In the leaden quiet between too late and too early, even the slowest, most cautiously turned key sounds like an alarm clock's bell, and the steadiest, most carefully shut door shakes a house like thunder.
"Care to tell me where you've been?" the soft darkness said.
"Fuck!" Kyle started. "You scared the shit out of me!"
"You didn't answer my question." Harshly revealed by a table lamp switch's sharp click, Witt's usually angular features were stiffer, more severe – carved by a two-handed chisel. "I asked where you were."
"I was out, okay? Like it's any business of yours."
"Where did you go? What did you do?"
"I don't have to tell you jack shit." Dismissively flapping one hand, Kyle started heading toward their bedroom. "I'm wiped, gonna get some sleep..."
"Tell me," Witt whispered, the deep lines loosening, slightly softening. "You owe me that, at least."
A pause, a dramatic sign, a moment to massage the bridge of his aquiline nose. "I don't have time for this."
"Make time," Witt's voice rose. "I-I thought I meant something to you."
'Look, what do you want me to say? Do I have to spell it out for you?
Witt nodded, "I need to hear it."
"Fine!" Kyle snapped, turning back to the brightly illuminated, overstuffed chair.
"You want to know? Do you really? Don't fuck with me, 'cause, trust me, I don't give a fuck how you feel about it!"
"After work, not a great day, as if you care. Wanted to go anywhere but here. Thought I deserved something, anything. A present for myself.
"Driving on Sepulveda 'cause the 405 usual fustercluck and saw it… like a blink, there then not there, next turning into the parking lot. Of course, you know it; it's the same place; nothing's changed except you and me. Maybe louder, uglier, tired, worn out. Not Big Boys', not the bar--us. Put down a twenty for a boilermaker… don't give me that; you've watched me order them lots of times. If you bothered to pay attention.
"Guy sat down next to me, said his name was Dibb. Just Dibb. Yeah, good looking; yeah, thinner; yeah, younger; yeah, better built. Blond hair, and all of it. Bright, stupid smile – nothing behind it: nothing deep, nothing complicated, nothing but shiny pearlies, plush lips, strong tongue. He didn't need to say a word. The way his dumb grin, his hungry eyes, how he "accidentally" but totally on purpose grazed my thigh, his hot laugh on my cheek was everything I needed.
"What? Fuck no, I didn't think of you. Why the hell should I? Do you want to listen, or do you want to sit there and sniffle in the dark? Fuck you, you said you wanted to know, well, shut up and listen."
Steadily, slowly, one foot placed cautiously in front of the other, Kyle covered the short distance from where he stood to where Witt sat.
Towering over, bending down, Kyle's booze-lit words scorched the top of Witt's head, fine ginger hair swirling, curling from the heat.
"Did I say he was hot? I did, well, I'm gonna say it again and again and again. He was god damn fucking hot. Made my cock hard just sitting next to him.
"Shit, I wanted to pull it out right there, show him the whole thing. Grab his hand, haul him down, and make him grab hold of it. See what you made me do? Like how hard you make me? What the fuck you gonna do about it? I wanted to say, I was gonna say… one boilermaker wasn't enough, but I wanted to more than anything, harder than you ever made me, hell, could ever make me.
"Yeah, he knew. How couldn't he? It was in his eyes… did I say they were green? Yeah, like jade, like a pair of emeralds focused on my cock.
"His hands… did I tell you they were rough but not tough, soft but not pathetic like yours? He worked with them, he played with them, he lived with his hands… he lifted, hauled, broke, bent, and hammered with them, feeling every single rock, pebble, splinter. Everything... And each of his fingers curled and uncurled, kneading… no, needing to grab my fucking hard cock. Lips wet, hands clenching, eyes greedily green to stroke me, milk me… up and down, slow and fast, back and forth, hard and soft..."
Easily, patiently, like water crying from ice, Kyle's legs folded underneath him, lowering himself down until he knelt on the floor, his own blue eyes leveled precisely with Witt's brown ones.
Casual yet firm, determined though steadily patient, his hand extended outwards to first gently rest on, then gently squeeze Witt's thigh.
"I grabbed him, took him by the hand like he was gonna go under for the third time, pulled him to his feet. Oh, fuck, his face! Birthday, Christmas. Every brightly wrapped treasure next to every candle-covered cake, under every damned tree. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to take his face in my hands and jam my tongue down his throat, I wanted to tear his fucking pants off and swallow his damned dick. Didn't care who watched. Fuck them while I fucked him with my mouth.
"Knew where the bathroom was … almost too far, didn't think I was gonna make it before my own dick explored in my pants. Pulled him so hard, he nearly tripped, felt for a sec I was gonna have to drag his damned body across the floor, but he kept up. Slapped the door open with my palm, heard it, felt it slam against the wall, leave a huge fucking hole.
"Here's where Kyle face-fucked some big-dicked stranger… look on my works and despair!
"God, the smell. Fucking love that smell; piss, cum, shit, sweat, all of it rammed up my nose, down my throat, straight to my damned balls. Rocket fuel, 4-3-2-1, my cock was gonna blast off, leave another gaping hole in the ceiling.
"See that? That's where Kyle gave the moon a fucking cum-spattered black eye."
A pair of rich Corinthian leather eyes met a pair of peerless sapphires, each complimenting, both matching, never wavering while Kyle's fingers walked along and up Witt's thighs to his waist.
Complimentary, parallel, their breaths met, mingled, went from two to one – neither hot nor chilled, perfumed or ponged – just joined together.
"His hands were like hungry birds, flagging wildly, clawing madly at my crotch. Belt unbuckled, fly unzipped, pants and tighty whities down, cock out, cock hard, cock tipped with a pearl bead, then open-wide and in I went: head first, shaft second, his lips slapping against my damned balls.
"Watched him swallow every fucking inch. My pubes gave him a scratchy beard at the end of each sucking pull. It was like he was trying to pull me out through my cock, squeeze my fucking body all the way in and through and out in a sticky hot spray."
Legs parted, back arched, hands squeezed into fists, Witt sighed, moaned as Kyle gently then feverishly stroked Witt's firm, but with every movement, getting steadily-firmer, cock.
Leaning over, hands reaching down, Kyle's chewed into Witt's neck, teeth digging into corded muscle, savoring his saltine sweat, lips reading the thum-thum-thumping of his jackhammering pulse.
"Dibb fucking blew me in Big Boys' crap-tastic bathroom. He sucked me until I shot my load down his throat."
"You know what he did then? Can't you guess? Come on. You can't tell me you don't already know. No? Well, you fucking should. It's me, you asshole. You've seen me getting blown how many goddamn times?
"Don't you fucking cum yet, not till you say what I want to hear? You hear me? You fucking hear me? Open your fucking mouth, use your damned words, and give me what I want!"
Tongue flopping side to side, neck strained tight, Witt tried, failed to swallow. Lips curled back into pale slits, eyes pressed painfully shut, Witt tried but couldn't speak.
"Say it, you prick. You want to, don't you? Yeah, you fucking slut, they're crammed together, right here –" Kyle slapped Witt's chest, right where his heart was battered against his ribcage " – let 'em go, let 'em go, let 'em go!"
"Y-you lifted him. Pulled him up a-and you – " each vowel, syllable, was punctuated by a fine spray of foamy spittle, " – and -y-you…"
Hand yanking, neck gnawing paused just long enough for Kyle to bellow, "Fucking say it! Prove you get me!"
"Y-you kissed him, you kissed him and sucked y-your cum out of his mouth, pushed in back i-in over and o-over again, then you f-fucking s-wallowed."
The room lost its heavy silence, but Witt's quavering roar rumbled so hard, drummed so intensely, pounded so deafeningly, a minute sliver of their gleefully fractured minds momentarily feared red and blue flashing lights and an authoritatively-amplified voice demanding, "What's going on in there?"
Laughter, also together – a looping chorus of bells, chimes, chortles, guffaws, and more than a couple of decidedly comical snorts – as Witt slid from his chair, Kyle collapsing next to him.
Panting easing, pulses steadying, arms encircling, hands embracing, fingers intertwining, and, as the room gently, nearly unobtrusively returned to hushed darkness, Kyle raised Witt's head. "Thank you."
"Anything," Kyle responded with matching tenderness, equivalent affection, equal devotion, "for you... my love."
