if that’s what’s needed to prove something, to himself, for himself, a little message to the world. Posted in a bottle, out to sea if he wishes. In the meanwhile, he’s thinking of all the places he could be right now instead of here, the ideas ticking in a slow arc across his mind, and perhaps this experiment just might have been a bad call on his part, to come here, to be a part of the furniture. Well.
It was easy to feel ready with the lure of redemption pushed up against his back, moving in like the men around him, and now- But this is where Ennis always goes wrong, too much thinking, all the possibilities, limitless, uncurling beneath him. Just stop. Wait it out. He’s made it this far and nothing; the crowds are thinning out to mist, and crushed flowers of cocktail umbrellas drop to the floor. Ennis is going to step on one of those umbrellas when he heads for the door- alone- and listen to its tiny wooden spine shatter, the backbone of this unknown world broken away from him. He decided that a long time ago, to make the medicine a little less bitter to swallow, he thought. The phrase, in all its connotations, feels loaded, like a gun with the safety off; it might lose control at any moment.
If Ennis can leave unnoticed, then he can put this idea, this whimsical prospect that he might not be- normal - to bed, lay it down slowly and kick it beneath a wave of evidence to the contrary. Every man- there are no women- who leaves without so much as glancing at him is a personal victory, a vote of confidence. They don’t see it in him. They should be the ones to know. Somewhere in the midst of trying not to consider the chances, Ennis has wondered what might happen if all this innocuous time is just a fluke, what might happen if he doesn’t get to leave here unnoticed in the end. The idea makes him feel weird, he can’t see it in his mind’s eye; it’s so far removed and flickering, the image grainy, as if from an old black and white movie. A man’s touch on his arm, his face, how would that feel? Wrong, somehow, crossing a boundary that’s there for a reason. Trespassing on property meant for someone else. The man Ennis wants to be doesn’t belong in this place, but the answer to the question he’s afraid of asking is parcelled away inside these four walls, and he’s going to find it. One way or the other.
*
Suddenly, dreadfully, it’s over, and there are no thoughts left to grant him a small piece of cold comfort. Ennis is here to find invisibility, but now it’s too late, in this moment; one was all it took, a single second to drive every snippet of his blossoming relief away and scatter it to the four winds. Like wishing on the feathery seeds of a dandelion as they blow away; I wish, I wish, but nothing is enough now. It can’t be changed. There’s a man at the other end of the bar. Watching.
*
The first glance could have been explained away, simple curiosity; there’s no one else to look at now, they’re alone after all. A sidelong flutter that seemed to be all eyelashes coming from Ennis’ right, but the second look is more distinctive; it sticks, brands like fire. He stares down into the glass tumbler in his hands, which are shaking, and watches the amber liquid mimicking him, trembling with slight ripples, with fear or anger. Something like that. He wants to go, get up and walk away with leaden stomach and bowed head, but there’s no escape from the jaws of this perplexing monster and he doesn’t move, not an inch. The well-known feeling of being trapped is upon him again, seems like no matter how fast he runs, Ennis never quite gets far enough away. He’s done with it, worn through to the bone. This man, this unwelcome intruder on his security, is hateful, Ennis despises him for seeing, for smelling it on him, finding his molten core with a single enduring look; he’d like to hit him, to bite him. He thinks of the word snap, like the forgotten flowers on the floor that he will not get to break, not now, but it barely helps to ease off the ache. This man knows. All these years of wrapping it tight and close to his body, no entry, marking it off, police line do not cross, and still, still someone made it through. A minority of one.
Ennis won’t look at him.
*
He’s not sure why he came here tonight, an old haunt, from the days when it was a regular thing, the drinks and the men and the come-to-bed eyes. For the past few years he’s walked past this place more times than he can count without sparing it so much as a second glance, the palimpsest of stale memories etched out of his thoughts. He was younger then, naïve, but he’s been over that phase, come through the other side fully grown and it’s not the way he works, not any more. Jack has a good job and the home he always wanted and his money is as green as anyone else’s; he doesn’t feel like he needs to settle for all the half-hopes and empty promises, which he did. Before. The aftertaste was always bitter; he wasn’t good at it, never could quite detach the morning after, hated the slim silences swelling to fill the bedroom from floor to ceiling until he thought he might be pushed, unwilling, from his perch on the tangled sheets to fall out the door, still naked. The men were always the same underneath. There was only the light thrill of flirtation and a dull flush of physical pleasure, but too much pain to balance the scales out even, and Jack likes to think that he walked away whilst he still could, whilst the alternatives still presented themselves clearly.
Yet somehow it made sense to walk through the faintly familiar arched doorway, duck along the low-ceilinged hallway and step into all the memories once more. Jack is questioning why; or rather, he was, until…He glances again, can’t quite help himself, it’s so compulsive, that feeling of want. It’s been several months too many to remember how to command it, lead instead of follow, lingering desire in his bloodstream like alcohol, but heavy with warmth. Such a long time since someone caught his eye like this and the sensation comes as a shock, like the dip of a finger running along his spine, and Christ, yes, that man is the stuff of fantasies. Jack knows he is aware of him, can tell by the way that lean body is straightening up, no intention but it happens anyway, and Jack’s seen it before on less beautiful men, a hundred times. Never took in the full meaning of it, such a subtle invitation, but seeing it on this one might just be the most prepossessing image that he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s young, in the low light he looks as though he’s heading for his mid twenties at best, but that’s okay, just. He’s new at this, Jack can tell by the way he doesn’t take the cues, doesn’t look up and meet Jack’s smouldering gaze with his own, doesn’t saunter over and offer a drink, and he’s glad. Reassured, almost. Jack needs time, to dive back into this world where anything is possible for a few hours at least; he needs to slip into it again like an ill-fitting silk glove, too tight to keep on but too seductive to take off.
Right now he feels absent, and with unseeing eyes he dips the index finger of one hand into his drink, lets the icy surprise of it hit his system as he runs the moisture around the shivering rim of his glass. Feels the tension thrum down into each tight molecule and reverberate back out, slow and easy, all in a rush, the blood sings beneath his skin. The glass, or his touch, makes that yearning sound that is somehow slightly impolite, an admission of something private, the sound that’s like both floating and drowning, like a twig cracking in a silent forest, like electricity snapping off bare skin and speaking in rhythm to another flesh. Just like that, a gaze rises and comes to him, waits for the next move, which Jack will make, soon.
*
It goes like this for several minutes, with the barmen’s eyes carefully averted from what is so obviously playing out in front of them. Jack knows he has a while before closing time; it’s only emptied out so fast tonight because it’s a Tuesday, the responsibilities of the working week and all. The brand of men who come here will have board meetings tomorrow, a series of letters after their names on professional documents, degrees, fresh new doctorates, and in the case of a few, pretty young wives to get home to who know well enough to keep their mouths shut. Even the stock of sex comes up short against that of making money, at least until Friday night. Jack knows the type from a mile away and how to avoid them; but he’s taken aback, a little amused maybe; you can smell the dark gloss of money here, and he never fancied this place for an old boy’s club. Not that it’s quite the conventional type, but, well. Close enough. Perhaps he’s got no right to cast a cynic’s eye on proceedings anyway; it’s not like he’s all that different, at least not financially; an office job though, the thought makes him slightly dizzy, glad he got out of that trap fast, escaped. Though he’s here, isn’t he? The rich boy’s playground, and he knows where the rest will be, somewhere crowded, hot, none of the stupid euphemisms where Gentleman’s Bar is used to blunt the soft blow of Gay Club, and the cocktails make faint allusions to sex, on the beach or otherwise. Jack sighs, feels like a snob, but how was he to know it would be like this? Besides, that scene was never his, not even way back when; this is as close as it gets to something Jack feels comfortable with, and still, it’s lacking.
The object of his affections is nowhere near comfortable, but he hasn’t left. Jack knows he would have by now, if he really wanted to say no, if he really had conviction over it. It’s thrilling, somehow, all the little things that he can figure out from the actions that are not made, rather than the ones that are. Talk about reverse psychology. There’s a soundless communication between them, travelling through the open space on waves of whisky-sweet air: neither one is going to be the first to leave, and Jack’s not intending to leave without company. He likes this other guy, in more ways than one, not that he has much to go on, but it’s nice, how he doesn’t fit, with the skinny jeans and the slumped shoulders; it’s not giving out the prerequisite attitude for this bar, and Jack is left wondering if his silent friend just stumbled in here unawares. He looks- what’s the word? - Sweet. Yes, or at least he would be if he’d let the threadbare façade of nonchalance fall. Jack wants to hug him and tell him it’s okay, though he knows it won’t be believed, but he gets that. It’s not always easy. Some nights, you just feel like going home.
Jack smiles. Gotcha.
*
Ennis is about to give up, in as much as he’s willing to admit that he was waiting in the first place. He’s thinking of what might have been, and of what will be, of all the things that have happened tonight and all the things that won’t. They feel like hollow thoughts, like mist in his mind, not from the alcohol because he’s scarcely had any and maybe he should have more, have enough to stop the threat of feeling disappointed when the other man walks away from him. Enough to stop himself thinking about the what ifs, which are circling like vultures, just waiting for him to hit the floor. He won’t be getting any sleep tonight, but not for the reasons he was beginning to contemplate. It’s probably better this way. A neater cut; less messy. If he makes being gay sound like a wound that just has to be stitched up, it stops being so much of a danger, becomes a sterilised toxin. Snip with the scissors and let it fade to a scar, just barely. Faint silver.
A tiny white bird, ivory, flutters down past his shoulder and lands on the edge of his glass, teeters there precariously as though unsure of which way to go; stained with amber by his alcohol, or tarred with the sticky residue on the bar. Ennis plucks it up gently between his fingers; it’s not a bird, no, that was just a thought, some sort of poetic ideal flowering in his head. It’s paper, folded, that’s all, but it takes a moment to open it out, smooth it on the cold surface under his hands and read it, he’s slow with nerves and the words register but don’t sink in, it’s not happening, it can’t be. Ennis skims the words again, again; it’s like being taught to read when he was a little boy and sounding out every painstaking syllable, to try and understand it, to try and put the sentence into context, Mary and Alex are playing football and Jane has a blue dress but this doesn’t fit in the same book, it could be another language, he wishes it were but the meaning falls with a devastating pang to the pit of his stomach, at last.
Come home with me.
It’s unembellished, so bold, Ennis has never been like that with a girl before, but perhaps this is how it goes between men? He’s walking blind. Clueless. The writing can only be described as pretty, it loops and swirls like something out of an eighteenth century diary, it would be better if it were hard to make out, if he could contort the words to pretend they said something else, something that lacks in all the connotations. It’s all too clear, he needs some ambiguity. He’s reeling, drunk with uncertainty, he’s glad he barely took in any alcohol after all, and suddenly there’s a hand on the bar beside him and he doesn’t look up. Ennis is so afraid of what he’ll see in that face, emotions that are mirrored in his own, lust. Beauty. That’s what frightens him most, the vague, pounding thought of seeing everything that he’s ever wanted to. Eyes that can read him when he wants to be a closed book; hands that pick apart feelings that aren’t meant to be for sale.
He knows Jack, then, not by name and face, but by his hands, at first, and the few stolen glances that he took when he felt sure he wouldn’t be seen. Ennis commits Jack’s hands to memory, long fingers and the strength of them, the tendons and close-cut nails; how would they feel running down the skin of his back? He wishes he didn’t want to know, wishes there was a wire he could cut or re-circuit in his brain, to make it stop, to wash it away, but the thoughts flow freely in the face of this new provocation, like dirty water. Ennis shakes his head very softly, negative in answer to the question, not tonight, not ever, but it’s too soft, he can’t bring himself to host certainty and Jack doesn’t even see. Lips, soft, brush over his ear, and Ennis can barely hold back the low moan that catches in the back of his throat like a cobweb, the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck ghosting up, up against his skin.
“Does this mean yes?”
Ennis tries to breathe, stares at his glass in his hand and realises it’s trembling again; this man can see that, can see his fear, his hesitation, he feels ripped open like meat. The air is so heavy with expectation and the sound of Jack’s voice laces around his spine and burns all the way to the base of it, like a candle lit low, flame fluttering by the wick. It’s the accent that lures him in the end, the kind of London accent that makes him smile, cut glass, so well heeled, and Ennis knows that this torturing angel must be older by a long way; it drenches him with a sort of exquisite fear. Ennis had been so excited to study in London, not his London with the orderly suburbs and quiet streets, but the buzzing mess of it, the lights and sparkle and the smell of success everywhere; the real London, the sprawling city that this man belongs to. Just being near Jack gives Ennis a buzz, with the light fragrance of his cologne flooding through his senses until he can taste it on the back of his tongue and feel the moisture of it against his fingers. Limes, and something else that he can’t figure out.
He’s nodding without really knowing it, like saying something in another language. His mind follows later; he’s standing up, guided by the easy stride in front of him, falling into line although it doesn’t feel that way deep inside. It’s like being in freefall but too light to care, falling to the ground fast but landing as softly as a petal. Ennis’ stomach clenches.
*
The warm air outside hits him like a punch and invades every pore of his skin. Summer moonlight sifts down, swirling like snow, and is this the same street he walked down earlier? It ought to have changed, reconfigured to suit these new events, but the same knotted tree drifts cherry blossom over his and Jack’s heads like wedding confetti as they pass beneath it, and the statuesque stone white buildings line the street like dominoes, as they did before. Tip one over and they all go. It smells like honeysuckle out here, and this is bad; he wishes Jack would take him down to the grit and grime of the tube station, lead him somewhere sleazy in the cramped confines of the train carriage, to a house that belongs in the city’s underbelly. It would be easy, easier than this, Jack turning to his left, walking a couple of strides ahead and taking him down a street, one he passes often, with friends, alone. He recognises it, and the realisation of this is momentous and yet simultaneously obvious. He should have known.
Ennis wants to say something, to tell Jack that he’s been here before, that this street is his too, after a fashion: though it doesn’t matter, though it changes nothing, he would like to claim the familiarity for himself, because he has very little else in this moment. It unnerves him in a way he hasn’t experienced before; youth is ignorant of such things, and so what does that make this? Coming of age. This- labelling it, putting it in a category- makes it more bearable, if he can just get the lid to stay down on it after tonight. Like Pandora’s box, sealed and secreted, but that’s not as bad as the alternative; from this perspective, it looks like an unpleasant thing, a necessary thing, like life insurance. Damage control.
He wonders if he and Jack ever passed in the street, one morning, their exhaled breaths condensing into fine fog with the cold, mingling together like a kiss, unseen. It’s so strange, for it to have ended up like this, and he wishes that it had all sprung into life back at the bar, but he sees now, he was fooled, it started so long ago; it started when the supple leather of his bag brushed against the sleek chrome of Jack’s car parked outside the house, it started with the peach flush of Jack’s lamp guiding him along this street late at night, when all the other lights were blind eyes, black. The beginning and end of their relationship, whatever the nature of it may be, spirals out in both directions; escaping into the future, sneaking up on him from the past.
Ennis considers saying something, something stupid that doesn’t belong here, something about “so near and yet so far”. A phrase that could be from a romance novel. He thinks that would probably be a bad idea, though, so he stays quiet in the end. Silence could be his best defence, after all, but he starts to slip when Jack reaches past Ennis- hunched by the door- to unlock it, and of its own accord, his hand reaches out, for a moment. For touch, which he is not supposed to want. The tip of his little finger grazes the inside of one pale wrist, where it’s most sensitive; he knows because he feels the skin shiver, like it does when a chill of fear goes through you, but different because Jack isn’t afraid; it’s a nameless thing, curious, and he draws himself away. Each breath feels like a bubble, bursting in his lungs, he’s surprised how much it hurts.
“No.” Gentle in his ear, the warmth of Jack’s thigh pressed against his own and he shifts; he can feel the strength there, the power. His jeans are tighter, and Ennis is ashamed of being so easy, though that’s the word they use for girls; well, someone has to take on the role, he supposes. “I want you to touch me.”
The contact of Jack’s skin with his own makes Ennis flinch against the clumsy pleasure solidifying in his blood, a newborn emotion taking its first steps. Jack takes his hand and puts it back on his wrist, precisely, and there’s something to his touch; Ennis would like to know what he does for a living- he uses his hands, he’s sure- but it’s too mundane a question, it must be, although he doesn’t know the protocol for a situation like this. His hand is moving without command: a pilgrim on fresh soil, it travels over the pale tan of flesh, slips against the dark hair lining Jack’s forearm lightly, feasts itself on the thick base of muscle that lies beneath, and he feels a crazy urge to do everything that will come next, from this one touch, out in the moon’s clouded lemonade light. They could have cherry blossom for a bed.
*
Jack leads him into the house by his hand; he’s getting used to the feel of it against his skin, but Ennis is still afraid to look at him, although what is there to lose now? He lost this game a long time ago, when he stood up in the bar, when he held Jack’s message in his hand, when he ordered a drink and sat down, the day he was born, infinite eternities into the past. His parents did something wrong, or else it’s genetics, some codified piece of internal make-up that means he can’t look at girls the way he’s looking at Jack right now, wide eyes to drink it all in. Ennis has never stood this close to another man before, except maybe when he plays sport, but the comparison is so lacking in weight that it almost makes him want to laugh and he’s distracted anyway; it’s worse than he thought, he feels it more than he’d even anticipated. Looking at Jack’s face makes his synapses snap with lust; it bolts down his back lightning fast, pools in his stomach and glowers fiercely, diving lower and lower still until he’s so achingly hard that his hands feel numb with the loss of blood and yet, every nerve and sinew still reacts, synthesised to liquid when Jack reaches up and tugs his beanie hat off. Ennis sways with the touch; puppet-boy, and there’s no doubt who’s pulling his strings right now. His hair tumbles down and he feels too aware of it, golden curls scattering down in tandem with the lurch of his stomach and Jack, gentle, calm before the storm, sweeps them out of his vision with the pads of his fingers, steps back slowly, measured, once and then once more. Ennis feels the rhythm of Jack’s breathing running over his skin, and he recalls this feeling from the dark shadows of the bar, the sensation of being observed, though the man opposite him is making no effort to conceal the fact now. He thought he knew intimacy, but it seems like he still has a lot left to learn.
The quiet has started to rub abrasions onto the bare skin of his hands by the time that it’s finally broken. Standing in the understated luxury of the living room, everything is painted with summery darkness, the kind that drains to a sugary pink ember before dawn even breaks, and Ennis struggles to figure out what this older man could possibly see in him; why he would be drawn to so little when he clearly has so much. The mirror behind Jack’s head reflects a soft ghost, shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath, skin magnolia white against the backdrop of shadows, almost translucent, and he thinks suddenly of the mirror behind the bar. Before. He doesn’t look any different, like how he expected to.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jack murmurs breathlessly, stepping forward until their chests are almost touching. It’s a scarce percentage of what he’d like to say, but Ennis stares at him disbelievingly, looking for a moment as though he might leave, and Jack knows that even if he does, even if he’s left standing here like a fool with his heart in his mouth, he’ll never regret telling the truth. There is nothing tailored about Ennis, and so there is also nothing blemished about him; he stands coltishly, awkwardly graceful, and Jack doubts that anyone has ever told him he’s beautiful before. Wonders if the revelation of it is what’s simmering behind those expressive eyes that flash every so often, backlit with a flicker of smouldering heat, but he’s wrong, that’s not it at all; Ennis is afraid, startled by his reaction to the compliment, by the desire to approximate the same response from the wellspring of feelings that have bloomed, unbidden, in his chest. He wonders if it feels the same way for girls when a man makes their pulse race.
Though it blots him with shame, he leans forward and kisses Jack on the cheek, to thank him. The words won’t come, and Ennis feels stained, like the surface of the bar, like paper soaked through with ink. Thin and easy to tear. Stubble rasps slightly against the tender skin of his mouth and he can feel the warmth of their bodies beginning to bleed together, and he doesn’t dislike it, feels the shame and conflict starting to drain slowly, which is wrong, so wrong, and maybe that’s why it’s beginning to feel like the opposite. He needs to hold onto it, his regret, hold onto himself like the string of a kite threatening to drift out of reach lest he gets lost inside this tarred trap of lust and never finds himself again, the scattered remains of his former self fossilised beneath the mud of his own treachery. Nothing can adequately prepare him for the feeling of a gentle hand settling on his hip, fingers slipping up across skin so soft it feels damp, almost, tracing the arch of one hipbone and he’s slipping, wishes he were strong enough to walk away but he’s not. This is the weakest he’s ever been, and yet in the slight space between his and Jack’s lips, just before there is nothing, just before they kiss, there is starlight. For a second, fractional, he thinks of pulling back, hears that tenderly persistent voice responding, whispering in his ear, Not without kissing, and sees the way that he melts, hears the soft slide as their mouths come together. This man, this stranger, has won, will always win, and because of this, because there’s no way to score back all the points that he has lost, he lets their lips touch. Lets Jack groan quietly, lets him map the contours of Ennis’ lips with the delicate tip of one finger.
They’re on the sofa, somehow, even the idea of not knowing how sounds ridiculous but he doesn’t, doesn’t know if he walked or was pulled and he’s so hot, no use fooling himself that it’s the heat outside because it’s all in him, the dam bursting and showering him with sparks, he’s too ready for this, the deep pressure of a man’s body on top of his own. Ennis feels ripe, overripe, like fruit about to burst and split open with the weight of its own juices, syrupy and sugared; he’s kissing back helplessly, the heat of Jack’s hand still branded on his hip even as it moves up into his hair, their bodies clinging to one another as though they’ve been apart, as though this is a reunion and it is, it feels that way, it feels like the end of a long, tiring journey to find something that Ennis was afraid to know he was looking for. He wants it to be less, he wants to reduce it down to a fuck, wants it to be cheap, but Jack kisses him as though they are both worth something and that scares him the very most; if he can be this and still be someone, someone worth caring about. He doesn’t believe it, but this man cares about him, he can tell by his touch, by the way he smoothes his hand over Ennis’ face, caresses him with his lips on his cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose and the small scatter of freckles across his collarbone; he’s losing count of all the ways Jack touches him that he’s never known before. Butterfly kisses down his neck, eyelashes fluttering like wings, and he has to bite down on the noise arching up from his throat, wants to explode with the way it makes him feel to be treated like this, and how, how did he never know?
*
Ennis isn’t sure how long it is before Jack stands up, breathing hard, and holds his hand out, slowly. They both know where they’re going, if he chooses to follow. Jack’s eyes are wide and sincere; his hand is shaking the way Ennis’ did in the bar and it softens something in him. Like looking into a mirror, almost, and he’s standing up, letting fingers touch his and take them, letting himself walk up the stairs and down the hallway, past three open doors until they come to the fourth and oh God, just seeing the bed there like a talisman with the moonlight spilling across it is enough to make him even harder; the idea of it, all his darkest hidden thoughts, all his crimson red secrets, are written on that perfect unspoiled bed, silk sheets with not a crease in them.
Jack takes one look at him and drops to his knees, which Ennis would like to hate him for; it would feel better, surely, better than this aching desire that eats away at each of his reservations slowly, relishing every bite as it kills them off one by one. A systematic serial killer; honed technique. He looks down at the luminous eyes shining in the dark, down at Jack’s knees folded beneath him, feels himself standing and knows that he is really here, not dreaming or dying but standing in this very room. Present. It makes him think of marriage for some reason, maybe the analogy of going down on one knee paying its price on him, for turning his back on the sanctity of it, though Jack goes down on both knees, and proposes only pleasure, which he is fractured enough to take. The knowledge of this burns brightly in his mind, but doesn’t change the way his eyes fluke shut at the feel of hands working the zipper of his jeans, or the urgent thud of his heartbeat when warm breath tickles the downy hair on his thighs, agitating the skin just so. Even the cotton brush of his underwear as it’s eased down brings him faintly closer to coming; and the heat of a tongue tracing delicate lines on the cut of his groin makes him feel nauseous with arousal, the sweat percolating somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach and pushing up through his blanketed layers of nervousness, adorning his skin like jewels and he wishes, suddenly, that the weather would break, break him, this burning tension too much to take.
It feels like that, like summer rain, like lightning splashing down wet sparks onto bare earth, when Jack takes him in his mouth and he folds down heavily on the edge of the bed, fingers clutching at the sheets. He can feel the muscle in his jaw working with the effort it takes not to moan, his whole body cold and aching when the soothing warmth leaves him, only for a few moments, long enough to discard with his jeans and underwear fully before it returns, the suckling feeling on the head of his cock almost painfully intense, but better for it. He ends up lying back on the bed in nothing but his t-shirt, legs spread wantonly and Jack knelt between them on the floor, the taut magic of his mouth working its spell on Ennis’ nervous system until he’s fighting not to come with every shallow breath, an arm thrown over his eyes to block it out, clamp it down; suppress the opiate effect that is drugging his body and dragging him underwater. As though he hasn’t had enough of swimming against the tide by now. He shivers, waiting for a sharp stinging when his most tender flesh, just beneath the head of his cock, is drawn between teeth momentarily; he’d deserve it, he wouldn’t blame this man if it happened, if he bit down, but instead there’s just a teasing shimmer of orgasm, the slightest thread of it beginning, but stopped before it can progress further than the top of his spine. It’s always like that for Ennis, starting with a brief flicker of fireworks in his head and gravitating down throughout every part of him; a full body experience, and is he willing to share that, to give over such intimacy, with a stranger? But the question is useless- he is, Ennis knows he is. Jack doesn’t feel like a stranger, and it’s a relief, a break from the constant ecstatic agony, when he’s left bare at last, Jack resting his head on his knee for long minutes, fingers petting at Ennis contentedly, a sort of gentle thank you, for what he isn’t sure, but he senses it nonetheless, puts a hand in the dark silk of hair that’s lying spilled across his skin. Strokes it rhythmically. It would feel unkind not to, but that isn’t the reason why he does it.
He thinks of Jack undressed in his mind, whilst he listens to the sound of buttons being popped open from the foot of the bed. Looking, watching, feels like too much, as close as he is, and he doesn’t have to imagine any more when the real thing climbs bare and hot on top of him, peels Ennis’ t-shirt away from his sweat slick skin and brings their bodies together, inch by inch. Caught somewhere between hating and adoring the sensation, Ennis opens his eyes to decide but gets no further than Jack’s face; it’s the look in his eyes that is so terrifying, the compassion, the understanding, it feels as though Jack is looking into him instead of at him, as though his chest is made of glass to be seen through, heart pumping against it until it cracks and shatters at last. The stillness of this room is fathoms deep, and he’s on his stomach, there are hands tracing over his shoulder blades blindly, where Jack thinks his wings should be. Fingers walk his spine, unhurried, trace down further and Ennis gasps; he’d considered if they might end up here and yet now that the chances are frozen into immediacy, he wishes he had decided whether he was willing or not. He wasn’t; Ennis is sure of it, but then he wasn’t willing to meet Jack, wasn’t willing to go home with him, wasn’t willing to kiss him, all of which are things that he has done and so where does that put him now? Treading water, sink or swim and he has no answers, just Jack’s warm kisses on his hips, tongue tracing a wet path across the sensitive hollow at the base of his back, equal attention given to the left and right side. Slow and confident; done this before, oh yes, he could care; he could be envy itself, the very essence. His skin’s buzzing, his head is buzzing and it’s so hard to think, so hard to-
Oh. Ennis hasn’t considered this, hasn’t ever even heard of this, Jack’s mouth there, he’s flushing all over, blood rushing up across his body, beneath his skin. He feels like a balloon, bloated with blood, he feels like he could bleed. At least this is easy, to degrade, to make into something dirty, barely even have to try but the problem remains that no matter how he struggles to negate it, whichever way he goes around it, this is still his body trembling and his tongue fighting the urge to beg for more; he’s not detached enough, he would like to be out-of-body right now. Face down in the pillows feels safest; he can muffle his stuttering breath though not the speed with which it comes, gushing in and out of him uncontrollably like a burst pipe, and this way Jack can’t see how hard it makes him, or how he’s leaking, painting the black sheets with slick trails of silver. Soon enough, those hands that he feels an artless love for, why he doesn’t know but there is something to them, something wonderful, are turning him onto his side and Ennis gasps at a new touch, an ache beckoning deep within. Jack’s lips brush the nape of his neck, lick salt lines into his skin and Ennis, suddenly apprehensive, bucks away, but that just changes the angle of contact and he’s keeling against the pillows desperately, the feeling like liquid shots of gold emulsifying inside him whilst a strong arm wraps around his waist, holding him and now he has to fight so hard not to sob his pleasure. Impulsively, he clutches at Jack’s palm, feels their fingers enfolding and it comforts him more than it should, soft reassurances said in hushed tones into his ear and he believes them, shhh, honey, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay, I’m not. Ennis feels his body go lax, the affectionate honey reverberating in his mind and the way he felt a kiss on his hair is unsettling; he knows it’s honey because that’s the colour of his curls, and this in itself is the sort of tailor-made closeness that he’s afraid of. He wishes it had been something less personal; generic. Baby would have been easier, would have been something that men say in the heat of the moment all the time, but honey is for the soft moments, the quiet, slow ones. Ennis would prefer to be a spectre of chaos, or rather he would prefer it if that were the way he felt. Secretly, he likes being honey much better.
After a moment, he feels himself empty again, it’s strangely lonely after being so full but Jack is rustling in the bedside drawer and that silvered tongue is back beside his ear, filled with sweet pleading and so earnest that Ennis brushes his hand in a sweeping arch over one strong forearm, just for that.
“C’n I- can I be inside you?” A soft moan, Jack’s erection pressed against him, not forcing. Gentle. “Please…”
Ennis doesn’t even have to speak, though he wants to, almost, it’s such a battle to be quiet when everything inside him is singing with ecstasy. He squeezes Jack’s hand and hears his breath hitch, sound of foil being ripped open with unsteady hands, and Ennis knows how much they’re shaking because he’s been holding one, like a trinket; he likes it on some gloriously simple level, the way their hands fit just right. A pause and then slow pressure, a strange feeling but Jack is as good as his word and there’s no pain except for the clench of Ennis’ heart when he hears the low moan of pleasure behind him, feels Jack’s stomach, hard muscled and silk skinned, pressed to his back tightly, as though he wants to sink his whole body inside and maybe, just maybe he does. Ennis recognises that he’s about to pull back, mourns the loss of this completeness inside him before it’s even gone and finds his tongue at last.
“Don’t,” he whispers, “Just- just let me…”
“Okay, I- okay, just- tell me when, when I can…” Jack puts a hand on his stomach, as if to centre him, palm spread carefully over his skin and they’re breathing in rhythm. Time to regulate. Ennis can feel the sensations seeping into his bloodstream; he might die if Jack doesn’t move soon but he waits until the very last second before he nods, gasps raw at the feeling of it; oh God, it’s so much better than he ever thought it could be, the strength and the pressure combining and changing, becoming something else that has him reaching back to clutch Jack’s hip behind him, to draw him in deeper and he wishes it weren’t this way, wishes he weren’t this way. If someone were standing outside the door listening to his keening sobs right now, they would know, would know he was in the arms of another man; it must be so obvious that no woman could make him ache like this and he’s turning over onto his back, the pressure getting to him, sweat dripping down Jack’s jaw with the effort of supporting himself when he moves back inside but he can, shoulders and arms and chest muscular, drenched with moisture now, and it’s like seeing him for the first time, no soft-focus but the real truth of it, how gorgeous he is, bluebell eyes and rosebud mouth; Ennis wants to give him flowers.
He needs a name to cry out. Jack seems to understand this, picking up on the livewire communication between them, mumbles it into Ennis’ ear and he manages to reply with his own as he smiles; Jack suits his name, he would say that if he weren’t so caught up in the rhythm, swept up by the tide of feeling that is so much better than thinking though he does, still, on some lower level that is starting to drown out like a phone line crackling, breaking up, yet still audible somewhere in his mind as it speaks poisonously about how Jack doesn’t spill a single drop of this precious trust and that part of Ennis wishes he would, just do something to ruin things, to stop it being right. Vandalise; but he’s so careful, tender, it’s the intimacy he’s afraid of because that will be the glue that makes it more than a one-night stand, that’s what makes him weak; he mustn’t, mustn’t, but he can’t help it, he wants it to be ugly but he’s never known anything so beautiful as this, Jack’s body stretched out over his, and his own hands clutching, feeling skin hungrily, Jack makes him crave and he’s so full of yes, the burning heat addictive, body opening up wide with want. All the anonymity is gone, irrecoverable: this won’t be forgotten, too much has been done; water under the bridge and he’s gasping, so fucking sweet, unable to stop it, body folding in on itself and Jack, muscles burning but he wants to, has to, reaches down fast and touches his cock in some way that he’s never had before; Ennis doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s all he needs and he comes, back snapping up into an arch, wanting to keep his eyes open to watch Jack but he can’t, pupils blown with the sensation and his eyelids flutter down of their own accord whilst his body convulses over and over. He can feel Jack so much better like this, tight inside his body, his rhythm starting to get shaky and erratic and Ennis wants him to come right now, with him, strokes the soft blush of Jack’s nipple with his tongue and somehow he guessed right, clicked into the way Jack’s body works because he’s biting his lip hard, sunk as deep as he can go and it still doesn’t feel like enough, but he’s right there, Ennis can feel the heat as he comes, incinerating, even through the barrier. Jack moans, shivers, pulse threading wildly at his throat, buries his head against Ennis’ neck whilst his thrusts even out with his orgasm, deep and then shallow, soft, before finally he drops down with his full weight and muscles that sting from exertion.
Ennis wonders if this is all it means to be gay, if it’s really so simple. He looks at Jack, eyes closed in blissful relaxation, a gentle smile playing around his mouth, body still twitching with aftershocks, and envies him his peace of mind, though he’s glad that Jack has it. They lie this way until their breathing comes back to normal and then Jack speaks so softly that Ennis picks up the words through the vibration of his voice rather than by hearing it. Speaking in shadows.
“You okay?” Jack asks. He has a lullaby voice. His hands are stroking Ennis’ hair, his face, he’s nodding. “I didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” Ennis says in reply; he almost wants to laugh. It couldn’t possibly have been further from pain, though what he’s starting to feel now, in his head, in his heart, that’s not so far removed from it, creeping shame crowding back into empty spaces. Jack runs his index finger over his jaw slowly, speaks carefully.
“Then why do you look so sad?”
“I’m not sad,” Ennis murmurs, “Just tired is all.” It’s a lie- although he should be bone-deep weary, Ennis feels jittery, like he’s buzzing on caffeine, but maybe the words don’t sound so thin to Jack. Ennis doesn’t know how often he does this, could be the kind of thing he’s accustomed to. He looked at home sitting in that bar and suddenly his head is filled with it, dark thoughts of Jack pulling his name as a moan from another man’s throat. “You do this a lot?”
It comes out completely wrong, the irrational sting of jealousy peaking his blood, though he has no right to lay claim on the man lying in his arms right now, eyelashes brushing against his neck delicately, even if he wants to, and Ennis finds that he does.
“No,” Jack replies, sounds a little wounded. Ennis thinks of Jack shaking whilst they made love- he wishes he could put another name to it, but nothing else fits- and of the way he cried out when he came, the expression of long-forgotten bliss on his face, and he believes him. Guiltily, he kisses Jack’s forehead to apologise, wishes he could say things better. Never been good with words. “I wouldn’t have time to, anyway, not any more. Tied to my job, though I love it.”
Ennis gives him a questioning look, and Jack smiles. He has a sweet smile, and Ennis thinks it was the smile of a heartbreaker, once upon a time. Jack has the feeling of someone who’s grown into their skin over the years, but didn’t wake up feeling comfortable in it; Ennis hopes he’s going to be the same one day. He’s broken out of his thoughts by Jack talking softly, in that way he does, saying everything as though it’s private, a secret held just between the two of them.
“I work in a restaurant. A few restaurants,” Jack explains.
“I don’t know any waiters who can afford a house like this,” Ennis offers, and Jack blushes, laughs a little.
“I’m not a waiter. I was once, before I qualified, but now I’m the executive chef in a couple of places. Well. Three,” Jack tells him, shy, though there’s a hint of quiet pride too. Ennis thinks he should have known: the lightness of touch, the way Jack poured him out on the bed like warm chocolate, spilling through his fingertips.
*
Jack’s bathroom is at the other side of the house, looking out onto the garden, and Ennis stops to marvel at it for some time. There’s another cherry tree hanging over a pond, petals drifting down to layer over it like ash after a fire, milk-white under the moon’s gaze. A thin seam of rose petal pink lies flat along the horizon; dawn is breaking and he turns away from it, sighing, sits on the edge of the bath carefully to avoid the just-born ache, though it’s slight. The mirror opposite shows him the same face that was there the previous morning, and the one before that; the only change is on the inside, he supposes.
“Hey…” Jack, standing in the open doorway, holding a bundle of clothes in his hands. “Thought I’d bring you these, in case you’re getting cold camping out in here.” It’s gentle, not an admonishment, and he switches the light on, steps across the aqua blue tiles; bare feet, though he’s dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants now. The room is bathed by the apricot glow of light, soothing amber that turns the sky outside pale technicolour; Ennis takes the clothes from Jack- not his own, he sees, but a similar version to what Jack has on- and thanks him, but makes no move to put them on, though he feels shy sitting in just his boxers with this man so nearby. How do people look at each other, after…?
He sees them in his mind’s eye, naked on the bed, hears his own desperate cries and Jack whispering to him. Blushes, and Jack sits at his feet and rests his head on Ennis’ knee, the same way he did after he took him in his mouth. A second episode of memory recall follows, and Jack looks up at him, touches his face, studying him: Ennis can see the exact moment that realisation dawns- they’ve only been in the dark so far, how was Jack to know? Ennis can keep a secret well, after all.
“I think-“ Jack pauses and starts again, gently, no anger. “I thought you were about twenty-two, twenty-three, but now I’m looking at you in the light and…you look younger. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know. Am I wrong?”
Ennis shakes his head slowly. No point softening the blow; he can’t keep it to himself forever.
“I’m eighteen.”
Jack stands up and for one moment that is half relief and half horror, Ennis thinks he’s going to walk away, but he doesn’t, gestures for Ennis to come into his arms and stands there rocking him from one side to the other, slowly. It’s surprising, how good it feels.
“I’m thirty, Ennis. I- I’ve never been with a younger man before, especially not…not to this extent, and if I’d known you were eighteen in the bar, I wouldn’t have let anything happen. But I’m not gonna say I wish you’d told me before we slept together, because it’s a lie and I owe you more than that. I do- I still really like you. I know I shouldn’t say this; I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but, look, I mean if you want to, you’re welcome to stay around, you know? Maybe we can figure it out together.” Jack pulls back, kisses his face, smiles with a halo of light behind his hair. Angelic. Ennis doesn’t think he looks thirty. “And hey, if you don’t want to stay, then I get that. I remember what it’s like, when you’re just starting to figure it out, okay? I won’t hold it against you. You just have to do whatever feels right.”
Ennis nods, quiet, tries to smile but it’s hard. He has to walk away; he promised himself it would just be one night, and Pandora’s box is waiting.
“I’m gonna go back to bed now,” Jack says softly, looking into Ennis’ eyes. “So you know where I am, if you want me.”
“Yes,” Ennis replies, his heart breaking. How absurd, to be so attached after so little time.
“Good…and, Ennis.” Jack puts his hands on his shoulders, squeezes. “Whatever happens, own it. This…being gay…it’s a part of who you are. I know it’s tough sometimes. My parents didn’t get mad at me when I came out to them, and when I asked my dad why not- because I always thought they would- he said that it’s not what it is; it’s just what you make of it. Never forgot that. I know it sounds stupid, but you don’t have to wear it like a brand; there’s nothing to be ashamed of, I promise you.”
He goes from Ennis with a backwards glance and the early morning birdsong left for company, does as he said he would and goes back to bed, though he won’t sleep. The conflicting feelings of guilt and hopefulness swirl in his stomach and Jack waits for the sound of footsteps, sends up a silent prayer that they’ll walk towards him and not away. It’s been a long time since he felt peaceful, the way he did with Ennis. The quiet felt right, and- oh. Someone moving; slow, heavy hearted, perhaps. Walking away. Jack hears Ennis coming into his room, and for a moment the ghost of a smile curves his lips, but then there’s the sound of discarded clothes being picked off the floor; jeans, a t-shirt, the zipper that he opened with eager hands being done up again. Shit. He tries not to let the disappointment taint him too deeply, tells himself they would never have worked out anyway, but he doesn’t believe his own false advertisement. Wilts into the pillow like a crushed spring flower as Ennis heads along the hallway, over the one floorboard that always creaks, down the first stair. Silence.
Jack tenses, his heart pounding, closes his eyes tight. Makes a wish; come on, Ennis. The waves of hesitation reflect back at him from the staircase, and he can feel the gaze running over his skin. Holds his breath, but, no, he’s lost, a second stair creaks and- he listens carefully. Not a different stair, the same one as before. Maybe. Socked feet padding back across the hallway, and yes, yes, that zipper coming undone; he can almost feel the heat of Ennis’ skin back against his and then finally there he is, gloriously naked and nuzzling into Jack’s shoulder, making a soft sound in his throat. He turns over and kisses Ennis soundly, wraps him up in his arms.
“Why’d you stay?” Jack asks, curious.
Ennis thinks of the message Jack wrote to him; the ivory bird.
“I just felt like coming home,” he says, and smiles.
*Finis*