This is a story about a man, or a dream. A fantasy, maybe, thought up by a lonely mind in a lonely town hours or weeks ago. I don’t know, the details are a bit fuzzy. Truth is, I’m not entirely sure if this story is fact or fiction, the truth or yet another neon sign pointing towards a surefire fall into madness. What I am sure of is that somehow, one way or another, my life was changed.
Like all good stories, and good is said with a shade of derision, there is a beginning. I’ll try not to bother with the technicalities. I’ve never been the biggest fan of feeding someone the imagery; it’s something you ought to be able to do for yourself. That is what creativity is for. Details will slip in every so often, though. I still have tendencies of falling back to my inner loquacious self, even in my old age.
Possibly a few of decades ago, I was graduating with a double major in English and art therapy, a minor in the study of languages. The university isn’t important, but at the time I was living in the northern part of Oregon, the furthest distance I’d been from Nova Scotia. I was in my mid-20s, older than most of the attending students, and I kept to myself for the most part. The why isn’t important; all that matters is that I had, and still do have, the utmost aversion to the majority of society. For the sake of time, the conversation that could be bred from that shall be saved for another day.
It was raining the day I met him. I truly do hate to jump straight into it without a moment’s notice, but I feel that if I’m not careful, my mind will take whatever opportunity that even peeks in my direction to not finish writing this. I can’t quite put my finger on the motive, but my subconscious has no desire to delve into these memories.
But yes, it was raining. The clouds above had shown no mercy, their mouths ripped open and spitting out their torrent. Water spilled over the sidewalk, the gutter drowning beneath the waves, and heavy droplets spattered against the overhead awning of the sidewalk café I was huddled against. It was early afternoon, the sun fleeing from its vigilant perch. It was raining, and it was beautiful.
Beautiful in the sense that, despite several people running to various coverings or squeezing underneath that morning’s newspaper, the world was silent. It was as if, for those few moments, even God dared not to breathe. The pattering of the raindrops, the rush and howl of the wind – those things did nothing more but broaden the infinite echo of silence and curve it around to reflect the beauty of nature.
I continued to lean against the stone wall, the owner of the café stepping out beside me. He was a quiet man, like myself, and wordlessly understood the pleasure one can get from a rainstorm. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he nodded at me, his smile hidden behind the mass of his white beard. Pulling a cigar from his coat pocket, he lit it and matched my position. We stood together in peace, neither one of us feeling the need to disrupt the quiet.
Tiny rivulets darted in tight streams off the edge of the awning, the rain coming down so hard there was practically no break in the flow. It gave the illusion we were trapped behind some strange, gravitationally impossible cage, the liquid bars thin and ever-changing. I fancied myself off on some distant earth where such things were feasible. How wondrous that would be, to wake up every morning in a place where the inconceivable and preposterous were within our reach, where we could shift the universe on a whim, shape the world into a reflection of our dreams.
The rain started to lessen some, dwindling down to a drizzle, its intensity gone almost as fast as it appeared. The thunderous roar of colliding clouds clashed near the horizon , and I felt it safe to venture away from my shelter and resume my walk home. I gave a quick nod to my silent partner and pushed myself away from the wall, the after-rain scent I was so very fond of immediately permeating my senses when I took a heavy step off the curb. Water splashed up around my pant legs and I sighed inwardly, the feeling of wet denim against skin making me uncomfortable.
I trudged on, the water invading my shoes. After a couple of seconds I gave up my attempts on dodging the puddles; It was too much of a moot point when they were practically everywhere. I could see the hazy stretch of pale grey falling on its next target, the rain so thick it looked just like the cloud it fell from. The sky seemed all but white, the only color coming from the vivid streak of a rainbow striping its way in a segmented arch across the eastern sky. I smiled softly to myself, veins of childlike joy still spreading despite my age.
As I rounded the corner, my house only a block away, I caught sight of a startlingly bright shade of yellow in my peripheral. Almost immediately, a bout of laughter came from the same direction, two high-pitched giggles riding on separate frequencies and disrupting my valued after-the-thunder silence. I halted mid-step, looking to see the source of such inharmonious glee.
On the corner opposite mine stood a pair of young women, one in a sundress – irony, yes? – and the other in simple jeans and a t-shirt. Before them was a third party, a man seemingly close to my age, older by no more than a few years. I could tell even from my position he was short on sleep, the heavy bags under his eyes an immediate give away. What was most prominent about him was the audaciously sunny, loose yellow shirt he wore, the color striking against his fair skin. I envied him for a brief second. I’ve always had the biggest inability to make yellow look good on me; this man did so flawlessly. Where I looked sallow, he looked alive.
The two ladies spoke with him for another minute or so before shaking hands and turning to cross the street, and merely an inhale later I was once again caught off guard. Without their bodies to shield him, new details emerged and I was, without a doubt, confounded by the bucket of lemons resting before his feet. On his shirt, letters spelled out in large, black font “L-I-F-E.” I couldn’t decide if the pieces were clicking together in the right place or if I was missing part of a larger whole, and my inability to process this new information caused me to stare quite a bit longer than I’d initially intended.
Within minutes, his eyes flickered away from where they had been and landed on me, humor rising up at my ogling. The sudden contact woke me from my stupor and I shook my head, my curiosity demanding I walk towards him and ask why he was standing on the corner of a sidewalk with lemons, the sky misting around us and frosting his dark hair with tiny droplets of precipitation.
Of course, my body chose to propel itself forward before my brain could fully process anything. Within a smattering of seconds I was face-to-face with a pair of the most beautifully stained eyes I’ve ever seen.
My God they were blue.
I thankfully regained enough control over myself in time to stop the verbal diarrhea that was threatening to spew out. Instead, I took to dumbly watching – in all fairness it’s difficult to register simple actions while submerged as deeply as I was in those things – as he tilted his head gently to the right, unblinking with a slow, open-mouthed and confused smirk.
After a few seconds of outright staring, I remembered it was customary to actually speak when you’re eying someone as heavily as I was and in such proximity. He must’ve sensed I was about to though, seeing as the moment my mouth opened to let out a singular greeting, his own beat me to it.
“How’s it going?” Came the unhurried drawl, his voice airy and low.
“You have a bucket of lemons.” My words came out quite the opposite of his in a long, rushed stream of whatthefuck. One of the advantages of standing less than a couple of feet away from him was that I could see he had a small scar, just less than the width of my thumbnail, on the left side of his face. He had two pale beauty marks asymmetrically placed on both cheekbones, and when the corners of his mouth lifted further and deepened their uneven curve, a dimple appeared.
“That’s an excellent observation. I also have two left feet and a pair of tits.”
I snorted, my hands finding comfort in my jeans’ pockets. “And to think I wasn’t interested by your appearance enough already.”
Grinning, he shifted his weight to his right foot, his arms crossing. I noticed gooseflesh rise on his skin and a suppressed shiver when the wind picked up. He nodded to the bucket at his feet, his hands slipping into the warmth of his armpits. “I’m uhm…I dunno, handing out lemons.”
“Ah…may I ask why?” I inquired further despite the fact I’d already put two and two together. I was simply curious if his explanation was anything different.
The wind died down again, sunlight bleeding through a singular crack in the continuous white expanse above our heads. It shone at a spot just left of where we stood, the shadow of a bird passing through the circle of light just before it faded away. A car cruised by, the muffled noise of some band vibrating the windows.
“Sure you can.” His voice was cheery and songlike, his smile infectious, the corners of my mouth lifting in return. Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “I was bored this morning.” He shrugged with one narrow shoulder, “felt this town could lighten up a little with a bit of metaphor. Make some lemonade out of life’s lemons, and what-not. You’d be surprised how many days were brightened this morning, at least that’s what they told me. Some guy gave me a hug for the mood lifter. Apparently his girlfriend had like, literally just broken up with him. I might start doing this more often, now that I actually think about it. I’m rambling, sorry. I just downed a Red Bull and I’m not used to the charge of energy. I’m Matt, by the way.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. He gestured as he spoke, his surprisingly long fingers moving aimlessly in the space surrounding him. It seemed he had a habit of tilting his head to the side, sometimes lowering his voice as if he were speaking only to himself. While he talked, the sun broke through the clouds again, this time highlighting his face. As his pupils contracted to small pinpoints of black, the blue around them almost seemed to intensify, the color clear and ringed with specks of golden-green.
It took me several seconds to realize that he had stopped talking and I felt a flush rise. He had a small smile on his face, the difference from his wide grin startling. The usual need to feel completely embarrassed and look awake didn’t hit me, though, and I continued to stare at him unabashedly. It was almost like I’d lost all control over my motor functions, my desire to keep recording details about his physical appearance overriding any sense of propriety. For instance, how damn long his eyelashes were.
A moment or so passed before he let out a nervous giggle, his voice quiet and once again a complete opposite from the lilting quality it was before. “What?”
I chuckled, mostly to myself. “I don’t know.” It was honest, despite the simplicity of the reply. I genuinely wasn’t sure. “I’m Dominic.”
He brightened at that, sticking his hand straight out. “Well, Dominic, you are definitely the quietest person I’ve met today.” As I shook his hand I couldn’t help but notice how smooth the skin there was. “I can’t decide if I find that creepy or intriguing.”
“Let’s hope for the latter?” I let go of his hand, returning mine to my jeans’ pocket. “I think I want to see you again.” I surprised myself with my forwardness, my personality much more passive than that. It seemed to do the same for him, if the wideness of his eyes wasn’t enough of a clue.
“I’m okay with that.”
My smile widened into the ridiculous, toothy grin I was cursed with having. I ducked my head for a moment, overwhelmed by the direction my day was going. I looked back up at him and nodded once, again for myself, as he let out another timid laugh.
I never believed that it was practicable for the breath to be taken out of my lungs at the mere sight of someone, or for my world to brighten a few shades at the mention of their name. I still don’t, in fact, but I can definitely understand how it might one day be possible. It’s not that I’m a cynic or against romanticism – admittedly quite the opposite – it’s just that I prefer to see things as they really are. Hearts break, words cut, and ultimately not everyone lives with a happily-ever-after. It’s notable how violent we as humans are, how passionate when it comes to love.
Yet, as I sit here against the wall in the furthest corner of my bed, staring at a ten by twelve inch painting of a pianist hard at work, the ink still fresh, I can sense the very core of my beliefs softening.
I’ve been like this for the last two hours, ever since I got home from my third meeting with Matt. Well, I guess it could be called a date, what with the gratuitous flirting on his behalf and the incessant blushing on mine. I’m not familiar with casual, harmless banter. The kind that may or may not result in something more, be it physical or just a one-night thing. Honestly, I hate one-night stands. I’m the kind of person who would rather prefer to lie in bed in the morning, watch sunlight play across my partner’s hair. Maybe make breakfast and forget to eat it, and simply fall back into a tumble of sheets till noon.
Matt is changing that, though, in the few weeks I’ve known him. I want him in that fluffy, bed-head and breakfast way. I want to know if the tiny bits of gold in his eyes gleamed in a post-coital glow. I want to know if he tastes like dark chocolate and sea salt, warm honey and stormy skies. I want to see a raindrop tremble on his lower lip as it threatens to fall onto the tip of my tongue.
My phone vibrated abruptly twice, informing me of a new text message. It was laying on my lap between both my thighs, the sudden resonance helped guide my thoughts in the direction they were headed. I felt my body heat and my heart flutter simultaneously as I read the name that showed up on the screen, and yet I was confused. He really never texted me, claiming that he would prefer if I prompted the conversation since he was the one who put forth effort into phone calls and innuendo-laden remarks. To be fair, I wasn’t a big fan of texting. I much preferred hearing someone’s voice and being able to aurally judge vocal inflections.
I swiped my thumb across the screen, his text popping up in an off-white bubble.
Three simple words, that’s all they were; A subject, a verb, and a direct object. Enough to quicken my breathing and blur my vision to the point that I wondered if I’d actually gone blind from want of him.
I read them again, stammering the words even in my thoughts. It was all I could do to keep myself from imagining him whispering them, hushed and quiet into my ear.
I crave you.
One thing I’ve noticed about Matt is how much he fidgets. He’s constantly moving some part of his body; his fingers, his feet, even his eyes. He’s always glancing around, looking for someone or something with a small frown like he doesn’t know who or what. He’s always touching something. Petting the shirts on a clothes rack as he walks by in the middle of Wal-Mart. Absentmindedly picking up a pencil on my desk and setting it back down, only to do it again seconds later. When we fuck, he’s always grasping my arms, my neck, my thighs, digging his thin fingers into my side to find purchase.
He’s only calm when he sleeps.
Right now, though, I don’t want calm. I want the eye to pass and the full force of his storm to rush over me, inside and underneath me.
I allow myself another moment to let my eyes wander the curve of his spine, trace spirals around the twin depressions directly above the swell of his bum. His skin is smooth, flawless despite a random freckle or scar. The mattress hugs the form of his body and I envy it. I shift across the sheets until my chest is pressed to his shoulder blades, waking him when I nudge my erection against the back of his thigh. I coast my hand up his side until my palm rests on the dip and sharp angle of his hipbones, curling my fingers around to grip him, pressing him tight into me.
Flexing my fingers while I hold him, I push my nose into the fringe at the back of his neck, breathing in the scent of dried sweat from when I took him against his bedroom door a few hours earlier. I can feel the heat of his flesh hardening only inches from my fingertips, and I stretch them a little further in taunt. His sharp hiss and the muffled groan into his arm when I brush against the taut skin make me snort, but I want him too much to fully laugh. He whispers out my name, his voice still rough from sleep and sex.
My palm drags down his skin and I waste no time in grasping his cock, simultaneously grinding my own against his ass. Repeating my name, he stutters when I slide against his entrance, the majority of my erection slick with pre-come. After a few tugs he was bucking into my hand and I was panting against his shoulder. When it came to him, I was insatiable. It’d never been this way with anyone else, this never ending desire to become him.
Before I could rush the word out, he was crawling across the mattress, his hand outstretched for the drawer in the side table next to the bed. The loss of his heat made me frown, but it didn’t last long, the promise of what was to come echoing in my head. I rolled onto my back, listening to the sound of wood scraping against wood and the scramble of contents. This was only the second time I’d been to his apartment, most of our meetings occurring in my house or in one of my classrooms after a lecture, the sound of student footsteps still audible. The first time he took me was in a Starbucks’ bathroom. It was unsanitary but amazingly convenient, and thankfully near closing time.
I jumped when I felt him rolling the condom down the length of my cock. I lifted my hand, finding him perched on his knees in between both my legs and watching me.
“I won’t ever tire of this,” he whispered, his voice heavy. I could feel the coldness of the lube through the latex as he slicked me up, his hand twisting on every down-stroke. “Seeing you like this, knowing you want me.”
I take hold of his other hand where he has it resting at my hip. “I need you. Now.” He nods twice, quickly, and I help pull him forward as he goes to straddle my waist. My cock still in his hand, he disregards preparing himself and positions me at that concentrated point of heat, my heart skipping a beat when I feel him give into me as he settles down. The tendons in his neck strain, his jaw clenched, and I don’t know if it’s from pain or pleasure.
As if sensing my question he growls out, “Both. It’s fucking both.”
Without giving me a chance to reply he pushes himself upwards and I marvel at the sight of the muscles in his thighs working, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight invading the window on the east wall. I almost choke at the sensation when he drops down, at how tight he is gripped around me. Without thinking, my free hand reaches for his, and I move both of his hands till they are planted on my chest. I hold them there as he lifts once again, bending his head downwards so I can meet him for a kiss. Our lips join messily, my mouth against his chin and his tongue tracing the bow of my upper lip. I start to thrust into him, meeting him at every fall.
The push of our hips takes an erratic turn after a few moments, wordlessly understanding that we’re both not far from the edge. Breathy, whining gasps come from his mouth, his name becoming the only verse I know as I chant it over and over again. We lock eyes, his appearing pitch black in the darkness of the room, and the pure gratification I see there is enough to give me goosebumps.
He arches away, bending until he’s leaning back with his nails digging into tops of my thighs. I buck twice into him, gathering from his sudden screams that I’d hit his prostrate. He came violently a breath and a half later, his release garnering my own, and I tossed my head back with a shout. Eyes squeezed shut, he collapsed against my chest as my hips continue to slowly rock into him on their own accord.
We lay like that until it started to become uncomfortable, both of us grunting at our raw skin touching the other’s. I peeled off the condom, careful not to let it leak, and reached around his back to tie it into a knot before tossing it into the trash next to me. I returned to holding him, his cheek pressed against my shoulder and his breathing evening out.
I heard him murmuring gently before he fell back asleep that I was someone he could love one day.
“If this was anymore dense it’d collapse into itself.” The book slid across the table from where Matt pushed it, the abstract design on the cover reflecting the glow from the lamp next to him.
“Shut up, Matt. I have to make myself like it otherwise I’ll never retain anything.” I strained forward, reaching for the book that he’d snatched from my hands but missing it by an inch. The position I was in restricted much movement and I fell back into my chair. I glared at him as he batted his eyelashes at me, his legs crossed at the ankle across my lap and pinning me to my seat.
“But darling one, you do realize you’re ever-so intelligent. You need not read such dark a subject…it’ll…it’ll change you.” He sniffed dramatically, bending his head downward and glancing up under lowered eyelashes and arched eyebrows.
“Fuck you,” I couldn’t help but laugh, his expression bordering ridiculous. “You’re right, though. This book was made by Satan.” I let my head fall and hit the back of my chair.
“I think if Satan wrote a book, it’d be far more entertaining and scandalous. More L.A. Noire and less The Brothers Karamazov.” He rubbed his eye as he spoke, pinching his nose and snuffling. “I fucking hate colds.”
“Hey, just because you had a hard time with Russian nihilism doesn’t mean you have to hate on a literary classic.”
Rolling his eyes, he lifted his legs from my lap and sat up straight, perpendicularly facing me. “Well, everyone is entitled their own opinion. Yours just happens to be wrong.”
I smiled despite myself, leaning towards him and placing a kiss on his cheek. “C’mon, let’s go. My place or yours?” I stood up and stretched, my back popping in the process.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and clear. I combed my fingers through his hair which had grown longer and fluffier in the near-three months I’ve known him. He sighed, a soft smile hinting at the corners of his mouth, and pressed into my palm at the side of his face. “I don’t care.”
“Let’s stop by the store and pick up some stuff so I can make you soup and just see where we go from there, yeah?”
“Why are you going to make me soup?” I could swear there was a hint of petulant independence in his voice.
“Cos you have a fever, babe.” I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped at the way his face fell when I answered him.
“Oh.” He sighed, his shoulders lax. “Wanna pick up a movie, too?”
My smile widened and I nodded. “Your choice. C’mon, I’m in desperate need for some intense cuddling tonight.”
He rolled his eyes again, standing up abruptly. He was close enough to me that he only had to move an inch to lean his head against my shoulder. “You’re disgustingly sentimental.”
“And you’ve obviously not looked into the mirror recently.”
Winking, I stepped away from him, grabbing his hands with mine and pulling. He pretended to ignore me as we walked out of the library, and I tried to stifle my smile when he reached to hold my hand.
I’ve never fully comprehended just how innocent children are, how completely ignorant they are of certain things. Just a bit ago, while looking outside the window in Matt’s room, a trio of kids were playing at a small park. Despite the lack in detail, I watched as one of the two boys walked up to a dog that had been scampering around. Trying to pet the dog, the boy fell back as it jumped at him. An adult – a parent, I assume – darted from the bench she sat at and ran over. From what I gathered, the boy was fine, just frightened.
Or maybe I’m just confusing innocence with stupidity.
I glanced away from the window and the black SUV pulling out of the tiny parking lot, the sound of the door opening earning my attention. Matt stood in the threshold, a look of concentration on his face as he flipped through the mail he’d left to retrieve. I closed the book I was reading, dog-earing the page I was on, and sat it on my lap.
I guess he felt my stare when he absently muttered, “Hey,” without looking up.
“You okay there, Bells?”
He slowly tilted his head to the side, one side of his partly-open mouth rising. “That’s a new one, Howard.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes and all.” I held back a yawn, watching as he tore open an envelope and started reading with barely expressed interest. “Do you have a fucking dragon on your shirt?” Sure as all hell a purple, cartoonish dragon curled around a shot glass across his chest, a dopey smile on its face and the word “puff” on the glass.
“Damn straight I do. Are we together?” His question was abrupt and out-of-place, taking me completely off guard. After receiving no reply, he finally looked up and met my eyes, his expression of concentration unchanged.
“Well, technically yes, we’re together right now.”
“No, you ass, are we a relationship? Like, dating and shit?” He suddenly looked really nervous, his fingers starting to twitch as they held the rest of the mail. He pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked into the room, setting all the papers and ads on his desk except for one folded letter in his hand that he kept glancing at.
“I…don’t know. I mean, I guess we are. I never pay much attention to labeling. I’m fine with being your consensual sex slave, if you’d like.” Matthew rolled his eyes at me over his shoulder before turning and leaning against the desk.
“So we’re together.”
“Seems like the general consensus. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged, staring at the letter, his foot starting to tap a frantic rhythm. He mumbled something that sounded like his brother asked about us. This, frankly, only served to further catch me off guard as he never spoke of his family.
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” I dared to comment, noting that his shoulders visibly tensed and his foot stilled. This only lasted a few seconds, though, before the tapping resumed and his shoulders relaxed a little.
“Dominic, look.” He startled me with his interruption, my full name rarely coming from his mouth. “We’ve had a good day – a great one, in fact. I don’t want to ruin it by bringing back old memories.” He turned and tossed the letter onto the desk with the rest of the mail and walked out of the room. From my seat I could see him walk into his kitchen. I rubbed my palm against my forehead and sighed, taken aback by his sudden, defensive manner. I wanted to respect whatever was bothering him despite my curiosity so I decided to leave it alone.
Standing up, I set my book back down on the chair and went to the kitchen. His back was facing me, his arms reaching up and trying to get the blender off the top of the refrigerator. I held back a snicker at the sight, opting instead to sidle up behind him and sling my arms loosely around his waist. Nuzzling the back of his neck, I breathed in his scent as his arms dropped and he relaxed back into me.
“Why is there a stack of my clothes folded on your dresser?”
My genuine question got me a nervous chuckle and he turned in my arms. He brought his hands to my chest and played with the collar of my shirt. “I’ve been kidnapping your clothes the last few times I’ve been to your place.”
I smiled, my brows furrowing. “Do you smell them every night too?” His eyes flickered up at me from under his eyelashes for a second, darkly glaring. “Seriously though, why? Do you want me to move in or something?”
The question was daring, what with his seemingly sensitive mood at the time, but I’m curious so what else can I say.
My forwardness in asking made him jerk a little in my arms and his fingers continued to busy themselves with buttoning and unbuttoning my shirt. “I’m not opposed to the idea.” His voice was quiet.
I stared at him for a few moments, his eyes avoiding my gaze. “I’m not against the thought of moving in either, Matt. But we’ve only been ‘together’ for not even five months. I’ve only ever been with one other person for that long of time, and we weren’t nearly as close as you and I are. I just don’t want to rush into something if we’re not equally on the same page.”
“Well, yeah, I know. But Dom, you’re here pretty much every day now that you’ve graduated. It wouldn’t be that much of a change if you had your own clothes drawer. I mean, fuck, you already have your own set of bathroom shit and don’t you even try to tell me that you found it all under the sink.” He looked up at me then, his eyes alone daring a rebuttal.
I moved my hands, resting them on his hips and pushing him gently away from me so I could better look at him. He was right, in all honesty. I’ve slowly infiltrated his bathroom the last month and he never asked, just let it happen. While we did frequent my house, his apartment felt more like a home. I’d never felt this comfortable with a person before and it scared me, but with him I wanted to try.
Brushing fringe out of his face, I noticed how my touch softened his expression a little. I traced the outline of his bottom lip, his eyes darting around my face look for a clue as to what I’d say next. His hands stilled at my collar and it was as if all that extra energy he had inside was being channeled through his stare.
“Okay,” I finally replied, his eyebrows rising comically high. “It won’t hurt to, will it?”
He shook his head, a beaming grin spreading across his face now, bringing out his dimple. His eyes were simply radiant. “Good. Good, this is a good thing.”
I giggled, pulling him back to me and kissing him. “Yes it is.”
“Fuck!” Matt shouted into my shoulder, finding his release seconds after me. His hips were still slowly thrusting into me and I shuddered, my nerves oversensitive and raw. Kissing the sweat from the back of my neck and trailing down between my shoulder blades, he eased out of me. I could feel his body shaking, weakened now by the force of his orgasm. He collapsed at my side, his arm draped loosely over my waist, and I struggled to lift and turn my head towards him.
“Good Christ, Matt,” my throat was sore from strain, “got a lot of pent up frustration or something?” I was never that vocal during sex but Matt had been relentless, slamming into my prostrate until I was hoarse, hands clawing into the mattress and fingers bruised from the pressure.
He lazily raised a shoulder before dropping it. “Something,” came his muffled reply, his eyes half-open.
“What were you doing up so late?” I’d almost forgotten. He’d woken me at nearly 4 A.M., still dressed in his jeans and white shirt, before making his interest clear and pretty much drilling me into the bed.
“Dunno. I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged again, trying and failing to hold back a yawn. He rolled onto his side and curled into a small ball, half on his pillow and half on mine. “I haven’t been able to lately but then again I don’t sleep much anyway.”
He was right. The more we’ve slept in the same bed the more I’ve noticed how little he actually sleeps. Some nights it won’t be till three, others dawn, but sometimes he’s perfectly fine and would be snoring before midnight. I’d initially chalked it up to his extreme hyperactivity, but the past two weeks I rarely saw him sleeping unless it was after we’d fucked. Now, I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Every time I’d mention it to him he’d change the subject and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some plaguing his mind. Automatically, of course, I assumed it was because of our new living arrangements and he was just stressed, but I couldn’t think of any reason for him to be. We had our own unspoken roles in the kitchen or with little chores and we didn’t go about them begrudgingly, but instead like we genuinely loved doing them. When we were in cooking dinner we would move around each other as if we’d been doing it for years. I was quickly becoming well-acquainted with his apartment more than I ever was with my house. Still, I was scared that the decision for me to move in may have been too hurried.
“I’m beginning to worry, Matt. You have perpetual bags under your eyes.” I stroked his cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “You work them, but they’re bags nonetheless.”
I felt him smile and the rumble in his throat when he hummed, his eyes closing. “I’ll worry about it in the morning.” He muttered quietly, scooting closer until he fit into the curve of my body.
“Promise me you’ll go to the doctor if it gets worse?” I rolled onto my side as well, wrapping my arms around him after pulling the sheets up. “I’ll fucking force you.”
He snorted softly, his head tucked beneath mine, as his breathing began to even out and slow.
We fell asleep like that. I was barely conscious when he woke sometime a few hours later, slipping out of the bed, his footsteps soft on the carpet of his floor.