Chapter Eleven You Tell Me What You Need #2
minded getting Owen more water, bringing him a book or his sketchpad, going to the pharmacy for Owen or ordering Lyfts to
take him to his doctor’s appointments, holding Owen’s hand the entire time they sat in the waiting room.
“You can sit down and stop worrying. I promise you I’ll be fine,” Owen reassures him, hoping the look he gives Jacob is a
grateful one.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” Owen nods.
“Was I going overboard?” Jacob asks as he falls to the couch.
Owen snorts, not bothering to hold back his laughter. But when he meets Jacob’s eyes again, the man just seems confused.
“What?”
“‘Overboard’ . . .” Owen gestures wildly. “Come on, you’re telling me that one wasn’t on purpose?”
Jacob’s lip twitches before he starts to laugh too. “I swear to you it wasn’t. I actually somehow keep forgetting we’re on
a boat.”
“That makes one of us,” Owen tells him, sinking deeper into the couch.
“Do you want to change?” Jacob asks. “I can get you some clothes.”
“Later,” Owen replies, relaxing his head even further back. “Just stay here for a bit.”
Jacob gives him the tenderest of smiles. Owen knows that he should probably be a bit more conscious of inviting Jacob back
in, but right now, he doesn’t care.
The last thing Owen wants right now is to be alone.
They find some awful reality television to watch, tearing into a few of the snacks and leftovers from dinner. They don’t talk
much—at least not about anything important. Owen asks Jacob about his life outside of work, and Jacob tells Owen all about
his new friends and the restaurants they enjoy going to, how under-flavored some of the food in Britain is. Jacob asks Owen
about the books he’s been reading, listening intently as Owen recounts the entire plot of a series he started to hate-read.
And it’s normal.
So normal that Owen has to catch himself when he wants to reach for Jacob’s hand on the couch, to take it and place it on his thigh like Jacob always used to, his own little claim on Owen.
At some point, Jacob gets up to shower, forcing Owen to promise that he won’t try and get up himself, that he’ll wait for Jacob.
He promises, but Jacob doesn’t make him lock it with his pinky, so the second Owen hears the shower start, he unfolds his
cane. It’ll be good to stretch anyway. Owen makes his way back into his and Kevin’s room, changing—very carefully—into more
comfortable clothing. He refills his water bottle and grabs a packet of Salonpas before he steps back out into the hallway.
“Dammit . . .” Owen hears the hushed voice from Jacob’s room.
Owen can’t help his curiosity, pushing the already cracked door open even farther. There’s the faintest hint of steam still
lingering in the air from Jacob’s too-hot shower.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
“Jacob?” Owen asks loud enough that Jacob has to hear him. “You okay?”
“Ah!” There’s some stumbling, and Owen hears something clink to the floor.
“Jacob?”
When Owen opens the bathroom door, he takes in quite the sight. A naked Jacob is standing there in front of the fogged-up
mirror, all the supplies he typically uses for his testosterone shots laid out in front of him.
“Oh . . .” Jacob stares over his shoulder. “Hey, did you change? Why didn’t you call me, I could’ve helped.”
“I’m okay,” Owen promises with a smile so that Jacob knows this isn’t the moment to worry about him. “Got dressed all by myself
and everything!”
“And you’re the one who said you’d never achieve your Olympic dreams.” Jacob shakes his head, going back to the syringe in
his hand.
“Do you want help?” Owen asks, knowing that Jacob won’t.
He looks at Owen again, like he’s embarrassed. “Please?”
Surprised, Owen sits on the toilet, ordering Jacob to face him. He should probably be far more conscious about the fact that
he’s face-to-face with Jacob’s crotch. But that doesn’t matter right now. Still, he can’t help but notice that Jacob’s normally
trimmed pubic hair is a bit more unruly now, his top growth only having gotten more prominent over the last year.
“You didn’t talk to Dr. Travis about switching to gels before you left, did you?” Owen asks as he rips open a sanitary wipe.
“You already know the answer to that,” Jacob says. And he’s right, Owen does. “I just kept putting it off, then we left for
Dover and it was too late.”
Owen shakes his head, readying the dosage in the syringe.
“Been too busy with those squid to get over your fear of needles?”
“I’ve got a lot on my plate,” Jacob adds defensively. “Besides, I thought having to do it alone would be some kind of immersion
therapy.”
Owen pauses. “Who does it for you at the lab?”
“Caleb,” he replies. “He’s another trans guy on the team.”
“Oh . . .” Owen ignores the pull of jealousy he feels. Why would another man be there to touch Jacob, to do this for him?
This used to be Owen’s responsibility. It almost became a routine: Gathering in the bathroom every few weeks, Owen would do
his gel and his Humira injections, and then he’d help Jacob. Sometimes it was enough to just be there, hold Jacob’s hand as
the needle pierced skin. Most of the time, however, Owen had been left to do the injection for Jacob. Not that he ever minded.
There was something so intimate about getting to do this for Jacob.
This has always been his job. No one else’s.
“Yeah, he and his girlfriend are pretty funny. I think you’d like them.”
“Right, right . . .” Owen nods, feeling silly for letting himself get so jealous over a man he’s never even seen a photo of.
“Okay, ready?” Owen asks.
Jacob closes his eyes, nods.
“I’ll go on three,” he starts to say. “One, tw—”
Halfway through the number, he surprises Jacob and pierces his thick thigh, pressing on the plunger quickly. Jacob grips the
counter, gritting his teeth. “You’re a liar.”
“Sorry,” Owen apologizes, not meaning it for a second. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
Pulling the needle free, Owen carefully deposits it into the same bag he usually tosses his Humira injector into before he
puts a Band-Aid over Jacob’s injection site.
“How’s that feel?” he asks.
“Okay.” Jacob nods. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Owen says, taking a shaky breath.
He can’t really ignore that Jacob’s naked anymore, no matter how hard he tries.
“So . . .” Jacob starts to say, seemingly realizing that the moment is awkward.
“Wanna watch a movie?” Owen asks, refusing to lose this chance.
Jacob smiles, like his relief is instant. “Want me to go get snacks?”
“Sure,” Owen tells him, standing with the help of his cane. “I’d probably put on pants first, though.”
An hour and a half later, they’re both what Jacob would call politely stoned, thanks to the edible from Owen’s stash that they split, and almost sick from all the candy that Jacob came back to the room with, the first of Christopher Reeve’s Superman movies playing on the television.
Jacob’s favorite movie.
He’d first taken Owen to see it on their fourth date. The Alamo Drafthouse in the Mission spent an entire summer playing every
Superman movie. From the first serials like Atom Man vs. Superman and Superman and the Mole Men, which had been edited to be one continuous story. Despite not being a fan of superheroes, Owen had a good time.
Especially when he saw the look on Jacob’s face as the movie started playing on the big screen, the classic Warner Bros. logo
appearing, the words June 1938 opening up the film. And Jacob didn’t stop smiling for the next two hours.
“Was that the first time you’ve seen it?” Owen asked as they both walked to the bus stop afterward.
“Nah, I think my mom and I watched it at least once a month when I was growing up; it was always my favorite,” Jacob said
with a fondness that told Owen the memory was one Jacob held close to his heart. “But that was the first time I’ve seen it
in the theater like that.”
Jacob still watches the movie with all of the wonder of someone seeing it for the very first time. Somewhere in the middle,
Owen adjusts, lying with his legs stretched out on the couch rather than across the coffee table. Jacob surprises him by lifting
Owen’s legs to gently drape his calves on his lap. Owen considers shifting back to his original spot, but then Jacob places
his hand on Owen’s skin, absentmindedly rubbing small circles over the tattoo on Owen’s ankle.
Every sensible voice in his brain warns him that he should tell Jacob to stop, that this is a step too far, that Jacob is crossing a boundary.
But he doesn’t. He can’t.
So, he lets it happen; just for tonight, Owen lets himself exist in the past. His legs settled over Jacob’s lap, a movie playing
on the television, his iPad set against his thighs. And every few minutes, his eyes wander up to Jacob, and he can’t help
but stare at the man, thinking about how beautiful he is, how he wants to run his hands along that beard, feel the hair beneath
his fingertips.
Stop it, Owen thinks, turning back to the drawing he’s working on of Superman making out with Batman.
Then he hears Jacob let out a whispered “Ow,” his hand buried in his hair.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asks, closing the cover on his iPad and leaving it on the coffee table.
“I think I have a knot,” Jacob replies. “In my hair.”
“Let me see.” Owen leans forward as best he can. Jacob’s hair is dark and thick, with a natural curl that requires time and
care that Jacob has never bothered to put in, so it’s no wonder that Owen can easily find several knots. “Jesus, do you ever
brush your hair?”
“I just forget sometimes, okay?” he says defensively. “Not everyone has time.”
Owen rolls his eyes, moving his legs off Jacob’s lap.
“Where are you going? I can get what you need.”
“It’s fine!” Owen promises him as he grabs his cane. His feet are still unsteady, but he needs to move again. “Besides, I’ve
had to pee for an hour. And I don’t think you can do that for me.”
When his business is done, he carries himself carefully back to the living room with his entire bathroom kit, stuffed full of the serums and mousses that Owen used on his hair before they left for the party.
And—most importantly—he brings his brush.