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Like the Pizza Thing

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“Sid,” Geno called. He banged the door shut with his elbow and shoved his shoes off his feet. They landed near the shoe rack Sid kept pointing out to him. Near would have to be enough, this time; Geno had more important concerns just now, like the heft of the sandwiches he’d just brought back. “Sid!”

“In here.” The words floated in from the living room, which was convenient. It meant Geno wouldn’t have to coax Sid there. The living room, comfortable and with prior positive associations, was an important aspect of this plan.

Plan. Geno’s belly squirmed a little.

He found Sid in the recliner, bent over his phone. “I go all across town for pick up dinner, and you sit here, play Angry Birds?” Geno asked. He was eternally grateful that Sid had finally bought a real phone and joined the modern age, but that just made it more fun to tease him about wasting time on it.

“You’re the one who wanted takeout,” Sid pointed out. He pushed out of the recliner – a little stiffly, Geno thought, so maybe there’d been some merit to the teasing, this time. “I was going to make chicken. And I thought you were going to Carl and Sons – they’re like a mile away.”

“All across town,” Geno repeated, holding up the plastic takeout sack for Sid to see. He was a fucking victorious hunter bringing back provisions, and Sid should be grateful.

Sid’s eyes widened a fraction, so maybe he was grateful. “So are we going to fucking eat, or what?” He reached for the sack.

“Maybe you don’t want,” Geno said, swinging the food out of Sid’s reach. “You make chicken, it’s fine. We save for later.”

“You can’t save hot sandwiches, asshole,” Sid said with a laugh. He pushed into Geno’s space, still reaching, but he couldn’t overcome the superior length of Geno’s arms. He shoved experimentally against Geno but then seemed to think better of it, which was just sense. What if someone squashed the sandwiches?

“You sure you want?” Geno asked him dubiously.

“Asshole,” Sid repeated. “Yes, I want my sweet mustard turkey on rye.”

“If you sure,” Geno said. He settled on the couch and emptied out the sack. Deliberately he laid out on the coffee table the enormous subs Carl and Sons was known for: a hot pastrami on wheat for him, Sid’s sweet mustard turkey. But this time, there was a spare. He put that one next to the others, reverent, anticipating.

Sid eyeballed it curiously. “You extra hungry today?”

Geno had prepared for this. “They get it wrong first time,” he said, scrunching the plastic sack into a ball and sticking it between the couch cushions. Sid made an involuntary noise in his throat, which was three fourths of the reason Geno always did it. “Too much pickle. I say give anyway.”

“Weird.” Sid sat next to him and unrolled the nearest sandwich. It was indeed turkey on rye with sweet mustard and so loaded with pepperoncini it barely closed. Sid had to hold it shut with both hands as he lifted it to his mouth, paper in his lap to catch anything that jumped overboard. He took an enormous bite and moaned. He said something approving and completely unintelligible.

“Worth it?” Geno asked. “All across town?”

Sid wasn’t giving an inch. “It was a great idea, you win, now eat your sandwich.”

“What I win?” Geno leaned into Sid’s space.

“A sandwich,” Sid said discouragingly. Geno withdrew, only mildly disappointed.

He applied himself to his own sandwich. It was fine, even if it had cooled a little since he’d bought it. The hazard of takeout. It was food, anyway, and he didn’t really care that much; Carl and Sons had never been his favorite.

It was Sid’s favorite. And Sid was clearly enjoying his turkey sandwich, going by the rate at which it was disappearing and the contented humming sounds he was making. In other circumstances, Geno might have teased him about feeling a little jealous. Now Geno could only watch, fixated. That squirm in his belly tightened. Even if all that came of this plan was Sid pornographically eating a single perfectly ordinary sandwich, Geno would have to call it a success.

Sid paused. “Something wrong with yours?”

Geno looked down at his sandwich in its wrapping, half-eaten. “It’s fine,” he said, taking another bite.

Sid was so much more interesting than Geno’s sandwich, though, so of course Sid finished his first. Geno gave the remains of his up as a lost cause and set them aside. “Good?”

“God, so good.” Sid scrubbed across his mouth with the back of his hand. He leaned back against the couch and patted his stomach. Suddenly, Geno couldn’t catch his breath. “That was an awesome idea, G.”

“What about other one?” Geno asked, still a little hoarse.

Sid sat up, mildly interested. “Oh, was that one turkey, too?”

“Yeah. I think maybe you want both.”

“I don’t know, man. I’m feeling pretty good already.” Sid grinned lazily. For just a moment Geno wanted to abandon the plan altogether, to kiss that grin until it sharpened into want. He wanted to roll onto Sid and give Sid his thigh to thrust up against, Sid’s breath coming in unsteady puffs against Geno’s neck. He wanted another memory on this couch, already the scene for so many.

But no. Later, maybe. Focus. “Like you say. Can’t save sandwiches.”

Sid eyed the paper wrapping thoughtfully. “Maybe a few bites,” he said, reaching for the bundle.

Geno fixed his gaze on the opposite wall. A framed Crosby family photo hung on it, and Geno never got tired of how much Sid looked like his sister. It was something about the cheekbones, or maybe how their eyes were set.

“Are you sure this had extra pickles?” Sid asked, interrupting Geno’s reverie. He had the sandwich open on his lap. “This looks like the normal amount.”

Okay, so maybe Geno hadn’t thought this all the way through. “Is what they say.”

Sid frowned at his food. “So they gave you a free sandwich that didn’t even have anything wrong with it?”

“I don’t know,” Geno said. “I just think, maybe you like.”

“Huh.” Sid shrugged, folded the sandwich back together and took a bite. He closed his eyes, as if somehow he’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed the last one in the ten minutes since he’d finished it. Geno’s plan was working, and he was a genius.

Except only three or four bites in, Sid put the sandwich back down. “Okay, I’m full.”

“You let food go to waste?” Geno said, feigning shock. This was the heavy artillery. Geno had been around the Crosby family enough to know.

For a moment, Sid wavered. Then, “It’s not my fault they gave us extra. You didn’t even finish your first one.”

“I finish,” Geno said instantly, reaching for his sandwich. “But you, too.” Sid eyed him suspiciously. Geno abandoned pretense. “I know how much you like eat. I think, maybe you like eat whole thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sid said, blinking at Geno.

“You like eat, swallow. You like feel it.” Geno ventured a hand toward Sid’s stomach, although he didn’t dare touch yet. “Like feel full.”

Sid squinted at him. Geno squirmed while understanding slowly dawned on Sid’s face. “You mean like the pizza thing,” Sid said, uncertainly. He looked down at his sandwich again. A flush spread over his cheekbone. “Really?”

The flush gave Geno hope. Hope made him honest. “I like it.” And Sid had definitely liked it. Geno had felt how much Sid liked it.

Sid turned redder. When he finally looked up again, he was smiling, his eyes newly bright. “Okay. Let’s—I can’t promise I can do the whole thing, but.” Rather than finish his sentence, he brought the sub to his mouth and bit in with renewed enthusiasm.

Now Geno could watch openly, the bites Sid took, the way his cheeks chubbed out when he chewed. Sid wiped a dribble of sweet mustard from the corner of his mouth and caught Geno looking at him. Holding Geno’s gaze, Sid licked the mustard deliberately off his finger. Geno grunted, involuntary, and Sid’s eyes took on a wicked gleam. He moaned over the next bite. Geno choked a little, and Sid grinned, the skin of a pepperoncini wedged between his front teeth.

After that first burst of enthusiasm, though, Sid started to slow down. When he put the final bite of the first half in his mouth, he chewed it quite a while before he swallowed.

“Okay?” Geno asked, feeling a guilty flush of concern.

Sid took a deep breath. He kneaded his stomach, and suddenly Geno was flushed for entirely different reasons. “Fuck,” Sid said, sinking a little bit deeper into the couch. “Yeah, I’m—I gotta let it settle, you know?”

“Yes,” Geno said faintly. What he didn’t know from experience, his imagination filled in with vivid detail. “Maybe you want—?” He offered his hand uncertainly.

Immediately Sid said, “Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” He shifted closer to Geno, so all Geno had to was twist a little to lay his hand on Sid’s stomach. It’d been months since the other time they’d done this, when Sid accidentally gorged himself on breadsticks and beer and too much pizza. Memories of it had kept Geno frequent company since then.

This? Sid warm and gently rounded under Geno’s palm, rising shallowly with each breath? This was so much better than memories. “You do so good, Sid,” Geno said. He pressed a gentle circle into Sid’s skin, and Sid’s breath hitched. “You eat all the sandwich.”

Sid’s eyelids had drooped. “I told you, no promises.”

“But you want,” Geno wheedled. “Two whole sandwich in here.”

Sid laughed under Geno’s hand. “That’s definitely not in my diet plan.”

“You can cheat just one time. It’s fine.”

“I don’t cheat,” Sid said, in the reasonable tones of a man who certainly never took a third cookie on the plane, and how dare you insinuate otherwise. Geno knew the ring of that tone; it was the one Sid used while backing himself into a corner that he wouldn’t be coaxed out of.

Geno couldn’t have that. “You want.” Geno stroked Sid’s belly gently. “All the time you follow rules, get up early, practice, do media, do weights, every day so good. Now you want be bad. Eat all the sandwich.” Geno leaned in close, inside the radius of Sid’s mustard breath, and dropped his voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t tell anyone. Secret, just for me and you.”

“Fuck.” Sid arched his back a little against the pressure of Geno’s palm. A thrill shot to Geno’s groin. “Yes, okay, I want. Give it here.”

Wordlessly Geno handed him the other half. Sid took it with both hands and gave it a long, careful look, turning it over until a drip of mustard fell onto his shirt. He squirmed a little, and he smoothed a hand carefully over his stomach. Geno couldn’t have wrenched his gaze from that slow progress if he tried. Then Sid leaned forward with a grunt and bit in.

“Good?” Geno asked.

“Mm,” Sid hummed. Geno ventured a hand over Sid’s stomach again, but drew it back when Sid shook his head. When Sid had swallowed, he said, “It’s distracting, sorry. I have to focus.”

Geno understood completely. “You very distracting.”

That caught Sid’s attention. “Yeah?”

“I tell you I like,” Geno huffed.

“But it’s so weird,” Sid said, a little plaintive.

“You don’t believe?” Geno cupped himself meaningfully and grunted in surprise, because despite all the talk of distracting, he hadn’t noticed until now quite how much he was enjoying this.

“Shit,” Sid said, a little awed. He took another bite. Deliberately Geno removed his hand from his crotch. That part of the proceedings would just have to wait.

There were maybe four bites left when Sid dropped the sandwich to the paper in his lap. “I don’t know, Geno. I think I might be done.”

“It’s okay, you don’t want,” Geno said, half concern and half tactic. “Don’t want you feel sick.” He stroked a soothing hand over Sid’s belly, now grown more taut under Geno’s fingers than it had ever been with pizza and bread sticks. Geno got lost in the wonder of it for a moment.

“No it’s—I do want it. I’m not quitting.”

“Maybe you reach your limit,” Geno said kindly.

“Fucker,” Sid said, shoving his elbow sharply into Geno’s thigh. The motion must have shaken something loose; a moment later, Sid covered his mouth over a bone-rattling burp. “Better,” Sid said brightly.

Geno flapped a hand in front of his face. “You so gross.”

It must have helped, though, because Sid applied himself to the remains of his sandwich with a will, and a couple of minutes later he swallowed down the final bite. “Wow,” he said, collapsing back against Geno. “Holy shit, I can’t believe I ate that much.”

“Feel good, right?” Geno said.

“Kinda.” Sid squirmed. “Kinda, yeah. I don’t know if I’m going to feel this good in an hour.”

“Have to take advantage now. Be opportunistic.” Geno splayed his fingers over Sid’s stomach.

“Yeah?” Sid said, grin audible. “How are you going to do that?”

“Mmm. Touch.” Geno gently massaged Sid, earning a guttural moan. “Touch you everywhere.” Geno got lost in it again for a little while, mapping out the unyielding curve of Sid’s stomach, his fascination interrupted every so often a grunt from Sid.

The pitch of those grunts began to rise. Finally Sid shoved at Geno’s hand. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging here.”

“Pushy,” Geno said, but he obeyed, shifting his attention south. It was good Sid wore sweatpants today. Thoughtful, someone might say. Geno found the clothed bulge of Sid’s boner and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah, that,” Sid gasped. “Shit.”

“You all swollen here, too.”

“I don’t need your—shit—your scientific observations. I need you to fucking get me off, or I’ll—”

“Shh,” Geno soothed, not interested in whatever threats Sid might feel compelled to make. “I take care.” He massaged Sid through the fabric, just because he liked it: a little bit of anticipation, the impression of Sid rather than the bare fact.


Geno slipped his hand under Sid’s waistband. Startled, he said, “You not wear underwear?”

Sid shoved at his shoulder. “Focus, G.”

Focus. It wasn’t difficult, Sid pressed so close he was practically in Geno’s lap, his hair tickling Geno’s ear and his dick hot and ready in Geno’s hand. “Feel so good,” Geno murmured. “Feel good everywhere.” He gripped Sid and thumbed over the head, now grown damp. “Do so good. Eat so much. All full.” That heat welling in Geno’s groin was getting harder to ignore. Focus. With his free hand, he reached awkwardly to give Sid’s stomach another rub.

Sid arched a little into Geno’s grip, gasped. He was almost there.

Geno dropped his voice. “All sandwich I bring you, in here now.”

“Shit,” Sid breathed, and then he came, gasping hot breath on Geno’s neck. “Shit, Geno.”

Geno couldn’t wait any longer. He had not worn sweatpants, and so it was with shaky, uncoordinated hands that he slipped the button of his jeans and got inside his briefs. He was already so close; every brush of his fingers sent new shocks through him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Soft in Geno’s ear, Sid said, “You’re not off the hook, you know. You’re going to have to rub my stomach, like, all afternoon.”

That threat that sounded more like a promise, the image of Sid stretched out on their bed, pliant and lazily pleased – that was all it took. Geno curled over himself and splashed hot jizz onto his hand, his briefs, and down the front of his jeans.

If Geno had really thought this through, he’d have had something ready this time to clean them off with. He considered the napkins, far away on the coffee table. Maybe if he stretched, he could reach them without jostling Sid.

“So, Geno.”


“You got that extra sandwich on purpose, didn’t you?”

Geno tried to read Sid’s tone and gave up. He felt too good right now for prevarication; honesty would have to do. “Maybe.”

Sid hummed thoughtfully, a sound that Geno would have found alarming if he were fully awake. Now he just gave Sid’s arm a squeeze. “Okay, clean up and then naptime,” Sid said, somehow summoning the strength to push to his feet. He toed at Geno’s ankle. “Come on. I wasn’t kidding about later. This stomach isn’t going to rub itself.”

That plus a hand up finally got Geno moving, at least enough to follow Sid upstairs. Sid moved around their bedroom with unusual care, as though freshly aware of the space his body occupied. He wiped himself off and then Geno, too, and got Geno out of his jeans and then, finally, he let Geno collapse on the bed. Geno ended up curled on his side, the comforter pulled halfway up his ribs. A moment later, Sid stretched out on his back next to Geno. “Ugh,” Sid grunted, half-asleep himself.

Geno roused himself to ask, “You sorry we do?”

“Nah.” Sid fell quiet. Geno was almost gone when he felt his hand being tugged insistently across the bed and up – oh, onto Sid. Geno smiled against the pillow, and he kneaded the skin curving gently under his fingers until he fell asleep.