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Peem—Peem should’ve seen it coming, really.
Imagining that there was a wall around you through which you could safely interact with everyone without needing to be touched was all good until this illusion was shattered to pieces. Admiring a guy who had some serious brain-to-mouth issues was ordained to end in the said guy bringing out the worst in you.
But Phum seemed to have the most clarity while kissing Peem senseless.
“You’re not even angry at me,” Phum said between soft, undemanding kisses, “you’re just pretending to be angry.”
Peem’s arm was trapped between their bodies and he couldn’t have moved it even if he’d been asked to at gunpoint. There was something gratifying about touching Phum like this, intimate and solid. Peem, too, could understand Phum perfectly when they were pressed together, skin to skin, and every thought that Peem had right then was an excellent thought.
Phum crowded him against the wall in an effort to get closer, and Peem realized where they were—in Phum’s bedroom, minutes after Peem had cooked them both dinner while Phum had helped with the cutlery, with the whole house silent like there’d been a gunshot, and with Peem’s ears ringing from how loud his heart was beating.
Phum laid a kiss gently on the bottom of Peem’s lip, then bit down with just enough force that Peem moaned. As soon as he realized he’d made the obscene sound, Peem recoiled hard, and his back met nothing but a very solid wall.
“Actually,” Phum said now, as he followed Peem’s mouth like he was searching for the blessing of God, eyes intent on the prize. His right thumb made gentle circles just under the cleft of Peem’s jaw, as the other thumb came up to press at the corner of his lips, gentle but firm. “I think you pretend to be angry because it gets my attention.”
Peem let out a bark of laughter. His hands moved in the upwards direction, searching for an echo of the heartbeat that was thundering in his own chest. Peem smirked when he found Phum’s heart beating just as hard, through two layers of clothes and Peem’s flesh.
“As if you’ve ever cared if I was a-angry,” Peem said, his breath hitching a little at the end when Phum ducked his head and nosed at the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
“You want me to care.” It wasn’t a question. Phum left an open-mouthed kiss on the skin that made Peem shiver, then moved upwards once more, seeking Peem’s mouth.
Oh, this is ridiculous, Peem thought, half-hard in his pants and trembling very slightly in Phum’s arms like a naïve fool who was about to be ravaged by a monster.
The problem with Phum was that he kissed Peem so softly, always so softly. Peem remembered their first kiss and that hadn’t been soft—Peem had honestly surprised himself—but whenever Phum kissed him, it was like he was making a point. Peem wasn’t yet sure what that point was, because it didn’t make sense that somebody who had such poor communication skills should be able to kiss like he was reciting goddamn poetry.
Finally, Peem’s patience reached its limit. He pushed with his hand that was still on Phum’s chest, right over his heart (still racing), and pushed until he had Phum sprawled on the bed under him.
Phum laughed, a sound that seemed to come from deep in his throat, and said in a low voice, “Someone can’t wait.”
Peem blushed, but he held onto the anger that Phum inspired in him, except he discovered about halfway through straddling Phum and kissing him into the sheets that what he had always felt around Phum was not exactly anger.
“Slow down, it’s not a race,” Phum chuckled, then contradicted himself in the same breath by grabbing Peem’s waist and bringing him down into his lap.
The noise Peem made when he felt Phum’s hard-on through their layers of jeans and pants shouldn’t have been physically possible to make. The hands gripping Peem’s waist got burningly tight, then Phum sat up, keeping Peem in his lap and looking at him like he wanted to wear his skin as a coat and eat his organs and make a clarinet out of his bones.
But it was fine, because Peem had learned to read those feelings from none other than himself.
“You’re just angry at yourself that you want to fuck me,” Phum said, quiet and purposeful.
Peem was breathing hard. He was holding himself back from moving by sheer force of will. His hands were around Phum’s shoulders. Both of them were still in their clothes. Their hairs were a mess. Phum wasn’t letting go.
“I,” Peem exhaled, “I, I-I can’t answer that right now.”
Phum moved his hips under Peem, eliciting a bit-off gasp, “No?”
“Why are you so fucking clear-headed when we’re—” Peem cut himself off, glaring at Phum.
“When we’re what?” Phum responded, bucking up slightly in a way that was immensely distracting, “If you asked me, I would say we’re dealing with your many, many angry feelings about me, right now.”
Anger was not the right word, Peem knew that now. Anger didn’t explain why Peem couldn’t stop thinking about Phum, or why it made him so upset when Phum failed to speak up about what he wanted—what he really wanted, not any of his rich-boy bullshit.
Anger didn’t explain why Peem was always so fucking proud of Phum when he was honest about his feelings, and when he was clearly trying to say the right things, and when he chose Peem to speak to without fearing judgment.
“Say something true to me,” Peem demanded, pushing back against Phum’s movements. He grinned when Phum hissed and his throat bobbed to keep noise inside.
“Like what?” Phum asked, but he wasn’t looking for an answer, “I like you. You’re difficult. I wish I could tell you—”
Peem leaned forward, he leaned until their foreheads touched, then he asked, “Tell me?”
“Tell you,” Phum repeated. “Tell you.”
“Okay,” Peem muttered, running a hand gently through Phum’s hair. “Okay.”
That was good enough. They could work with that. Peem allowed himself to settle down fully in Phum’s lap. And when Phum kissed him softly, Peem closed his eyes and let himself feel the kiss: its tenderness and its longing, and he found himself returning it.
Phum liked Peem. Well, Peem liked him back.