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Julian pretended confidence in the bar, in the cab ride back to Emmett's hotel, in the lift up to the room; part bravado, part desire, part the whiskey that Emmett can still taste on his lips, his tongue.
Emmett's had men like him before—men who can't admit to themselves what they want, who they are; men who've let him fuck them in the toilets of certain clubs, in dingy motel rooms. Like him, but not, because there's a kind of contradiction in him that Emmett can't figure out, something he sensed in him from that moment, days ago, when they were introduced—a nervous repression, a tension, that's at war with how eager Julian's hands are, how he sways into Emmett's touch as his clothes fall away, piece by piece.
Emmett thinks vaguely of a snake shedding its skin as he loosens the ridiculous bow tie, pushes the bright white shirt from Julian's shoulders, slides trousers down narrow hips; thinks of an animal making itself anew from its own skin, its bone and marrow. Julian helps him with shaking fingers and is so responsive to his touch, arching up beautifully when Emmett pushes him down onto the bed; god, he thinks, biting down on Julian's shoulder, licking at the pale skin there, this might just be a first time for the both of them.
He takes his time touching him—slow is best, he thinks, when you have time and the need to touch. Slow is best because he's beautiful, this strange, intelligent man with his crooked nose and his curving lips, with his careful way of walking and this new manner of sprawling across Emmett's bedsheets; because this is Julian, and Emmett needs to touch him.
The trace of fingertips up Julian's side, over the thin lines of his ribs, the flat wings of his collarbones; feeling how his breath stutters at Emmett's touch, the quick inhale and the long slow exhale. Julian's fingers are slowly clenching and unclenching in the sheets; nervous still, Emmett thinks, or maybe just unsure how to want.
So his touch changes, becomes more deliberate; not moving lower down, not yet, spreading wider to match the grin on Emmett's face. "God, what are you..." Julian chokes out as Emmett finds all the places where he's ticklish, exploiting the delicate skin along his side, under his arms and behind his knees; fingers roaming until Julian's gasping and laughing, squirming beneath him; his eyes are wide and wondering, and Emmett knows suddenly that sex has never been fun for Julian before, there's never been laughter. It's a strange thought for Emmett, and a little sad, because even towards the end with Monica, with half a dozen other exes, the sex had still been been full of low laughter, affection and want spread out beneath his fingertips.
"This isn't some kind of, of fetish, is it?" Julian says, "I've, I've heard stories about..."
Emmett smirks at him and says "No, not so much. It's this," and he lowers his head and turns his hands and his mouth to other uses, finding all the places on Julian's body that make him squirm and gasp when he touches them with his mouth and the tip of his tongue; the places that make Julian touch him back, tentatively, hands sliding over Emmett's shoulders and up to pet at his hair.
His thighs are shaking underneath Emmett's hands, his mouth, and he's still tense, Emmett can tell, though his mouth is curving upwards and his hands are touching back, so Emmett says "It's okay, Julian, it's okay... let yourself want it, it's okay."
Julian shudders, and Emmett can almost hear something, something seismic, something shifting underneath his skin as Julian breathes in, breathes out, and then he does: he lets go. A quick movement, hands against Emmett's back, teeth at his jawline, teasing at his mouth, and Julian's rolling him over, pressing him down into the bed. Emmett arches up against him, at all that strength and all that want that Julian's been holding back; and as Emmett's eyes close, as his mouth opens on a moan, he can hear the laughter bubbling up in Julian's throat.