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He sits on the sofa with his legs crossed, and picks idly at his split ends. They only really show up in the evenings, when the sunlight slants through the gap in the curtains makes everything in its path look searing gold, and he only ever does it when he's thinking about something and needs to entertain his hands. Usually, he has a mouth that doesn't quit, an endless stream of consciousness spit into the silence like the hot air might make it feel less heavy, but he thinks he's alone in this exact minute and if he speaks then there's a chance that he’ll hear his own voice echoing back at him. He needs a separate body to bounce his words off, because without it they might sound meaningless and hollow. Bob’s chest is best for absorbing most of the reverb, but Bob said he was going to the QuickStop to grab some noodles.
As far as Jay knows, he isn't back yet.
The noodle packets rustle as Bob slips in the door, and closes it as quietly as he can. Jay is so lost in whatever he's thinking that he doesn't notice his shadow in the corner of his eye. The apartment, obviously, is sweltering hot, even as the evening sun slides away and Jay can’t see the ends of his hair any more, and after the fresh air of outdoors it smells a lot like the habitual haunt of a couple of convenience store drug dealers. Kinda weird how that works out. With the paper bag tucked neatly under his arm, Bob steals across the room toward the kitchen, and as he passes by the back of the sofa he taps Jay lightly on the back of his neck. It’s like pressing a button; he starts up like one of those dancing sunflowers, the kind they sell at gift shops for twenty dollars, except Jay is louder, ruder, and more obnoxious.
Maybe its the absence of the neon pink sunglasses.
“Oi!” he says, “Where the fuck were you? I thought you got fuckin’ taken or some shit. Thought you’d run off and left me for dead. ‘Going out to get some noodles’ my ass. You – hey! I’m talking to you, man.”
He stumbles off the sofa, trailing Bob as he heads into the kitchen and sets the paper bag down on the cluttered bench. There’s dishes everywhere, crumpled beer cans, a windowsill laden with empty pill bottles and a dead succulent in a terracotta pot... it’s home, but its properly disgusting. Bob does his best to keep on top of it, cleaning and organising and throwing stuff out, but Jay works just as hard at messing shit up and there were only so many cleaning tasks Bob could manage in a day. He screws up his nose at the cigarette butts, soaking in a soggy heap in the sink.
“You didn't even get the fucking noodles!”
Jay is scandalised, picking through the bag of packet ramen, seeking a box of Chinese take out or a lukewarm pork bun to hold him over until breakfast. Bob rolls his eyes and knocks his hands aside. He has to try and put the groceries away, even if that means putting the whole bag in the cupboard without unpacking, because Jay has probably never put food away in his life and one of them has to make an effort to lead by example. He finds a cupboard that isn't crammed full with junk, and shoves the bag on top of a stack of rarely used plates. Jay is talking shit in the background, but his chatter has faded to a pleasant static. He has the most lovely voice, if you ignore every word he says with it. It’s low and lilting and a little husky, likes he's always shaking off the end of a cold.
Bob closes the cupboard with a muted click, and turns back around to regard his companion. Jay is leaning against the fridge, and every now and then he punctuates his tirade with an irritated flick of his hand.
“And another thing,” He says, “I thought we were going out tonight. Are we still going out tonight?”
He glares at Bob, long and hard, seeking an answer in the gap between dark eyebrows. Bob jerks his head in the direction of the clock, hanging on the wall beside a calender that is somehow three years out of date. It’s four seventeen pm, and it’s only autumn. There's still plenty of time to go out.
Jay’s narrows his eyes, reading the quiet, and holds his tongue long enough to hear the implication of what Bob is meaning to say. He stares at him, running his gaze from his shoes to his face and then back down again, but ultimately he decides not to argue any further.
Or at least, he doesn’t argue for now.
...
They don't have anywhere important to go, people like them never really do, but sometimes Jay gets cabin fever and Bob can’t stand his constant shuffling around the apartment. On nights like this, too restless, too empty, they go on drunken stumbles to the park, and as they walk the neck of a bottle is enough to keep Jay’s mouth occupied. There isn't much to do when they get there, besides kick through the sandpit or loiter among hedges, but inevitably they will find a place to sit and smoke under cover of night. Empty swings creak eerily, and the distant static of late night traffic in the city echoes down sleepy suburban streets. It’s a little frosty here, after sunset; the last of the heat evaporates off the asphalt, and the floodlight that spills over the quiet basketball court stretches their shadows like taffy on the ground. Bob is glad he's got a sweatshirt under his coat. Jay is wearing a well-loved wind breaker, but his hands are still tremoring a little, like he's cold.
“D’you remember when this park burned down?” he asks, hauling himself up to sit on a picnic table and folding his legs tidily beneath him. Bob shakes his head, and watches as he tugs off his beanie to fix his hair, which has been buffered into a tangle on the windy walk over. Backlit by the halogen streetlights, he looks like he's wearing a silver halo, or maybe its just a symptom of chemicals going haywire in Bobs brain. Jay snickers and combs his fingers through his ends, and waits for Bob to come and sit next to him before he continues.
“Well that's the whole fuckin’ story, isn't it? The playground caught fire when I was a kid. No one ever figured if it was arson or if some motherfucker did it on accident.”
He digs in his pocket for a lighter, and pulls out a handful of old receipts and pocket lint and a couple of crinkled roller papers. His elbow, which is pointy and capricious, jabs Bob in the side of the ribs by accident but if he notices he doesn't apologise. When he lights a joint, like a distant sun sparking to life in a galaxy far, far away, the orange flame of the lighter ignites copper rings in his dilated pupils. Bob stares at him, waiting to see if there is a point to this story, or if its just another meaningless refrain plucked from the torrent of his thoughts. Almost certainly, there won’t be, but for a moment it does seem like he might be contemplating something as he draws smoke deep into his chest. A loose thread of hair falls against his cheek, unruly but gleaming in the dim, and its touches against his skin so softly but looking at it feels the same as his elbow did digging into Bob’s side.
When he moves to pass the joint, he does so with a grin and a wink, and smoke curls from the corners of his lips when he asks.
“What do you think?”
Bob hesitates, fingers poised a few millimetres short of taking the offering, and gives him a long, puzzled look. Jay lifts a single eyebrow, and his eyes flicker to their hands that hover together in dialogue. Bob understands what he is asking a moment too late - The joint, with its glowing end, falls from Jay’s fingers and drifts in slow motion towards the grass below. Bob tries to grasp it, and fails, and scrambles to leap off the bench and grab it before it’s too late, but Jay is stronger than he looks and stops him before he can.
The joint lands in the grass, which is not yet wet with the dew of the night time, and is a little dry because it hasn’t rained for weeks. Bob’s eyes widen as he watches it smoke a little, snaking loops of white vapour dissolving into the air, and Jay stares just as intently, a child perched on the edge of his seat. He’s biting back a holler of triumph or a sigh of disappointment, depending how the next ten seconds unfold, and luckily for both of them its the sigh that comes out, in the end.
After a few seconds of smoking, which seem to go on forever, the joint gives up and ceases to burn and Bob also exhales a deep breath he doesn't even remember drawing. Jay scowls and sticks a long leg off the edge of the table. He grinds the wasteful thing into the ground with his toe, hair swinging prettily over his shoulder.
From behind, he looks like a girl.
...
Jay collapses on the sofa and sinks against the cushions, like he has no intention to leave this spot possibly for the rest of his life. He kicks off his trainers and throws his lighter on the coffee table, where it lands among fliers, and empty plastic bags, and a handful of match books with technicolour branding that have never once been opened. Bob unlaces his own shoes and leaves them on the mat by the door, and as he passes by the side of the couch Jay flings out an arm to grab his sleeve.
“Hey,” he says, and Bob pauses, waiting expectantly to hear what else he has to say. The words are obviously there in his head, flickering behind dilated pupils like scenery by a window, but for once his voice seems to have faltered and all he can manage is a grimace. Bob, however, is very good at understanding, and his heart tugs a little even though he doesn't want it to. He sighs and shuffles closer, near enough that Jay can tilt his head sideways and let it rest against his belly, which protrudes a little over the waistband of his cargo shorts. When he scratches Jay’s head, like he might scratch a cat, it makes him shiver but he doesn't tell him to stop. Instead, he mumbles something incoherent, and Bob nods in agreement even though he can’t hear it, and he knows Jay can’t see him.
That's his job, more or less. Nod along in silent agreement, even when Jay can’t see him. Its not easy, but for some reason he still feels like its worth it, especially when Jay looks up again and does see him and a flicker of rare gratitude sweeps over his face. Bob smooths his hair back off his forehead, hooks a long, silky thread of it back behind his ear, and notices the way his brows and lashes are far darker than his roots.
The hair on his belly is dark too, of course, threading from his navel and blooming downward beneath the waistband of his sweatpants; Bob knows this even before he sits back up and drops backwards, so his shirt rides up and reveals a slice of his stomach. The ridge of his hip is clearly visible, an elegant, pale curve rising along his edge, and his dark grey sweatpants drape artfully over the contour of his upper thigh.
Bob points at this subtle exposure, half hoping to shame him, half letting him know that he had seen it, just as he had seen it so many times before. Jay’s body holds no mystery to him, made familiar through a lifetime of casual platonic intimacy, but for some reason framed by rumpled fabric this specific glimpse feels... different? If Jay thinks so, he doesn't seem to care, snorting in amusement and walking his fingers languidly over that naked portion of his body.
“Like it?” he asks coyly, words slurring everywhere, and Bob suddenly remembers he is very high. “want to see more?”
Sometimes, its hard to tell if he's being serious, or if his humour is just fucking warped by whatever it is that passes for his sense of irony. Bob huffs and turns away, eyes swivelling skyward for just a moment like he might see something there to banish the image from his mind. Instead, he sees only cracked white paint, and that damp spot on the ceiling. They’ve asked the landlord to fix it a hundred times but obviously, he never has.
Jay’s cackle follows him as he stalks into the kitchen, but when Bob comes back through five minutes later holding a can of coke and a sandwich, Jay is passed out and snoring softly. He has not pulled his shirt down, and his belly is still visible, and so is the soft nest of curling hairs that pillow the base of his dick.
Blessedly, when he sleeps he is finally silent, if only for a little while.
...
The digital clock on the stove says its 2.37 am, but Bob’s stomach has been saying its breakfast time since midnight so he's crept out of his room and avoided every loose floorboard so he can eat cereal alone, in the dark. The buzzing of the refrigerator is his only company, interrupted by the crunch of cherrios ground between his back teeth, and in the neon green glow of the stove clock light made the kitchen look like the control deck of some alien ship, come to take him away. Bob stirs his cereal, spoon clinking gently on the edges of his bowl, and watches as the clock ticks over from 2.37 to 2.38. He poises his hand to measure a new spoonful, but freezes when he hears the telltale creak of footsteps down the hall. They are not half as careful as his own.
Jay stumbles into the kitchen only semi conscious, and like he might have gotten lost a few times on his way from his bedroom. He's wearing one a hole-pocked t-shirt, his hair is in disarray because clearly he forgot to braid it before he went to sleep, and his legs are narrow and long, sticking out of the leg holes of low-slung boxer shorts. The seal of the fridge makes a sucking noise when he yanks it open, and it takes him a while to find the most recent carton of milk because of course there are four or five cartons in there, and they are all in various states of decay. He does manage to find it, eventually, and Bob watches in silence as his silhouette lifts the carton to sniff, before he drinks.
Bob waits until he has started drinking to resume eating his cereal. The sound is like a gunshot through the dark, and when Jay hears it he nearly leaps a full foot into the air. The milk goes everywhere, the floor, the walls, and down his front, but Bob chews his cereal in thoughtful silence and waits for the chaos to end.
“Fucks sake!” Jay rasps eventually, that lovely, smokey voice, “You trying to scare me so hard I shit myself?”
Bob shrugs, and goes for another spoon of cereal. It hasn’t escaped him, that Jay has milk all over his chin and wetting the ends of his tangled hair, and the low yellow glow of the refrigerator light makes him glossy and shiny like he's been liberally doused in-
Ah. Never mind.
Now Jay is awake properly, and not alone, he's talking like he hadn't shut his mouth his whole life. The noise is a welcome distraction from that train of thought.
“That better not be the last of the cereal,” he says, “you fat fuck. I Gotta eat something for breakfast tomorrow or I’ll get all light headed and shit. You ever had low blood sugar? It’s fucked. Hey what flavour is that? You holding out on me with the cherrios? Fuck man. Give me some.”
He opens his mouth and points at it, a dark hole, white teeth, his face rendered unfamiliar in the weird after-midnight lighting. Bob swallows, and dips his spoon back into the bowl. Jays eyes follow it, the crumbling kernels of cherrios heaped in a scoop, all the way from its origin to its terminus.
“... Bitch.”
He edges closer, and lifts his hand to underline his irritation, delivering a sharp flick to Bob’s forehead. Its his favourite scold, a surprisingly painful quirk of his personality, and it’s far too early in the morning for Bob to just take that, unchallenged. His spoon clatters on the table, and Jay jumps when rough fingers clasp around his wrist. Bob yanks him down so they are at eye level, and he can convey the right amount of venom without saying a word.
Don’t you fucking dare.
Jay’s nostrils flare, his lips thin, and the milk is drying to a matte crust on one side of his jaw. His eyes flutter like a TV station passing in and out of reception.
“Bitch,” he says again, softer this time, and his fingers curl inwards like a flower withering in the sun. His slender wrist is a dangerous thing, though – too sinewy to be weak, but too narrow to be arrested in Bob’s grip – and with only a few silent degrees of motion he goes from being captive, to captor. He twists his hand to grab Bob’s wrist too, slides it in a muffled whisper against his skin, and then its hot palm against hot palm and Bob realises he is bowed over him, blocking out the light. His hair is draped forward like a curtain, shielding them from whatever god might be watching, and it’s intimate to hold his hand like this. To feel his pulse thrumming in the heal of his palm.
Jay shifts his weight, one hip to the other. Those pale legs flex smoothly in Bob’s peripheral. The silence is cleaved by the sound of a car, racing past the apartment building well over the speed limit, and the subsequent absence of an engine revving amplifies the sound of blood in Bob’s his ears. It feels like he is trying to swallow peanut butter, like he's getting sucked into the obscure shadows of Jay’s face, and maybe he might have fallen into him like one falls into a black hole if Jay didn't catch himself, first.
He jerks upright, ramrod straight, like he’s just had a car battery hooked on his balls. Bob’s hand is cold now, his warmth suddenly gone, but it’s sweaty and prickling unpleasantly around the emptiness it holds. There is a moment he opens his mouth, where he nearly says something like
its okay,
but Jay cuts him off with a frustrated yell and bangs his fist down on the table. He turns, and stalks out of the kitchen back down the hall.
His stomping footfalls end in a bedroom door slamming, and the silence he leaves behind rings loudly all night long.
...
It’s raining. Raining hard. The wind is rattling the windows in the frames and the creeping dark damp spot on the ceiling is creeping further, darker, than usual. On days it’s too shitty to go outside, they sit on the sofa and get really high, and Jay puts on the daytime television to compensate for the quiet. Unfortunately, the reception is shot, decrepit bunny ears not quite working like they used to, and the only thing worse than daytime TV is daytime TV lacerated by lines of static. The snowfall feels like its going through Bob’s brain, makes his teeth vibrate in his skull, and Jay is talking too in a crackle in the background. The direction his voice is coming from shifts a bit every time Bob closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Jay is on the floor next to the coffee table. His back is against the sofa, and his shoulders fit comfortably in the gap between Bob’s spread legs. The limp way he sits betrays how stoned he is, watching the static drifting across the television like a cat stares blankly at a wall.
“You think Oprah ever gets fucked in the ass?” he asks, like that's the sort of question that would occur to any normal person. “You think she’d be into that?”
Bob doesn't know the answer, and he doesn't want to. He looks at the back of that sleek blond head, and notices the ring of reflected light that shines around his crown. Jay keeps talking - he's thinking aloud, rather than actually seeking an answer – and Bob follows his train of thought only loosely.
“I reckon all these daytime TV hosts have to be into some fucked up fetish stuff,” he's saying, playing authority on the issue when no one else would dare. “Uncross your legs wrong in a too short skirt, and now everyone in the world has seen your pussy. Maybe it is kinda sexy? Maybe they’re in to exhibitionism. Fuck ‘em from behind while the camera rolls? I could do that I reckon. What do you reckon?”
He twists, and looks up at Bob from the edge of a bloodshot eye.
What do you reckon?
Bob reckons Jay would be a better fuck than Oprah. He’d look better on camera, too, his legs long and bendy, opening enough to offer a shaded glimpse of a haven between his legs. Bob schools his face straight, and pulls his shoulders into a shrug. Jay sighs like this is not the answer he had been looking for. He leans back against the sofa, pressing between Bob’s legs, and Bob moves a hand to rest atop his head like he's trying to keep him away. Of course, it never works like that – he ends up raking his fingers through his hair instead, as he sometimes does, but under the influence he is captivated by the shine, bewildered by the way Jay sort of turns docile when Bob’s nails scratch gently at his scalp. The back of his neck is silky smooth, and he squirms delightfully when its stroked, and Bob needs a moment to pull himself together.
Jay turns again, and glares at him. His cheeks are flushed with ruddy roses, and they are exquisite even though Bob has never cared about flowers before.
“Don’t stop, tubby. Fuck.”
Bob stares at him, unsure what to say. His heart seems to have migrated to the back of his tongue, but really. He wants to say something. Jay stares at him expectantly, almost demandingly, but met with an impenetrable wall of silence he caves and the roses bloom even larger. More splendid.
“You want me to ask nicely or something?”
You could try.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. He scoffs, and turns away.
“Don’t stop tubby, please.”
Which honestly? Is close enough.
...
It had been a long day, and it’s muggy as hell. Maybe that wouldn’t have been a problem, but Bob doesn't like standing outside without his coat on, and the shorts just aren’t cutting it like they do in winter. Even Jay has peeled off his many layers, standing on the cracked curb smoking in a black wife beater, his too-hot track pants hanging sloppily and barely covering his ass. When they get back to the flat, its with sunburned cheeks, and Bob can see spots of black swimming through his vision. Probably, this isn't a very good sign. He downs three mugs of water, and hunger hits him like a truck, and with hot water from the tap he sets about making noodles using the last of the packets of ramen.
Clearly, Jay had forgotten they even had them, because if he hadn't he would have probably eaten them raw while Bob was sleeping. He seems to remember pretty quickly though, when he strides into the kitchen and stops to stare at Bob shovelling lukewarm noodles in his mouth. He drops his sentence on dead air, something about mosquitos and bananas, and stares at him with too-wide eyes.
“Noodles?” he asks, after a moment. Bob looks at him, but doesn't reply.
Jay is beside him in a flash – he can move pretty quickly when he has too – and he's craning his neck to peer into the bowl and see if there are any noodles left.
“Give me some,” he says, “You don't need the fuckin’ carbs. Look at you.”
Bob raises his eyebrows and stares at him, daring him to say that again. Jay’s face is unreadable, steady in all the ways it usually isn't, and when he doesn't repeat it Bob shakes his head with slow, purposeful emphasis.
Jay scowls, and rolls his eyes, and tries a trick he's only learned recently. A trained puppy performing for a treat.
“Please.”
Unfortunately, Bob is weak willed. At least he is with puppies, and he is with Jay. He sighs and offers him a forkful of noodles, which Jay slurps straight off the prongs. He yanks out a chair at the table, and takes a seat right by Bob’s flank. The table is a little askew from the milk confrontation, knocked a few inches off its usual axis which is not really enough to justify the effort of fixing it, but it’s enough that the room looks vastly different from this tiny change in perspective. Jay scoops his hair over his shoulder, and begins to braid it, and light that shines through the kitchen window at this time of day is the same light that would make his split ends visible. Thoughtfully, meditatively, Bob chews his noodles and watches his fingers work. They tuck and twist with the effortless grace of practice, and when he reaches the end he ties it off with a band from around his wrist.
Unfortunately, he misses a strand, hanging wispy and golden like beeswax along the side of his neck. Bob sets down his fork so he can reach forward and fix it. Jays eyes flutter, but he doesn't seem bothered, fussing now with the loose threads on the cuffs of his hoodie. Maybe it’s the comfort of being freshly fed, the secure contentedness of having food in his belly, but for some reason Bob thinks he looks really wonderful. Tasty like a fresh cup of vanilla cookie pudding.
Fuck it.
It was going to happen eventually. Likely it was written in the stars or something – to lives destined to be intertwined like soulmates. Enemies. Lovers.
Bob taps him gently on the side of his cheek, and when he looks up in question he is caught – a kiss stolen like a lighter from the counter of the QuickStop. It’s brief enough that he might have missed it, and when Bob pulls away and resumes eating noodles he's looking like Bob had just walked up and slapped him. For once, he is well and truly speechless - his mouth opens and then closes again, like a fish drowning on the dry air, like he's trying to find words Bob had stolen with a mouth pressed sweetly against his own. In spite of all his efforts, though, he is doomed to fail. There is nothing much to say.
Instead, it’s on him now to decide what to do. It’s not like there are that many options. He's going to either laugh it off, or cuss him out, or maybe he will decide he won’t do either. There's too much between them now for something like a kiss to destroy it, and Bob is calm and patient as always as Jay comes to terms with what has happened.
In the end, he doesn't do anything. He sucks a deep breath, pushes his braid back over his shoulder, and changes the subject.
“Did you hear these days you can buy porn on the internet?”
Bob had heard about this, in actual fact, but he shakes his head as though he hadn’t.
...
Jay invites himself in, and sits on his bed, and he's still only wearing a t-shirt and the towel he wrapped around his waist after his shower. His hair is hanging in damp ribbons, and he smells like the barsoap they buy for eighty cents, and its strange because Bob always hated the smell but on Jay it almost passes as nice. Bob sets down the magazine he's reading and looks at him, waiting for some explanation, eyebrow lifted just enough to convey that he shouldn't be in here, at this hour, and yet he is also a little curious. Jay has never come calling after ten pm, before.
“What?” Jay asks, raking his hair back off his face. “You're doing something important? I doubt it.” he cranes his head to look at the magazine, and confirm if it is what he thinks it is, and its a little annoying but its also little flattering that he would even be interested. The magazine, however, is empire monthly, and he almost appears disappointed by the dearth of full-frontal nudity.
“Boring,” he mutters. “don't you have anything good in here? What's that?” he spots the stack of papers on the bedside table, and leans over to grab a few off the top. Unfortunately, there's no pornography there either – just fliers and a few shopping catalogues, and a menu for the Takeout down the street. Bob keeps his own room nice and tidy, an isle of reprieve in an ocean of chaos, and Jay would be hard pressed to find anything out of place.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he scoffs, “You're holding out on me.”
Jay knows full well that Bob isn't holding out on him, and if he thought about it for more than a couple of seconds he would realise that he has plenty of illicit material, he's just not stupid enough to store it where it’s visible. This has a lot to do with Jay, of course, who has no boundaries, yet still for some reason pretends he does when it becomes convenient for him. He lays his hand against Bob’s leg, and uses it for leverage to sit back upright, and though it’s an easy and familiar touch it feels strangely loaded tonight. Actually, everything does - Jay can be cagey at the best of times, but ever since the kiss he's been slipperier than a greased hotdog, and acting awfully recalcitrant for a man who doesn't know how to shut the fuck up.
So why is he here?
Frankly, he is lucky Bob is a patient man - if he wasn't he would have stopped putting up with him many years ago, and it would have made the next few seconds intolerable. It was a silence that stretched on expectantly, into eternity, waiting for one of them to break the it.
You're holding out on me.
Or maybe, actually, neither is actually holding out on anyone. Bob is not a man of excessive discourse, and Jay doesn't have the words to convey exactly what it is he means to say, and so it’s not a purposeful withholding so much as a breakdown in communication. As often tends to be the case, in these situations, maybe the best way to bridge the gap is a little naked honesty.
Literal naked honesty. And an awful lot of mouth.
Jay kisses like he's trying to fight, and his lips taste like several years of words he never dared to say. By accident, he divulges the sentiments he tucked beneath his tongue, that he hid away like pills he didn't want to take, and his towel peels off like his self restraint the moment Bob pins him against the mattress. His cock, at least, is forthcoming, and divested of his t-shirt he’s nothing but long limbs and long hair, and skin so pale it looks like vanilla ice cream. It tastes about as sweet, especially on his neck, and as Bob trails his hands over the notches of his ribs he groans like he's never been touched in his life. His thighs open like a latch on a piece of dollar store jewellery, a little cheap but oh so compelling, and truthfully it drives Bob wild.
This is just another thing about him, to add to the list, beneath his grin, his scent, his sexy voice, and the defiant way he moves when he rolls over. He curls his fingers and pulls up the bedsheets, because he knows Bob will have to fix them later and changing sheets is a real fucking pain, but it doesn't feel like petty cruelty so much as a dare. An invitation to punish him. His cock hangs heavily between splayed legs, and it’s already dripping in anticipation, and he really seems to respond keenly to Bob’s fingers in the valley of his ass. There's lube under the bed of course, the bottle used as a paperweight atop filthy magazines, and by the time Bob pours it over his fingers Jay is already propping his hips up, egging him on.
“What are you waiting for,” he murmurs, half on purpose, half just thinking aloud so the volume in his head doesn't leave him deafened. “Fuck me,”
His voice cleaves asunder as Bob moves into him, split down the middle and rendered unintelligible like a radio drifting out of range. His body proves hot, and slick, and gripping, and though a single stroke of Bob’s hips is nothing special, there's excitement in knowing that now, he has taken him. That now, they really are locked together, and whatever happens between them in the future at least there had been one moment they were one, bound by love. Though the first shy thrusts are similar to the grasp of his own hand, he can chase as many strokes as he wants now and find pleasure in how Jay welcomes them, one after the other. Much like many grains of sand make a mountain, and much like many drops of water make a flood, Bob falls into a confident rhythm, and the friction builds a little more with each and every thrust; once that first strangeness slips away, it stops being so damn unfamiliar, Jay stops looking like he's complicated and starts looking like a centrefold instead. The kind that stares from the page with seductive eyes.
Fuck me.
Jays breath tangles on the tension in his throat, mixes with a swallow and comes out in a moan, and Bob drives into the core of him harder, like he's trying to beat a dent out of his personality. His nails tear at the sheets so hard he's going to put a hole in them, and recklessly he drops backwards, trying to meet the tempo of Bobs hips, trying to rock himself through the rush of the moment and howling when Bob drives into him just right. With a yell, his eyes tip upward, a vision of bliss, and euphoria, and Bob is fucking him so roughly now the headboard of the bed is slamming against the wall. His body flutters needlessly around bob’s cock, blissful, wanting flesh milking him of all his pleasure, and Jay gasps for more and for deeper and for rougher and Bob’s muscles are going to be aching in the morning. He twists his hand in Jay’s damp hair, twists it in a rope for batter leverage, and Jay’s head jerks back but his face is beautific and Bob can tell he's coming even without his little breathless gasp.
Its over too soon, but also not soon enough - Bob empties his own load deep inside him, and he's doesn't think he's ever come that hard in his life. Jay curses when he feels it, face pressed into the bed, and as Bob collapses backwards he slides forward to lie prone, in the puddle of his own ejaculation.
What a mess.
What an absolute, unmitigated disaster. He’s going to need to do so much laundry before he can go to sleep.
Bob is too tired to care right now though, lying against his pillows floppy, and content. Jay shifts after a few minutes, crawling up beside him and making his shoulder a pillow, and its such a quiet, vulnerable gesture, that it feels too important too overlook.
Bob catches his breath, lets his pulse rate lower, and nervously he swallows the lump in his throat.
“You okay?”
There are a few silent seconds where he thinks Jay is broken, and he might never speak another word again, but eventually the body beside him sighs and rolls over. Bob stares at him, his short eyelashes, his flushed cheeks, the cum smeared over his belly like spilled milk dripping down his face, and Jay stares at Bob straight back. He stares, and blinks, and then suddenly he is moving, grabbing Bob by the jaw and pinning him with limbs that are too long, too sinewy to escape. Jay squeezes his jaw so it opens, like he's trying to fish a tasty morsel from the mouth of an animal. His hair pools all over Bobs face, and as soon as he has clearance he makes a disgusting noise and spits, directly into Bob’s mouth. Its a thick, glistening glob of it, warm and foamy, and the moment it makes contact with Bob’s tongue he gags. He struggles, but the way Jay cackles is almost enough to get him hard again.
“Swallow,” comes the order, and with his eyes watering Bob does as he’s told because Jay might not release him otherwise. It’s abhorrent, but fuck if it doesn't make him remember how it felt to empty his balls inside him. Jay smirks, and pats his cheek lightly, with profound affection.
“We’re even,” he purrs, hauling himself off the bed, pushing his hair back off his face with a flourish. “But now I gotta clean come out my ass, you filthy fuckin’ bitch.”
And yeah – it spills down the inside of his legs as he bends to pick up his towel.