23. Hotaru
I put the final touches on the code and message my client that he’ll have a great night. It’s the first commission I’ve taken since Arlo came back. A big part of me didn’t want to do it. Porn or getting myself off has been the furthest thing from my mind lately.
As it turns out, though, nothing is free in this world. I need money. My dad stopped feeding my account the small allowance they’d—I cut myself off with a grimace. Then I mentally correct myself for the hundredth time. He’d given me since I turned twelve.
That was four weeks ago, and also when my world decided to shake under my feet.
Money had been the least of my worries. Now, I needed new shoes. My feet were growing at an alarming rate. Which, up until a few weeks ago, was great news. Bigger feet. Bigger dick.
Currently, I don’t give two shits about my dick size. And that’s a first.
My bladder reminds me I’ve had to pee for the last twenty minutes. I strain my ears for any sign that Arlo is still in the bathroom. Nothing comes. The water shut off a solid ten minutes ago.
He never procrastinates in our shared space. In and out. Out of sight is his MO. I grimace again. It’s a new feature. One I don’t particularly like. One that seems hell-bent on hanging around.
I shove from my desk, cross to the door, and the handle gives under my fingers.
When the hinges move seamlessly, I’m suddenly staring at the expanse of Arlo’s back. He faces the towel rack as though he just got there.
He’s covered. His bottom half, anyway. A towel wraps snugly around his hips.
Fuck me. Please.
The swell of his ass is utter perfection in the white terry cloth. His hair gleams dark, almost black from the shower. Water drips from its ends, beading between the swell of his traps and along his spine.
Even his legs are thicker and ripped, and dripping with water.
I’m suddenly thirsty and unable to swallow.
I must have made a noise. Arlo whips around as though he’s been caught shoplifting. I hope I didn’t moan, but I can’t be trusted around him not to.
“Sorry,” I manage to strain out between my dry throat and Sahara-like mouth.
My gaze soaks him in. The breadth of his shoulders. The swell of his pecs. The small mountains of his shoulders sweep into the rolling hills of his biceps and heavy forearms. The delineated segments of his abdomen and the etched lines of his obliques point the way to the party, which tents the front of his towel.
It takes every ounce of control I never knew I possessed to pull my gaze away from his body. I do. Arlo is more to me than a fucking cream-worthy dessert, and this is my chance to show him as much.
His cheeks are pink, and his lips are parted. I force my eyes to keep moving. To not think about his perfectly kissable mouth or the sounds I could pull from it.
I meet his wide gaze.
“The water went off a while ago.” I manage a bob of my shoulders. “I thought you were long gone.” He shifts toward his door, and I jerk my hand up and palm out. “Not that I want you gone. I just know…You like your space now.”
He takes another step away from me. My heart vibrates with panic.
“And that’s okay.” I ramble just to keep him in my line of sight. “I don’t know how you feel, but I’m still your guy.” I swallow the lump in my throat, and another immediately forms in its place. “In whatever way you need me to be.”
Arlo nods, slips into his room, and quickly closes the door.
I exhale and toss my head back. I want to scream and cry at the ceiling. Instead, I take another cleansing breath, handle my business, and prepare for bed.
Images of Arlo taunt me and not in the way they should.
Tonight, my mind refuses to focus on the sorrow in his features, the scars on his body, or the forlorn gaze that has replaced his hopeful one.
Nope. As I turn off the light and slip into bed, every soft caress of the blanket on my legs is Arlo’s hands on me. Every glimmer of moonlight that streams in highlights his form, ranging over me.
I imagine him bracing a hand on my throat, holding me down, while his tip pokes and prods at my ass. I’ve never let anybody touch me there. I wouldn’t just let Arlo touch me there. I’d let him destroy me.
“Fuck,” I groan quietly.
My hands whip the covers back and shove my boxers down my thighs before I decide to handle the heavy boner that’s been present since I laid eyes on Arlo.
The tip of my dick is wet with precum. I steal it from the top and bring it to that forbidden place, stroking it across the puckered skin. My hips jerk off the bed. I imagine they’re Arlo’s fingers prodding me, toying with that hot entrance. I imagine it is Arlo’s hand wrapped around the base of my dick, stroking up the silky hard length.
“Yes,” I pant softly.
He gathers the wetness dripping from my tip, works it down to my base, and back up again and again. His finger slips inside my body, just a little. It’s enough to send stars shooting across my eyelids.
“Oh please,” I beg.
I want him to plow me. To mark me. To wield his ownership over me like a weapon.
Only, he knows I’m not ready for that. He works his finger inside me gently, exploring the slick channel. His other hand pumps me with easy strokes, not wanting this bliss to end too soon.
Methodically, he breaks me down until I’m nothing but a whimpering mess, ready to explode. Then he adds another finger.
My lower back tingles. My hips arch. My balls draw tight.
Hot streams of cum shoot over my abs and chest. Wave after wave of pleasure pulls me apart, stripping away every worry and pouring euphoria in its place.
I slump back onto the mattress. My chest heaves. Then my eyes open, and I’m as alone as ever.
Of course, I knew it all along, but it’s nice to forget. If only for a moment.
Pissed for jerking off to Arlo, I shove from my bed, wrench my boxers completely off and head for the shower.
No light pours from beneath Arlo’s door. Hopefully, he’s asleep. Soundly.
I turn on the water and get in. I scrub myself too hard, my self-loathing at an all-time high.
Some nights, I wake to Arlo crying. It’s been the hardest part, not being able to comfort him.
I scrub a little harder and let the hot water burn my skin until I can’t take it anymore. Then I force myself out, dry, pull on some boxers, and climb back into bed. My useless brain stares at the ceiling for a long fucking time. As though it has the answer to my conundrum.
Nope.
The only person who can answer my questions is on the other side of that wall he’s determined to keep between us.
I was grateful for the notes under the door every night. I still am. They’re a lifeline. I just expected that lifeline to pull us closer together. Maybe not to a dingy, but at the very least, a hunk of wood we could both fit on.
Slowly, the hours tick by, and I’m no closer to sleep than I was when I woke this morning. I miss my bed buddy. I miss my friend. I miss my lover, though we weren’t ever that exactly.
A scream splits the night.
I’m up and running before I register where it came from.
My feet tangle in my blankets, trying to trip me.
The scream comes again. It bleeds from Arlo’s room.
I’m through the bathroom and into his room, shocked the door is unlocked. I don’t have time to wonder how long he hasn’t been locking it because he thrashes in the bed.
My gaze scans the room, searching for the threat.
There’s no one except for Arlo’s ghosts.
His eyes are closed. His body jerks. Sweat slicks his forehead, matting his hair to his head. Groans slip through his lips.
My first instinct is to grab his shoulders and jerk him awake. I stop with my hands outstretched. He’s going through something traumatic. Whether it’s happening right now or not, his body feels like it is.
I snatch my hands back and wring them. My teeth worry my lower lip, and I rock on my feet, unsure what to do, but knowing I have to do something.
My gaze snags on the wall above his desk. Each note I’ve slipped under his door is taped to it in neat rows and columns.
“Aishitemasu, Arlo. Watashi wa anata no tame ni koko ni imasu. Itsumo.” I cling to the edge of his bed to keep my hands from smoothing the worry lines between his eyes or wiping the sweat from his brow.
I breathe words of healing over his body as I did before.
I tell him how much I love him. I tell him how I’ll always be here for him. I tell him how angry I am that I let him leave and how I hope he’ll come back to me one day.
Little by little, his shoulders settle from riding high by his ears. His breathing calms. His cries stop. The longer I talk, the more he quiets.
I want to stay here, talking to him all night. Hell, just looking at him brings life to my broken heart. I know I shouldn’t stay. So I won’t, but I’m not quite ready to go.
With a gentle whisper, I tell him one more time how much he means to me.
His eyes blink and then focus on me.
I stop talking immediately and hold my breath. My stomach lurches, terrified that I’ll scare him.
His mouth turns down at the corners. He shudders a breath. “Did I scream?”
I nod.
“Arigatō.” He smiles. It is more a grimace than a grin. Yet it lights me up inside.
I nod once more. “Anytime.”
We stare at each other for a moment more, and then I push off his bed and force myself from the room, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.