The late afternoon sun shines through the wide cracks in the warped wood walls. A bright slice of light neatly cuts Alex in half, warming the softest part of his belly, slung low over his hips beckoning Michael out of the darkness. He falls to his knees, settling between Alex’s legs, trying to swallow his nerves. Above him, Alex slouches on the squeaky futon, smiling down at him with lips bruised and red.
“I’ve never done this before.” He tucks the tips of his finger underneath the waistband of Alex’s black jeans, enjoying the way his stomach twitches at the sudden contact. “I’ve had it done to me a couple of times and watched some porn, but I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.”
Alex licks his lips, once, twice. “I’ve never really done anything like this. No one’s ever seen me, you know, naked. So.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
Michael jerks his hands away. “Do you want to stop?”
“What? No.” Alex sits up, unbuttons his jeans, and eagerly tugs down the zipper. “If you want to, I really want to. I just… whatever experience you think you don’t have, I have even less.” He grabs his iPod off the shelf overhead. “Maybe some music will help.”
His eyes are bright, shining -- honest. Michael sits back on his heels while Alex scrolls through his iPod. Soon, the toolshed is blanketed in Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Hands Down’. He’s glad that Alex has chosen an uptempo song, something with a beat he can focus on, get lost in.
“I put it on repeat. I like this song. I mean, it’s not my favorite or anything, so if you don’t like it, I can change it. Not everyone likes Dashboard, or maybe you prefer the Further Seems Forever days? Jason Gleason has a good voice. I don’t know what music you like, just that you like music since you play guitar and all.” Lifting his hips, Alex anxiously babbles his way through sliding his jeans halfway down his thighs.
“I like it.” Michael bats his hands away, taking over himself, pulling Alex’s jeans down the rest of his legs and tossing them carelessly over a nearby table. He stares at Alex’s red and black plaid boxers, so similar to his own, right down to his very obvious erection. “You shouldn’t be the only one naked.”
“Okay.” Alex’s eyes open wider as Michael stands, removing his belt and his boots, his socks. He can feel Alex’s eyes burning every inch of his bare skin; it feels beyond good. Like the best thing ever. And then it’s Alex’s hands on his waist, yanking his jeans from his hips with confidence, with excitement.
Once they’re both down to their boxers, Alex leans back on the futon and hooks his thumbs underneath the elastic. Michael mirrors him and together they ditch their last stitch of clothing, revealing themselves to each other for the first time.
Michael barely even clocks his own nakedness, too caught up in Alex’s body to care about his own. He falls back to his knees, reclaiming his position between Alex’s beckoning thighs, mouth already salivating.
“Is something wrong?” Alex’s voice shakes, the earlier confidence wavering.
“No. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great actually. Really great.” But he’s stared too long with eyes too big, mesmerized by Alex’s long, flushed cock, the gentle way it bounces with each beat of Alex’s heart. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Michael wraps his hands around the base of Alex’s dick, spreading his thighs wider for better access. He marvels at Alex’s hard heat in his hand, marvels at the difference between holding himself and holding someone else. The disconnect when he doesn’t feel the shiver of first touch explode up his spine, but watches Alex throw his head back instead, dark necklace pulling tight against his pale throat.
Alex sucks in a ragged breath, puts his hand on top of Michael’s. “Oh my god. That feels good. So much better than when I do it myself. It’s almost too good.”
Something in Michael’s heart twists; he doesn’t know why. It’s in the way Alex squeezes his eyes shut, the way his fingernails dig into the futon’s thin mattress, the way one simple touch matters so much. He knows that need, recognizes it for what it is -- an absence, a lack of something fundamental. It makes him wonder about Alex’s father, about what he’d meant when he said things get bad at his house.
That’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to think about with someone’s dick in your hand, but Michael can’t help it. He likes Alex, worries about him, spends more nights in the toolshed now listening for something gone awry in the dark. It’s possible that Alex does the same, worrying about him too. But Michael stops himself before he lets hope get too much traction.
Alex raises his hips, wiggling impatiently. Michael meets him there, mouth wrapping around the head of Alex’s cock. With his tongue, he tastes him, gingerly swiping at the bead of moisture on the tip. Alex’s muscles jerk and tense; he pants and squirms, making unintelligible noises. And maybe Michael doesn’t know what he’s doing, but Alex seems to be enjoying it well enough so he lets his nerves drain away.
He runs his thumb lightly over the thick vein running the length of Alex, lips sliding up and down to the beat of the song, the crescendo and crash of the drums. Alex’s hand finds his hair and yanks hard. Michael likes it. A lot. So he sucks harder and curls his tongue repeatedly, lapping up every drop. Alex tastes salty, tangy, a bit like sweat, but in a good way. He hums in satisfaction, in love with the weight of Alex on his tongue, pressing into the back of his throat.
“Wait, stop.” The unhinged edge of Alex’s voice halts him immediately. “I don’t want to come yet. Like some kid. Fuck, look at you. You’re so hot.” He digs his palms into his eyes, trying to regain some sense of control Michael guesses. It makes him feel oddly proud that he’s done this for Alex, made him feel this good. The need in his own cock intensifies, but he refuses to touch himself, wanting this moment to be all for Alex.
My heart is yours to fill or burst to break or bury.
He laughs, giddy, breathless. “I’m covered in my own spit. That can’t be that hot.” Alex peaks down at him and groans again. Michael smiles. He’s still got his fingers wrapped around Alex, holding him firm, thumb continuing to stroke. “Am I doing okay?”
Alex tosses his arm dramatically over his eyes, head rolling back and forth, hair growing wilder and more unkempt. “It feels like you’re touching every inch of me from the inside out. My skin feels too tight, too hot. I don’t ever want you to stop. Please don’t ever stop.” It sounds like he’s talking about so much more than a blow job.
Stay quiet, stay near, stay close, they can't hear.
Michael jacks him off slowly, listening to the song, watching Alex bite his lip to near bleeding. He drinks in the hollows of his ribs, the curved slopes of his chest, the peaks of his nipples. He runs a hand up Alex’s thigh, drops his hand to palm at his balls, memorizes the blue river of veins in his forearms. The song ends, briefly. A moment of silence, just Alex’s panting. Michael’s never experienced something he’d describe as perfect, but this is perfect. And he knows exactly what he wants.
“I want you to come in my mouth. But warn me first, so I can try not to choke.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before diving back down Alex’s cock, the floorboards creaking beneath his knees, beneath his exuberance. The truth is, what he really wants is to crawl inside this moment and live there until his last breath. Now that he’s had a taste, he can’t imagine how he’s gone so long without. Sucking Alex off is intoxicating -- the pungent, sweet smell of him, the sharp, bitter taste, the ridiculous mewling sounds he makes. Better than any drug he’s ever tried. A feast when all he’s ever really known is famine.
He tries to relax his jaw as much as possible, takes Alex as deep as he can without gagging. It’s not far, midway down his dick, but it’s so goddamn good. Alex cries out and claws at his shoulders, the only warning he gets before the warm spurts of Alex’s orgasm shoot against his tongue, the back of his throat, spilling hot at the corners of his mouth. Michael swallows greedily, riding out Alex’s orgasm as best he can without gagging or choking or something more embarrassing.
Once he’s empty, Alex falls slack, eyes closed and chest heaving. Sweat drips in the crevices of his body, his skin blood red. He keeps licking his lips over and over again. Michael does the same, licking out at the slick mess of his mouth, down his chin. Alex slits his eyes down at him and then slides to his knees like silk. He threads his fingers through the curls at the nape of Michael’s neck and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, hungrily tasting the mix of them.
Alex pulls back, giggling. “This is filthy.”
“I want to do it again.” Michael grabs at his waist, pushing his cock against Alex’s stomach, leaving sticky trails over his belly button. He’s painfully erect now, but he’s willing to keep ignoring his own pleasure if it means keeping this wild, happy look on Alex’s face.
“No, it’s my turn.” The command in Alex’s voice surprises him, shoots straight to his dick. “Get on the futon.”
Michael stands, ready and willing to obey. “Okay, but you’ll need this.” He tugs a pillow free from the haphazard stack of old sheets and blankets and sleeping bags piled on the futon. “The floorboards suck.”
“You’re sweet.” Alex kisses him softly. Again and again. Easy and slow and so agonizingly gentle. Stealing Michael’s breath away, not with sex but with an unspoken tenderness. Then he chucks the pillow across the shed and pushes Michael roughly onto the futon. “But I want to feel it just like you did. Every pinch, every stab, every hurt.”
The late afternoon sun shines through the wide cracks in the warped wood walls. A bright slice of light neatly cuts Michael in half, warming the softest part of his belly, slung low over his hips beckoning Alex out of the darkness. He falls to his knees, settling between Michael’s legs, nerves now long forgotten. Above him, Michael slouches on the squeaky futon, smiling down at him with lips bruised and red, chin still glistening in the low light.