Chapter 20 Reece #2
I get the condom on, steadier than I’d thought I would be — my hands know what to do.
More lube. I move up over him and stop, because I want to look at him.
He is on his back, his chest moving fast, his hair messy, his mouth open.
One hand is on my hip; the other is fisted in the sheet.
He is the version of him I have not seen in two years. He is here. He is letting me see him.
“Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“I am asking you to do this. So we both know I am asking.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck me.”
“Yes.”
“Now. Please.”
I push in. Slow. Slower than I’ve ever pushed in. He inhales, sharp, controlled. His hand on my hip goes white. I stop with just the head in.
“Don’t stop.”
“I…“
“Don’t stop. Go slow. But don’t stop.”
“Okay.”
I keep going. Slow. Inch by inch. I stop twice.
He tells me twice not to. He’s breathing through his teeth, eyes closed.
The tears are still happening — quiet, no sound, his face just letting them.
I’m inside him and I’m moving slow and I’m watching him and I’m not stopping.
When I am all the way in I stop. I have to.
I stop because I cannot do anything else for a second.
He opens his eyes. He is looking at me. He is looking at me and his face is wet and he is letting me see it.
He has not moved his hand from my hip. He has not let go.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You’re in.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Reed. Okay.”
“You’re…“
“I’m okay. I just — I’m not sad. I want you to know.”
He’s telling me before he knows. Telling me what he isn’t before he knows what he is. Leaving me a note in the dark in case the next sentence is the wrong one. I receive the note.
“Okay,” I say.
“I do not know what I am.”
“Okay.”
“It is just happening. The…“ he gestures vaguely at his face. “I am letting it. Don’t make it a thing.”
“Okay.”
“Move.”
I move. I move slow. I move so slow I am almost not moving.
He’s making a sound — a very small one, in the back of his throat, the one he used to make a long time ago, when something was almost too much and he was letting it be almost too much.
I’d told myself for two years that I’d remembered the sound. I had remembered the sound.
He says, “Yeah.”
He says it the way he used to say it. He said it to me last week and he’s saying it now — with his face wet and my cock in him and his hand on my hip and his eyes on mine. I move slower.
He says, “Yeah,” again.
I keep going. I move my hand up to his face. I wipe the side of his face with my thumb. The thumb comes away wet. He does not flinch. He looks at me. I look at him. I keep moving. He is breathing slow now, not fast, slow, slow the way I am moving, slow the way the whole thing has slowed.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“What.”
“Anything. Talk to me.”
“Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“I am not sad. I am not. You’re inside me. You’re inside me and I’m letting you. I haven’t let you because you haven’t been here. And you are. You’re in me and you’re here.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s all.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all it is.”
“Okay.”
He closes his eyes. Keeps his hand on my hip, the other fisted in the sheet. He lets me move slow inside him. His face is wet, his mouth open, and he’s saying yeah every few seconds, quiet, just for himself, just to confirm what’s happening. I’m moving and watching him and not stopping.
After, I do not know how long, he opens his eyes and says, “Faster.”
“Yeah?”
“A little. Faster.”
“Okay.”
I go a little faster.
He says, “Oh.”
He says it the way someone says oh when a thing they weren’t expecting becomes a thing.
His back arches a little. His hand on the sheet tightens.
His face changes. The wet-face stays, but underneath it there is something new, the version of his face that is starting to want.
I am watching him want. I am the one giving him the thing.
“Reed…“
“Yeah.”
“I…“
“Yeah.”
“I think I might…“
He has not touched himself. I have not touched him. He is hard now. He is hard and he is going to come, untouched, with my cock in him. I have to slow down because if I do not slow down I am going to come first.
“Reed.”
“I know. I know. I’m slowing.”
“No.”
“What.”
“Don’t slow down.”
“You’re…“
“I want to. Reed. I want to.”
“Okay.”
I don’t slow down. I get my hand between us, my hand on him.
He says Reed and his hand goes from my hip to the back of my neck and pulls me down.
I’m over him, bracketing him, my forehead against his.
Moving inside him, my hand on him, his hand on the back of my neck, his face wet against mine, and he’s going to…
“Reed…“
“Yeah.”
“I…“
“Yeah.”
He comes. He comes with my forehead against his and his hand on the back of my neck and his cock in my hand. His cock pulses against my stomach. His whole body does the long quiet release. His mouth is open against mine, not kissing, just open. He says, quiet, almost not a word, “Oh.”
I keep going. I keep going for a few more seconds and then I cannot keep going and I come too. My forehead against his. His hand still on the back of my neck. My hand still on him. I make a sound I have not made in years and he says into my mouth, “Yeah. Yeah.”
I collapse onto him. He takes my weight. He is breathing under me, slow, and his hand is on the back of my neck and his face is wet against my temple.
After. I have pulled out. I have dealt with the condom.
I have come back. I am lying on my side facing him.
He is on his back. His face is wet and his eyes are closed.
His chest is rising and falling. His hand is on his stomach.
His other hand is on the bed between us.
I look at his hand. It is open. It is open the way it was open on the bench, the way it was open on the bed last week.
Palm up, waiting for me to take it. I put my hand in his.
He closes his fingers around mine. He does not open his eyes.
We lie there. After a while I say, “Are you okay.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, Reed.”
“You…“
“I know.”
“Was it…“
“It was what it was.”
“Yeah.”
“It was good. It was a lot. It was good.”
“Yeah.”
“I am okay.”
I just look at him.
He opens his eyes. He turns his head. He looks at me. His face is still wet. He has not wiped it. I wipe it with my thumb. He does not flinch. He looks at me.
“I have not done that,” he says.
“Cried.”
“Cried like that. While… yeah.”
“Okay.”
“I do not want to make it a thing.”
“Okay.”
“I think it was a thing my body had to do.”
“Yeah.”
“I am not going to apologize for it.”
“I am not asking you to.”
“Okay.”
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“I am glad you let me see it.”
He looks at me.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for…“
“Don’t thank me.”
“Right.”
“Pick a different word.”
“Okay.”
He smiles a little. It is the first smile I have seen from him tonight. The smile is small and his face is still wet and the smile is for me.
“Stay,” he says.
“What.”
He almost laughs.
“That’s my line. Usually.”
“It is.”
“You’ve been the one telling me you would stay. Last week you stayed at mine. I am at yours. I want to stay. I want to stay tonight. In your bed. In your apartment. We can figure out tomorrow tomorrow. Tonight let me stay.”
I look at him.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let you stay.”
“Okay.”
He closes his eyes. His hand is still in mine.
His face is still wet. The lamp is still on — going to stay on, because if I get up to turn it off he’ll move, and I don’t want him to move.
I lie there. I lie there and I think about what just happened.
I let it stay what it is. Not analyzed. Just the thing that just happened, in my bed, in my apartment, at ten-something at night with a man whose face was wet and whose hand is in mine.
He’s breathing slow. He’s asleep. Asleep with his hand in mine and his face still wet.
I look at him for a long time and don’t move.
He stays. He doesn’t leave at one. Doesn’t leave at four. Doesn’t leave. He sleeps in my bed, his hand in mine until at some point in the night his hand falls away and I let it fall. I sleep. When I wake up at five-thirty he is on his side facing me and his eyes are open.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I stayed.”
“You did.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He puts his hand on my face. He keeps it there.
“Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“I want to do that again.”
“Tonight?”
“No. I mean generally. I want, what we did. I want it. Sometimes.”
“Okay.”
“Not every time.”
“Okay.”
“Just. I want you to know. I want it. I am not going to be weird about it tomorrow.”
Two years ago he wouldn’t have said this.
Wouldn’t have needed to. There was no version of him being weird about anything tomorrow because tomorrow was just the next day, and the day after that was the next day after that, and the days were going to keep happening together.
He’s saying I am not going to be weird about it tomorrow because he’s had to learn that tomorrows can stop.
I taught him that. I’m going to spend the rest of my life knowing I taught him that.
“Okay,” I say.
“Are you going to be weird about it.”
I look at him.
“No,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“I want it too. I want it to be a thing we do. Both ways. The way we used to.”
“Okay.”
“And we figure it out.”
“And we figure it out.”
He smiles. The same small smile. He keeps his hand on my face. We lie there. Outside it’s starting to get light. The lamp is still on — neither of us has turned it off, and the apartment is quiet and his hand is on my face and we’re figuring it out.