“Someone,” Sidney said, “should finish that pizza.”
Geno eyed the pizza in question: four slices of Thai chicken, which was an abomination of pizzakind, as far as Geno was concerned. No wonder some of it had survived half a hockey team even after all seven of its pizza brethren had been eaten. “You eat,” Geno said. He went back to flipping channels.
“Ugh.” Sidney scrubbed at his forehead, and then he got up and walked out of the living room. He came back with two beers and handed one to Geno, and then he dragged the coffee table over with its almost-empty pizza box and slumped against Geno on the couch.
It was nearly May, and muggy - too warm for cuddling that wasn’t foreplay. Geno put his arm over Sidney’s shoulder’s anyway. He kept clicking, and finally he found them a likely-looking war movie.
“I’m going to hate this,” Sidney told him. “All the battles are going to be wrong.”
“Yes,” Geno agreed. “And all Russian only eat borscht and vodka.” There’d be plenty for both of them to complain about. Perfect entertainment.
Sidney grumbled, but he didn’t try to wrestle the remote away. Instead he snuggled in deeper against Geno’s side and reached over to the pizza box. Geno wrinkled his nose.
“I can hear you making faces,” Sidney said as he bit into the pizza.
“Shush. Watch movie.”
Movies in English still took a lot of concentration, even with subtitles. Geno was only vaguely aware of Sidney munching in his ear. Half an hour in, he noticed the chewing had stopped. He surveyed the coffee table. “Still pizza,” he said, pointing to the box. “No point save in fridge just one piece.”
“Ugh,” Sidney said again. After a moment he reached over and brought it to his mouth.
The movie came to a slow part, people in a meeting talking too fast for Geno to catch about things too boring for him to care about anyway. He looked down at Sidney. From that angle he couldn’t see Sidney’s face, but he could see the pizza crust hanging in Sidney’s hand.
“Can’t leave pizza bone,” Geno said.
Sidney snorted. “How do you even know that word?”
“Gonch little girl,” Geno said.
“Of course,” Sidney said, and crammed the entire crust in his mouth. There was some more strained chewing, and an audible swallow, and the pizza was gone.
“So proud, Sid. No waste.” Geno patted Sidney solicitously on the arm.
They came to a battle scene. The movie was black and white, so the violence consisted of artillery firing off-screen and a soldier here or there falling dramatically to the ground. Sidney squirmed. Geno didn’t pay much mind. Then Sidney’s hands went to his belt, and, oh. “You need help?” Geno offered, sneaking a hand under Sidney’s.
“No, fuck, not that. I just.” Sidney got his belt unbuckled and his jeans unzipped, and then he slumped back against Geno. “God, I should not have eaten that last piece.”
Geno laughed, delighted, although he couldn’t have said just why.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sidney said, and he did sound...not very comfortable.
“Shh,” Geno said. He slid his hand under Sidney’s t-shirt and gently began to knead the skin beneath.
“What are you doing?”
“Quiet,” Geno said. He was still finding his bearings in the territory he’d come to know so well – every dip and angle and boney joint on Sidney, Geno knew. Sidney fresh from a summer of training and all hard muscle, Sidney now at the end of the season, lean everywhere. Geno knew them all, he thought.
Tonight there was a shallow rise just below Sidney’s ribs that Geno was not acquainted with. It didn’t have a lot of give. “Sid,” he said. “How much you eat?”
“You watched me,” Sidney said.
“Before. At party.”
“Too much,” Sidney groaned. He thunked his head back against Geno’s shoulder.
Geno spread his hand over Sidney’s belly. Ever so carefully – he did not need to be puked on, thanks – Geno began to massage it. Sidney shifted under his touch. “Hurt?” Geno asked.
There was a pause. “No.”
Good enough. Geno kept on rubbing gentle circles in Sidney’s stomach, trying to imagine just how much Sidney had to have eaten. The answer lay in the swell under Geno’s palm: a lot, apparently. Now that he thought about it, Sid had had something or other in his hand every time Geno had seen him tonight - pizza or garlic bread or a beer.
Sidney made a sound. A whimper? If Geno’d been fucking him, he’d have taken it for encouragement. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Kinda. Um, don’t stop?”
It would have taken horses and chains to haul Geno away. He always wanted to touch Sidney, everywhere, but Sidney teetering on the edge of what he could stand, squirming and making noises he couldn’t help – that was the best of all. And from Sidney’s minute shifts against him, he was pretty sure that was exactly where they were.
Experimentally, Geno pressed a little more with the heel of his hand. Sidney groaned and gripped Geno’s wrist, and Geno froze.
“No, it’s fine,” Sidney said. “Just...not too much.”
So Geno rubbed his circles a little deeper, alert to any wrong quiver or groan that would have meant stop instead of more, but none came. Sidney’s breath grew short and sharp under Geno’s hand. Geno explored the whole gently curving expanse of Sidney’s belly, from his breastbone to the top of his briefs, and then finally Geno slipped his fingers below the waistband. He found Sidney heavy and thick and ready; he took him in hand. Sidney thrust against him, involuntary.
“Fuck,” Sidney said, not in the tone of someone in imminent expectation of getting off.
Geno stilled. “Sid?”
Sidney choked a laugh. “This is the weirdest thing that has ever turned me on.”
Geno doubted that, or else Sidney had a whole lot less imagination than Geno had ever credited him for. He turned just enough to kiss Sidney’s temple, and then he began to stroke him. “You eat lots,” he told Sid. “All full, like balloon.”
“Fuck you, I am not!” Sidney laughed again, and then he cursed on Geno’s downstroke.
“Very full,” Geno told him. “Maybe not enough. Maybe get more pizza?”
“God, no,” Sidney groaned, but Geno felt in his hand how Sidney really felt about that.
“Steak,” Geno mused. “Shakes. Hamburgers. Lots of sushi—”
“Fuck,” Sidney said, and came all over Geno’s hand. He collapsed against Geno, boneless and gasping. “Fuck,” he repeated. Geno extracted his hand and wiped it on Sidney’s t-shirt. Sidney’s only protest was a groan and a muttered, “Asshole.”
At that point, Geno had several obvious alternatives. He could get out from under Sidney and wash off Sidney and himself. He could take care of the hard-on that Sidney was currently lying on top of. He could be unexpectedly, heroically industrious and start cleaning away the eight pizza boxes and innumerable empty beer cans currently littering Sidney’s living room.
Instead, Geno shifted his free arm around Sidney and pulled him closer, and then he slid the other hand under Sidney’s shirt again and spread his fingers. Sidney’s belly was still pleasingly convex. Still full. At long last, Geno remembered the TV, droning on all this time in the background. “Look, Sid,” he said in Sidney’s ear. “Next time, we have borscht.”
“Ugh,” Sidney said.