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Casey was 90 per cent sure this was a dream, because Lars' hometown simply never got this warm.
They were lying in a meadow, and they were both bare-chested, barefoot in jeans. A breeze blew idly, making the meadow dance, and that's how Driver knew it was a dream, because in no universe would Lars have tolerated the tickle-brush-flutter of long grass and wildflowers directly on his skin. That, and the fact that Casey had tits still. And he'd got rid of those directly after his 18th birthday.
They weren't as big as they had been, and they were flattened out on his chest. Maybe that's why they didn't jar at him quite as much as before. There was no-one around but Lars, and Lars didn't care about the things that other people did. So it was fine. The sun's heat felt like a kiss all over his body. He flexed and arched his back, feeling the once familiar movement and weight above his lungs. It was weird, but it wasn't Bad.
Lars was talking, a steady, honeyed flow of words, no meaning at all filtering through the dream-fog, but pleasant and musical and home-like nonetheless. Casey rolled over and his chest rubbed against Lars', sensitive nipples brushing warm skin and body hair. He started to feel the sweet pull of tension between his legs.
Lars cupped a warm hand around one side of his chest, brushing a thick thumb over the nipple, and it thrummed throughout the whole of Driver's body. He couldn't believe the desperation it pulled out of him. He hadn't had sensation there in years. He pressed forward, begging wordlessly, and Lars hooked his leg between his, giving Casey something to rub and rut against. Casey was naked, and Lars was in nothing but cotton boxers, Casey was dripping wet and sticky against his thick, thick, hairy thigh.
Lars brought his fingers up to Casey's mouth, the other still gently holding, squeezing, feeling the weight and softness, heaviness of his chest. Driver was obsessed with his hands, obsessed with everything he did with them, felt like a pervert watching Lars fold laundry, fondle the handle of his axe, pull himself off in the shower in front of Casey's fevered attention. Had that last one even happened? Driver made a note to check with Awake-Casey later.
Asleep-Casey, Dreaming-Casey, sucked Lars' fingers into his mouth hungrily. His tongue wrapped over and between them, getting them good and sloppy, getting him good and covered in him. The noises his mouth made were loud and wet, he would be embarrassed by his blatant clumsy eagerness if this was real, he tried really hard not to show just how desperate he was for Lars' affection, not in reality.
(Reality-Lars knew. He'd been practising holding hands with a store mannequin arm he'd found behind the Goodwill. He wanted to hold hands with Casey. And if the mannequin hand had ended up shoved down the front of his pants once or twice when Casey was out at work, that was no one's business but his own.)
Casey suckled and moaned. Spit dripped out of his mouth, Lars gathered it up and fucked it back into him like he was fucking Casey's pussy.
"Messy puppy," he whispered, like Reality-Lars had called him once when he spilled cereal down his shirt, and had gently cleaned him up, and Driver had then walked directly into the woods behind their house to have a panic attack and get himself off, inadequately, with his back pressed up against a tree, thinking about Lars shoving him up against it instead, Lars' cock bulging in his mouth, Lars...just Lars.
Dream-Casey is huffing and panting against Lars' neck. Lars twists and tugs at his nipples with long, thick, greedy fingers. Casey whines, high pitched and needy around the ones in his mouth, filling him up all the way to his throat, pressing and rubbing on his tongue. He's drooling everywhere. Then Casey is on his back looking up at swaying trees, and Lars is lapping and licking and suckling at his chest, soft warm wet lips and tongue sucking, sucking, sucking the orgasm out of him. Casey is shuddering and his hips twist and rise and press against Lars and his back arches and he's coming, so, so sweet and he's keening and liquid pleasure is going all the way through him from his toes to his spine -
And he wakes up, halfway through coming. He hears himself moaning, cuts it off by shoving a hand tight over his mouth and nose. He doesn't breathe. He was moving when he woke up, humping the air, twisting in the sheets. Now he holds still and clenched, icy all over. Lars is facing away from him, thank Christ, blankets tucked right up to his cheek, and he's not moving, but that doesn't mean he isn't awake.
Driver realises he's starting to get dizzy. He lets go of his face, puffing out a breath. He can't do anything at all, his body isn't cooperating. Then Lars' alarm clock goes off, gentle birdsong, and Driver shoots out of bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him way, way too aggressively. If Lars wasn't awake before, he would be awake now, and he'd be giving Driver the look with the raised eyebrows and firm mouth, the reproachful one, and Casey has a quick vision of having that face directed at him while naked and humping against Lars' leg, at his feet, and stumbles into the shower with the water blasting as cold as it can go.
---
When he finally leaves the bathroom, because his body can't maintain a panic attack for more than half an hour without at least something to eat first, a pile of clothes is waiting for him like always. It's his favourite thick dark jeans, warm, yellow-orange wool socks, an old, soft pair of Lars' boxers ("these ones don't fit me anymore, but they're perfectly good, Casey, so you should wear them, and this way you don't have to buy new ones, isn't that nice?" Driver wanted to DIE.) There was a vest, a light blue t-shirt, a sweater. The sweater was off-white, had a stupid print of a cactus wearing sunglasses. Lars had picked it out for him after Casey had said he missed LA heat.
The terrible, awful, evil genius of a psycho-sexual torturer himself is in the kitchenette, making eggs and whistling up a storm. Driver ducks into the bathroom to change, heart not feeling right still. He cautiously slopes across the room, and leans up against the wall for inspection. This at least is normal and routine.
Lars looks over, and nods happily. He's wearing matching yellow-orange socks. He likes it when they match. Driver loves it.
"Scrambled eggs for Sundays," Lars sings, a little croaky with the morning.
"And toast on top," Driver finishes, automatic.
It's over for him. Take him out back and shoot him. Turn him into kindling with Lars' axe.
How is he still horny?
Lars pulls out Driver's chair for him, and puts his food in front of him as Casey sits, obedient. Lars' hands hover in the air for a minute above Casey's shoulders, but Casey doesn't see this.
Lars sits opposite, and they eat quietly. Casey finishes first, as always. Lars is trying to get him to eat slower.
"So, there's no need to be embarrassed, Casey," Lars says, and takes a thoughtful sip of tea.
Casey stands and beelines for the door.
"Casey!" Lars calls, and races him to it. He's only got it open a little, so Lars pushes it shut, snap!, with one hand above Casey's shoulder. He didn't mean to, but Lars is standing really close to him now, his hand right above Casey's head, the inside of his elbow brushing his ear. Casey is breathing fast, and his eyes are flashing between Lars' eyes and his mouth.
Lars steps back, and clutches his hands together behind his back. Casey's eyes shut and he bangs his head against the door, a little harder than Lars would like.
He tuts,
"This is all a bit dramatic, Casey. You don't need to run away."
Casey looks at him balefully.
Lars is unimpressed.
"So, I have erections when I wake up sometimes, everyone with a penis does, and you don't have to do anything about it if you don't want to. It's just a natural body reaction."
Casey clenches his eyes shut, and slowly slides down the door to the floor.
"If you Do want to do anything about it, well, that's perfectly normal too, Casey."
Casey makes a small choked-off noise. His fingers twitch outwards.
"We're two men living together, and sometimes we need privacy, and that's ok. You just let me know if you ever need alone time, and I'll do the same, ok Casey? It's all perfectly natural. God wants us to feel good, because he made us this way. He wants us to love ourselves and feel nice in our bodies, I think."
Casey has been looking solidly at the floor, but he starts to look really, really, really sad.
"Casey, are you ok? Sorry, I know religion isn't for everyone, I'm sorry, I can give you space - "
"It's not that, I don't care."
"Oh, ok." Lars says, and waits, chewing his lip.
"I don't know, I don't care about God. I don't mind that you do."
"I know Casey, that's all fine," and he smiles, his big, sunshine smile, so Casey knows it's true.
"What if." Casey says, then shuts up.
Lars waits. He turns to the side and hums, looking at the wall, to show he's happy to wait.
"What if some of the parts were wrong. Initially."
Lars frowns, and nods. He's still looking at the wall, Casey is looking at the floor. They don't have to look at each other to see each other just fine.
"Like, you feel like you were made wrong?" Lars asks.
Driver chokes a sob and Lars turns, turns back, turns again, turns Back again-
"Lars, come sit." says Casey, and Lars gladly does, leaning up against the wall next to him. Their arms aren't touching, but they nearly are. Lars can feel him even though they aren't.
Lars scratches at his mustache. "I understand, I've felt that way a lot, forever, I think?" he puzzles. Casey looks directly at him then, in his very disconcerting way. Lars smiles at his chin. It's a lovely chin. There's a toast crumb on it, so he carefully covers his hand with his sweater sleeve, and brushes it away.
Casey's mouth opens, and he gasps a little "ah,", quiet as a mouse. He looks like a mouse when he nibbles his toast, too, but he takes too big bites, and he eats too fast, and then he gets indigestion and gets cranky, but Lars doesn't mind too much even though it's really, really, really annoying sometimes.
"So." Lars says, business-like. "It's fine if you want to masturbate."
And Casey splutters, laughs hysterically, is up, off and out through the door, slams the door, opens the door, shoves one hand back to fumble for his keys, slams the door, opens it again, closes it very, very gently, and then Lars hears tires in the driveway.
He gets up and goes to do the dishes, humming the Sunday breakfast song as he does.