The Transitive Property of Attraction Part 7
Pete waited on Henry hand and foot as he recovered. He made amazing (and hearty) homemade soups from scratch. Apparently his grandmother had owned a restaurant. Even when Henry was ready to re-open the kiosk (high off his tits on pain killers), Pete remained in full nursemaid mode. He fussed over Henry at work and then followed him home for some more of his Florence Nightingale routine. Since Henry wasn't physically or mentally up to his usual hijinx with Charles, he didn't put up a fuss. Besides, Pete had time on his hands now that Daisy and Poppy had run off together.
"You'll make someone a wonderful wife," Henry smirked as he leaned against his counter and tucked into another savory soup. Pete went red and stared at his shoes.
"Just because I have sex with men doesn't mean that everything I say is a come on," Henry snapped. "Get over yourself."
Pete silently stared at his feet until Henry was ready to banish him from his flat.
Then Pete kissed him. It was hard and sloppy and involved a lot of tongue for a first kiss. Henry had just wrapped his brain around the kissing bit when Pete started unbuttoning his trousers.
"Not sure that's a great idea," Henry sighed, trying to put down his bowl of soup without spilling it. "Certainly not without a condom."
"I got johnnies," Pete mumbled as he patted his pockets. He produced three foil packages that he promptly dropped. Then Pete was on his knees, picking up the packets and staring at Henry's crotch.
It was the moment of truth. Or the opening of a porn film.
"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, Pete, but it isn't necessary. I'm not angry. We're even." Henry had trouble forming the words; he felt exhausted. "I'm sorry I upset you. Let's just go back to being friends."
Pete was staring hard at a johnny, seeming to read the directions.
"Pete, you don't have to give me a blowie because your bony little foot broke my rib."
Looking up at Henry through his fringe, Pete looked every bit the fragile young man that he was.
"I know you fancy me a bit," Pete said softly. "And I..."
"I don't fancy you!" Henry laughed. "Are you mental? What made you think I fancied you?"
"In the hospital, when you got that shot for the pain..."
Henry groaned, which hurt his healing rib and made him groan again.
"You can't listen to anything I say when I'm high," Henry explained, once he caught his breath.
"Or when you're drunk?" Pete asked, widening his eyes like he was asking something meaningful.
"Where are you going with this?" Henry asked, doing his best to look intimidating. He could usually keep Pete at a distance with an unfriendly look.
Pete pulled at his hair and averted his gaze. "Nowhere. You just... you say things when you're drunk."
Henry slammed his fist on the counter. He'd been trying to scare Pete into being quiet, but ended up doubled over in pain with Pete clucking over him like an androgynous mother hen. The problem with a broken rib was that every action made it radiate pain, from breathing to faking outrage.
Pete helped him to his room, so he could lie down on his bed and kill the pain the old fashioned way: with a mix of prescribed painkillers, weed, and off-license booze.
"Everything about this seems wrong, Stitch," Pete whispered, as though there were coppers at the door. "This is how rock stars die. This is how people get started on heroin."
Henry laughed without malice at Pete's endless naïveté as he rolled a joint. Pete was nearly untouched by an ugly world that wanted to beat him to the ground.
"I'm serious. I saw a documentary. Painkillers is what gets most people on heroin. It's cheaper to buy on the street than prescription painkillers. People think junkies just try every drug under the sun and land on heroin, but those people was just in pain. They was in pain, and then the thing that were helping them started ruining their lives."
Henry growled at Pete to "go away," but abandoned the joint and crawled under his duvet. He was feeling unaccountably exposed.
"And alcohol mixed with painkillers is dangerous. You could overdose or have a stroke, 'cause they slow your body down..."
Henry covered his ears to block out the sound of Pete's voice, telling him things he already knew. His eyes were watering in a way that might make it appear he was crying, but Henry didn't cry. Something had broken in him when he was young, and he no longer felt those kinds of strong feelings. It was further proof that Pete was a gullible fool, that he was trying to comfort Henry. Only Pete Sweet would confuse what was happening to Henry's body for an actual human emotion.
Henry dry swallowed his pills instead of taking a swig of vodka, not because he gave a shit if he lived or died, but because it mattered to Pete. The kid had been through enough without losing a friend and a lousy job working in a kiosk in one fell swoop. If Henry was going to asphyxiate on his own vomit, he wanted to do it alone. With dignity.
As the drugs made Henry woozy, Pete somehow managed to end up under the duvet and in his arms. Henry heard a voice going on about Pete's beauty and overall goodness as the boy sniffled. Although it only made sense that the voice was probably Henry's, it seemed unlikely that he would be getting all soppy on a few painkillers.
Maybe Pete had moved on to an imaginary boyfriend. That made more sense.
xxx
Henry woke up with a painfully full bladder, and a numb arm trapped under one Pete Sweet.
"Wake up, Pete," he said gruffly as he shook Pete's shoulder. Pete startled awake and promptly looked under the blanket, clearly checking to see if he was naked. Henry laughed and his whole body hurt.
"I didn't rape you in your sleep," Henry snapped. "Help me up. My arm is asleep."
Pete stumbled out of bed and tried ineffectively to haul Henry to his feet, as if his skinny arms could ever lift Henry. Henry batted away the bony and unhelpful hand and dragged himself up. His right arm felt like a piece of meat. Pete helped him shake his limp arm until the pain of pins and needles assured Henry he hadn't had a stroke in his sleep.
Henry shook Pete off and headed to the toilet. His memory was returning in bits and pieces. Things were going to be awkward. He desperately wanted to take a long shower, but he needed to have Pete quickly and thoroughly scared off so he could get back to being miserable in private.
Henry was ready to tell Pete off as soon as he stepped into the hallway, but Pete was already pushing his way into the bathroom. Henry leaned against the wall and waited patiently, trying to settle on the worst thing he could say to Pete. He could say Pete had turned him straight. He could say he wanted a serious relationship, but he could only achieve orgasm while listening to free-form jazz.
Henry knew how to scare people away.
When Pete called through the door, asking if he could borrow a toothbrush, Henry automatically told him, "Top right drawer," instead of,"Piss off."
He was still working on his lines when Pete opened the door and kissed him on the mouth. Henry could have saved the situation by acting quickly. One quick sucker punch, and Pete would have been out the door.
Instead, Henry fell into the kiss and held Pete as tightly as he could without re-breaking his rib.
"You'll make someone a wonderful wife," Henry smirked as he leaned against his counter and tucked into another savory soup. Pete went red and stared at his shoes.
"Just because I have sex with men doesn't mean that everything I say is a come on," Henry snapped. "Get over yourself."
Pete silently stared at his feet until Henry was ready to banish him from his flat.
Then Pete kissed him. It was hard and sloppy and involved a lot of tongue for a first kiss. Henry had just wrapped his brain around the kissing bit when Pete started unbuttoning his trousers.
"Not sure that's a great idea," Henry sighed, trying to put down his bowl of soup without spilling it. "Certainly not without a condom."
"I got johnnies," Pete mumbled as he patted his pockets. He produced three foil packages that he promptly dropped. Then Pete was on his knees, picking up the packets and staring at Henry's crotch.
It was the moment of truth. Or the opening of a porn film.
"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, Pete, but it isn't necessary. I'm not angry. We're even." Henry had trouble forming the words; he felt exhausted. "I'm sorry I upset you. Let's just go back to being friends."
Pete was staring hard at a johnny, seeming to read the directions.
"Pete, you don't have to give me a blowie because your bony little foot broke my rib."
Looking up at Henry through his fringe, Pete looked every bit the fragile young man that he was.
"I know you fancy me a bit," Pete said softly. "And I..."
"I don't fancy you!" Henry laughed. "Are you mental? What made you think I fancied you?"
"In the hospital, when you got that shot for the pain..."
Henry groaned, which hurt his healing rib and made him groan again.
"You can't listen to anything I say when I'm high," Henry explained, once he caught his breath.
"Or when you're drunk?" Pete asked, widening his eyes like he was asking something meaningful.
"Where are you going with this?" Henry asked, doing his best to look intimidating. He could usually keep Pete at a distance with an unfriendly look.
Pete pulled at his hair and averted his gaze. "Nowhere. You just... you say things when you're drunk."
Henry slammed his fist on the counter. He'd been trying to scare Pete into being quiet, but ended up doubled over in pain with Pete clucking over him like an androgynous mother hen. The problem with a broken rib was that every action made it radiate pain, from breathing to faking outrage.
Pete helped him to his room, so he could lie down on his bed and kill the pain the old fashioned way: with a mix of prescribed painkillers, weed, and off-license booze.
"Everything about this seems wrong, Stitch," Pete whispered, as though there were coppers at the door. "This is how rock stars die. This is how people get started on heroin."
Henry laughed without malice at Pete's endless naïveté as he rolled a joint. Pete was nearly untouched by an ugly world that wanted to beat him to the ground.
"I'm serious. I saw a documentary. Painkillers is what gets most people on heroin. It's cheaper to buy on the street than prescription painkillers. People think junkies just try every drug under the sun and land on heroin, but those people was just in pain. They was in pain, and then the thing that were helping them started ruining their lives."
Henry growled at Pete to "go away," but abandoned the joint and crawled under his duvet. He was feeling unaccountably exposed.
"And alcohol mixed with painkillers is dangerous. You could overdose or have a stroke, 'cause they slow your body down..."
Henry covered his ears to block out the sound of Pete's voice, telling him things he already knew. His eyes were watering in a way that might make it appear he was crying, but Henry didn't cry. Something had broken in him when he was young, and he no longer felt those kinds of strong feelings. It was further proof that Pete was a gullible fool, that he was trying to comfort Henry. Only Pete Sweet would confuse what was happening to Henry's body for an actual human emotion.
Henry dry swallowed his pills instead of taking a swig of vodka, not because he gave a shit if he lived or died, but because it mattered to Pete. The kid had been through enough without losing a friend and a lousy job working in a kiosk in one fell swoop. If Henry was going to asphyxiate on his own vomit, he wanted to do it alone. With dignity.
As the drugs made Henry woozy, Pete somehow managed to end up under the duvet and in his arms. Henry heard a voice going on about Pete's beauty and overall goodness as the boy sniffled. Although it only made sense that the voice was probably Henry's, it seemed unlikely that he would be getting all soppy on a few painkillers.
Maybe Pete had moved on to an imaginary boyfriend. That made more sense.
xxx
Henry woke up with a painfully full bladder, and a numb arm trapped under one Pete Sweet.
"Wake up, Pete," he said gruffly as he shook Pete's shoulder. Pete startled awake and promptly looked under the blanket, clearly checking to see if he was naked. Henry laughed and his whole body hurt.
"I didn't rape you in your sleep," Henry snapped. "Help me up. My arm is asleep."
Pete stumbled out of bed and tried ineffectively to haul Henry to his feet, as if his skinny arms could ever lift Henry. Henry batted away the bony and unhelpful hand and dragged himself up. His right arm felt like a piece of meat. Pete helped him shake his limp arm until the pain of pins and needles assured Henry he hadn't had a stroke in his sleep.
Henry shook Pete off and headed to the toilet. His memory was returning in bits and pieces. Things were going to be awkward. He desperately wanted to take a long shower, but he needed to have Pete quickly and thoroughly scared off so he could get back to being miserable in private.
Henry was ready to tell Pete off as soon as he stepped into the hallway, but Pete was already pushing his way into the bathroom. Henry leaned against the wall and waited patiently, trying to settle on the worst thing he could say to Pete. He could say Pete had turned him straight. He could say he wanted a serious relationship, but he could only achieve orgasm while listening to free-form jazz.
Henry knew how to scare people away.
When Pete called through the door, asking if he could borrow a toothbrush, Henry automatically told him, "Top right drawer," instead of,"Piss off."
He was still working on his lines when Pete opened the door and kissed him on the mouth. Henry could have saved the situation by acting quickly. One quick sucker punch, and Pete would have been out the door.
Instead, Henry fell into the kiss and held Pete as tightly as he could without re-breaking his rib.