Short Smut(28)
I love how you never do anything halfway, Nick once told him. It makes him smile.
“What's so funny,” Nick asks, taking the last bite of his dessert.
“Not funny, just nice.” Chris stretches his legs beneath the table, leaning back in his chair. If he accidentally brushes his calf against Nick's leg, he doesn't worry about it, doesn't pull away, doesn't apologize. You still have my heart, too, Nick.
Nick looks at him, waiting for him to explain, but he doesn't, lost in thought until a shiver works him over violently. “We should go. Getting chilly.”
Nick agrees and they pay, walking back toward their houses. Chris wonders if he should ask Nick to come over. He doesn't want to go home alone, but he doesn't want to ruin this tenuous thread between them, silvery and delicate like a dew-studded spider web glistening in the morning sun. Nick beats him to the punch.
“Someone's really missed you and I think it's high time you rectify that situation.” Nick's hands are shoved in his pockets and the chill of the air is deeper.
Chris bites his tongue against a dick joke, simply looking at Nick, confused.
“My dog hasn't been the same since spring. I think you need to spend some quality time with him so I don't have to find a doggie therapist. Even I'm not that Hollywood.”
Chris laughs and they walk in silence for another block. Nick shivers and Chris has the urge to lean against him, or put his arm around his waist. He never did that when they were living together; too risky if the paparazzi were lurking. Feeling reckless, Chris walks closer and then he's leaning in and Nick's leaning back. A few steps and it feels like reconciliation, an erasure of the slate where there are ghosts of the marks they inflicted on each other, but they're so faded you have to squint to see them.
“Buster's not the only one missing people,” Chris says, voice low.
“I know,” Nick answers, taking a hand from his pocket to brush pinkies with Chris. They walk on, toward something old, something new, and hopefully something cleaner. The golden retriever is so happy to see Chris he nearly wags the tail off his butt.
* * *
Nick feels almost shy, slipping out of his pants and shirt, standing naked in front of a disrobing Chris. They have such history, and looking on Chris's bare skin is painfully good, like the welcome sting of an ice cube against a blistering burn. They reach for each other, the afternoon sun painting Chris's golden hair with rays from the open window. Nick's dry palm rests across Chris's smooth cheek, his thumb tracing that full mouth, and he's almost afraid to kiss those lips. They're so easy to lose himself in, the gentle humor they convey, the biting wit, and in moments like this, the open love.
Those lips had brushed his cheek that night they'd shared the cab, Chris leaning close to whisper a good night as the car had dropped Nick off first. It was gentle acknowledgement that Christ understood what it had cost Nick to be honest about still being in love with him.
“Chris,” Nick murmurs, lips grazing his cheek. “What if we… do it again?” His deepest fear, and the reason he trembles against Chris's chest.
“We won't. We grew up some. Without any help, even.” Chris grins, then tilts his face and Nick is falling, tumbling once again into the rabbit hole. When he lands, he sees himself full and whole once again.
There you are.
This time, they move with great care, and it's good. So good that Nick doesn't notice a tear slipping from the corner of his eye until Chris licks it away. They cling to each other, inhabiting this old/new embodiment of themselves, and it feels like coming home. Nick belongs here, his face in Chris's neck, Chris's dick buried inside him. It bears all the sweaty trademarks of heated sex, but there's more, a connection Nick can't find with anyone else and doesn't want to even consider with another guy. This is where he wants to be, tongue curling into Chris's mouth, privy to the involuntary sounds Chris emits when he's close, eyes burning into Nick's when he comes, slack jawed and keening. Nick's own pleasure jets between them in thick stripes, gluing them together where they've always belonged.
* * *
“Chris,” he thinks he hears, but it takes a moment to register. “Chris,” again, more insistent but still sleep fogged.
“Ow!” An elbow in his side. He rolls over, realizing his bed isn't empty, that Nick's back and sleepily pulling him close. “What the fuck, Nick?” he means to say, but it comes out, “Whufuh?” The clock glares an angry red 3:14 am.
“You were talking in your sleep.” Nick scoots into his side, pulling him over so his head rests on Nick's shoulder. “Loud. Gleefully. And loud. Did I mention loud?”
Chris rubs his eyes, already drifting again, his hand resting on the flat of Nick's belly. “What'd I say?”