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Jim wakes to the soothing sound of cabinet doors banging and the sizzle-pop of frying. He buries his head in the pillow, but the sounds persist, and then both his alarm clock and his bladder start clamouring for his attention. Between that and the smell of coffee wafting into the room, he has to admit defeat. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, he stumbles to the bathroom and then into the kitchen, blearily taking the mug held out to him.
It takes him a minute, after sitting down at the table and bathing in the steam of the coffee, to realise that something was off about being handed it. He hears soft laughter behind him, something clicks, and he turns.
Roland Bozz is standing in his kitchen, laughing and eating bacon.
"What the fuck?" Jim's voice is rough, which is nothing to how he feels. Bozz laughs louder.
"Morning, Jim. The lovely lady who started your breakfast told me to say she'll call." He grins. "Anything serious?"
"No, we hooked up last night — what the fuck, Bozz?" He stands up, almost upsetting his coffee, and launches himself at Bozz. He hugs him so tightly he's worried he'll hear bones snapping, and Bozz practically clings to him.
"Good to see you," Bozz murmurs into his skin, just below his ear, and Jim can't stop himself shivering a little. The hug ends, and Bozz piles the rest of the bacon onto a plate just as the toaster pops. "Here," he says, setting the plate on the table next to Jim's coffee. "Sorry to barge in on you like this. Hope I didn't deprive you of a morning screw."
Jim stretches and sits back down. Apparently they're not going to address the fact that until today he thought Bozz might be dead. "No," he shrugs, "I don't think you did."
"Sorry, man. Still," Bozz takes a cigarette out of his pocket, "there's always the next one." Suddenly it's like they're back at the barracks, Bozz leaning back in his chair and inhaling, grinning suggestively. His hair's longer now, spiked up at the back. It looks disconcertingly good on him.
"You grew your hair," Jim says. He can't be expected to be coherent, not right now.
Bozz keeps grinning. "So did you." He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke away from Jim's food. "You gonna eat that?"
"Yeah." Jim picks up the toast, not really able to tear his eyes from Bozz's face. "So, what happened to you, man? I heard you were dead."
Bozz stops grinning, eyes fixing on the lit tip of his cigarette. "Almost," he says, quiet.
"I also heard you disappeared," Jim says, watching him. Bozz looks up and smiles, the kind of smile he gives to commanding officers and anyone else with power over him.
"Now that one is actually true."
"So you did get out." Jim's been hoping, and it shows in his voice. This time, the smile Bozz gives him is genuine. Like old times.
"You know me," he says, and there's a warmth in it.
"So, what — you went to Mexico, lay low until the end of the war then came back into the country?"
"Something like that," Bozz says.
"New identity?" Jim asks, because it's not like deserters are thought well of, no matter how long the fighting's been over.
"Yup. I'm Terrance Jackson now." Jim takes in all the small changes that separate Roland Bozz from Terrance Jackson, as Bozz watches him. There's the hair, and a small amount of stubble that could just be from not having shaved in a day or so. He's dressed in well-kept jeans and a nice blue shirt. His accent has softened, become muted slightly. There's a certain set to his jaw, a certain look in his eyes, that wasn't there even in Tigerland.
The words spill out before Jim can think to stop himself. "How was it out there?"
Bozz looks away. "Bad." He looks back. "Listen, can we not talk about it? I'd rather —"
"Sure, sorry. Sure. Hey, um — don't think I'm not glad to see you, thanks for letting me know you're alive, but — what are you here for?"
There's that winning smile again. "I was in town, y'know, on my travels. Found myself in need of a place to stay. Heard you live here, and I was kind of hoping you'd know of somewhere cheap."
Jim nods. "Girlfriend kick you out?"
"Yup. The latest ex got sick of me." He shrugs, rueful.
"Sorry, man. I got a couch, you can stay here."
"You don't mind?" Bozz sounds genuinely surprised, which for some reason pisses Jim off.
"What are you talking about, my old buddy shows up alive, you think I'm not gonna offer him a place to stay?"
"Yeah, it's just — I didn't know if you still gave a shit."
Jim rolls his eyes. "I give a shit, you dumbfuck. You got much stuff?"
"I travel light. I can get it this afternoon." Bozz's face holds more gratitude than anything he'd say.
Jim just nods. "You got a job?"
"Not yet. I'm sure I'll find something."
"I'm sure you will."
*
When Jim first meets Bozz, he's not sure what to think. Here's this guy who's cavalier about rules, who thinks he's stupid for enlisting, and Jim isn't sure half the time whether Bozz is insulting him or not. There's something about him that makes Jim go over in the bar, introduce himself, pick up women with him, not think a thing of it when they screw in the same room. If he finds himself perhaps paying a little more attention to Bozz than the woman he's with at certain times — Bozz makes a particularly long noise, getting close, and Jim watches him without turning his head too much while he hurtles towards orgasm and comes with a snap of his hips, the movement and sound making Jim come a second later — well. He's always known that he's attracted to men sometimes, and it's never come up before so why should it now?
Maybe the fact that they were so absorbed in conversation that they didn't notice the women leaving should have tipped him off. Maybe the fact that neither made much of an attempt to find other women for them to screw should have indicated what was going on. Maybe when Bozz flopped onto the same bed as him and just kept talking, maybe then Jim should have left or at least put his pants back on.
He doesn't, though. Bozz is so interesting, so ... compelling somehow. Jim watches the way his mouth moves as he talks, the earnest look in his eyes, and forgets what they're saying. He stumbles over a sentence, and Bozz laughs. "You're not getting sleepy on me, are you?" he asks, poking Jim's thigh with his knee. The bed is small enough that this action makes it impossible to hide Jim's growing erection. He tries to turn away, but Bozz laughs harder. "You're not getting sleepy, you're getting excited," he crows.
"Shut up," Jim grumbles, turning his body away. Bozz rubs his knee along Jim's thigh. "Stop it."
"Fuck's sake," Bozz isn't laughing any more, though he still looks amused, "I don't mind."
Jim looks at him, and sees that he honestly doesn't. "Most guys wouldn't want to be on a bed with a buddy like this."
There's something suggestive, almost a flirtation, in the way Bozz replies, "I'm not most guys."
Jim shifts. He's getting harder, turning back towards Bozz. "Come on, man —"
He looks down, because it feels like he just brushed against something that wasn't there a second ago. Lingering slightly over Bozz's stomach — fuck, why does he want to bite it? — then further.
Bozz is getting hard, too, and the sight pushes Jim all the way to full attention.
"Well," Bozz says, sounding surprised, "look at that."
"Bozz —" Jim tries to shift away again, but Bozz puts a hand on his hip. Jim stills. "Bozz, c'mon, stop shitting with me."
"I'm not shitting with you," Bozz says. The edges of his voice are sharp, but there's a softness to it all the same. Sincerity, Jim realises with a jolt. Fuck, this was a bad idea. "I'm really not."
"Bozz, don't —" He stops when Bozz moves closer, tilting his face towards Jim's. "Bozz, what —" he says, voice cracking to a whisper.
"The door's shut, right?" Bozz whispers back. Jim flicks his eyes from Bozz's mouth to the door and back. He nods. "Good," Bozz says, and lightly kisses Jim's jaw.
"Fuck," Jim exhales as Bozz lightly kisses again, next to where he just did. He's kissing a line along Jim's jaw, ever inwards, until he reaches his chin. He goes to press a kiss to just under Jim's mouth, but Jim whispers, "Fuck," and shifts to catch his mouth.
Bozz inhales in surprise, but quickly melts against him, hands going to either side of Jim's face. Jim's only kissed one guy before, in a hurried and awkward incident when he was seventeen, and that was just quick and confusing. Bozz licks Jim's lips open and suddenly Jim's rolling him over, settling on top of him, hands stroking down Bozz's sides and over his chest. Bozz's tongue in his mouth makes Jim's whole body tingle. His erection throbs as he presses it against Bozz's hip.
"Oh, fuck," Bozz moans softly as Jim breaks the kiss to bite his neck. "Fuck," he sighs, rocking his hips and grabbing Jim's ass, holding him in place while he grinds against his stomach. He hitches one leg over Jim's hip, getting a better angle, and Jim frantically finds his mouth again. He kisses Bozz desperately, rocking their hips together with no particular rhythm, just short thrusts against each other. It's like sex always is, though drier than usual; frantic, desperate, pleasure and need building in his whole body from the crotch outwards. It's not enough, it's not quite enough touching, but fuck it feels good.
"Shit," Jim murmurs, licking the palm of one hand and wrapping it around Bozz's cock. Bozz jerks and arches, licks his own hand and wraps it around Jim's cock. They rock and kiss, harsh and with a crescendo of broken whimpers into each other's mouths, as they jerk each other off through the last build. Jim comes first, Bozz's tongue in his mouth, Bozz's hand on his cock. It's one of his better orgasms. He realises as the afterglow sets in that his hand has slackened; he adjusts his grip on Bozz's cock, grins at him, and slides down his body until his mouth is at the right level.
"Jesus," Bozz whispers as Jim takes his cock in his mouth. He tries to think about what he likes, what he's always wished someone would do when blowing him. Bozz bucks and writhes at the hard sucking, squirms at the flat of Jim's tongue pressed to his shaft, and yells and punches the wall behind him when Jim sucks softly at the tip of his cock. Jim sets to a rhythm of sucks and licks and Bozz comes two minutes later. "Fuck," he's panting when Jim comes back from spitting into the sink. "Where the fuck did you learn to do that?"
Jim shrugs. "Didn't learn."
"Fuck," Bozz repeats. Jim throws himself down next to him and watches Bozz get his breath back.
"Was it really that good?" he asks. Bozz looks at him like he's insane. "Oh."
They're silent for a while. The way he feels about Bozz, if he were a woman Jim'd be doing something like trying to hold his hand or spoon or something. As it is, he just lies there thinking about how he'd best stop having these nice tingling feelings for another man. Even one who might have nice feelings back. You're in the Army, Jim reminds himself. If anyone finds out, we're finished.
"Well," Bozz says at last, "thanks for the great fuck. We'd best be getting back, before they put me in stockade again."
Jim's nice tingling feelings don't budge. That's when he knows he's in trouble.
"No sweat," Jim says, pointing to the hall closet. "You can put them in there."
"Thanks." He hefts the bags in, then Jim follows him into the kitchen. "So is this where I ask how your day was?"
"Fuck off, Bozz, you're not my wife." Jim shoves him, laughing, gets two beers out of the fridge.
"What's your job these days, anyway?" Bozz asks, leaning against the doorframe and swigging his beer. Jim has a moment of disconnect, a memory of what he used to look like superimposed onto this civilian Bozz. He blinks.
"Uh, teacher. I was with the Army for a while, paperwork and shit, then I left to finish college. Ended up here, teaching creative writing and literature at community college."
"You've really gone up in the world." Bozz's cocksure grin is as annoying as ever. Jim suppresses the urge to kiss him. "Seriously, man, I'm glad. Guess that writing paid off after all."
"I actually, uh, I wrote a book," Jim admits, scratching the back of his neck.
Bozz smiles, the genuine kind that looks to Jim like someone just cleaned a window and the sunlight comes through brighter. "Am I in it?" Bozz's tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are soft. Jim looks at his beer bottle.
"Not exactly," he says, thinking of the pieces of Bozz he sprinkled all through it.
"Can I read it?" His tone has shifted, and Jim looks up. Bozz has stepped closer, moves right up next to him, and he looks proud.
"Sure," Jim says, not much sound in it.
Bozz leans over. He does it slowly enough that Jim can back out and it can just be joked off and everything would be fine, but Jim doesn't move. There are several moments that stretch on while Bozz inches closer and Jim's mouth opens in anticipation. When the kiss comes, it's gentle and Jim is shaking so hard he can feel his mouth trembling. Bozz shifts closer, not breaking the kiss as he takes the beer out of Jim's hand. There's a sound like the bottles hitting the counter, and then Bozz is covering Jim's whole body with his, still kissing him gently. Jim's arms go around his back, hands still shaking as they rest there, splayed. Bozz's tongue is in his mouth again, for the first time in ten fucking years, and it's not frantic this time. It's fucking tender and Jim breaks the kiss, breaks out from Bozz's arms and moves to the kitchen door.
"Shit, this is — fuck, I think I'm dreaming." He fists one hand at the back of his head, willing himself not to do something stupid like cry. He doesn't even feel like crying, so he's not sure why he's so worried about it. "You were dead, yesterday."
Bozz says, "I'm sorry," and he really looks it. "If I'd known you thought I was dead —" He looks away. "Well, I probably still wouldn't have broken cover. Sorry."
"It's okay." He exhales shakily. "I just, I'm gonna take a walk. Clear my head."
"Okay." Bozz is watching him, careful. "I shouldn't have kissed you, should I?"
"No, it — it's okay," Jim repeats.
He grabs his jacket and wanders aimlessly for an hour in the cool night air. He thinks about the past ten years, about watching the bus leave while Bozz scatters his notebook pages, about how Bozz hung out of the window until Jim couldn't see him any more. He thinks about going through the lists, always looking out for the names he knew, sometimes seeing them. He thinks about how Bozz's name never showed up, but he kept hearing things, like the soldier who swore he'd seen Bozz enter a building just before it blew up, and the soldier who swore he'd seen Bozz two months after that helping three women and seven children escape from a village under attack. He thinks about his life without Bozz, the times he gave up hope and the times he didn't. He thinks about his life here in Boston, his job, his friends. He thinks about Bozz sleeping on his couch. He thinks about digging a hole with him in Fort Polk and getting muddy, how Bozz blew him right there, how he almost made Bozz jizz in his fatigues.
Nothing's particularly clear by the time two hours have passed and he's so hungry he can't ignore it. Nothing except that Bozz is back in his life and he can't quite believe it. He grabs a pizza on the way home, balancing it on his knee to open the door.
"Hey," Bozz says, standing up when Jim passes the living room doorway. "I um, if you want me to leave, I can —"
"Shit, no, I don't want you to leave." What Jim wants right this second is to put the pizza down, walk over to him, push him down on the couch, and see if he can still remember just how he likes to be jerked off. He takes the pizza into the kitchen instead.
Bozz follows. "I didn't come here expecting anything. Didn't even know if you'd remember me. I'm just," he takes a deep breath, "I'm trying to say that things don't have to be like they were. We can be ... whatever you want. Just buddies, nothing — if you don't want —"
"Shit, Bozz, give me some fucking time to get used to you being here," Jim says. He was going for annoyed, but his voice cracked somewhere around the middle of the sentence and all he ends up sounding is vulnerable. "It's been a long time," he says.
"Okay," Bozz nods, watching him. He does a lot of that, and it should irritate Jim more. It really should.
"You hungry?" Jim opens the pizza box and drops it onto the table.
"Yeah," Bozz says, and he fetches their beers from the fridge. They eat dinner, silent until Bozz clears his throat and asks about Jim's college. He tells Bozz about it, and it's like it always was, really.
He looks up. Bozz is holding onto him, and without that, he'd have fallen. "Thanks," Jim says. The dream still cloys at his eyelids, making his heart pound.
"Surprised you didn't wake anyone else," Bozz says, "the way you were thrashing."
"Sorry." Jim tries to get back onto the bed properly, but it takes Bozz shoving him. He's shaking violently.
"You okay?" Bozz asks. Jim notices a few sleepy faces looking at him.
"I'm fine," he says, loud enough that everyone awake will hear him. "Fine," he repeats in a whisper, though he can't stop the shaking.
"Shit, come on, before you puke on me." Bozz forces him down from the bunk, takes him outside. Jim isn't nauseous, just shaken to fuck.
Bozz sits with him, even though he doesn't have to, because he's Bozz. "It's nothing," Jim says, gulping in the clear night air. The silence. "Just a dream."
Bozz nods. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Go back in to sleep, man," Jim says. "I just need a minute."
Bozz shrugs. "I'm awake now. If you wanna talk —"
"Everyone died, Bozz. Everyone fucking died and I just stood there. And you —" Jim doesn't finish. "Like I said. I need a minute."
"What about me?" Bozz doesn't move. Jim wants to punch something, so he chooses the ground. Loose dirt sticks to his knuckles.
"You died, okay? It felt real and it was — fuck —" He's crying, because the image of Bozz bleeding out in his arms won't fucking leave his eyelids.
"Shit," Bozz whispers. He sounds angry. "I told you, I fucking told you, I didn't want to be your friend, I didn't want buddies, we are all gonna go to fucking war."
Jim draws his knees up and folds his arms on them, resting his head on top. "Just leave me alone, okay?"
"Fuck." He hears Bozz get up, walk away, but instead of the sound of the door opening and closing behind him, he hears footsteps back and then he's being hugged. Bozz has his arms around him, breathing like he's trying not to cry, while Jim sobs. "Why are you fucking here, Paxton? Why are you fucking here?" Bozz mutters, holding him.
He rolls out of bed and into the bathroom, where he walks in on Bozz pissing. "Sorry," he mumbles, walking back out again.
"I'm done," Bozz calls over the toilet's flush, and Jim goes back in to relieve himself. Bozz washes his hands, not bothering to hide that he's sneaking a look.
"It hasn't changed, you know," Jim says, yawning.
"I know." Bozz dries his hands and leaves.
Jim doesn't lock the door when he showers. Bozz stays in the kitchen, or wherever else he is, doesn't once open the bathroom door. Jim tells himself not to be disappointed.
He fixes them both some breakfast; they've fallen into an unspoken routine, and it's Jim’s turn today. He makes French toast and waffles, and Bozz gets the mail.
"You got a kid?" he asks, handing over an envelope with a child's writing on it.
"No," Jim says. He takes the envelope. Georgia postmark, familiar handwriting. "It's from Lucy Ann," he says, opening it. "Cantwell's daughter. Remember, he had the two little ones?"
"Oh yeah," Bozz says. He munches his toast.
"His little girl's twelve now," Jim says, smoothing out the letter. "Cantwell made me teach his kids to read, she's always asking for help with her school work. Sometimes she writes stories."
"You write back?" Bozz asks. Jim shrugs.
"She likes getting mail."
Bozz looks thoughtful. "You see Cantwell a lot?"
"Sometimes. I've been down for Thanksgiving most years since my folks passed."
"Oh shit, I'm sorry. When did it happen?"
Jim looks up from the letter. "Uh, my dad's heart gave out in '73. Mom died in '78." He looks back down, the words unfocused in front of him. After his mom died was when he started thinking maybe Bozz was dead too, that everyone had upped and gone. That Halloween, he'd driven down to Louisiana and tried to find where he and Bozz had failed to break their legs, where Bozz had asked him to run away together. After driving in circles for hours, he found the railway tracks, but there was no sign of the abandoned carriage they’d stood on. He sat in the dirt and drank and cried and wondered what life would've been like if he'd gone with Bozz to Mexico. He'd crawled into his car to sleep, still crying, and woke to the worst hangover of his life the next morning.
Gradually, the present reasserts itself. "You okay?" Bozz asks. Half his breakfast is gone. Jim's is almost untouched.
He starts eating. "Yeah," he says.
"You sure you wouldn't come with me to Mexico?" Bozz asks, unbuttoning Jim's shirt.
"I can't," Jim answers, fumbling with Bozz's pants. "You know I can't."
"I've never," Bozz slurs, yanking Jim's vest over his head, "I've never had someone I couldn’t leave behind." He starts laughing, though Jim has no idea why. "You could," he giggles, "you could get me killed."
"Don't say that." Jim sobers up a fraction, but considering how drunk he is, that doesn't end up making a difference. "I couldn't live with that," he says. He wants to laugh, too. He doesn't know why.
Bozz falls against him. "Fuck, I'm too drunk for this." He fumbles Jim's pants undone and sticks a hand down his underwear.
Jim arches and shifts closer, sticking his own hand in Bozz's pants. He kisses him, still sloppy, but it starts that curl of pleasure at the base of Jim's spine. It's not sexual, though that's part of it, it's just — "Love," he mumbles against Bozz's lips. "I love you, Bozz."
Bozz doesn't say anything, maybe doesn't hear him. He just keeps jerking him off, grip not quite tight enough, leaving whiskey-soaked kisses over his neck.
They wake up tangled together a few hours later, have quick rocking-against-each-other sex, then clean up and head back to the barracks. It's the only time they wake up together, and Jim isn't so drunk that he can't file it away to pull out whenever he needs comfort; the slow awareness of arms around him, a body nestled against his, legs tangled together. Opening his eyes to see Bozz, his eyes closed, his face totally relaxed in sleep. Shifting his arms to pull Bozz closer, feeling the semi-on he woke up with growing fully hard against Bozz's stomach. Watching Bozz wake slowly, the smile on his face, the way he mumbles, "Hi," the way he rubs against Jim as he stretches. Kissing him softly, tasting stale beer and whiskey, not giving a fuck, the knowledge buzzing in the pit of his stomach that he loves Bozz, more than he's loved anyone like this in his life.
"That's great." Jim smiles back. "Where?"
"There's a company, supplies construction crews in the county. There's an opening in Chelsea."
"Chelsea?" Jim repeats. "Oh. Well, that's — that's great."
"I figured I'd get out of your hair," Bozz says.
"You're not in my hair," Jim answers. His voice sounds flat, even to him, and if he doesn't get out of here in the next five seconds he's going to punch something or cry. He really doesn't want to do either. "Listen, uh, I'm really glad for you, but I gotta go — talk to a colleague."
"Jim?" Bozz watches him stand up, looks at his half-eaten lunch.
"I gotta — I'll see you later." He walks off, hearing Bozz calling his name after him. He makes it all the way to his office before Bozz catches up with him.
"Hey," Bozz says, closing the door behind him. The blinds are down. Jim realises that he never stopped cataloguing the things that mean privacy. "What did I say? I thought you wanted me gone?"
"You thought I —" Jim paces up and down a few times, unable to even speak.
"I was obviously wrong." Bozz is still watching him. Jim shoves him into the corner, behind the bookcase where he's been meaning to replace the plant that died. Even more privacy.
"Don't you fucking leave me again, you bastard," Jim whispers.
"Okay," Bozz says, hands stroking soothingly down Jim's sides. "It's okay."
Jim gets a hold of himself. "Sorry," he says, leaning his forehead against Bozz's. "I'm sorry, I just can't — I'm sorry. A job in Chelsea," he tries for happy, "that's great."
"You said that." Bozz is smiling. "You are so stupid, d'you know that? You are the dumbest human being alive, I fucking swear." Before Jim can protest, Bozz kisses him.
They haven't kissed since the day Bozz turned up. Jim thought maybe if they didn't, it'd be less weird, he'd stop feeling like a ghost had walked into his life. He isn't afraid to admit now that he was wrong. Standing in his office, with everything of his new life around him — diplomas, pictures of his parents in silver frames, notepads and a pile of papers to grade — it's here, kissing Bozz, that he finally stops feeling weird.
He wraps his tongue around Bozz's, whimpers low in his throat, and presses their crotches together.
"Go slower," he grunts. The scratchy hotel sheets feel strange against his arms as he shifts on his knees. Bozz thrusts slower, and the burning subsides.
"Fuck you're tight," Bozz groans. Hearing how turned on he is might be almost as good as the feel of his cock in his ass. It's a pretty fucking excellent feeling. "Shit, why didn't we do this before?"
"What, the one time we've screwed before tonight, you mean?" It's only been a week since they were in another room in this hotel, rocking against each other. A week of Jim fighting not to hope it'll happen again, not standing a fucking chance every time he looks at Bozz. He has it bad.
"We should do this," Bozz pulls out and sinks back into him again, slow, fucking delicious, "all the time." It's less and less painful the more he thrusts in. Most of the pain now is in how fucking hard Jim is.
"I wouldn't say no to that," Jim moans. "Fucking touch me, fuck."
"Oh — right." Bozz fumbles a hand around him, jerking him slow, in time with his thrusts. Jim drops his arms and bites into the pillow.
The build is so slow, so measured, Jim can feel his orgasm start in the soles of his feet. He starts shaking, pushing back to try and keep Bozz buried in him where it feels the best. "Please," he whispers, voice cracked, "please."
"Fucking fuck," Bozz mutters, thrusting deeper and deeper. His hand doesn't speed up, like he knows exactly what Jim needs, and at some point in the slow incredible build of that orgasm, Jim has the clearest thought that he's falling for Bozz. It's inconvenient and annoying and he doesn't care, he just comes like he's dying of it and Bozz follows not long after. They don't move for a minute, Bozz stretched out on Jim's back, Jim's ass starting to hurt again. Bozz murmurs something Jim doesn't catch, pulls out, and kisses his shoulder.
On the way back to the barracks, when they're alone on the road with no one to see, Jim kisses him. Bozz smiles against his mouth, kisses him back softly, and says, "Don't go thinking I'm your sweetheart, Jim. I ain't gonna pack your best underwear and wave you off."
"Fuck off." Jim shoves him. Bozz laughs, the sound clear in the still air.
Jim hangs his jacket up. "So you're staying?"
"Yeah. Figure, I've got unfinished business with a friend here. May as well stay on for a bit." He smiles, one of the hopeful half-false ones.
"You want dinner?" Jim asks. He can’t quite stop smiling. "I could actually cook tonight."
"I wanna fuck you," Bozz says, not taking his eyes off Jim's. "I've wanted to fuck you ever since I saw you."
Jim swallows, licks his lips. "Here, or — back then?"
"Both," Bozz answers. He's never looked at Jim with such intent. Jim gets most of the way hard in five seconds. "Now, we could have dinner, have a nice time. Or we could do things that are illegal in a lot of states, probably all of them."
"I'll take that ... illegal one," Jim says, clearing his throat when his voice loses all sound.
Bozz smirks, and the next thing Jim knows Bozz is pinning him to the wall, kissing him hard, working a knee between his thighs. Jim moans in his throat, grabs Bozz's shirt and starts to tug. They stumble into the bedroom, undoing buttons and zips, discarding shirts and vests and pants and socks and underwear. Jim pulls Bozz down onto the bed, breaking the kiss only to grope in the bedside drawer for some hand lotion.
The feel of Bozz inside him, slicked up, is just as incredible as he's jerked off remembering for almost a decade. This time he's on his back, Bozz leaning over him. Jim wraps his legs around Bozz's back, knees hooked over his shoulders, and just looks at him as they fuck. Bozz's muscles are still there, as toned as they were in the Army; it's not something Jim particularly likes in other men, but on Bozz, they make his mouth water. Jim muffles his moans in his arm, so Bozz can make all the noise he wants and no one would overhear two men. Before long he wishes he weren't so paranoid, or they were in some remote place where nobody would hear them, because fuck he wants to yell out. Bozz fucks him in just the right way that it's frantic, and hard, and amazing, but not so vigorous it'll be over any time soon. It's always been a speciality of Bozz's, when his cock's in Jim's ass, to prolongue it. Jim's tried doing the same when they switch places, when he fucks Bozz, and he can make him yell but not make him last. It's why this is his favourite thing they did, why it'll always be the best sex they had.
Bozz fucks him for near on an hour before he comes, and Jim's close. Bozz wriggles down his body and sucks him the rest of the way there, running to the bathroom afterwards to spit out semen and hand lotion. "That stuff tastes disgusting," he says, coming back into the room and pointing at the lotion bottle.
He falls into bed again and kisses Jim's shoulder. Jim hands him a cigarette, lights his own and then Bozz's, and they lie in silence for a minute.
"You know, all this time, I thought you'd be married or something. Have kids, you know?" Bozz looks at him, Jim can feel his head move. He moves his own, finding himself nose to nose with him.
Time for some honesty. "After you, there was never really ... anyone I felt like that about." He looks away again.
"Wait," Bozz props himself up to look at Jim again. "Seriously? I mean, you didn't meet someone?"
"Oh, I met someone." Jim takes a drag of his cigarette, feeling the weight of the unsaid things now spilling from him. "Jeanette. She was lovely. Blonde hair, green eyes, she was so beautiful. I liked her a lot, but ... she left when she realised I wasn't going to marry her. Then I met Charlotte. Gorgeous. Redhead. Really into politics, and her father's military so we had lots to talk about. She met some professor and married him in the end. Then there was Rachel, who dumped me six months ago because she said I was afraid of commitment."
"You never wanted to marry any of them?" Bozz asks, slightly incredulous.
"I wasn't in love with any of them," Jim says. "I liked them a lot. Cared about them. But love, that — I guess I figured I'd already met someone I loved, and that was it for me."
"Well who? That sweetheart who left you when you enlisted?" Bozz really, genuinely does not know. Jim just looks at him. "Shit, you — me? I didn't — I thought you — I thought we were just —"
"Forget it." Jim struggles to sit up, but Bozz shakes his head.
"No, no, wait. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"I told you once," Jim says. He lies back, cigarette burning down. "We were drunk, in a field, and —"
"I thought it was just," Bozz interrupts, "y'know, the drink. Guess it wasn't."
"Don't you fucking pity me," Jim starts. Bozz rolls on top of him and holds him down.
"Fuck you," he says. "I don't pity you. I had a plan, you fuck, I had a truck waiting to take me to fucking Mexico, and I got four fucking yards before I turned back. I went back for you, I took your fucking place, I went to the other side of the fucking world to die so you didn't have to. You think I pity you for loving me? Why the fuck would I when I fucking love you too, you asshole."
He grabs Jim's face and Jim leans up fast to kiss him. He tastes like lotion and semen and smoke and Jim does not give the slightest fuck about that. He rolls them over so he's on top and kisses Bozz like his life depends on it.
Bozz breaks the kiss to say, "Fuck, set the sheets on fire," and they stub out their cigarettes in the ashtray, checking the scorch marks in the bed to make sure they aren‘t still burning. Jim starts laughing, then Bozz joins in, and they're leaning against each other and that feeling is back. The curling contentment at the base of Jim's spine, that feeling of rightness, of something being complete.
"We should probably eat something," he says. His stomach growls as if in agreement.
"As long as you cook naked," Bozz grins, sliding his hand over the curve of Jim's ass, "I don't care what we eat."
"Why don't you cook naked?" Jim snorts.
"If we're both naked, I don't think it's cooking we'll be doing," Bozz says, running the inside of his thigh up the side of Jim's. Jim leans forward to kiss him.
"Maybe we should get dressed," he mumbles. Bozz makes a disappointed noise. "Fine, after we have sex."
Bozz rolls them over again and grinds down on him. "I like that plan."