Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1111233.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Avengers_Movies_RPF, Thor_(Movies)_RPF
  Relationship:
      Chris_Hemsworth/Tom_Hiddleston
  Additional Tags:
      Online_Dating, overuse_of_instant_messaging, Tom_is_seventeen, which_is
      legal_in_the_UK, Dirty_Talk, Phone_Sex, essentially_filth, chris_doesn't
      know_what_he_wants
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-31 Completed: 2014-05-05 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 28670
****** Only Goes One Way ******
by curds_and_wheyface
Summary
     Seventeen year old Tom meets thirty year old Chris on a dating
     website and lies about his age. Their first date goes horribly as a
     result but a series of online conversations put them back on track.
Notes
     Apologies for any mistakes here, I've only proof-read it myself and
     am liable to have missed typos and whatnot! If you spot anything
     please feel free to let me know.
     A huge chunk of this is essentially instant messenger conversation,
     which felt like a lazy way to write but it was the only logical way
     to move the story along. All titles come from the song 'The Biggest
     Lie' by Elliot Smith.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Stupid Thing *****
The thing is that it was only a lie in that Tom isn't technically twenty five
yet. Mentally he would argue that he's at least that age, or maybe even older,
so what should it really matter that his actual age is seventeen?

The problem is going to be convincing Chris.
Tom had lived in some kind of hope that the moment he saw him Chris would feel
something as immediate and sweeping as Tom had felt seeing Chris' picture for
the first time, but truth-be-told he'd actually just looked...really awkward.

It had been more lust at first sight than love, true enough, but it hadn't
taken long for the former to feel like the latter, even if they hadn't met in
person. Tom's dalliances with online dating began only because he didn't feel
able to approach anyone in real life yet and had figured that a little online
flirtation would be a good start. He hadn't even really intended to actually
meet anyone until he'd stumbled upon Chris' picture. There'd been something
immediately evident about the man; his kind eyes and his silly smile, his wide
shoulders and attractive facial hair. He had seemed, on sight, like everything
Tom could ever want in a first boyfriend.
But then Tom had tried to message him and had been rudely halted by a pop-up
message declaring that this user wasn't accepting messages from people in Tom's
age group, and, well, what was a boy to do other than create a new account with
falsified age and slightly dark pictures? And then Chris had turned out to be
even more wonderful than Tom had hoped, with his polite but flirtatious
messages, his genuinely funny anecdotes about his youth in Australia and his
interest in Tom's hopes for the future. They had gone from online messaging a
couple of times to texting or calling nightly, and Tom had gone from not
intending to meet anybody to desperately wanting to meet Chris, so after only
two weeks they'd planned to meet up.
And now Tom's in the bathroom splashing water on his flushed cheeks and only
mildly panicking about the way Chris' face had fallen the moment he saw him. He
tries not to lose hope, even going as far as pulling his phone out of his
pocket and scrolling through some of their more recent text exchanges,
particularly the one about how excited Chris was to meet him and find out if
their 'connection' was as intense in person as it was over the phone. It makes
Tom hopeful that they'll be able to move past his small indiscretion and as he
exits the bathroom to find Chris still sitting where he'd left him that hope
only grows.
"Sorry about that," he smiles, trying for casual as he slips back into his
seat.

That inspires an uncomfortable laugh from Chris, who doesn't look him in the
eyes as he says, "Sorry about what? Telling me you were much older than you
actually are?"
Tom's palms get clammy again like they had been when he walked in and was met
with Chris' confused, disappointed face, but he tries to play the comment off,
scoffing, "Not much older. I'll be eighteen soon."
He realises he's fucked up as soon as he's said it though, because Chris does
lift his eyes that time and his expression is filled with unmistakable alarm.
"Shit, Tom, you're not eveneighteen yet? I'm thirty years old!"

Immediately after he's said it he begins to look around the place as if worried
that he's been heard, or maybe just that they've been seen together, and as the
waitress heads over with the drinks they'd ordered Chris shuffles backwards in
his chair and lifts a hand to stop her.
"Sorry," he says, "change of plans, we won't be needing them. I'll still pay,
obviously," and then he lays a few notes down on the table and stands to pull
on his coat.
The disappointment hits with such ferocity that Tom feels almost like he's been
kicked in the chest by a horse; a hot, aching bloom that seems to spread from
his solar plexus to his fingertips.
"Stand up, Tom, come on," Chris is saying, shaking his head. It's barely any
consolation that he looks disappointed too.

-
Days pass and still Tom is getting no response to his online messages or his
texts, and now Chris is even cutting off his calls rather than letting them
ring out.
He'd driven Tom home in heavy silence, hands so tight on the steering wheel
that the leather had creaked, only opening his mouth to ask for directions. Tom
had felt entirely scolded, feeling every inch the seventeen year old in over
his head, and when he'd tried to engage in conversation outside of the house
Chris had just calmly asked him to get out of the car.
Tom had spent the weekend in his room determined not to cry, but the ugly
feeling in his chest had remained until he finally dragged himself into the
shower on Sunday afternoon and allowed his pent-up frustration and sadness out.
He felt stupid and young, like something he'd hoped for had been snatched away,
and while he recognised it was his own fault that didn't make it smart any
less.
He's been checking the website every day but Chris hasn't even logged on since
before their date. Tom starts to worry that he's opened up another account and
blocked Tom, that maybe he's actually blown his one and only chance with the
man, but then almost a week later he's doing coursework across the room when
his laptop emits an instant message tone. He scrambles up so fast he almost
trips over his own feet, wiggling his finger over the touch-pad to wake up the
screen.
It's Chris.
ChrisH says: I'm sorry for ignoring you, Tom, but you need to please stop
calling me.
Tom's lips tilt down at the corners, his hand coming up to rub at the pang in
his chest. He's not sure what to say to that, caught between not wanting to
give up and not wanting to scare Chris away.

ChrisH says: I'm disappointed too. I think you're really great.
ChrisH says: but you're too young for me
ChrisH says: and you know that or you wouldn't have lied about your age in the
first place
Tom bites at his lip, lifting shaky fingers to the keyboard. It's clear that
further lies aren't going to get him anywhere, so the truth is the only option.
TomH: I did try to message you from my old account with my real age but it
wouldn't let me.
He waits, and although it's barely thirty seconds before Chris replies it feels
like forever.
ChrisH says: Those filters are put in place for a reason. If I wanted to date a
kid I wouldn't have the filters on.
TomH: Just because I'm not eighteen doesn't make me a kid, I've been looking
after myself since I was seven years old.
ChrisH says: Well you're still too young for me.
TomH: Do any of our conversations seem like they were coming from 'a kid'?
There's a long pause then, almost three minutes, and Tom feels like banging his
head down onto the desk. He's never wanted anything as badly as he wants for
Chris to give him a chance.

ChrisH says: I've been over them several times, Tom.
ChrisH says: I wish it changed things but it doesn't
TomH: Why? I'm above the legal age of consent
ChrisH says: I'd feel like a pervert
TomH: because you met somebody you connected with and they happened to be
younger than you?
ChrisH says: 13 years younger!
ChrisH says: When I had my first kiss you were still in nappies

It's not really fair, Tom thinks, to use his age against him as if it's
something he can control, and he feels as though he'd be treading old ground if
he brings up yet again how mentally mature he actually is. With a sigh, he
begins to type again.

TomH: I really like you. I wasn't coming on here to trick anyone into anything,
I just wanted somebody to talk to, to flirt with a little for...I don't know,
practise
TomH: but then I saw your picture and wasn't allowed to write to you
TomH: I'm sorry that I lied but I'm not sorry that I started talking to you
TomH: and I'm not sorry we arranged that date either. I just really wanted to
meet you after all of our great conversations
His phone rings from across the room, making him jump, and he rushes over in
the hopes that it's Chris, that he's changed his mind, but it's just his friend
David. He lets it ring out. Midway back to his laptop he pauses and tilts his
head back to stare at the off-white ceiling. He squeezes his eyes shut, sending
up a prayer to nobody in particular that he can have this one thing, for once,
something nice of his own.

When he sits back down there's a response, and it's not the kind he wanted.

ChrisH says: it's unfair of you to have put expectations on me
TomH: I didn't! I swear I didn't have any expectations. You think I didn't know
you'd be disappointed when you saw me? I have mirrors.
ChrisH says: don't say stupid shit to get a rise out of me, you know that's not
what I'm saying
ChrisH says: but being attracted to you and being able to date you are two
different things
TomH: they don't have to be
TomH: I wouldn't even tell anyone
It's desperate, maybe, but the length of time between that message and Chris'
next one makes Tom think that he's genuinely considering the proposal.

ChrisH says: you shouldn't be content with being someone's dirty little secret
Tom's halfway through typing how much he might enjoy that, deciding to go all-
out with a clumsy attempt at seduction, when another two messages pop up in
quick succession.

ChrisH says: you should find a boyfriend your own age
ChrisH says: someone you can have fun with after school
TomH: i'm in college, not school
TomH: and if it was as easy as just 'finding a boyfriend' I probably wouldn't
be on this site in the first place
TomH: i wouldn't still be a virgin
He holds his breath, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have typed that last part,
and then his heart sinks yet again when the next message to pop up informs him
that Chris has logged out.
Tom slumps low in his seat and throws a dramatic arm across his eyes, cursing
himself for being hopeful, for actually praying, that he could somehow get
Chris to like him despite his lie and his age and his inexperience. Now Chris
knows he's a virgin he clearly doesn't want anything at all to do with him.
Not for the first time in his life, Tom wonders if he's going to die alone.
Instead of going back to his homework he heads into the bathroom to stare at
his own, stupid face, at his ridiculous hair. He draws the line at talking to
himself but he does give himself a good, stern looking at.
A bell sounds downstairs; not the doorbell but the button his Granddad has for
when there's something he wants, and shortly afterwards Tom hears his Grandma
head in to find out what it is.
Tom has lived with them since he was four and they've always tried to take good
care of him but once his Granddad became ill it became difficult for his Gran
to divide her time equally between them. An energetic child, Tom had always
done his best to help out, even going so far as learning to use the oven and
gas hob before he was in double digits, and while he knows it's been
appreciated he can't help but feel like there's stuff he missed out on as a
kid.

"Gran?" he calls, moving to stand at the top of the stairs. "Do you need any
help?"

She doesn't answer which usually means that she's either fine or she's switched
her hearing aid off, and since she answered the bell Tom knows it to be the
former.
For the past year or so he's pretty much had the upstairs of the house to
himself because Granddad can't get up the stairs and Gran doesn't want to leave
him downstairs alone, which meant that Tom could move his things into the
master bedroom and use his old room for TV and reading, complete with a mini-
fridge.
He heads in there, flopping down onto the old, floral-patterned chair he
claimed when old Ethel next door moved into a care home and her family put all
of her things on the lawn to be disposed of. It doesn't suit the room at all
but it's comfortable and feels well-loved, reminding him often of little old
Ethel and how he doesn't want to end up living alone in his old age like she
did.
He tries not to think about Chris; about how it was silly to pin so many hopes
on a man so attractive and unattainable. He wonders, for the first time, what a
man like Chris is even doing on a dating website anyway, and comes to the
conclusion that he must have some well-hidden but no-less-horrendous personal
flaw.
He calls David back eventually, letting him ramble on excitedly about his
sister's hot friend for a good forty minutes before making his excuses and
heading downstairs to make sure his Grandparents are all set for bed and don't
need anything.
He grabs a book from the small room and settles down on the bed with it,
acutely aware that it's Saturday night and the entire scenario is sad beyond
words. He's read it before, so is really only skimming, and he's thirty seven
pages in when his laptop sounds again with a message alert.
It seems to take forever this time for the screen to wake up and Tom feels like
his heart is in his throat, hoping beyond hope that it's Chris and not just
some random man who has spotted him online. The message screen is minimised but
it is indeed Chris' name flashing, so Tom opens it in a rush.
ChrisH says: are you really a virgin?
Tom blinks a few times, unable to believe he's read the message right. He'd
thought that his virginity was a point of objection for Chris not a point of
interest. He presses his lips together and responds.
TomH: yes
TomH: why would I lie about something so embarrassing?
Instead of sitting down at the desk he carries his laptop over to the bed,
settling back against the pillows as he had been with his book. Chris hasn't
responded yet, so Tom huffs out a slightly annoyed little breath.
TomH: what sort of way is that to open a conversation anyway?
ChrisH says: sorry
ChrisH says: you caught me by surprise before, I didn't know what to say
TomH: I didn't mean to
TomH: I was just ranting I guess
ChrisH says: you shouldn't let it bother you
ChrisH says: the virginity thing
ChrisH says: we're all virgins at one point, right?
That doesn't make Tom feel any better, especially considering that by the time
he'd finished school most of his theatre friends had been sleeping together for
months on some sort of weird rotation.
TomH: yeah but not everyone is a virgin until they're seventeen
TomH: i bet you lost yours when you were young.
ChrisH says: some people wait until they're a lot older than seventeen to sleep
with someone
ChrisH says: well, yeah, I did, but I was dating girls before I realised I get
more out of relationships with men. I wasn't physically with another guy until
I was in my twenties.
TomH: why are we talking about this?
ChrisH says: I was worried I gave you the wrong impression when I logged out
earlier, that being a virgin is a bad thing. I suppose I wanted to make you
feel better.
It's only just gone nine o'clock but the fact that Chris is online rather than
getting ready to go somewhere makes Tom wonder if Chris is feeling as lonely as
he is. Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth he carefully types something,
reading it over twice before hitting enter.
TomH: You could come and fuck me. That'd make me feel better.
There's another pause, this one so long that he worries he's scared Chris off
again. He rubs his socked feet together distractedly, watching like a hawk for
ellipses to appear in the text bar indicating that Chris is typing. They appear
for a second and then;

ChrisH says: Tom
That's it, just 'Tom'. He rolls his eyes and dumps the laptop on the bed beside
him. Standing up, he strips off his jeans and socks, folding the jeans
carefully back into his wardrobe and throwing the socks into the corner where a
small pile of washing is forming.

When he gets back onto the bed in just his t-shirt and boxers there are four
messages.
ChrisH says: you can't just say stuff like that to strange men
ChrisH says: you're going to get yourself into something you can't get out of
if you're not careful.
ChrisH says: Didn't anybody ever teach you about internet safety?
ChrisH says: Tom?
Despite the chastising tone of the messages there isn't an outright no there,
and there seems to be a hint of worry at Tom's delay in responding.
TomH: i wouldn't say it to 'strange men'
TomH: i said it to you
TomH: are you a strange man?
ChrisH says: I'm a stranger
TomH: I've known you for weeks now
TomH: we've met in person
ChrisH says: briefly
Tom taps out a message about feeling that they connected even further in the
short time, but that's actually bollocks and he knows Chris won't go for it, so
he deletes it and sits back in a huff waiting for Chris to say something else.
He doesn't though.
TomH: you're the one who brought it up
TomH: you must've wanted to talk about it
ChrisH says: I wanted to reassure you
TomH: OR you're home alone on a Saturday night and you're horny and you just
kept thinking about that virgin you have so much in common with
He expects a long wait for a response that time, and a vehement denial, but
Chris answers with surprising speed and honesty.
ChrisH says: well, okay, you got me there
Tom sits up more attentively.
ChrisH says: but talking about it and inviting me over to actually do it are
two different things. I'm not saying don't explore sexual conversations I'm
just saying don't offer yourself up to people online like that
ChrisH says: because some people would take you up on it and might not let you
back out if you decided you wanted to
He wants to say that he wouldn't decide to back out of it, but he doesn't think
that's going to make Chris feel any better.
TomH: okay, I won't ever 'offer myself up' to people online
TomH: but the offer still stands with regards to you
ChrisH says: god
ChrisH says: you're unbelievable
TomH: you like it though
It's perhaps a little manipulative, this slow coaxing he's doing, getting Chris
to admit his interest in tiny portions, but the more they talk the closer he
feels to capturing him. He imagines that it's a little bit like reeling in a
fish, although he's never actually been fishing so he can't say for sure.
TomH: i've imagined it so I should be allowed to talk about it
ChrisH says: what've you imagined? sex?
TomH: sex with you
TomH: loads since we met.
ChrisH says: is that right?
TomH: mmhmm.
TomH: i already know exactly what I'd be doing if you were here
ChrisH says: yeah?
ChrisH says: what would you do?
TomH: anything you asked
TomH: you could teach me all the things you like
TomH: i'm like a blank canvas
He worries for a second about that being cheesy, the canvas thing, but then the
dots appear up to show that Chris is typing.

ChrisH says: I'm sure you're not entirely blank
ChrisH says: I bet you've watched porn. Touched yourself.
TomH: of course I've touched myself but that's not the same as being touched or
touching somebody else
TomH: I've always imagined that...the person I'm with for the first time will
leave imprints on me for life. I'll always instinctively do the things THEY
liked, no matter who I'm with. Because that was what I was taught.
ChrisH says: jesus
ChrisH says: you make it sound like you want to be trained
TomH: maybe. not really trained, just shown. how to make somebody feel good.
ChrisH says: I feel like this is a dangerous conversation
TomH: because you're hard?
He gives it twenty seconds, palming at his own growing erection while he waits.
He knows that Chris is interested, he did start this conversation after all,
but he's hesitant to go too far without express permission in case Chris logs
out again. Still, a little nudge couldn't hurt.
TomH: am I right? are you hard?
ChrisH says: getting there
TomH: me too. I like talking about this with you. Even if you're not going to
actually be the one to do it
TomH: it's nice to talk about it
TomH: exciting
ChrisH says: okay
ChrisH says: we'll talk about it then
TomH: are you going to touch yourself?
TomH: I want you to
ChrisH says: jesus, Tom
That's a yes, obviously.
ChrisH says: you're going to get me in trouble
TomH: with who? I'm legal, remember?
TomH: you could drive over here now to get me, take me somewhere private, and
anything that happened afterwards would be entirely legal
TomH: and hot, too
TomH: i bet it'd be so hot and good like I've imagined
ChrisH says: what sorts of things have you imagined?
TomH: lovely and filthy things
He's blushing, daring himself to type the next part. He wants Chris to see him
as a sexual being and not just a kid and a virgin, wants to make it clear that
he's available and serious about everything he says, and at the same time he
also wants to know that he's making Chris excited right now.
ChrisH says: are you going to be more specific?
TomH: I've thought about your cock a lot. I bet it's thick. The night before we
met I was touching myself and I had all four of my fingers stuffed in my mouth
imagining it was your cock
TomH: and how you could teach me to deep throat
TomH: how I'd choke at first and struggle to take it all
It's not a lie; he really had gotten off on the thought of it, which had made
it all the more upsetting to be dropped off the following night feeling silly
and rejected. He hadn't even had the heart to get himself off before bed.
ChrisH says: wow...
TomH: just thinking about it gets me so hard
TomH: imagining how it would feel in my mouth and against the back of my throat
TomH: i'd swallow all of your come
Chris seems to be typing something until that last part, then the dots
disappear for a moment.
ChrisH says: ...are you sure you're a virgin?
TomH: yes, i promise!
TomH: i've only ever lied to you about my age and nothing else, everything else
has been true
ChrisH says: okay
ChrisH says: i believe you
ChrisH says: it's just that you're good at this. have you talked online to men
before? about this?
TomH: no
TomH: I just have a vivid imagination. I thought about being able to touch you
since the first time I saw your picture
TomH: not just because of how you look but because
ChrisH says: because what?
TomH: because you looked kind. Like you'd be gentle and patient
TomH: until I was ready for you to be more rough
He had the appearance of a friendly bear, almost, with his fair beard and his
blonde hair. Or maybe it had been the smile. Something in Tom had wanted quite
desperately to know Chris.
ChrisH says: and that's what you eventually want, is it?
ChrisH says: rough?
TomH: sometimes. sometimes when I get hard I think about being touched nicely
and being able to touch back
TomH: but then other times I can't come unless I start to imagine being held
down and fucked hard by some big guy
ChrisH says: big like me?
TomH: yeah
TomH: but it has to be somebody trustworthy. who would make sure I was ready
ChrisH says: prep you first? Finger you? Get you open and ready for their nice
fat cock?
Just reading the words and imagining Chris saying them causes a delicious tug
in Tom's groin, his dick hardening fully at the idea that Chris is almost on
board, almost. Tom rarely feels so pleased that he's giddy with it but he does
now, his stomach dancing with butterflies as he types out his next message,
hoping to nudge Chris over the edge until they're one-hundred percent on the
same page.
TomH: not 'their' nice fat cock
TomH: say it
TomH: please
ChrisH says: my cock? is that what you want me to say?
ChrisH says: that I'd get you good and ready to take my cock?
TomH: yes
ChrisH says: okay
ChrisH says: I would. I'd make it good for you.
ChrisH says: have you ever fingered yourself?
TomH: yes
ChrisH says: does it feel good?
ChrisH says: will you do it now?
TomH: but I can't finger myself and touch myself and type all at once
TomH: I want to keep talking to you
ChrisH says: okay
For a moment there's nothing, no other questions, no dots to indicate that
Chris is typing, and Tom is just thinking about what to say to get them back on
track when his phone rings.
It could be David, of course, having remembered something else that's so great
about his sister's friend, but Tom instinctively knows that it's not and he
feels his stomach fluttering wildly as he flips the phone face-up on the bed.
Chris' profile picture from the site flashes large on the screen like Tom had
set it to do whenever Chris called; his lovely, lopsided smile beaming out.

"Hello?" he answers, as if he doesn't know perfectly well who's calling.
Chris lets out a little sigh, his deep voice carrying with it an audible
hesitancy when he says, "I wasn't sure you were going to answer. I didn't know
if you'd want to talk about this on the phone."
The first time they'd arranged a voice call Tom had been nervous, wringing his
fingers and rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans, hoping that
conversation would still come as easy on the phone as it did on the instant
messenger. It had, and Tom had fallen instantly harder for Chris when faced
with his low, gentle ramblings.
"No, no," Tom hurries to reassure him now, settling back against the pillows
again if only to stop himself from standing up and pacing in his underwear.
"This is good. We can...we'll hear each other."

Chris hums in agreement, sounding as if he's shifting the phone around a lot,
walking through his place maybe, and then the sound stops. Tom imagines that
Chris, too, has settled himself on his bed.
"What are you wearing?" Chris says awkwardly, letting out an immediate, breathy
laugh. It's such a nice sound that Tom's can't help laughing too.

"Just briefs and a t-shirt. Nothing sexy I'm afraid."

Chris lets out a breath. "That's okay. I'm just wearing pyjama pants."

"You're shirtless?" Tom sounds maybe a tad too excited when he says that, but
Chris only hums in agreement. "I'd like to see that."

"Yeah?" There's a smile evident in Chris' voice. "Maybe we could just talk
about it instead."
There's a picture of Chris on his dating profile where he's at the beach and
midway through tugging down his wetsuit, but it must be old because Chris said
he'd lived in England for a couple of years now and when they'd met he looked
way bigger than on the photograph. Tom scoffs, purposely loud enough for Chris
to hear. "Aw, you won't even take a picture?"

He expects to be rebuffed, of course, but Chris just laughs again and then
grumbles, "Alright, hold on..."
Tom waits, listening as Chris begins to walk around again, opening doors and
flicking on lights, and then he hears the distinctive snap of an iPhone camera.
Then Chris tucks the phone back beside his ear and sighs.

"I feel like an idiot," he says, probably walking back to his room. "I'll send
it in a sec."
Sure enough, thirty seconds or so go by and then a text alert comes in. It's
fiddly, minimising the call window to open up the texts, but it's so worth it
when the picture loads. Chris' face is cut off from the chin upwards but his
hair is clearly loose rather than tied back like it had been on their date.
Everything other than his face is on full display from his long neck down to
his washboard abs and, when Tom enlarges the image, there's even an obvious
bulge in his magnificently low-hanging pants.
He puts the phone back to his ear, trying for casual. "Very nice. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Chris sounds amused. Tom pulls the phone away from his ear
again to look at the shot, admiring the v of muscle leading down to Chris'
groin and allowing himself to envision, for a moment, nuzzling there. Then
Chris' voice sounds from the speaker, "What are you doing?"
Tom pulls the phone back up. "Now? Now I'm thinking about your body." That gets
a laugh - a distinctly pleased one, Tom would say. "You know I can see your
cock sort of?"

"I did take the picture, Tom," Chris says, all blasé about it.
Encouraged by the teasing, Tom tries his luck. "Can I see that too if I ask
nicely?"
Again, Chris laughs, and it's a good job Tom isn't too sensitive because it
seems like that's all Chris has done so far tonight.

"No you cannot," he says as his laugh trails off. "Anyway, I thought you had a
vivid enough imagination to picture it yourself?"
Tom nods even though Chris can't see him. He wants them back on level-footing
and so he goes down the route he suspects will get them there fastest,
murmuring, "Oh, I do. And you should know that imaginary you really, really
enjoys my mouth."
The lack of laughter in response makes Tom smile.

"How about I finger myself for you now?" he presses on, already tilting his
hips up to remove his underwear and hoping that Chris hears the creak of the
old mattress. "I think you'd like to hear that."

There's an audible swallow. "Yeah."
"Will you talk to me?" he coaxes, trying not to sound too needy. "I want to
hear your voice."

Despite the fact that he's never done anything like this he feels oddly
comfortable with the idea, and eager to hear Chris' reaction to it. He'd like
to think that this will get Chris off and make him consider meeting up in
person again.

"Of course I'll talk to you," Chris agrees readily.

Tom pulls his t-shirt off, shoving it beneath his pillow for use later, and
then reaches for the chain of lube sachets he keeps in his bedside drawer.
Lying back he empties the whole thing onto his stomach - messy but good for
instant access - and lets out a little laugh as he scoops a good amount onto
his first two fingers. "I'm just getting lube," he says into the silence.
"Good," Chris whispers. "Get yourself slicked up. I can't wait to hear you."
It makes Tom feel warm and desired; a little bit like a petted kitten,
practically purring under the attention. He spreads his knees wide and tilts
his hips up enough that he can tease and circle at his hole without disrupting
his little pool of lube, and his fingers are so wet that he thinks he can
almost imagine what it'd feel like to have his hole licked out.
"I'm touching myself now," he says, feeling oddly bashful. "Rubbing. Feels
good."
Chris moans. "You like having your hole played with?"

Tom tells him yes, whimpering softly as he presses his first finger inside,
updating Chris as he goes. It always feels a little odd, at first, but he
presses on, listening for Chris' answers, his breathing, doing as he's told
when Chris encourages him to start fucking himself slowly, allowing himself to
make sounds freely for Chris to hear.

He has to pull his shoulder up to his ear in order to keep the phone in place
while he reaches down to stroke at his cock too, and the additional stimulation
must be evident in his sounds because Chris moans again in response.

"How about another one?" Chris says, his voice gritty and dark like he's
touching himself too, enjoying the audio show.
Tom presses his middle finger in alongside his index finger, unable to keep the
hiss from slipping out between his clenched teeth at the stretch, coming back
for more lube before trying again. It's good, nice, but having Chris' voice in
his ear only makes him wish for more in a way that seems greedy.
Chris seems pleased though, whispering "You sound so good. Tell me how it
feels."

"Good," Tom sighs, twisting his wrist for a better angle. He's well-versed in
the art of getting himself off with fingers and a fist around his dick but he's
never had to juggle a phone at the same time. "Feels really good. I...I wish
you could watch. I think I'd like that.

Chris groans. "I bet you would. I'd like it too. Be like having my own personal
little porn star."
Tom wants to remind Chris yet again that he's not little, he's almost six feet
tall actually, but he can't seem to grasp at the words, too focused on his
slick fingers either pumping at his dick or slipping roughly in and out of
himself.

"I'd like to see your face," Chris carries on, sounding tense. "I'd like to
watch you enjoy yourself. How many fingers do you have inside now?"

Tom slips his fingers out, scooping up more lube from his stomach and pressing
three fingertips to his hole.
"Three. Are you- ah," he humps down onto his own fingers as he presses inside,
lifting his knees as close to his chest as he can comfortably hold them and
feeling the tickle of residual lube dripping down to his chest. "Are you
touching your cock?"
"Fuck yes," Chris sighs, and it's clear from his voice that he's struggling for
composure.
Tom has imagined this so many times; Chris settled back with his legs spread,
fisting his own cock roughly, eyes fixed on Tom. In those scenarios Tom had
always been waiting, ready to drop to his knees and take Chris into his mouth
as soon as he was allowed, but this works too; imagining Chris kneeling above
him, preparing to stretch Tom open around his cock.
"Close your fist tight as you can stand and fuck into it," Tom demands weakly.
"Like it's me you're fucking."

Chris huffs out a desperate breath like he's doing as he's told and Tom feels
himself start to unravel.
"Yeah, I bet you are tight. Bet you're nice and wet though, aren't you? Slick
for me?" Chris says hotly. "And I bet you'd let me fuck you right now, wouldn't
you?"

"Yes, I would- anything," Tom gasps, his orgasm building as Chris begins to
sound more and more breathless. More than anything Tom wants to hear him come,
to know that he played at least a part in it. "I'd do anything to feel your
cock inside of me, want it so bad-"

"I know," Chris grits out, clearly moments from coming himself. "Because you
know I'd make it good for you, don't you? Hold you down and make you...make you
mine."

That's it. It's not just the words but the way Chris sounds when he says them,
reverent and desperate, like he's been hollowed out by his own need. Tom's back
arches off the bed as he comes, his toes curling, and his breath catches in his
throat.

"Are you coming?" Chris asks, groaning around the words. "Let me hear you."

And Tom does, pressing his head back into the pillow and letting go, gasping
and moaning for Chris to hear, spurred on by his answering sounds. He comes
like a rocket, come spurting across his upper chest and neck because of the
shape he's curled himself into. He can feel his inner muscles squeezing in
spasms around his fingers and tells Chris as much, breaking off to lick at his
dry mouth between words.

"Wish I could feel you," Chris all but growls. "Should've taken you up on your
offer."
"I'd have let you," Tom breathes out slowly as he starts to come down, body
relaxing so entirely it's a genuine effort to keep hold of the phone. "I still
will. Anything you want, I swear."
Chris lets out a choked-off moan, a dark, wet sound that seems to have been
ripped right from his throat and makes Tom regret coming first and not getting
to follow such a wonderful sound.

Then they're both just breathing into the dark, heavy and distorted through
their mouthpieces like roars of wind. Tom feels sweaty and shaken but entirely
sated, feeling as though he might melt right into his mattress.
"Do you have toys?" Chris asks once he's got his breath back and Tom answers in
the negative. It's not that he's never thought about it - he's watched enough
solo jerk-off pornos to know they come in all sorts of enjoyable shapes and
sizes - and he's even gone so far as to browse a website for one he might like,
but he's always been halted by the thought that his Gran might find it. He
already worries about sending her to an early death without involving sex toys.
"You should get some," Chris sounds like he's smiling, like maybe he's
imagining it and enjoying the thought. "Big dildo to ride on when you get horny
so you don't have to imagine it."
Tom hums thoughtfully, feeling his eyelids growing heavy in his post-orgasmic
haze. If Chris were with him he thinks they'd probably cuddle. Chris seems the
type. "I don't know. I don't want the first cock inside me to be plastic or
rubber or whatever."
"You want the real thing."
He sighs fairly dramatically. "Yeah. Too bad nobody wants to give it to me."

There's quiet for quite a long while after that, so much that Tom thinks maybe
Chris has fallen asleep, but then he clears his throat a little and says, "You
know that's not true."
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of Tom's mouth. "Maybe we should try meeting
up again."
"Maybe," Chris says noncommittally. "I'm going to head into the bathroom to
wash up, and you're sounding tired, so why don't we call it a night?"

Tom pouts and remains silent.

Chris sighs. "I'll call again."

"Do you promise?"

A little laugh - so they're back to that - and then, "I promise."

They each say goodnight, Tom feeling much more mournful about it than Chris
sounds, and once they've hung up he uses his t-shirt to wipe himself off before
shuffling properly into bed. He'll shower in the morning.

He opens up the photograph of Chris one last time, smoothing his fingers over
the lines of Chris' impressive chest and hoping to dream more accurately
tonight about that body.
Belatedly he hopes that his grandparents did turn off their hearing aids.
-
***** Spent Everything You Had *****
Chapter Summary
     Chris and Tom keep up their telephone exchanges despite Chris'
     reservations.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry this took so long, but it's complete now. Phew.
     Huge thanks to rangerdanger and umakoo for beta reading. <3
It's Tuesday night before Tom hears anything from Chris. Several times he
thinks about sending a text or an instant message on the site, but somehow he
finds the strength not to. Chris had said he'd call, so Tom waits.
He's wheeling his Granddad through into the bedroom when his phone alerts him
to a text and, although there's a little jump in his heart rate at the sound,
he waits until he's got the chair into the room before taking a sneaky look.
Hi
It's from Chris but it's just the one word and Tom isn't sure what to make of
that considering they've listened to each other come. He doesn't want to leave
his Granddad sitting in the chair any longer than he needs to so he just fires
a 'Hi there.' back and pockets his phone again.
Granddad's been in his pyjamas, courtesy of Gran, since before his favourite
soap opera so all Tom has to do is get him into the bed before Gran will come
and settle him in for sleep. Tom has always found the set-up to be rather
elaborate, what with the giant hoist that takes up a huge section of the small
room, but short of hiring a body-builder as a carer they have little choice.
The phone vibrates again in his pocket, loud enough that his Granddad looks
over his shoulder at him and tilts his head. "Your hip is buzzing." He flicks
his wrist like he's unbothered. "I'll wait."
Tom shifts the wheelchair so that it's beside the bed hoist and applies the
brakes before sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping his phone out to read
the response.
It's Chris.
He tries to stifle his smile since his Granddad is right there, but there's
something oddly endearing about the fact that Chris seems unsure that Tom has
even saved his number.
I know :)
He adds the smile to be reassuring, hoping that it doesn't come across to Chris
as childish, and then he puts his phone down on the bed and reaches over to
grab the sling for his Granddad's hoist. His palms are oddly sweaty, probably
due to the excitement of actually hearing from Chris after days of anxious
waiting.
When his phone sounds again within less than a minute he only has to look down
at it to see what Chris has put.
Sorry I haven't called.
He throws his Granddad a furtive look before picking up the phone again.
'That's okay, you're a busy man.' He thinks on that for a second, before adding
'I've been busy too.'
 
Pocketing his phone he finds his Granddad looking up at him like he's only
half-sure who Tom even is.
 
"Are you writing to a girl?" he says, his words only slightly slowed by the
delay from his brain to his mouth.
 
Tom came out to his Gran almost a year ago and his Grandfather has been told
several times since but, due to his illness, hasn't ever retained the
information. He asks Tom maybe once a week if he's going to see a girl.
 
"No, Granddad," Tom crouches down in front of the wheelchair to slip the sling
around his Granddad's back, smiling when he helpfully leans forwards. "Just a
friend. Can you lift your knee?"
 
Granddad mumbles something to himself, shakily lifting each leg in turn so that
Tom can secure the leg supports of the sling before manoeuvring the hoist into
position. It's a slow process, and the whirring and buzzing of the machine must
mask the vibration of Tom's phone because when his Gran comes in to tuck
Granddad in and pats Tom gratefully on the cheek, he slips his phone out of his
pocket and finds a text waiting there.
 
Are you busy now?
 
-
He almost trips up on the stairs in his hurry to get to his room, closing the
door behind him once he gets there and sending off a quick response that he's
not busy. He toes off his shoes in the corner and by the time he's headed over
to sit on his bed the phone is vibrating with a call.
"Hi Chris," he says, settling down and hoping to sound more casual than he
feels, like he hasn't been waiting almost seventy two hours for this call.
Just the sound of Chris' intake of breath is enough to make his stomach flip,
and then Chris says, "Hi, Tom."
It feels a little bit like melting into the bed, the relief that washes over
him with the informal, unfussy tone of Chris' voice.
"You took your time calling me," he says playfully as he can manage.
"Ah," Chris laughs breathily. "Did I? I'm sorry. I was going to call you last
night but my work colleague invited me for a drink. I was a little drunk when I
got home and, I don't know. Seemed like a bad idea to call."

Tom shrugs even though Chris can't see him, trying to imagine the sorts of
things he could've had Chris agreeing to. "I wouldn't have minded."
Chris hums thoughtfully, like he knows Tom's ideas on the matter aren't
entirely innocent, and Tom hears a series of beeps followed by the unmistakable
drone of a microwave.
He tries to imagine what Chris' kitchen might look like, what kind of apartment
he has. He feels an inexplicable desire to know everything about him. "What're
you reheating? Yesterday's Chinese take-out? Pizza?"
There's a chuckle down the line, the droning getting quieter as Chris distances
himself from the machine. "Who reheats pizza? My downstairs neighbour made
pie." 
"Oh," Tom nods, narrowing his eyes. "I see. She's trying to get into your
pants."
"No you don't see," Chris huffs. "She's seventy six."
For a moment Tom imagines his grandmother at that age, eight years from now,
baking pie for a handsome young neighbour to fill up her days once granddad is
gone and Tom has flown the nest. It's a depressing thought.
"My Gran is almost seventy," he says without really meaning to. "That's who I
live with, her and my Granddad."
It's like Chris isn't really sure what to say for a while, though he does make
an interested noise. The sound of a television fades in to fill the background
noise, and then a puff of breath as if Chris has sat down heavily. Tom sucks
his bottom lip into his mouth, trying to imagine Chris' living room, wondering
if he'll ever be invited there. "Your parents aren't around?"
Tom doesn't like to get into it, always having disliked the pitied look he
received in response, but he supposes that since he's the one who brought it up
he can't exactly dodge the question.
He chews at his bottom lip for a second, trying to formulate a casual response.
"I came to stay with my grandparents when I was four because my mother was
placed on a psychiatric ward."
He stops there, because his Gran told him the full story when he was fourteen
and he hasn't ever repeated it, not even to David. Some day he supposes he'll
tell somebody, but it won't be today.
"She was..." he takes a breath. "She just had a hard time of it."
In the distance Chris' microwave begins a rhythmic beeping but Chris doesn't
get up right away. Tom holds his breath, expecting the rush of inexplicable
apologies and pity, but all Chris says is "Well, in that case you're lucky to
have your Grandparents."
As if of their own accord Tom's lips pull up at the corners and he scoffs. "Go
and get your pie."
They manage to have normal conversation for over half an hour despite Tom's
heavy flirting and persistent injection of innuendos, largely because Chris is
chewing away at his pie and laughing good naturedly at Tom's attempts to drive
the conversation in a more sexual direction.
At some point his Gran calls up to say goodnight and he presses his fingers
over the mouthpiece of the phone when he shouts back. He wiggles out of his
clothes, putting the phone down on the bed so he can pull his shirt over his
head and whip his boxers off.
When he hops into bed and picks the phone back up Chris' voice is low. "Was
that the sound of you getting naked?"
Tom laughs. "Might've been. Why do you care?"
"Well," Chris says, plate and cutlery clattering into the sink, "Can't have you
being the only one naked, now can I?"
Leaning back, Tom closes his eyes and listens as Chris begins to move around
again. He thinks he hears light switches being flicked off, the pattern of
Chris' breath changing as he moves. "Where are you going? To your bedroom?"
"Are you in your bed?" Chris asks instead of answering.
Tom hums. "Yeah...but I wish I was in yours."
"Imagine that." Chris sounds as if he's smiling.
Tom lifts his blanket to slip underneath it, allowing himself a generous moment
to palm at his growing erection. "Do imagine it," he whispers. "Imagine coming
through the doorway and there I am. What then?"
Chris makes a deep humming sound, followed by a rasp that Tom imagines is him
running his palm across his beard. "Well I'd have to join you, wouldn't I?"
Tom sighs. "What's your bedroom like? Where would you have me?"
Maybe it's the drama club background but Tom likes to have the scene set for
him, wants to be able to imagine exactly what Chris is imagining as they talk
each other to orgasm.
"I'd have you everywhere in the house," Chris chuckles, and in the background
there's the metal-on-metal clink of a belt buckle. "My bedroom has two big
windows on the far wall and the bed is between them, pointing out into the
room. I'm imagining you perched on the end of it."
"Waiting for you," Tom agrees. "Naked? Touching myself?"
"Oh, clothes are prohibited in my bedroom, didn't I tell you?"
Then it's Tom's turn to laugh. "You never mentioned."
"It's a new rule," Chris admits amidst the ruffling sounds of clothes being
removed. "Only recently implemented."
"Well I'm glad you told me. I'd hate to inadvertently break a rule."
Chris laughs. "Oh, sure, because you're a real stickler for the rules," he
says, but he doesn't sound annoyed or like he's really dwelling on it so Tom
says nothing.
There's a pause then, just a moment as Chris shucks off his clothes, and in the
silence Tom realises he's got a stupid smile on his face. He lifts his hand as
if to wipe it away but it doesn't go anywhere.
"Okay," Chris grunts, like he's thrown himself down on the bed, "so you're
naked, I'm naked..."
Tom can't help but laugh that Chris' attempt at casual is so unsubtly laced
with giddy expectation, and he slips his hand down his own body in response,
rubbing his palm along his own stiff dick. "I think you were telling me how you
wanted me," he says, letting his voice go breathy, wanton.
 "Ah, I was," comes the equally breathy reply. "I want you on every surface of
my house but I think we settled on the bed, didn't we? Yeah. I can picture it
now. I think I'd like to have you ride me, how does that sound? Perch yourself
in my lap and slowly take my cock."
Tom bites down on his tongue to stop the too-desperate sound that bubbles up.
He's always liked the intimacy of face-to-face fucking in porn, especially when
the bottom climbs into the top's lap and takes some semblance of control.
"Yeah," is all he manages to say, and Chris doesn't seem to mind.
"I'll get home from work and there you are on my bed, naked. If I come and sit
beside you will you let me kiss you?"
That surprises Tom a little, so instead of answering he ends up saying, "You
like kissing?"
"Kissing is awesome," Chris huffs out a laugh. "Great foreplay. A good kiss can
get me fully hard."
Tom hums, pleased. "I like to kiss, but I've never had a really good kiss.
Just, you know, silly kisses at parties. Spin the bottle." He's kissed girls on
stage, too, for school plays, but he doesn't think that counts.
"I'll kiss you," Chris says, and he sounds so much like he means it that Tom's
eyes slip closed and his rubbing palm becomes a fist around himself. "I'll kiss
you until your lips are swollen and you're so hard you climb into my lap
because you can't stand to have even those few inches between us."
Tom had anticipated that he'd do most of the talking like last time but Chris
seems to be on a roll and content to run with his scenario.
"I bet you have the cutest arse," Chris says then. "I'd like to get my hands on
it, pull you close, spread you open. Do you have lube right now?"
Tom scoffs because he's always got lube, right there in the bedside drawer. He
whispers, "Want me to finger myself again?"
"Mmhmm," Chris murmurs. "Because if you were here right now that's what I'd be
doing. Kissing you and reaching down to spread you open for my fingers, all
while you're in my lap. I bet I could make you writhe around for me."
"I bet you could," Tom allows from between loose lips.
Chris pauses for a second. "I liked it, the other night, hearing how much you
enjoyed touching yourself. Do you need to be quiet now? Because of your
grandparents?"
"No, no," Tom assures him, fairly loudly. "They, um, they take their hearing
aids out before bed. They're both a little..." he trails off, waving a hand
even through Chris can't see him. "They won't hear anything."
"Okay, good," comes the reply and then, slightly concerned, "I mean...not good
that your grandparents are hard of hearing, but good that, you know...I get to
hear you."
Tom feels laughter and affection bubble up at Chris' jumbled attempt at
clarifying. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing his knuckles against his lips
to stop himself from openly laughing - despite the fact that Chris seems quite
content to laugh at him - but then Chris says, "Um, Tom?"
The attempt to hold it back means that the laugh is big when it comes, silly
and more high-pitched than he'd like but he can't help himself, even when Chris
says his name again to try to calm him he only laughs more.
"It wasn't that funny, was it?" Chris asks, sounding genuinely confused and a
tiny bit self-conscious. Tom can't pull his hand away from his mouth without
giggling so he says nothing. Eventually Chris sighs. "I feel like we were
better at this last time..."
At that Tom has to roll onto his stomach and shove his face into the pillow to
stop the next burst of laughter from erupting down the phone. Chris, seeming to
sense his further amusement, only sighs.
"Usually my attempts at sex don't inspire laughter in people, just so you
know."
After a further moment of muffled giggling, finally able to catch his breath,
Tom pulls the phone back up to his ear and takes a deep breath. "Don't worry, I
believe you."
His cock is still hard, jammed nicely between his warm stomach and the cool
sheet, and just a small shift against the sheets has him moaning a little into
the phone. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip. "Still want to get me
off?"
"Yeah?" Chris sounds surprised. "Sure you're not just going to laugh at me
again?"
"Don't be so funny and I won't laugh," Tom shrugs. "Come on, I'm still hard.
Feels good."
It seems to take Chris a moment to get himself back to where he was, clearing
his throat. "Got your lube?"
"Yup," Tom lies, reaching out to quietly open his bedside drawer. He grabs a
sachet and lays it on his pillow beside his face, still humping the mattress a
little. "I'm on my stomach."
Chris breathes out. "Okay. Gonna tilt your hips up for me? Hmm?"
Tom does as he's told, first reaching back to touch dry fingers to his hole,
enjoying the drag of his finger tips. 
"Are you touching yourself?" Chris asks. "I want to be able to picture it."
"Just let me-" Tom leans up on his elbows and brings the foil rectangle to his
mouth, tearing the corner with his teeth. Immediately lube begins to drool from
the torn corner but Tom scoops it up before it can spill, rubbing his fingers
together to warm the gel. "Gonna fuck myself," he grunts as he lets his face
drop back to the pillow and angles his hips so that he can press a finger
inside.
"Good boy," Chris breathes, and Tom gets a dirty thrill at the words, though he
isn't sure Chris has noticed what he's said. "Do you finger yourself nice and
slow or do you fuck yourself hard?"
There is not preference, not really, sometimes Tom likes it one way and
sometimes he likes it the other - it's all he has to go on when he says he
sometimes wants to be held down and fucked rough. Tonight though he feels like
quicker is better, especially since he's swapping between rubbing himself
against the sheets and tilting his hips up all slutty like he's waiting for a
cock.
He can all but picture Chris behind him, tries to pretend that the breathing in
his ear is coming from somewhere in his room, that Chris is watching and
waiting for the opportune moment to join him.
"Depends on, ah, on my mood," he stutters out, second finger sliding in nice
and slick beside the first with just a little pressure, "but I'm so tense right
now I think I'm gonna come soon either way. Are you touching yourself?"
"I'm stroking my cock," Chris groans, hint of curiosity in his voice. "What's
got you all tense?"
Tom wishes he'd stop asking questions and get back to telling Tom all the ways
he'd like to fuck him but he supposes he did instigate this whole thing with
his perseverance and maybe he owes it to Chris to occasionally explain himself.
"You," he confesses, licking his dry lips. "You make me so nervous and excited.
I wish you'd fuck me. I wish you were here right now to stuff me full. Feels
like-" he gasps as his fingers brush across his prostate, shivering bodily as
he slips them back out and pushes in again, it's nice, good, but he wants more.
"Sometimes feels like it's not enough to finger myself anymore."
"Just want a good dicking, don't you? Want to arch your back and take my cock."
Tom hisses so desperately it seems to go on forever, breathing the sound out
through his teeth until he's out of breath and gasping into the pillow.
"You're too pretty to be this desperate for it, I'm starting to think I'll have
to take you up on your offer before some other guy gets there first and doesn't
know what to do with you, how to make it good. I'd fuck you so good. I know
you’re tight but, ah, I'd take my time on you. Fuck you good and deep, nice and
slow like I know you need it."
Tom's shaking as he listens, hips angled to take his fingers in such a way that
his cock doesn't drag against the sheets anymore, bobbing neglected in the air
between him and the bed. "I can't..."
The words won't come and so he gives in, rolling his forehead against the
pillow. He only wants to say that he can't touch himself but Chris can't see
that, misunderstands, crooning "You can, you can. We'll get you there. Fuck
yourself for me."
He needs more lube to press his third finger inside, blinks his eyes open to
see the sachet seeping slick onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, careful to
keep the phone by his ear and mouth, he reaches down to give his flushed cock a
generous stroke before reaching out for what's left of the lube. His fingers
shake as he reaches between his legs, cock leaking against his inner arm, to
carelessly lube around his hole, feeling where his fingers are swallowed up by
the warm, puffy rim.
"Feels good," he says, spreading his knees as best he can and pressing his
third finger inside, rubbing his cock with his now free hand. "I'm gonna come
soon. Are you- are you close?"
Chris' breathing is coming harsh and fast down the phone, accompanied every
once in a while by a muffled groan like his teeth are clenched. Tom tries to
imagine Chris curled up behind him, chest pressed against Tom's back, thick
fingers gripping Tom beneath the knee to hold him open.
"Tell me you want my cock," Chris grits out, clearly close to coming.
"I do. I do. So badly. Want your come, please, give me-"
Tom's teeth snap shut around the word as he comes hard. He can't help the sound
he makes; a desperate keening sound straight from the back of his throat. His
orgasm is so intense that he feels almost as if he's shooting his spine out
through his cock, whole body spasming as he shoots onto the bed sheets, the
whole thing heightening by the fact that Chris is coming too, gasping and
groaning into Tom's ear, murmuring 'yes' and 'fuck' and 'Tom'.
Moments pass, Tom blinking erratically, realising that somewhere along the way
his room had gone dark.
He tries to catch his breath, listening as Chris does the same at his end. They
do that for what seems like the longest time, each just breathing out into the
dark, slower and slower until eventually Tom feels as though his limbs are made
of liquid and his eyelids too heavy to keep open.
Part of him wants to prod again for Chris to consider meeting him, eager to
cultivate the seed he hopefully planted in Chris' mind last time, but the rest
of him is so contented and tingly that he sighs instead.
"Thanks for calling," he says around a smile, eyes already closing.

Chris breathes out slowly, sounding equally exhausted. "I said I would."
-
College the next day is the same old mixture of boring and fun in random
bursts; Tom checking his phone sporadically to see if Chris has text him until
his History of Literature professor catches him and gives him an unimpressed
eyebrow raise. Chastised, he drops it into his satchel and doesn't check it
again until lectures are over for the day.
He shoots a message off to Chris as he heads into rehearsal for the next
performance piece his theatre group are doing (I've been thinking about you
today) and then again shoves it to the bottom of his bag and tries to forget
about it.
They're doing a series of stylised portions from Midsummer and Tom is Puck, a
role he fought for despite initially being suggested for Demetrius, and is due
any day now for his costume fitting. Everyone has the scenes in the bag but are
being unrelentingly encouraged to rehearse them over and over again anyway.
To emphasise the comedy of the play they're going to be doing wire-work for the
first time but they don't have the rigging sorted yet so for now Tom and the
other fairies are having to leap around on command, a task that is becoming
increasingly exhausting.
He's still, for a change, in the middle of his monologue about Titania's Indian
Prince, when he thinks he hears his phone buzzing against the metal bench he
left his bag on. He pauses for so long that Kelly, the girl playing Helena,
whisper-hisses his line at him from the side of the stage and everyone else
falls about laughing.
When he finally gets a moment to check his phone, sure enough, there's a missed
call from Chris.
"What's got you all distracted?" David - the play's Lysander - asks, dropping
himself down next to Tom and leaning over to stick his nosy face in Tom's
business. Tom shoves him away.
"I thought I heard my phone but there's nothing there."
David drives him home afterwards, as he always does, and talks some more about
his sister's friend and the various scenarios he's come up with to determine
whether or not she likes him back.
"I'm sure she does," Tom nods, tipping his head to take in David's profile as
he drives. He's never looked at David in that way but he supposes his friend is
handsome enough, if a little pinched looking. "What's not to like?"
"Aw, babe," David swoons, slipping his hand playfully from the gearstick to
squeeze at Tom's knee, and Tom feels too exhausted and heavy from college and
rehearsal to even fight him off.
When they pull up outside the house David leans over and plants a wet kiss on
his cheek before shoving him out of the car and driving off, and Tom drags
himself into the house to find his Grandma clearing the table.
"Yours is on the kitchen counter," she says, used to plating up food for him on
rehearsal nights instead of waiting for him to join them, and as Tom passes by
he leans in to kiss her cheek. She tuts fondly.
By the time he's eaten and made his way upstairs he feels far too weary to
engage in phone sex of any sort so he texts Chris to say that he might go to
sleep early. He's surprised when his phone rings not a minute later.
He answers in a hesitant sort of way that has Chris laughing immediately.
"Relax," Chris hums, "I just thought I'd call and say goodnight."
Relieved, Tom lets out a little breath. "Oh, that's good. I'm too tired for
anything imaginative right now."
He sits on his bed, elbows on his knees, and drops his head so his phone is
tucked close to his cheek.
"We don't always have to talk about sex, you know," Chris says casually, his
voice genuine enough. "What's got you so tired?"
So Tom tells him about drama group and about the play, detailing as best he can
the roles everyone is playing without making the conversation too long, and
Chris hums along as if he's actually listening - which is much more than the
distracted murmuring that he gets from his Gran - and asks whether or not Tom
has top billing as he's sure he deserves. When they say goodnight he feels a
little warm and fluttery in his stomach.
- 
Chris calls the next day, and then again two days after that. He tells Tom all
about his job, how he shares an office with a serial cheater named Jack who's
been crying all week so far because his wife left him, and a domineering woman
named Carolyn who doesn't care for Jack's shit. 
Tom listens attentively, humming thoughtfully and laughing when he thinks
something is funny even if Chris didn't mean it as a joke. Usually with people
he finds himself talking too much to fill the silence, or simply because he's
lost interest in the current conversation, but he finds that he could listen to
Chris all day. 
There's things that Tom already knows from before their disastrous date; such
as Chris' childhood in Australia, his career and his decision to move to the
UK, all of which they had covered in the two weeks prior to meeting in person,
but it's all expanded upon in their evening calls.
They talk in circles around Tom's own childhood in a way that allows him to
avoid mentioning his mum, Chris allows him to wax poetic about the freedoms of
theatre and his hopes for the future.
Tom likes him more and more every day, for his voice and his quiet humour, for
his opinions and his good advice, but he has trouble working out how to
verbalise that without potentially driving Chris away. So instead he resorts to
flirting and suggestion, guiding the conversation in a direction he thinks he
can handle, revelling in Chris' sounds of pleasure and his ramblings in the
heat of the moment about wanting to have Tom for real.
Each night they say goodnight, and Tom might be imagining it, but he thinks
Chris is starting to sound increasingly sad about saying goodbye.
-
His English professor is ill. Or, at least, that's the rumour moving about the
whispering lecture hall fifteen minutes after eleven when Frank Weston still
hasn't arrived.
Tom watches carefully as the rest of the group gets restless, nobody wanting to
be the first to leave but all wanting somebody to start the ball rolling.
Somebody does, and within less than two minutes the room is mostly empty.
With no interest in standing around in the rain Tom only rolls his eyes,
digging his phone out of his pocket. He stares at the blank screen for a moment
before opening up his texts.
Are you in work?
He checks that it's set to silent mode before laying it down on his desk and
flipping open his text book. There are three girls at the front of the class
doing the assigned reading with their heads tipped together and one boy across
to his left staring into space and chewing gum. He's got a nice strong jaw that
shifts pleasantly each time he chews and Tom catches himself staring.
His phone rattles across the desk half a centimetre.
Yeah, everything okay?
And there's that odd blooming warmth in his chest again. He tries not to let it
show on his face.
It's nice that Chris sometimes responds like he's concerned, either dipping his
voice low and talking with an obvious frown or simply by asking what's wrong.
Tom decides to ignore the question.
What do you wear to work? A suit?
He keeps his phone in hand this time, pressing it to his chest and pretending
to look over his text book. The response takes a while so he reads the same
sentence over and over, not really taking it in. From the corner of his eye he
notices that the guy with the gum is looking over at him.
He watches with a slight frown as the guy pulls a string of gum from between
his lips and wraps it around his finger, and then his phone vibrates against
his chest and everything else loses his attention.
I'll take that to mean you're fine. I'm afraid so about the suit. Even have to
wear a tie.
Tom can imagine Chris' voice, the deep timbre and accent, and he's smiling
again before he knows it. He thumbs out a response.
Why 'afraid so'? I bet you look really hot in a suit. Authoritative. I wish I
worked in your office.
He imagines that Chris will laugh at him again and that's okay, he's grown used
to it and hardly even notices now when Chris' laughter puffs out across the
phone. By text it's even easier to ignore, unless Chris opens his message like;
Ha. Thanks, I guess. I'm not sure about authoritative though, and I think
office work would be too boring for you.
The reply is swift enough to suggest that Chris is either not busy or he's
happy to pause his work to talk to Tom for a while. Either way is good, and as
Tom's lecture hall continues to empty - the three girls packing up quietly and
leaving Tom alone with just bubblegum guy - mischief takes over.
Yeah but then I could accost you in the photocopy room like they do in films.
Lock the door behind us, slip down to my knees...
He leaves it there, although he could go on, and when he puts his phone back
down he has to subtly adjust himself. Just the thought of getting Chris hard at
the office is a thrill. As an afterthought he checks that bubblegum guy hasn't
just been afforded and eyeful of him groping himself but, no, the guy seems to
be focused in on his text book.
The phone buzzes across the table.
Jesus, Tom. I can't do this while I'm at work.
It's hard to read the tone of a text, but Tom assumes that Chris is flustered
more than annoyed and so he perseveres.
Aren't you alone?
Barely any delay.
No? Carolyn and Jack are at their desks across the office.
Tom grins, probably a little meanly, and types out: How well do you think you
could hide it from them if I was beneath your desk sucking your cock?
He sends it and waits only a moment, overly amused with himself at the idea of
Chris looking shifty and suspicious in work, before adding: Not very well, I'd
wager.
Chris' response makes him laugh out loud:
What's gotten into you? Shouldn't you be in class?
No. Tom sends. As discussed I should be beneath the desk of a horrendously hot
guy sucking his cock through the fly of his business suit.
He imagines Chris' face when that message comes in, how he might throw furtive
glances around the office, might shuffle forward further beneath the desk,
might want to touch himself. He'll resist, of course, but the fact that he
might WANT TO is enough for Tom.
Where has this mischief come from? It's not even midday.
Tom sighs, blinking down at his phone. He'd hoped Chris would be more up for
playing along than he seems to be.
Just thinking about you. Lecture was cancelled. Can I suck your cock? I think
you should let me.
For a while there's nothing. Tom pretends to read his book but finds his eyes
slipping over to the phone as often as blinking, so he packs up with a sigh
eventually and throws bubblegum guy an awkward wave.
Just as he goes to slip his phone into his pocket it buzzes in his palm.
I'll call you later.
Tom wonders if he's in trouble.
-
Hours later, full of Gran's shepherd's pie and lounging in the living room with
his feet crossed over the coffee table, Tom's phone finally rings.
"Going to bed!" He yells, ignoring that it's only just gone eight thirty,
taking the stairs two at a time.
"So that business in work today..." Chris opens with, clearly trying to sound
unimpressed. 
Tom can't help but laugh. "I couldn't help myself! Sorry." Slipping into his
room he logs into his account on the dating site and begins to systematically
delete all of the new messages from other men without even reading them.
"You're not sorry at all," Chris accuses.
Tom shuts off the laptop and moves over to his bed. "You're right, I feel
pretty accomplished, actually. Have you ever been hard in work before?"
With a laugh, Chris sighs. "How come you only ever want to talk about my cock?"
"Curiosity, mostly." Tom hums thoughtfully, stretching out on the bed, trailing
a palm down his stomach, unhurried, until his fingers brush the waistband of
his jeans . "I want it."
"I know you do." Chris' voice is heavy with something, nothing Tom can identify
but something that makes it seem okay to press on. He dips his voice low.
"Can I have it?"
There isn't too much of a wait before Chris says, quietly, "Yeah."
And there it is, if only Tom could actually believe that. He loves talking to
Chris, feels more fulfilled by their conversations than any other interactions
he's had in his life, but he's starting to feel like he's never going to
actually be afforded a second chance. He bites his lip.
"You promise?"
The beat of silence feels heavy, loaded, and Tom almost opens his mouth to play
it off as a joke, but then Chris sucks in a breath.
"Yeah," he says, voice low. "I promise."
-
The next day Tom is in rehearsals for the play, tired and ready to go home
after going over his scene a dozen times before being shuffled off to try on
his constricting suit.
He'd handed David his phone to take the photograph and thought nothing of it
but now the phone is in Kelly's hands it suddenly seems like a bad idea. Kelly
is lovely, really, but older and fairly overbearing, with a real knack for
sticking her nose into everyone else's business.
"You look amazing!" She beams, tilting the phone to show a couple of the other
cast before looking back at it herself. "Are there any more?"

Tom watches with dread as her thumb flicks once, twice to the right, looking
further back in his photo album. He reaches out to take the phone back,
horribly aware that she's probably already seen the picture.
"Who is that?" she squeals, tearing the phone out of Tom's hand before he can
successfully pull it away. "Oh my actual god," she mutters. 
All of a sudden half of the cast is gathered around her cooing and snickering
at what Tom knows must be the picture of Chris' body.

David looks over a little wide eyed. "Who is it?"
Tom feels heat creeping up his neck, trying to will away the inevitable blush
as several of his friends look between him and his phone with a mixture of
amusement and scandal.

"Do you have a big, burly boyfriend, Tom?" Kelly prods, moving his phone closer
to her face. "It's like he's chiselled out of stone."
David nudges at him, unimpressed with his silence.

Tom shrugs. "It's a picture I found on the internet. I just like it."

Brian, who is older and really just a stage technician but stays behind to lock
up the auditorium when they're done, laughs and shakes his head, snatching the
phone from Kelly and handing it back to Tom. "Tosser," he mutters, looking at
Tom like he's stupid.

"Okay, okay," David says, clapping his hands and, because he's the lead actor
and Miss Hennigan's obvious favourite, everyone listens.
-
That night on the phone Tom thinks for just a second about maybe telling Chris
about what happened in rehearsal, just as a funny anecdote, but he's worried
that it'll freak Chris out so he doesn't.
Chris hasn't mentioned Tom's age since the night they first had phone sex but
that doesn't mean it isn't at the back of his mind - Tom's too smart to let
himself believe Chris has decided to let it go.
-
Aladdin is on the TV, the cartoon boy hopping from rooftops with his little
monkey in tow, and Tom is tapping his toes along to the tune. As a child this
had been his favourite Disney movie, all about a boy with no parents finding a
place in the world, and to find it playing on the TV seems like a rare win.
Until Chris calls and asks what he's watching.
To admit to watching a Disney film might undo all of Tom's hard work convincing
Chris that he's an adult and so he lies, muting the film and flicking his eyes
across to his DVD collection and blurting out the first title he sees. "A
Streetcar Named Desire."
There's quiet. "Never seen it," Chris says, a loose shrug evident in his voice
and Tom's gasp makes him laugh. "What?"
"How have you not? It's a classic. Have you at least read it?"
"No."
Tom huffs, practically throwing himself off the bed. "Wait there," he says,
standing before his bookshelf, running his fingers hurriedly along the spines
until he finds what he's looking for. It's brand new, this copy, because he let
David take the old one to read and never got it back, and as Tom settles back
onto the bed he takes pleasure in opening it wide enough to hear the spine
crack. "I could read a bit of it, if you wanted."
Chris makes an odd sound, like he's surprised. "You want to read it to me?"
If Tom feels a little bit silly at the reaction he forges on anyway - he always
found the idea of reading to someone very romantic. "Not all of it, it's a long
play. Just a piece of it."
"Okay," Chris eventually says.
Pleased, Tom explains the basic premise as he flicks through trying to find his
favourite monologues. Chris hums thoughtfully along as Tom picks out parts to
read, affecting the appropriate voices for each character and injecting his own
opinion here or there. Mostly he reads various pieces spoken by the female
lead, Blanche, a mentally troubled character who has always resonated with him
- largely, he suspects, because of his own mother.
"So Stanley is Marlon Brando, right?" Chris interrupts just as Tom is about to
reveal excitedly that Blanche's first husband turned out to be gay.
Tom flips a few pages to a Stanley-focused part, skimming the words even as he
answers, "In the movie, yes, but in my drama group's summer performance it was
Oliver Patterson. He was quite good but he didn't really manage the accent."
"You can do the accent fine," Chris sounds confused. "They didn't cast you?"
"Oh," Tom laughs, trying to imagine it. "I don't have the right physicality.
Stanley's a bit of a brute. You could play him."
Chris hums, pausing. "I think you just called me a brute."
Tom can't help but cackle. "I did. I meant it in the best way, though. I like
your body."
"Oh, that's right," Chris' voice suddenly sounds darker. "You want it rough,
don't you?"
Before long they fall into their routine, voices dipping low, all manner of
descriptive words dripping off their tongues until they're each fisting at
their own cocks and breathing loudly down the phone. 
Tom goes to sleep later that night with his copy of Streetcar still beside his
pillow and a wad of sticky tissues on his bedside table.
-
Another week and they've called most days, and not every time has ended in an
orgasm. Tom has taken to reading monologues to Chris for practise because he
seems, at best, totally into it and, at worst, totally patient enough to let
Tom do it anyway. It's nice to have somebody to read to who doesn't try to
subtly turn their hearing aid off.
Tom does have other college classes though, sadly, and so this time when Chris
calls, Tom has his 'Theory of Expression' essay open. He hasn't typed a single
word since Chris called three minutes ago. Mostly they've just been talking
about their respective days rather than anything salacious but, as all of their
conversations do, he knows it will end up going that way and he doesn't want to
be distracted by something as mundane as course work when it happens.
"How about you? How was work?"
Chris groans. "Awful. Spent about seven hours leaning over a pile of monotonous
paperwork. I've got a headache and a sore back."
He sounds genuinely worn out, his voice slow and thick like syrup, and it's
only eight in the evening. Tom sighs, trying not to think too hard about the
longing that swells up in him to take care of Chris.
"If I was there I'd give you a massage," he says, sounding appropriately
sympathetic.

"I could use one right now." An image comes unbidden of Chris shirtless,
rolling his shoulders, muscles shifting.

"Well, you know where I am..."

It's a pattern they've fallen into, where Tom will make a comment about
something he'd do if he were with Chris, and once Chris responds positively to
it Tom will say 'you know where I am'. Chris sighs every time, but he doesn't
sound hesitant or ambushed like he used to so Tom keeps on doing it.
Maybe one day Chris will stop acting like he didn't hear it.
 -
Rehearsal is supposed to finish at seven with a break at six o'clock but they
get so caught up in the scene that it's nearing half-past by the time they head
to the nearby supermarket for drinks and snacks.
David has an armful of coke cans because they're on offer and Kelly, who is
insisting on keeping her 'body cleansed' for the production is juggling a few
litre bottles Mountain Spring Water. Tom has been left to carry several packets
of cookies and is distractedly swinging them between his fingers when he sees
the familiar figure near the check out.
Chris. In dress pants and a crisp, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over
his forearms. He looks tired, but still incredibly handsome, and Tom stops dead
in his tracks.
It had occurred to him, of course, that they might run into one another
somewhere, but whenever the scenario had played out in his head it certainly
hadn't included the entire principle cast of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Hurry up, Cookie Monster," Kelly squawks obnoxiously when she spots that Tom
has fallen behind. Tom feels rooted to the spot, almost losing his armful of
biscuits. Kelly groans. "Tom!"
He panics for a second that she's drawn Chris' attention but, of course, Tom is
a common name and glancing over he finds Chris still focused elsewhere,
distractedly emptying his full basket onto the conveyer belt.
They approach the till - and really there's little Tom can do to stop them,
laden as they are with snacks - and with each step Tom's pulse seems to quicken
slightly, nervousness and excitement and dread cropping up. He had wanted to
see Chris again more than anything, of course, but not exactly like this, not
when they'd be forced to navigate an awkward conversation in front of Tom's
friends.
Tom rushes up behind the others while Chris' back is turned, hoping to stay
behind him. Later on when Chris calls maybe Tom will mention off-handedly that
he saw him in the shop and Chris will express disappointment that they didn't
get to talk.
"Let's use a manned check out," David is saying as he stops behind Chris. "I
hate those mechanical ones with the awful lady's voice."
"Sexist," Kelly sneers without much heat, dropping her things onto the conveyor
belt behind David's. "I don't know whether I object more to your use of the
word 'manned' or your derision for the lady's voice."
She's always been that way as long as Tom has known her, a loud advocate for
women's rights who seems able to pick a half-hearted argument from any casual
statement uttered by a male in her company, in a way that sometimes seems more
affected than genuine. Tom glances at Chris, who is in earshot, and sees him
grin subtly to himself. Tom smiles.
"Aw, don't be ridiculous," David says, waving her away, "I didn't mean it that
way. Tom, you know I didn't mean it that way, right?"
Tom nods his head, lets out a breathy, non-committal "Yeah..." and that does
it. Chris turns his head, quick and startled, eyes landing immediately on Tom.
He looks stunned to see him, like he's never considered that running into each
other could be a possibility despite them living in the same area, and when his
eyes carry along the line of Tom's friends his expression becomes more and more
like one of dread.
Tom sucks in a breath, preparing to act as normal as it's possible to be while
greeting his sort-of-lover in front of his friends, but Tom is barely able to
open his mouth before Chris turns suddenly away, presenting Tom with his back
as if he hadn't seen him at all.
Or, worse, as if they're strangers.
There's a moment of hope, silly perhaps, that Chris just needs to gather
himself before he can address Tom properly but a whole minute goes by with
nothing except for Kelly and David still arguing about the word 'manned',
completely oblivious to the wild beating of Tom's heart.
He's gone cold, a rich pang of pain blooming beneath his ribcage, throat
tightening more and more the longer he is faced with Chris' broad, tense
shoulders.
Chris' voice is stilted and quiet as he greets the young, orange-faced girl on
the till, and then he stands in silence as she passes each item through. Tom
can't take his eyes off him but Chris remains carefully angled away from Tom
and his friends as he bags his things.
"Thirty two pounds ninety eight," the teen says, bored, and Chris slips his
card into the machine.
Tom thinks that's it, Chris will grab his things and leave Tom standing like an
idiot, but then suddenly Chris turns fully to face him, mouth half open as if
he might speak. He meets Tom's eyes with a look of complete confusion, lets out
a breath but says nothing.
"Hey, guy," David says, pointing to the bagging section. "Don't forget your
wallet."
And like that Chris seems to realise himself, glancing down to see his wallet
sitting there forgotten. He picks it up, shoves it into his back pocket, and
then with only a polite nod in David's direction he rushes off without saying
whatever he was about to say.
It feels like a kick in the teeth after everything.
They pay for their things and head back, Tom looking desperately for Chris' car
in the car park, thinking that perhaps Chris waited, but he's nowhere in sight.
***** So Very Precious *****
Chapter Summary
     Chris does he best to reconnect with Tom after their awkward run-in
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The rest of rehearsal is awful but Tom seems to be the only one to notice. The
others eat their snacks and read their lines in silly voices across the small
circle, nobody mentions Chris at all because there's nothing to mention. Chris
acted just like every other stranger they passed.
Tom's got his lines memorised completely but he's unable to inject them with
any of Puck's mischief, too confused and disappointed by the turn the evening
has taken.
Only an hour later they're all piling into David's car, Tom squashed between
two others in the back middle seat, belt biting uncomfortably into his stomach.
He pulls his phone out of his bag to text his Gran and let her know he's on his
way and finds that he has seven missed calls, all from Chris.
David does the rounds, dropping everyone at their doors even if they insist on
being dropped at the end of the street, and when it's just Tom left again he
doesn't climb into the front as he usually would, instead slipping down in the
middle seat.
"Everything okay?" David asks and Tom imagines that he can just see the top of
his tuft of curls in the rear view mirror. He shrugs anyway. David sighs.
"Sometimes I think you got into acting so you could concentrate on other
people's feelings instead of your own."
Sometimes Tom hates being friends with sensitive, artistic types.
- 
Tom's Gran is watching a crime drama in the living room when he slips into the
house, half-empty cup of tea clutched in her hands as if she's riveted.
"Let's hear your prediction," he says quietly, leaning in the doorway. Granddad
is likely asleep.
She tuts. "It's obviously the school teacher's husband." She sort of has a
knack for guessing these things before the mystery has even really unfolded and
Tom's never been able to work out how.
"I don't know why you insist on watching them," he says as he walks into the
room and sits down on the arm of the chair, trying to inject a light tone into
his voice so she doesn't start asking questions. He's not sure it works.
"Well," she says, waving a hand. "What else am I supposed to do with my
evenings? How was rehearsal?"
Tom says "Fine," and nods too quickly - not his best performance.
She looks at him like she knows something, eyes narrow and head tilted
thoughtfully to the side. She's studying him. Whatever she's looking for in his
expression she must find it because suddenly she's patting his hand, turning
her face back to the quiet television.
Her hand on his is a comfort, always has been, and he feels just about ready to
crawl into his bed and cry now.
"I'm tired," he tells her, lifting her hand to press her knuckles against his
cheek like he's always done. "Off to bed, I think."
He makes it to the doorway before she says his name.
He turns, blinking into the dimly lit room, positive she's about to say
something poignant that will make everything seem alright, but she only shrugs
a little helplessly. "If it's not the school teacher's husband, it's the
Priest. But that'd be awfully trite, wouldn't it?"
-
He leaves the light off, lifts the lid of his laptop to paint the room in a
dull white glow, and undresses slowly. The website is up, as it has been all
month, and Tom's undressing is accompanied by a chorus of IM alerts.
His fingers work slowly to undo his clothes, his feet dragging as he moves as
if he's wading through syrup, and once he's undressed and standing before his
laptop there's a moment of weakness. He almost tilts the lid up to see what
Chris has to say for himself.
Instead he closes the lid with those same, slow fingers and forces himself to
climb into bed.
He's got his face pressed into the pillow, breathing deeply to stop himself
from crying. His traitorous mind flits from Chris' intimate voice on the phone
to his blank face in the store, from his laughter to his stunned silence.
Tom's phone buzzes on the table. Once, and then again.
Can you pick up? We need to talk.
Please, Tom. I'm sorry.
His fingers shake and his eyes water, he types the word 'no' but can't seem to
send it.
Tom's mother, when he was seven and allowed to visit with her, had pulled him
into her lap and rested her cheek on his head, petted the back of his hand with
her soft fingers. He could feel her smile against his hair. In no moment before
or since had Tom ever felt so loved, so precious. He had tipped up his chin and
said "Can I stay with you, mum?"
He remembers vividly how quickly she had loosened her hold on him, and somehow
that had been answer enough even for a seven year old. As he'd wriggled out of
her lap and ran towards the door she'd sat forward in her chair and made a
half-hearted attempt to reach for him.
"Please, Thomas," she'd said, and perhaps she was going to say she was sorry
too, but Tom was already gone.
He jabs at the power off button until his phone goes dark and then lies in the
pitch black until he falls asleep.
-
With no alarms he almost doesn't make it up for breakfast. As soon as he
realises his Gran has climbed the stairs to knock on his door he feels
immediately guilty, picking up his phone and staring at it in an accusatory
manner before realising he shut it off himself.
He doesn't switch it back on until lunchtime, safely sandwiched between David
and Joanne away from Kelly's prying eyes. There are only a few more texts, all
in the same vein, apologetic and asking Tom to please talk to him.
Tom takes a deep breath and types.
I'm in college. I'll talk to you later.
He turns his phone off before he can get a response.
-
At home he finds his Grandparents in the garden, Granddad with a blanket tucked
over his legs and a mug of tea clutched in his hands. Gran is on her knees some
feet away planting some bulbs.
"Is it really warm enough for this?" Tom calls over, indicating down to
Granddad.
Gran sits back on her knees and waves him off. "Okay, grumpy. Take him in if
you must."
Instead, Tom takes the seat next to his Granddad and together they watch her
turning soil and gently tipping plants out of small pots. After a few minutes
Granddad turns to him slowly, tilts his head. "Writing to any girls lately?" he
says, and for once Tom sees something in his face which suggests he knows the
answer perfectly well.
For a moment everything seems entirely hopeful. He smiles at his Granddad and
reaches out to pat the back of his hand. "Shall we go inside and watch a rerun
of countdown?"
He gets a nod and a smile, Granddad taking a last long sip of his tea before
Tom wheels him inside. "Don't be out here too long!" he calls back to his Gran.
She scoffs at him. "I do what I want."
-
After a fairly quiet dinner with his grandparents he makes his way upstairs and
opens up his laptop, watching as his profile loads up. His palms are damp with
nervous sweat, his mouth dry.
The last two messages Chris sent the night before pop up.
ChrisH says: Tom, I really am sorry. Will you talk to me?
ChrisH says: I was startled and I panicked that maybe you'd told all of your
friends about our conversations.
Tom pulls a face.
TomH: I promised I wouldn't.
It's maybe not the best opener. 'Hi' might've been better, but he figures
there's no point skirting around what happened. As if he was waiting Chris
replies immediately.
ChrisH says: I know
ChrisH says: If I'd been more prepared to see you it would've gone so
differently, I swear, I just panicked.
Tipping forward in his chair to rest his chin on his hand Tom considers a
response. He feels like whichever direction he goes in now is a risk. He can
open up to Chris about how he feels and risk being hurt anyway, or he can close
himself off and risk never having want he wants from Chris.
Either way makes him feel vulnerable. Chris keeps on.
ChrisH says: you know that I care about you, right?
ChrisH says: I wish it had gone differently
TomH: me too
ChrisH says: so can we talk about it?
Realistically, shutting Chris out isn't an option. Not after everything.
TomH: I felt like such an idiot standing there. I felt like
TomH: like I mean nothing to you and our conversations have meant nothing to
you.
ChrisH says:no, Tom
TomH: But they HAVE meant something to me.
TomH: maybe that's a stupid thing to say
ChrisH says: It's not stupid, Tom, it's nice.
ChrisH says: you're nice
ChrisH says: I want to make it up to you.
Tom draws in a deep breath, tapping nervous fingers against the desk as he
reads Chris' words over and over. He has his doubts, but he's never wanted to
be proven wrong so badly.
ChrisH says: let me make it up to you, okay? Dinner?
TomH: you want to have dinner?
ChrisH says: I really do, if you want to
TomH: you're just doing this to make me feel better
ChrisH says: well isn't that what you're supposed to do when you've upset
somebody you like? make them feel better?
Tom leans back, biting his bottom lip. He supposes that Chris has a point but
he's not sure how he's supposed to trust that Chris won't let him down again.
TomH: you're serious?
ChrisH says: Let me make it up to you. Doesn't have to be anything except
dinner.
ChrisH says: Whatever you want, Tom.
His instinct is to make Chris wait, sleep on the decision, but meeting up is
what he's been aiming for this whole time. So he agrees to meet up somewhere
with Chris on Friday, opting to make his own way there when Chris offers to
pick him up, preferring to avoid a potentially awkward car ride.
Chris asks if he can call and Tom politely declines, pretending to have
something better to do.
He's surprised by his own restraint.
-
They barely talk for the rest of the week; it's sort of Tom's fault since he's
still smarting from the rejection in the supermarket and is quite short in
response to Chris' texts, but come Friday lunch time Tom is sitting on the
grass by the science building most of the way through an unappealing sandwich
when his pocket starts to buzz.
Slipping his phone from his pocket he sees Chris' picture, staring at it for a
moment while the phone buzzes in his hand. Chris has never called in the day
before.
"Hello?" he says, uncharacteristically shy, and David's eyes flash over
briefly.
"Hey," Chris sounds casual, unhurried, and Tom's shoulders loosen a little in
relief. "Thought I'd call to see how you are and check we're still on for
tonight. You okay to talk?"
The muffled sound of a passing car has Tom imagining Chris outside his office
building, tie loosened because it's a nice day. He glances around his group;
David talking to Ant and Joanne, Kelly half-listening with her eyed closed and
face tipped towards the sun.
"I'm with my friends."
Kelly opens her eyes.
"That's okay." Chris says, somehow sounding like he's wearing a smile. "Do they
know you have a date?"
It's playful, his tone, but Tom thinks maybe it's a trick question. "No..." He
wants to add I said I wouldn't tellbut he can't say that in front of his
friends.
Chris hums. "No? I made the mistake of telling my colleagues and they've been
sniggering at me all day."
Although he tries to avoid it, Tom can't help meeting Kelly's curious gaze.
"Really?"
"Well," Chris says, pointedly. "The last date I had didn't go so well. Turned
out the guy was kind of a liar."
"That's awful," Tom says, mostly a whisper because Kelly's finely-plucked brow
is slowly creeping up towards her hairline. "What a creep."
"Yeah," Chris sighs. "It's okay. Turns out he's not so bad. Cute, actually."
And for some reason, in spite of all the filthy things they've said to each
other over the last month, that makes Tom blush. By this point Kelly has
prodded David, prompting Ant and Joanne to also pause in their conversation,
and Tom bites his lip as their eyes settle on him.
"Yeah," he says. "I like you, too."
Pinching her eyes shut, Kelly throws herself backwards and dramatically punches
the air, obviously barely refraining from letting out some sort of celebratory
noise. Tom rolls his eyes.
"So you'll be at the restaurant at eight, right? You won't stand me up?"
"Eight," Tom says, purposefully not looking at any of his friends. "I'll be
there."
-
The restaurant is much nicer than the one they originally met at, with polished
dark wood flooring and deep red tablecloths, and Chris is already waiting in
the foyer when Tom steps in even though it's only 7.45. He's wearing a grey
suit jacket with dark jeans and Tom feels woefully underdressed in his black
cords and loose spring jacket. He regrets the scarf.
Chris smiles wide though and it's lovely, how his eyes go soft and his hands
slip out of his pockets like he might reach for Tom. He doesn't. "Tom," he
says. "You look great."
It's a generous thing to say but Tom allows it, dipping his head a little and
looking up at Chris through his lashes. "Hi Chris."
They're seated by a pleasant waitress who doesn't even blink when Chris
requests a table near the back with candles, or when he pulls Tom's chair out
for him to sit.
 
Tom does as instructed, feeling nervous, running his clammy hands along the
cloth under the pretence of feeling the material.
 
Chris removes his own jacket, slipping it down his arms to reveal a neat,
maroon shirt underneath; the sleeves of which he rolls up to his neatly muscled
forearms before sitting down. He looks so handsome and, Tom thinks, definitely
dressed for a date rather than an apology meal.
 
"You can get whatever you want," Chris says as he shuffles his own chair in and
picks up the menu, and Tom feels so warm and fond that he can barely stand to
shift his eyes away to see what's on offer.
 
The cheapest starter is garlic bread and there's no way Tom is going anywhere
near garlic if there's even a tiny chance that Chris might want to kiss him
tonight, so he feigns indifference to all of the starters and turns to peruse
the mains; the cheapest of which is a grilled chicken breast on a bed of salad.
 
Chris lifts his eyes from his own menu. "You don't want a starter?"
 
The way his brow is furrowed makes Tom want to reach out and smooth it down
with a thumb but he resists the urge, shrugging instead.
 
"I don't want you to be concerned about the price, okay?" Chris says carefully,
placing his menu flat on the table and fixing Tom with a serious look. "You can
have whatever starters you like, plural, and don't you dare order that cheap
chicken for your main either."
 
Rumbled, Tom sits up straighter in his chair. "I happen to like grilled
chicken."
 
"I don't care, you have to have something else. I bet the steak is good."
 
Tom scans the page quickly and can't see a single cut of steak below £25. He
flicks his eyes back up. "I don't feel like steak."
 
Rolling his eyes not unkindly, Chris leans forward across the table and hooks
one finger over the top of Tom's menu to pull it out of the way of his face.
"Tom, please don't concern yourself with the price. This is supposed to be a
date. Let me treat you, alright?"
 
It's kind of hard to keep the smile from his face after that and Chris notices,
lifting a brow in question.
 
"So it really is a date," Tom says, as casually as he can manage, and then
Chris smiles too.
 
"I think we've reached that point, yeah."
-
The waitress comes by and Tom doesn't know what he wants yet so Chris asks for
another minute, ordering two sodas - because Chris is driving and Tom isn't
quite old enough to drink yet - and after his first sip he sits back heavily in
his seat and smiles a little at Tom, letting his eyes linger.
Tom chases a drop of condensation down his glass with a delicate fingertip,
glancing up at Chris from under his lashes. The back of his neck feels warm.
"What?"
Chris lifts a shoulder. "Just glad you're here."
He reaches out to distractedly turn his glass between his thumb and forefinger
but he doesn't look away from Tom's face. Forcing himself not to smile Tom
lifts his menu again and sighs heavily.
"What's the sigh for?" He hears Chris laugh.
In response Tom waves a hand at the menu and all of its expensive, fancy meals.
"You know you could've just taken me for pizza, right?"
-
They manage to keep up a constant stream of conversation, similar to their
phone calls except that they're slightly more shy about innuendos.
Chris gesticulates a lot as he talks, which is obviously new to Tom, and he
keeps finding himself distracted by Chris' hands. He's pretty sure they're
bigger than his head; Chris' fingers long as well as thick, and his large palms
taper off to thick, tendon-y wrists.
A hot rush pools in his stomach as he's overrun with images of those hands on
his body as promised, those thick fingers inside him.
Chris stops his gesticulating to pick up his glass and Tom blinks himself out
of the daze, hoping his warm face hasn't blushed noticeably.
-
"So Jack's on the phone begging his wife to believe that he hasn't been
cheating, which of course he has, and the more he says it the louder she's
getting on the other end. I can't hear what she's saying but I can hear how
angrily she's saying it..."
Chris is bright eyed and animated, totally distracted from his meal despite
there being a piece of steak speared on the fork he's swishing around as he
talks. Tom is hanging on every word.
"He's crimson faced at this point, right? Pleading down the phone, waving his
arms around like a madman. All of a sudden Caroline, who's already had enough
of Jack's relationship drama, walks through the door with coffee in one hand
and an entire morning's worth of paperwork in the other."
"Oh no," Tom winces, able to picture it almost perfectly. In his mind Caroline
is a long-legged beauty with neat brows that accentuate her constantly stern
expression and Jack is a short, oafish man with sweat patches in the armpits of
his shirt. Mentally he sees the coffee flying, the look of outrage on
Caroline's face.
He nods for Chris to carry on.
"Well, you can imagine," Chris says, shrugging. He finally puts the piece of
steak into his mouth and chews it distractedly like he's recalling the memory.
"She just lost it, roared like a wild animal and started chasing him around the
desks. She threw her mug, threw her paperwork, threw her shoes, and all the
while there's this muffled voice from his phone going-" he leans forward and
lowers his voice to a whisper, "'You piece of shit! I know bad people, Jack!
Answer me now or I'll have you shoved in a suitcase and dropped into the
Thames!'"
Tom cackles at the absurdity of it. "Now I know you're lying," he says with
more obvious fondness than he means to, but Chris shakes his head vehemently.
"I swear. She threatened to have him killed by the mafia."
Tipping his head to the side, Tom scans Chris' open, pleased face and finds
himself being studied in return. He huffs out a little breath, breaking the eye
contact before it gets too intense. "I don't think London has a mafia."
"Well, whatever," Chris waves a loose hand, focusing back on cutting into his
steak. "She knows that one guy who hid all of the cocaine in the taxidermied
badger. It was in the news last year? Anyway, she was a bridesmaid at his
cousin's wedding or something."
He looks entirely genuine; straight faced and earnest, and for moment Tom can
only blink at him. "You're ridiculous."
Those dimples appear again, followed by another shrug, blue eyes looking right
into Tom's. "I'm just trying to make you smile."
It's so disgustingly charming Tom wishes he had it in him to roll his eyes.
"Well," he says instead, smoothing the tablecloth. "Luckily for you I'm easily
amused."
-
The waiter is hovering again, all of their finished plates balanced expertly on
one arm while he brandishes a fresh menu.
Chris takes it with a murmured thanks. "You want dessert?"
Tom, slumped down a little in his chair, holds a hand over his stomach and
shakes his head. He feels like he can barely breathe; there's so much good food
in him. "God, no," he groans. "I'm too full."
Chris looks a little disappointed but doesn't make a fuss, just closes the menu
and lays it flat on the table. "Just the bill, please," he says.
The waiter nods and rushes off, and Tom feels suddenly awful. "You could've
ordered something! I wouldn't mind. Please order something."
He leans forward to push the menu back to Chris and, as he does so, Chris
reaches out to take hold of his wrist, gently. Tom gasps, a sound he isn't able
to mask, and Chris looks really fondly at him, eyes crinkled. "It's okay, I was
being greedy. My mother used to joke that I was a food vacuum. She threatened
to bolt up the fridge a couple of times."
Tom opens his mouth to speak but then Chris' thumb brushes gently over the
sensitive inside of his wrist. He's still smiling, his expression so open
compared to their first date and, especially, compared to their unexpected
meeting in the supermarket.
The waiter returns with the bill inside a small leather case, as if Tom didn't
already know how posh the place was, and he fully expects Chris to let him go.
He doesn't. To his credit the waiter manages to barely raise a brow.
Chris gives the bill a brief once-over and nods, sliding it away from Tom's
reach when he tries to see it too. "I'll be paying on my card," he tilts his
chin up to speak to the waiter.
Tom lifts his hips to pull his narrow wallet from his bag pocket. "At least let
me settle the tip." He pulls out a ten pound note. Chris opens his mouth but
Tom raises his palm a little. "Don't object."
The waiter returns with the card machine and while Chris fiddles with it Tom
slips the ten pound note inside the leather case and hands it to the waiter,
who dips his head a little and says "Thank you, sir."
Tom's not sure he's ever been called 'sir' before.
-
Outside the sky is a dark, greyish blue, ominous like it might rain. Chris
pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself as a gust of wind sweeps past
them, looking over at Tom with something akin to hope on his face.
"Can I drive you?"
Where? Tom wants to say, perhaps fluttering his lashes Audrey Hepburn style.
Instead he gives a small nod and lets Chris guide him over to his car. It's
silver and unassuming, the room reflecting the orange glow of the street light.
Tom remembers it well from the awkward drive home after their first date.
Chris has a hand on the small of his back and Tom is enjoying the pressure,
imagining that he can feel Chris' warmth seeping through the material. He
shivers anyway. With the remote key in his other hand, Chris unlocks the car
while they're still some feet away, the car lights flashing once, and Tom
reaches out for the handle as they reach the passenger side.
"Tom," Chris breathes beside his ear, so unexpectedly close that Tom jumps a
little, turning to look over his shoulder. There is barely an inch between
them, Chris' body crowding Tom against the car, and then warm hands grasp him
by the waist and encourage him to turn.
He stares down into Tom's eyes for a long, drawn-out moment before dipping his
head and pressing their lips together.
Tom's breath stutters just as their mouths meet, his heart rate seeming to kick
up impossibly in the few short seconds it took for them to go from walking to
kissing against the car. Tom has kissed girls for plays and one boy - Kelly's
cousin - at an after show party, but those times were nothing like this. Chris
is tall, the angle of their mouths tipping Tom's head back, and the feeling of
his beard against Tom's skin, softer than he expected, is entirely new. Chris
parts his lips and lets his tongue slide slow over Tom's lower lip.
He feels odd, needy and weightless as if he might float away if Chris were to
let go. To ground himself, Tom lifts his hands and lets his fingers curl in the
material of Chris' sleeve. His tongue is warm against Tom's, the sweet tang of
lime soda lingering when he pulls back to draw breath, hands still a hot brand
at Tom's waist.

"Is somebody..." Chris hesitates, eyes slipping down to Tom's mouth and back up
to his eyes. "Are you expected home right now?"

Excitement thrums through Tom's veins at the implication in the question. He
shakes his head. "I told them I might be sleeping out."

It was a presumptuous move but the way Chris' eyes widen slightly before he
swoops down into another kiss makes Tom think that it was the right one.
There could be people watching them but Chris doesn't seem to care, one hand
sliding up Tom's neck - warm in contrast to the cold air - until his fingertips
are behind Tom's ear and his thumb is rubbing in a gentle back and forth across
his cheekbone.
Tom lets slip a groan, higher in pitch than he'd like. He's rock hard.
"Do you want to come with me?" Chris asks, pulling back to look Tom in the eye,
pupils flickering back and forth as if he's carefully studying Tom's face.
"Back to my place?"
Pressing cold fingers over his tingling lips, down his hot chin where Chris'
beard has rubbed, Tom can do little more than nod, so heightened from the heat
of Chris' kisses to trust himself to speak. Chris smiles then, hand slipping
from Tom's waist to grasp momentarily at his fingertips.
"Get in," he says, letting go and moving around the car. Tom does as he's told.

-
He'd forgotten how nice Chris' car is inside. Some cars are what Tom's Gran
would call 'wastefully expensive' but this isn't one of them; it's just smart,
tidy inside with a quiet engine. Tom thinks it might be what car enthusiasts
would consider a nice drive. He reaches out to smooth his fingers along the
dashboard, lingering over the slatted ridges of the heater as it pours out warm
air.
"Cold?" Chris asks, twisting the knob to turn the heat up even before Tom can
answer.
The darkness slides smoothly past them on each side, broken rhythmically by the
street lights and less frequently by the headlights of a passing car. Tom
studies Chris' profile; his strong brow and the neat tip of his nose, the way
his lips, surrounded by dense, dark blonde beard, purse slightly as he drives.
On a whim he reaches out to palm at Chris' thigh, laughing quietly when Chris
jumps and brakes a little on the empty road.

"What are you doing?" Chris sounds confused and perhaps just slightly panicked.
Tom lifts a shoulder even though Chris is already looking back at the road.
"Want to make you feel good."

"You can't do that while I'm driving, Tom," Chris shakes his head slightly,
looking rapidly between his mirrors before looking down at Tom's hand. He
doesn't move it away, and so Tom slips his fingers a little further up Chris'
inseam. Chris jostles his leg, as if to shake him off, huffing out a
disbelieving laugh when Tom doesn't allow his hand to move too far. "Do I need
to put you in the back seat?"
Feeling filled with wickedness and mischief Tom squeezes again, slumping down
further in his own seat so his knees fall outwards a little more. "That depends
on what you're going to do to me once I'm there."
He's not sure whether Chris rolls his eyes or checks his mirrors but, either
way, as soon as he has a second he takes Tom's hand in his and removes it from
his leg. Tom almost pouts in disappointment until he realises that Chris hasn't
let go of his hand. 
-
They pull up outside a tall apartment block, white and a little sterile
looking, and as Chris waits for his swipe card to open the gates Tom pokes his
head out of the passenger window and whistles. "How many floors?"
"Thirty eight." Chris pulls the handbrake off as the gate finally opens fully,
driving around the back of the building to rows and rows of parking spaces. "My
landlord tells me it's the ninth tallest residential building in London but
I've never looked it up. I'm only on the twelfth floor."
Chris slides the car into a space between two others, shutting off the engine
and switching the headlights off, plunging them into near silence. He tilts his
head to look at Tom.
For a moment Tom expects that he'll be asked once more if he's sure about this
or reassured that nothing has to happen just because he comes up, but instead
Chris reaches out for him, hooking his fingers around the back of Tom's neck
and tugging him gently forward until they're kissing again.
The centre console and handbrake leave him angled over oddly and having to bear
most of his weight on an awkwardly bent hand, but he's loathe to pull away.
Chris somehow seems even warmer inside the car, his fingers and his lips and
his breaths as they rush out infrequently against Tom's cheek.
When Chris pulls back he lets out a harsh exhale, lifting his other hand to
grasp at Tom's jaw. Their eyes stay locked in the silence that follows.
Chris shakes his head, lets out a dry laugh. "Jesus Christ, Tom. What have you
done to me?"
-
The building has two lifts; one for odd-numbered floors and the other for even-
numbers. While they wait for the even floor Chris crosses his arms over his
chest and rocks back on his heels, eyes flicking over to Tom again who can't
help but smile back. At the numbers tick down, the lift getting closer, he
feels his palms begin to sweat. He rubs his hands together.
"Still cold?" Chris frowns, stepping closer.
Tom shakes his head, welcoming Chris into his space, tilting his chin up in
case they're about to kiss again. The lift doors open.
Inside is a small, mirrored space and a robotic female voice announcing that
the doors are opening on the ground floor. Chris lets his hand rest at the
small of Tom's back again and guides him in. They smile at each other as Chris
jabs his thumb at the '12' button. Before anything else can happen - like Chris
pressing Tom into the corner and shoving his tongue into his mouth again - a
disembodied voice calls out for them to hold the lift.
A young woman, short in stature and sporting a baby pink bob that may or may
not be a wig, slips between the doors just before they can close. She lets out
a loud breath and sags against the side as if she's been running. "That was
close," she says, giggling, and then, impossibly, she lets her eyes linger on
Tom. "Hi there."
"Uh...which floor?" Chris says, unsubtly stepping closer to Tom and laying that
hand on his back again.
Tom glances up at the set of Chris' jaw and fights off a smile. The girl seems
unconcerned by their proximity. "Twenty four."
It seems like a slow ride up with Chris so close, unable to really touch him,
and the girl studying them from across the lift. She grins at Tom whenever he
accidentally makes eye contact. He's never been great with awkward silences so
in the end he lifts his chin and says, "I like your hair."
Her answering smile is toothy but pretty on her quirky face. "You too," she
replies, winking, and then the robotic lady announces they've reached the
twelfth floor and Chris slips his arm around Tom's shoulder and guides him out
of the lift.
Once the doors close he huffs out an incredulous laugh and shakes his head.
"You see that? I bet you get looked at that way all the time."
Tom shakes his head, following as Chris moves down the hallway. "I do not," he
insists, huffing. "People usually look at me like I'm talking too much. Or like
I'm weird. Sometimes my Gran looks at me like she's not sure which planet I'm
from."
He's not sure why he's saying all of that. Nerves and too much energy, maybe.
Chris laughs, pausing outside his door with his keys still in hand from when he
opened the gate with his swipe. He tilts his head to the side as if he's
studying Tom, corners of his mouth angled up like he's trying to hide
amusement. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are."
Tom blushes, dropping his eyes to Chris' chest and then turning away as his
mouth forms a smile without his permission.
Chris barks out a laugh and leans back against the door, twisting Tom back to
face him. He runs his fingers across Tom's brow and down the side of his face.
"Just because we go inside doesn't mean we have to fuck."
Tom nods, supposing he should be grateful that Chris feels the need to be so
careful with him. He glances up and down the hall to make sure they're alone
before slowly stepping into Chris' space, close until they're practically chest
to chest.
"I know that," he murmurs, turning to mouth at Chris' hand, pleased when his
breath comes out in a rush.
Chris squeezes at Tom's waist with his other hand, keys dangling against Tom's
side. "So, we'll just go inside and...and have a drink," he whispers, eyeing
Tom's tongue as it sneaks out to lick at his palm.
"And then we'll fuck," Tom says, matter of fact, leaning up on his tiptoes to
kiss briefly at Chris' chin and mouth. "I want to. You want to, don't you? You
want to fuck me?"
Chris' breath stutters out against Tom's lips and he doesn't object when Tom
kisses him for real, licking his way into Chris' mouth without preamble,
unconcerned that somebody might see them.
The hand at his waist slips around Tom's back until Chris has a handful of arse
and Tom can feel Chris' erection against his hip. Chris groans. "Inside, now."
-
They don't go into the kitchen for a drink like Chris said. They don't sit on
the sofa until an appropriate amount of time has passed. They kiss and suck and
bite at each other's mouths and throats and shoulders in the hallway until Tom
is breathing raggedly and scrambling to rid Chris of his trousers.
His hands shake, out of excitement or nerves or perhaps both, and he can't
quite manage the button. Chris' warm fingers settle over his, slowly undoing
the button. His voice is frayed as he says, "You want to do this in the
bedroom?"
Tom lifts his shoulders noncommittally, moving Chris' hands in order to pull
the zip down equally as slowly as Chris undid the button. "Anywhere. Anywhere,
as long as I can-" he feels Chris' cock at his fingertips. "I've been thinking
about this."
He lets himself slip down onto his knees between Chris' spread legs.
Chris licks his lips, sucks in a sharp breath. "Out here?"

"Yes," Tom gasps, pressing his face against the harsh metal teeth of Chris'
open zip. He's hard, excitement thrumming through his veins, and when his lips
touch the hard line of Chris' cock through his underwear he gasps out a hot
breath.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and Chris doesn't resist at all as he
tugs them down to mid-thigh, licking his lips as Chris' impressive cock springs
up as if standing to attention.
"I'm going to..." Tom licks his lips. "I'm going to suck you now."
"Yeah," Chris says, reaching down to palm at himself a little. Tom watches,
captivated, as he strokes himself until the bulbous tip is completely
unsheathed, dark pink and shining with precum.
Without waiting for an invitation he leans forward to swipe his tongue at the
slit, eager to sate his curiosity and find out how Chris tastes, how it feels
to have a cock heavy on his tongue. They moan in unison.
Taking Chris in his mouth, Tom is careful to pull his lips over his teeth, and
as he presses forward to take more of Chris inside he feels the ridge of his
head pass over his tongue and then the velvety texture of his veined shaft. He
moans, turned on beyond belief, and the vibration has Chris accidentally
thrusting a little into his mouth.
"Ah, sorry," he hisses, reaching to touch Tom's hair gently like an apology,
but Tom breathes in deep through his nose and presses forward again
experimentally.
Maybe it's not a good idea to run before he can even walk but he's been
fascinated by deep-throating ever since he saw it for the first time in some
online porno; the wet noise a throat makes as it opens up around a cock, they
way their eyes always water no matter how adept they are at it, and how the man
on the receiving end always seemed to fall apart. He can get off just thinking
about having his throat fucked, always having liked the idea of it - but Chris
is big; thick as well as long, and Tom finds himself struggling to take more
than half of him into his mouth.
He's had this fantasy ever since they started talking that he'd surprise Chris
by being able to take him all the way on his first try but every time he forces
himself forwards and tries to focus his breathing he ends up gagging, pulling
back quickly and gulping for air.
"Hey, go easy," Chris murmurs, moving his fingers down to hook beneath Tom's
jaw, pulling gently until he has no choice but to let Chris' cock slip free and
clamber up to his feet. He pulls Tom close and leans in to nose at his cheek.
Kelly used to have this boyfriend named Mark, Uni-aged, one of those political
activist types who never went anywhere without a protest sign over his
shoulder. The first time she got drunk in Tom's presence she started telling
everyone how Mark wouldn't kiss her after she went down on him. Tom has always
wondered if that's a quirk exclusive to straight men.
He turns his face just enough that their lips align and almost melts against
him when Chris licks his mouth open with enthusiasm, angling his head and
kissing him deeply. It's then that Tom realises his chin is wet and he pulls
back, laughing a little self-consciously as he wipes his face and then reaches
up to wipe at Chris' beard too.
"You're good at that," Chris says, kissing him again. "You should go easy on
yourself, there's plenty of time."
Tom nods, nudging his head down beneath Chris' chin. It's a nice moment, with
Chris' arms around him in the silence of the hallway, but when he blinks his
eyes open he sees Chris' cock still hard and poking out of the fly of his
trousers and there's not a lot he can do to contain his laughter.
"What?" Chris huffs, not letting go of him. "You better not be laughing at my
dick."
-
Chris' bedroom is nice; spacious and cleanly decorated mostly in white with one
dark blue wall that he presses Tom up against. It's a pattern that Tom is
noticing - Chris pushing him up against things - but he finds that he doesn't
mind.
"You know how many times I've thought about you being in this room?" Chris
asks, voice dark and thick with arousal. Tom watches his Adam's apple bob as he
speaks and thinks about kissing it.
Chris bends his head to press his face into Tom's neck and suddenly there's a
buzzing against his hip; the unmistakable vibration of a phone. Chris groans,
lets his head drop against the wall over Tom's shoulder and then pulls his
phone free of his pocket. After a brief look at the caller display he throws
Tom an apologetic look. "I'll be one minute, I promise. Just a minute."

He holds up a finger as he backs away down the hallway and Tom hears him answer
the phone unenthusiastically. He licks his lips, still tasting Chris on his
tongue, and looks around.

Chris’ bookshelf is only one third filled with books. The other two thirds are
taken up by DVDs and the bottommost shelf houses several large black filing
boxes. Deciding to steer well clear of the boxes, Tom busies himself by nosing
at the DVDs while Chris deals with his phone call. He's completely baffled by
Chris' organisation, not really able to find an order to the titles that
follows any sort of pattern. He's frowning with particular intensity at the
spine of Fight Club when Chris steps up behind him and takes hold of his hips.

"Hi," Chris breathes against his neck. "Sorry about that. S'just my little
brother..."
Tom nods, distracted, lifting a hand to tap at the shelves. "How do you find
anything on here without some kind of order?"
Mouth hovering just above the juncture of Tom's neck and shoulder, Chris
pauses. He rests his chin there instead. "They're organised by genre."
"No," Tom frowns, unable to help himself, and waves a hand across the middle
shelf. "What genre is this, action films? Why are Fight Club and American
Psycho there?"
Laughing a little, Chris sighs. He presses his face into Tom's neck again and
trails his fingers down until they're resting at the button of Tom's trousers.
"They make up my 'movies about psychos' section."
"But you've left Psycho in horror? Arguably the quintessential film about-
" He's stopped in his rant by the soft pop of his button being undone, and in
the silence that follows Chris undoes the last two.
"You want to rearrange my DVDs after I fuck you?" he breathes, nipping at Tom's
shoulder.
Tom tries not to smile.  "If I still have the presence of mind to sort your
shelf once we're done fucking I'm going to be really disappointed. But I'd
suggest alphabetically might be a better system for such a large collection."
Chris laughs again, definitely at Tom rather than with him, but as he does it
he spreads his fingers out over Tom's abdomen and pulls him close so Tom
decides to let him get away with it.
"I'll try not to disappoint," Chris breathes, using his fingers to draw Tom's
shirt up. He lost the jacket out in the hallway, scarf too, and once his shirt
is over his head his top half is bared completely. Chris presses his mouth back
to Tom's neck and uses his fingers to explore the soft, flatness of Tom's
stomach, sliding upwards until his fingertips meet Tom's nipples. Tom swallows
hard, feeling the sensation fire straight down to his cock.
"Like that?" Chris whispers, giving each one a gentle pinch.
Tom nods, tipping his head back until Chris' beard rubs against his cheek. He
only needs to turn his head a little for their mouths to meet, and when one of
Chris' hands lifts to curl possessively around his throat Tom shudders.
When Tom breaks away for air, Chris kisses at his jaw a little more before
moving around to his front and guiding him backwards until his knees hit the
edge of the bed. Tom sits more heavily than he means to, letting Chris
encourage him to lay back.
Chris slides his hands up Tom's thighs, fingers rough and determined, and then
he's got his fingertips inside the waistband of Tom's underwear and is yanking
both his trousers and his briefs down his legs.
Tom helps to kick them off, trying to ignore the nervous part at the back of
his mind worrying that his body might be a disappointment. Once bared he forces
himself to remain in place on the bed while Chris looks his fill, and when he
dares to let their eyes meet he sees nothing but dark arousal in Chris' eyes.
Chris' hands move back to his thighs, parting them a little, and then his mouth
follows, kissing and sucking a trail upwards. Tom jumps slightly with each
inch, his cock hard and angry-pink against his stomach. He can't remember ever
being as aroused as this or as shaky with nervous excitement.
 One large hand brushes up dangerously close to his cock and Tom's hand flies
down to grasp his thick wrist before he can touch. Chris looks a little
alarmed, other hand going still on Tom's thigh, and Tom shakes his head,
breathing out a small, self-conscious laugh.
"I'm not even kidding, I'll come like a rocket if you touch me right now."
Raising his hands as if in surrender, Chris climbs up off his knees and steps
back to kick his own trousers down and off, palming his hard cock. Tom watches
as he moves around the bed to the other drawer, pulling it open and taking out
a rustling packet of condoms and a small bottle of lube.
He sets them down on the edge of the bed and then climbs over them until he's
lying on the bed, his knees by Tom's head.
"Get up here," he says, and then he watches hungrily as Tom crawls up to him.
As soon as he's within reach Chris grabs for him and tugs him down so that
they're face to face, feet tangling naturally.
It's suddenly odd, finally being naked and face to face with Chris, and for
some reason Tom reaches out to grip his bicep like somehow it will ground him.
Chris brushes the curls away from Tom's forehead, muscle flexing beneath Tom's
fingers, and then he rolls them until Tom is on his back with his knees spread
and Chris between them.
Their crotches line up; Chris' cock a solid weight against Tom's upper thigh
and Tom's curving up towards his bellybutton, and when Chris opens his mouth to
speak Tom presses his fingers against his lips to stop him.
"You don't have to keep asking me if I'm sure," he says, pre-empting the
question, and Chris sighs out a breath against his fingers.
He slips a hand beneath Tom's knee and lifts his leg, encouraging Tom to hold
it up towards his chest to expose his hole. He leans back to look, smoothing a
hand along Tom's cheek and spreading him a little more with his thumb. Tom
gasps as dry fingers drag across his opening and Chris leans down to kiss him,
just once, before reaching across for the lube.
He rubs it between his fingers, getting them shiny and slick, before reaching
down between Tom's legs again. The first prod of his wet fingers is cold
despite Chris' attempts to warm it but Tom doesn't flinch, used to the feeling
of slicking up himself.
Chris' fingers are thicker than Tom's; more like workman's fingers than the
long, delicate ones Tom has, and his index finger pressing past the tight ring
of muscle feels more like two of Tom's. He lets out a slow breath, ignoring the
initial discomfort, and focuses in on the excitement of having his hole played
with.
It feels so different from what he's used to, the movements unpredictable; the
slow in-out of Chris' finger before it's joined by a second that makes Tom gasp
and arch.
"Slower?" Chris whispers, looking intently down at Tom.
Tom shakes his head, parting his knees wider still. "I need- I can take more."
They kiss again as Chris works him open with two fingers knuckle-deep and
crooked slightly for pleasure. He twists his wrist each time he pulls out,
something Tom's never had the right angle to try, and it feels so good Tom
can't help but let out a low, shaky moan.
In response Chris only shoves deeper. "Feel better than your own fingers?"

Nodding, Tom sucks in a breath and tries to find his voice but Chris presses a
third finger in alongside the others and all that comes out is a desperate
whine. It's almost too much, almost, but Tom knows that what is to follow is
going to require the prep.
Tom's fingers are shaking as he reaches down to spread his cheeks, hoping to
ease the stretch.
"So good, hold yourself open for me." Chris watches. "Does it feel good? Talk
to me, like on the phone," he encourages, the in and out motion of his thick
fingers making Tom feel crazy and overwrought. He can feel the pull of his
tight hole with each outwards motion, almost as if his body is reluctant to let
Chris go.
"Feels good, thick," Tom whimpers, nodding. "Please- need you to-." He chokes
on his words as Chris angles in particularly well.
"What do you need, baby?" The endearment seems to slip out by accident but
Chris doesn't try to take it back.
Tom can't help but smile, reaching up to touch Chris' jaw, the beard rough
against his palms. "Please fuck me, Chris."
"Yeah? That's what you need?" Chris smiles back, leaning down to look Tom
carefully in the eyes, slipping gentle fingers into his hair for a moment
before pulling away.
He sits back on his heels, cock bobbing between his legs, and reaches for the
condoms to tear one away. His fingers are slick with lube so he tears the
packet with his teeth and Tom doesn't comment even though he learnt in Sex Ed
that you're not supposed to do it that way.
He holds his breath as Chris rolls it onto his cock, watching carefully as his
deft fingers settle it in place. Chris' cock looks discoloured with it on, the
condom silvery and slick, but no less appealing to Tom's eyes. He parts his
knees further.
"Let me just-" Chris reaches over again to the bottle of lube and pumps some
more out onto his fingers, holding the condom in place as he strokes the extra
slick down onto himself. Tom isn't sure they need that much, already feeling
lube dripping down onto the bed from his own hole, but he doesn't complain.
Chris comes down onto one elbow, other hand around the base of his cock to
guide it in, and they make eye contact as the head bumps against Tom's opening.
"I'll go slow," he says, nudging his nose against Tom's high cheekbone.
When he presses in, blunt head an unusual pressure, Tom isn't prepared for how
it feels; tensing up and sucking in a sharp breath. Chris kisses him
indiscriminately, lips landing just beneath Tom's eye, and pushes forward
again. They both hiss as the fat head of his cock slips inside, Tom's hole
clenching immediately around the mushroom tip.
It doesn't feel like his fingers did and for a moment Tom panics that he won't
be able to handle Chris' size.
Chris must sense it because he stops entirely, shifting only to take Tom's lips
in another kiss while he runs his free hand along Tom's ribcage. It tickles,
makes him jump, but Tom is too focused on the hot pressure inside of him to do
much more than huff a breath out into Chris' mouth.
He's aroused, on a mental level, by the dull ache of being penetrated -
especially since it's Chris and he has a look in his eyes like nothing except
Tom exists in the whole world - but apparently his dick isn't getting the memo,
gently curved as it is, half hard, against his groin.
"It'll feel better, I promise," Chris whispers, nuzzling his chin against Tom's
cheek, bristles leaving a temporary rash in their wake. "Just breathe."
He grips Tom beneath the knees, using them to tip his hips up further, an
easier angle, and then he rocks his hips in a small, circular motion until Tom
gasps. It feels easier, not exactly great but good, better, something zinging
around in his groin.
"That okay?" Chris pulls back to look at Tom's face. Tom nods, lips parting
around a soft sigh, and immediately Chris presses in a little deeper. It's
still an odd feeling, more overwhelming than Tom expected, and he lets his head
fall back against the pillow, arms splayed out either side of him like he's on
a cross. Chris pulls out just an inch only to thrust right back in and Tom's
fingers clench of their own accord as if he's trying to catch the air.
"Tell me if you need me to stop," Chris grits out.
Tom shakes his head no. Chris kisses again at his mouth, at his chin, at his
throat, and as he pulls back again Tom feels something other than the pressure
and the drag of Chris' thick cock leaving him - the brush of Chris' cockhead
against his prostate and electrifying shot up his spine into his throat. Tom
struggles to swallow around it, a long whine escaping his throat.
"That's it," Chris presses their foreheads together for a moment. "Just wait,
it gets even better."
He keeps his thrusts gentle but goes a little deeper each time, every thrust
making Tom feel hotter and more exposed. Chris doesn't take his eyes off him
the entire time, his focus constant on Tom's face as if trying to read for any
signs of discomfort of particular displays of pleasure.
It doesn't take long to start feeling good; Chris grips Tom by the ankles,
lifts his legs just enough that the angle is better for hitting his mark, and
after that Tom swears he sees stars. The stretch and friction of each thrust
are not too dissimilar from Tom's fingers except for the girth, the determined
rhythm and Chris' hot body pressing down against him, stealing Tom's breath
with every deep thrust.
Tom licks his lips, bites at them, rocking his head back against the pillow as
the burn of being opened up fades entirely into the background in light of the
pleasure that curls at the base of his spine now, more and more intense each
time Chris rocks forward.
Tom grips Chris' shoulders and arches his back, whining out in pleasure as
Chris' cock rubs up against his prostate again and again.
"Feel good?" Chris whispers, sounding breathless and elated but not slowing his
pace at all. The next thrust hits the spot again and Tom nods. "Like you
imagined?"
"Better," Tom huffs, breath leaving him as Chris fucks into him deeply again.
Having Chris over him, encompassing him, looking at him the way he is, is
overwhelming. None of that had factored into his fantasies.
"I knew you'd like it," Chris gasps, nodding. "The way you talked about it on
the phone I knew you were made to take cock."
Tom hisses out a tight breath as Chris thrusts again on his last word, and he
feels himself blushing hotly again. "So why'd you make me wait so long?"
Chris lifts Tom's knee higher, slowly pressing inside again deeper, deeper,
deeper, and Tom scrambles to hold onto him somewhere, anywhere, digging his
fingers into Chris' thigh.
The rhythm of being filled again and again is almost addictive, so good that
Tom almost doesn't want it to end up though he feels himself getting close. He
reaches down between their bodies to take his cock in hand, intending only to
palm it and try to hold off his orgasm a little longer, but Chris' deep,
rocking thrusts drive Tom's cock in and out of his own fist and before long
he's fisting at himself in sync.
"You close?" Chris pants down at him, looking between their bodies at Tom's
wrist working. "Gonna come for me?"
Tom nods, afraid he'll only choke on the words if he tries to speak, and Chris
leans down and takes his mouth, kissing him messily, deeply, before breaking
away a little just to breathe into his mouth. Tom feels entirely surrounded
now, like his lungs are full of Chris as well, and his back arches again.
"I'm coming," he gasps, the fingers of his free hand scrambling for the meat of
Chris' shoulder. "Ah, ah, Chris-"
It's like his entire body seizes up, his toes curling tightly and his jaw
clenching as his cock spasms in his hand, pumping out a pool of come onto his
stomach as Chris continues to thrust into him.
"Ah, fuck-" Chris grits out, the words muffled, and Tom blinks his eyes open to
see that he too has his teeth clenched tightly together. On his next thrust,
Tom's hole clenches and Chris tips his head forwards to rest beside Tom's on
the pillow, his breath hot and fast against Tom's neck.
His hold beneath Tom's knee tightens, his big hand drawing Tom's leg up almost
uncomfortably high, and then with one last deep thrust Chris goes still,
abdominal muscles clenching against the back of Tom's hand where it still rests
on his spent cock.
Tom watches his face, the shifts and changes as his orgasm takes him, and then
Chris lets out a long breath and comes down heavily to rest against Tom,
foreheads pressed together.
For long minutes afterwards they lie there like that, with Chris atop Tom and
both of them breathing heavily, and just as Tom is about to consider
complaining about the awkward angle of his leg and the strain on his hip, Chris
gently pulls out and rolls onto his back, condom still on and slick with lube.
Without Chris' weight the air is cold but oxygen seems much more freely
available so Tom stays where he is and drinks it in, sweat cooling on his skin.
When he rolls his head to the side Chris is looking up at the ceiling, chest
rising and falling with deep breaths.
"Good?" Chris asks, knocking his knuckles against Tom's.
And it really, really was. He feels a little sore, not to mention keenly aware
of his own come drying on his stomach, but he feels good - completely satisfied
in a bone-deep sort of way and excited at the prospect of doing it all again.
He thinks of maybe riding Chris next time, or getting on his knees and letting
Chris fuck him that way.
"Can I get a glass of water?" he asks instead of answering, realising suddenly
how dry his mouth is.
Chris leans up a little onto his elbows, nods. He looks at Tom for a long
moment. "You want me to get it?"
"No, no," Tom shakes his head, spinning his body so that his legs dangle over
the bed. Sitting up he feels less sore than he expected. His toes touch his
discarded shirt and he considers putting it on, finding his underwear maybe,
but he doesn't want to give the impression that he's conscious of his own body
or doesn't want Chris to see him. He takes a small breath for courage and then
stands, walking as casually as he can towards the door.
The hallway is colder than the bedroom but not uncomfortably so, and as soon as
he's out of eyeshot he lowers his hands to cup himself. He's never walked
around a house naked, too afraid of his Grandparents coming home unannounced.
He finds the bathroom to the left; a white-tiled box room with a shower rather
than a bath, and he wets some tissue under the tap to wipe off his stomach
before leaning down to dash some cold water against his face.
He stares at himself in the mirror as cold droplets travel down his chest,
hardening his nipples again and causing goosebumps to ride up on his forearms.
He'd had an odd notion, maybe, that he might look different afterwards, but he
looks just the same.
He brushes his curls out of his face, now damp with water as well as sweat, and
shuts off the tap. 
The place is dark, his way lit by just a vague blueness that must come from the
moon, but the narrow hallway opens out into a large living room and Tom finds
the kitchen just off to the side. His toes curl against the cold tile as he
steps inside.
He's up on his tiptoes reaching for the small glass when the floorboards by the
door creak. Chris' shadow looms in the meagre light and Tom's fingers fumble
against the glass, causing it to tip and roll from the cupboard. He catches it,
barely, and so when he turns to Chris he's got his hands around the glass
rather than covering himself and Chris' eyes make an unmistakable pass along
the length of his body.
Tom shouldn't be embarrassed; Chris has touched every inch of him at least once
tonight. Plus, he's equally naked, condom now disposed of and his body wiped
clean. Tom doesn't let his eyes linger for too long on his soft, thick cock.
"Decided I need one myself," is all Chris says, walking into the kitchen and
turning on the cold tap as he too reaches up for a glass, unconcerned by his
own nakedness. He holds his fingers beneath the running water to feel for
temperature and, satisfied, takes the cup from Tom's hands to fill it.
Tom takes a sip, licking his dry lips. Chris drains the whole glass in one go.
"You alright?" He sounds concerned, reaching out to press his damp fingers
between Tom's eyebrows.
When Tom nods, it's not a lie and Chris must be able to tell because he puts
his glass down carefully on the side and crowds Tom up against the cupboard,
bare thigh sliding between Tom's knees as he slides his hand up Tom's back into
his hair, gripping the curls until Tom tips his head back.
Chris' mouth, when it meets Tom's, is cold from the water.
"You're staying, right?" He murmurs, forehead against Tom's, and Tom nods. It
hadn't even occurred to him that he might attempt to leave.
Chris herds him back into the bedroom with strong hands on his shoulders and
Tom reaches up to pat at his fingers, feeling more and more comfortable with
his nakedness. In the bedroom, as Tom lifts his knee to climb back onto the
bed, Chris' hands slip from his shoulders to his lower back, letting the tips
of his fingers pass across the soft curve of Tom's arse before he lets go
completely and moves to climb into the other side of the bed.
He flicks the light off using the switch by his head and they're plunged into
almost pitch darkness, just that same blue glow lighting them up. Chris' hands
find him beneath the covers.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks, propping himself up on his
side and laying one big hand flat on Tom's stomach. "When you said you were
maybe sleeping out?"

"I hoped it was going to." Tom can't see much point in lying now that he's
here. Fighting off the urge to yawn, he flicks his eyes over to Chris and finds
himself being studied lazily. "I even put my toothbrush in my bag."

Chris laughs, oddly loudly in the quiet, sleepy room. "I knew you were going to
be trouble."

-
Tom wakes hours later in the dark, comfortable but a little clammy with Chris
pressed up against his back, their feet tangled together. Chris' breaths are
just slow, quiet puffs of air against the back of his head, one hand hanging
loosely over Tom's hip and the other stretched out beneath the pillow.
For a moment he feels as if he can't breathe, overwhelmed with fear that this
is all going to fall away in the morning, but then Chris shifts closer in his
sleep, his beard dragging against the soft skin behind Tom's ear, and breathing
seems to come a little easier.
-
Next time he blinks awake, it's morning and he's on his back, his head at an
odd angle, propped up on the hard curve of Chris' bicep and neck aching
slightly from it. The open curtains are letting in a flood of light that forces
him to squint but, still, he has no desire to move.
Chris is sleeping, slow puffs of air escaping between his parted lips, his warm
chest expanding to press more solidly against Tom's side before drawing back
again with each exhale.
Tom tries to match his breathing, hoping that he might fall asleep again and be
granted this quiet comfort for a while longer before Chris wakes up and
possible awkwardness descends upon them.
Somewhere in the far corner of the flat the water heater rumbles to life,
spreading hot water to the radiators which begin their arrhythmic clicking and
clacking as the pipes expand. Occasional cars pass on the street below
disrupting what silence is left between the sounds of the house and Chris'
breaths, and Tom gives up on trying to drift off.
Chris is sporting a semi, an oddly comforting pressure against Tom's outer
thigh, and Tom rolls his head against the pillow to study his face. Asleep,
Chris does look younger, like the old cliché says; more vulnerable, with his
smile lines relaxed and his beard sticking out in oddly angled tufts.
Tom daren't kiss him or reach out to smooth his beard, but he longs to touch.
He only has to move his wrist slightly to have Chris' cock in hand, pleasantly
warm, just the touch of Tom's palm awakening a promising throb. Chris doesn't
shift bodily but his forehead twitches into a gentle frown, a neat crease
between his eyebrows that smoothes away and reappears sporadically as Tom
fondles at him.
Once Chris is hard enough Tom begins a slow stroke, revelling in the increased
speed of Chris' breathing and the short movement of his hips, almost
imperceptible if not for the urgent press of his cock head against Tom's side.
Basing his strokes on how he likes to touch himself, Tom takes extra care to
stroke the sensitive underside of Chris' tip, pleased when Chris finally
verbalises his pleasure with a low grunt.
It's really a natural progression from there to slide down beneath the covers,
slowly and carefully, until he's eye level with Chris' navel and just a
tongue's length away from his real goal. He can't help but look at it for a
time, thick and dark looking against the pale, delicate taper of his own wrist.
Chris' stomach is warm with sleep as Tom presses his forehead against it,
breathing down over the slick head, mouth watering already. He didn't get
enough of a chance to play last night, too focused on taking Chris as deep as
possible, so he takes great pleasure in flicking his tongue against the slit,
careful to cover his teeth with his lips as Chris half-thrusts sleepily against
the flat of his tongue.
His taste is stronger than it was the night before, his musky scent too, and
Tom wants to bury his face against the soft skin of his groin and never come up
for air. He breathes hotly, aroused beyond expectation at just this; just
Chris' cock pressed against his lips, and then he takes the head into his mouth
again.
Within moments there's a hand at the back of his head, not pressing but
feeling, checking almost, and then Chris breathes out a pleased, rough groan
and thrusts up into Tom's mouth.
Cold air travels the length of Tom's back as Chris lifts the cover, his
strained face visible when Tom glances up, lips still stretched around the
length. Their eyes meet, heated, Chris' nostrils flaring, and then he drops his
head back against the pillow and groans again.
"You're not human," he grits out, fingers curling against Tom's scalp. "You're
a...a succubus, or a...siren or something."
Tom smiles, pulling off. "Maybe I am a succubus," he shrugs, kissing wetly at
the rosy tip. "An ancient sex demon forced to modernise my seduction techniques
and register on GayMatch dot com just to get the seed I crave."
Chris' abdomen shakes as he laughs, throwing his forearm across his eyes. "You
have an answer to everything, don't you?"
Deciding to take that as a compliment, Tom just wiggles his eyebrows and gets
back to the task at hand. He likes the sounds Chris makes, listening intently
to pick up on what he likes. His mouth waters as he holds Chris' cockhead
between his lips and swirls around the rim, pulses of precum hitting his
tongue.
Their eyes meet, Chris' tight and narrow from pleasure, and then he reaches
down to stroke his fingers from Tom's shoulder along his bicep, a light touch
that tickles and, somehow, manages to turn him on even more.
He's intent on making Chris come with his mouth, concentrating his attention on
the rosy tip of his cock, swirling and swiping his tongue, his own spit
slicking the way for him to fist shallowly at the shaft. He thinks Chris is
almost there, pride swelling up in his chest and anticipation of the hot rush
of come on his tongue, but then Chris reaches down and grips him by the
shoulders.
"Get up here," he says, pulling, and although Tom wants to object he doesn't.
He crawls up over Chris' body, straddling his waist, and looks down at him,
leaning in as Chris reaches up to touch his jaw. Chris lets out a little laugh.
"I nearly came in your mouth."
Tom blinks owlishly. "I wanted you to."
Chris squeezes his eyes shut, fingers gripping a little tighter on Tom's jaw,
and Tom leans down to gently press their closed lips together. The bristles of
Chris' beard tickle the skin beneath his nose.
Chris hums, hands slipping from Tom's face down past his ribs, moving with
intent, until he's got his fingertips pressing into the upper curve of Tom's
backside.

"Do you think you could take me again?" he whispers, tone so gentle that Tom
knows he could say no and Chris wouldn't make a fuss.
He slips a hand down behind himself to prod at his hole and finds himself much
less tender than he expected. He had only intended for it to be a brief touch,
a small test for soreness, but when he looks back to Chris' face he sees
excitement there.
"Yeah, do that," Chris nods, reaching out at an awkward angle to grab the
bottle of lube from the bedside table. He presses it into Tom's hand and lies
back again. "I want to watch your face while you open yourself up."
And so Tom does, at first circling his hole with slick fingers before pressing
inside, parting his lips around an unintentional gasp. Chris leans up to nuzzle
at his jaw as he does, whispering encouragements.
"You're perfect," he says, shaking his head, and he looks entirely in awe but
that might just be because Tom's vision goes blurry as he starts to fuck
himself.
It does feel a little sore, just a tiny bit, but he perseveres, rocking back
against his fingers until the discomfort once again subsides into something
better, something that starts to kick his heart-rate up.
Chris grabs another condom from the bedside - opening it properly this time,
Tom notes - and as he watches Tom he strokes himself a few times before rolling
it on. He steals the bottle of lube from beside Tom's thigh.
"Sure this is okay?" he says, stroking Tom's hip with his dry hand, and when
Tom nods he helps to guide him up onto his knees, lining them up.
Tom sinks down on to Chris' cock slowly, letting gravity do most of the work,
and he finds that it's easier like this despite the extra burn. Chris is
patient, stroking Tom's thighs and his hips, slipping a hand up to his flat
stomach and resting it there while Tom acclimatises to his size again.
"You feel so great," he says, distracted, almost as if he didn't mean to.
Tom huffs out a laugh, finally settled right down against Chris' thighs. "I'm
not even moving yet."
He tries to lift himself using his thigh muscles but hisses as he feels he drag
of Chris leaving him. Chris pets him gently, nodding, whispering for him to
take his time, and after a few moments Tom tries again. He's able to, but it
hurts more than he'd like and as he keeps rising up using his thighs he begins
to feel his cock softening from the discomfort.
"Ah, I don't think I can-" he shakes his head, learning his palms against
Chris' stomach.
Chris runs a hand up his chest to his neck, forcing him to make eye contact.
"It's okay," he nods. "It's alright, how about we just..."
Lowering both hands to Tom's hips he guides him around in a small circle, the
sensation different and infinitely better. After a few moments Tom takes over,
not lifting off at all but instead rocking back and forth, side to side,
circling his hips so he can feel Chris' cock up inside of him.
"Fuck, that's good, yeah, just rock like that..." Chris squeezes his eyes shut,
clenching his fists, and Tom tips forward to kiss him. It changes the angle and
he yelps a little as Chris gives in to the urge to thrust upwards, immediately
gripping Tom's hips and whispering an apology against his mouth.
It takes longer for either of them to come this time, Chris coming first,
thrusting up into Tom again as if he can't help it; it doesn't feel too bad,
and afterwards Tom stays seated on his cock while Chris takes him in hand and
works him to orgasm.
Afterwards, Tom leans down to rest his head against Chris' chest, feeling his
soft cock slipping out of him and the way his heart races beneath his ribs. He
wants to stay forever.
-
Tom showers while Chris makes toast, enjoying the familiar smells of the soap
and shampoo.
They eat in relative silence, Tom looking out at the skyline with Chris' eyes
on him, both of them chewing more than is necessary as if trying to postpone
Tom's leaving.
The coffee at the bottom of Tom's cup is cold by the time he finally drains it
and they've barely said two words to each other but the quiet is so comfortable
he doesn't want to go.
"When's your play?" Chris says out of nowhere as he stands to put the dishes
into the sink.
Tom sits back, a little surprised. "Why? Are you coming?"
A shrug. "I'd like to, if you're okay with that. Just because I go doesn't mean
we have to tell anyone who I am." He looks over his shoulder as if questioning
what he just said. "Only until you're eighteen, you know? Then you can tell who
you like."
Tom nods, picking up his cup and walking to Chris' side at the sink. "The last
thing I want is to get you into trouble."
Shaking off his wet hands Chris seems to consider him carefully, reaching up to
run damp fingers through his curls. "I know that."
-
Tom watches the clock for the next hour, feeling increasingly woeful as the
time for him to leave draws nearer. He likes it here in Chris' apartment where
everything has its place and the scent of Chris lingers on all the fabrics. He
wants to press himself back down onto the bed and stay there for weeks on end
while Chris just exists around him.
Nearing midday they're on the sofa; Tom's feet tucked beneath Chris' thigh as
he reads some paperwork, and he rests his chin on his knees and sighs. Chris
looks up at him.
"I have to go." He tries not to sound as sad as he feels.
They gather his things from the bedroom, Tom grabbing his toothbrush from the
bathroom at the last minute, and then Tom waits by the door as Chris searches
out his car keys. He's leaning against the wall when Chris walks back through
and waves them in his hand.
As Tom reaches for the door Chris hauls him back, spinning him until they're
face to face, nudging him back against the wall again.
"I really like you," Chris whispers against his jaw, nudging his nose along
Tom's cheek. "You know that, right?"
And the fact that Tom does know must show on his face because Chris leans back
to look at him for only a split second before he's pressing into Tom's space
again and slotting their mouths together.
His hands slide hotly down Tom's sides, gripping at his hips before curling
under his arse, pulling him close and threatening to lift him.
Tom laughs, turning his face away and shoving lightly against his chest. "Just
so you know..." he says, catching his breath. "It's possible I have some
abandonment issues."
Chris nods. "That's okay. We all have one issue or another."
Tom supposes that's right, but even he is only beginning to realise the extent
of the affect his past with his mum has had on him. "I just want you to know
what you're getting into."
Chris laughs. "Too late. I'm already invested."
There's that warm feeling again, bursting up from low in Tom's stomach, and he
doesn't object when Chris leans back in to take his mouth in a deep kiss. It
lasts far too long, until both of them are gasping for breath, and then Tom
pushes at Chris' chest again.
"I really do have to go," he says, eyebrow raised, and laughs again when Chris
manages to look chastised.
-
When Chris drops him at the corner of the street without getting out or leaning
over to kiss him, Tom suddenly understands the need for the intense kissing at
the door. He smiles knowingly, slipping out of the car with a murmured goodbye
and watches Chris drive away before heading home.

He can feel Chris with each step he takes; a sensation that might be unpleasant
if not for the memories it carries with it, and part of him wishes it would
never go away. Despite the cold breeze it's uncharacteristically sunny, so much
so that Tom has to squint against the glare, and Tom can't help but think it's
going to be a great summer.
-
Twenty hours or so later, Sunday morning, he calls Chris instead of waiting to
be called, and Chris sounds pleasantly surprised when he answers.
"I'm watching a film," he says around a mouthful of some crunchy snack.
"Anything good?"
Chris laughs a little. "I'm embarrassed to say."
"Porn?" Tom grins, though he doesn't think Chris is the type of guy to
masturbate and snack at the same time.
"No!" Chris clucks his tongue and Tom can just imagine him shaking his head.
"No, I'm watching A Streetcar Named Desire on your recommendation."
Tom feels lit up suddenly, pleased and flattered that Chris would follow his
advice. He plays it off, shrugging, "Oh, well you wait until Marlon Brando
takes his shirt off and then you tell me that's not porn."
"Yeah," Chris drawls, sounding unconvinced. "He had his shirt off five minutes
ago. It's nice but, I don't know, I like my guys smaller."
For a second Tom has to pull the phone away and press his face into the pillow.
He feels ridiculous, love-struck and silly, but he'd desperately wanted Chris
to live up to his expectations and the reality has been, impossibly, even
better.
Clearing his throat, he sits up properly again and aims for casual. "Is that
right?"
Chris chuckles. "Yeah. So when can I see you again?"
Tom hums, wondering if it's a mistake to make himself too available, and if
that even matters when he's itching to see Chris again. He decides not.
"Whenever you like," he says carefully, running his fingers along his jeans to
feel the friction against his fingertips.
Chris clears his throat. "Well...what are you doing right now?"
"Right now?" Tom laughs, looking around the room at his strewn coursework and
the pile of washing he promised to do today. "Nothing."
"So, come and watch this with me. I'll pick you up."
A smile tugs at the edges of Tom's mouth, his head falling back against the
wall. He suspects that they're not going to actually watch Streetcar if he goes
over there - that probably he's going to end up in Chris' bed again - but,
happily, he finds that he doesn't mind at all.
-
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for sticking with this, I know I left you all hanging for
     like...five months.
End Notes
     Next part is finally written! I'm never posting a WIP again. *sigh*
     Thanks for reading.
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