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Dennis turns onto his back, cocks his knee to one side, and flings his arm up over his head. It’s a position like nothing in the world could hurt him, like nothing could stop his dreaming. There’s a mole on his ribcage, the lightest lightest trace of hair in a thin march down from his navel, disappearing where the sheets meet the dip of his pelvis. It’s warm in Robby’s room and sweat has spun Dennis’ pit hair into a fair whorl, cast a diffuse sheen on his brow. The still summer heat, sure, but exertion too. Something shamed but warm turns in Robby’s gut. Dennis is pale where the sun doesn’t touch, lightly freckled where it does but not as tan as he used to be. (Not as tan, he’d told Robby over pizza earlier that night, and not nearly as strong. Then, in that almost apologetic tone he gets out of nowhere, got worked pretty hard back home.)
He’d fallen asleep almost immediately afterward, rolling onto his belly, arms wrapped around the pillow, lips barely parted. It’s such a soft, small mouth, and the eyes so large, even when he’s asleep. And the tiredness betrayed by the dark half moons beneath. Robby, of course, does not sleep. Lying awake is nothing new to him, but this brand new guilt is. The guilt and the fierce affection mixed, the way he knows already that he’s only half-sated… and how certain he is of Dennis’ certainty too. (I’ll wanna do this again, he’d murmured in a muzzy voice as he fell asleep, I already know it.) But certainty isn’t wisdom. He’s made too many mistakes—at work and outside of it—to know that.
Yet hadn’t it felt like trajectory sure and steady as an arrow’s—at best? And at worst, in these last few shifts, it was like being atop a spooked horse, the trot quickening to a gallop, spurred by panicked blood—Robby draws a deep breath. If only it hadn’t been so natural in those first days to touch those narrow shoulders; if only it hadn’t felt so instinctual, the slide of Dennis’ shoulder blade through borrowed scrubs against Robby’s own palm. And tonight feeling the rise of that self-same scapula shift beneath his fingers as he entered him? It was too much. It was as inevitable as it was unwise; it’d been coming since he’d laid eyes on the kid.
No, not kid. He was older than he looked and thank God for that, but Robby’s still old enough to be his father. The guilt stings. He assuages it now by wiping Dennis’ hair back off his brow and then goes to turn the a/c up. The window unit roars to life and he stands before it, willing his blood to cool and his brain to slow in its frigid blow.
When he finally turns back, he finds Dennis awake and staring at him. Leftover sleep in a half-dopey smile.
“Watching me,” Robby observes.
“Same as you were doing.” Then, when Robby doesn’t answer right away: “Got cold without you.”
“Are you kidding? It’s burning up in here.”
“I run cold.” And it’s true—he looks cold, or maybe it’s just that he looks small, helpless against that cold. Needing held.
So Robby crosses the room and climbs back in next him, pulls him close and holds him tight as he can.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, loosening his hold at last.
“Can’t,” Dennis says, twisting his hips so his hardness presses against Robby’s stomach. “You shouldn’ta held me like that if you were trying to quiet me down.” He’s shooting for shyly flirtatious, a fumbling coyness, but that half apologetic tone is still tucked in there too. Quit it, Robby thinks. You don’t have a thing to be sorry for. I’m the one who—
But the thought doesn’t get a chance to play itself out, for then Dennis is kissing him again, fingers in his hair and other hand on his hip, kissing more sure and bossy than he talks. A little scrape of teeth across his lower lip, a little suction, the tongue flicked over the tugged flesh. It’s—god, he’s good at it, that soft small mouth capable of dizzying things, as he’d shown earlier that night.
Robby will return the favor, he decides. But he’s going to go slow—they hadn’t done that the first time through, months exploding in one surging together—months of fleeting touches and half-panicked, half-longing little glances: Dennis mostly, unable to hide it as he was but Robby knowing full well he was looking back longer than he needed to, raising his brows in that way kindly mocking, chin tilted down, that made Dennis look away all pink and flustered. Yeah. They’d known where they were going, what it all meant, but they’d let it build to something so big they couldn’t slow it down when they finally let it burst. They’d gone at each other rough, all hand and tooth and the hard dig of cock, all clutching and whining and murmured praise. That’s right, darling, Robby saying hoarsely as Dennis swallowed him to the root, you know what you’re doing. If he’d thought twice (hell, even once, thought at all) he wouldn’t have said it, but it’d apparently been the right thing to say—Dennis had whined around him and doubled the speed of his hips against the sheets, and he’d had to pull him off all dazed and teary-eyed, lips swollen just right. The way he looked like that had turned the guilt in Robby’s breast to something hot as the sun.
Their fucking—for that’s what it’d been—had been no more gentle, though toward the end they’d fallen into a desperate synchrony that had felt akin to tenderness. Neither giving, neither taking—a rhythm for all its force and speed built of shared breath, shared pleasure.
But now it’s time to slow down. Dennis shivers and whimpers beneath him as he tastes his way down his throat, his chest, all the sting if sweat and sweetness of warm flesh, and when he reaches his heart he lets his lips rest there to faintly taste its beat.
By the time he reaches his waist, Dennis is squirming and whining, his fingers flexing and loosening, flexing and loosening, in Robby’s hair. Robby wants to bypass the neat pink curve of his cock, weeping into the nest of light brown hair, in favor of the elegant musculature of his thighs. But then Dennis reaches to tilt his face up so he’s looking down into his eyes, neck craned.
“Please,” he says. “Please, Robby. You gotta…”
Robby raises his brows questioningly, like he’s perhaps just considering it, but then he does—swallows him in one neat motion, expertly weathers the buck of his hips. How could he deny the kid anything now?