Chapter Fifteen
Zander
It’s been over two years since the night my dad died.
You would think by now my body would know the difference between a smashed vase and brutal fists– but no.
My skin is covered in a film of cold sweat, and my heart constricts in my chest, even three hours later.
The darkness takes away my sight, heightening my other senses.
The feel of the soft cotton sheets irritates and chafes.
The sound of the pipes settling and the house resting feels like a threat of chaos and pain.
The lingering taste of birthday cake takes on a copper tang, reminiscent of the blood that pooled in my cheek.
And that’s when things shift. I’m pulled back into that room.
Back to the last time I saw my dad. Only, I’m not in my body, I’m somewhere nearby.
Watching things unfold in a torturous loop.
The shouting. The begging. Then, the silence.
The stillness. A mist descends across my vision, always at the same point, the one where I passed out.
But this version of me is awake.
I hear light and hesitant footsteps, then voices. Voices so familiar yet frustratingly unrecognisable through the haze. Something’s not right, my heart is hammering in my chest, and my body is rigid with fear.
It’s ok, you wake up, and Jules comes, he saves you. I tell myself over and over, but the eerie sense of unease is dragging me down; I’m helpless to stop it.
“Zan?” Jules' voice echoes around the room, pulling me back to the present, cold sweat beading on my forehead. I can’t answer him, not right now. My voice would betray me; it would invite a host of questions I’m not equipped to answer.
I remember making the call, I remember the punishment that followed, but that’s all.
The space between the final explosion of pain and waking up to the familiar tone of my best friend’s voice is gone.
I can’t rely on what my panicked brain shows me in moments like this.
All I know for certain is my mind recognised his presence and responded by bringing me back, like reality was only worth bearing when Jules was there.
I shift on my side to face the wall, pulling the duvet over my head, trying to block out the memories.
All I succeed in, however, is trapping them in there with me.
The air is hot and sticky, and my breaths are coming fast. I want to scream, to rid myself of all the negative thoughts clinging to me like a second skin, but I won’t– I can’t.
Jules is here, and I won’t let him see me this way.
I swore to myself I wouldn’t let it happen again.
Things between us felt different that night, as if a slight shift in the air had completely changed the trajectory of our relationship.
I went from the protector to the protected, knowing I could always count on Jules to show up.
Up until now, I had managed to successfully push it to the darkest recesses of my mind, but my body won’t let me forget what it so desperately wants– the only thing that seems to calm the storm raging inside.
He doesn’t push me for an answer, even though he knows I’m awake. I can tell he’s uneasy with the silence by the sound of his breathing alone. The little huffs and puffs he expels indicate his need to say something, but he stops himself and lets the words float away with the air.
So, I climb down the ladder. Telling myself with each wrung– ‘this is for him.’
I repeat it again when I pull back the cover and slip in beside him– ‘for him.’
I remind myself again when my head lowers to rest gently against his chest.
But when his fingers reach up and comb through my hair, my mind quiets. There are no memories, and there is no pain, just the niggling doubt– ‘for who?’
“Better?” he asks, gently coaxing me back. I don’t want to speak, I don’t want to take Jules back to that night. So instead, I reach for his hand, the one that’s curled around my shoulders, and hold onto what I have now.
When the morning rolls around, I’m hit with the worst emotional hangover; the unwelcome feelings from last night’s trauma linger like a fog in the back of my mind.
The sound of a faraway thumping beats against my ear in a steady rhythm, as my head bobs up and down slowly.
The side of my face is slick with sweat and pressed against something hard, but warm– Jules.
I fight the sleep trying to drag me back into the comfort I’d awoken from, and peel my face from his chest. My body aches from head to toe, but I can’t help but be grateful for the pain– I finally got a full night’s sleep.
Rolling onto my back, I stretch my legs out, pushing them until they can’t reach any further, when the peak of my stretch is interrupted by a tight, tugging feeling in my groin.
I glance down the flat lines of my body to see something standing tall and proud beneath the blanket– Oh fuck, no, no, no.
I yank on the blanket, piling it into my crotch, and bring my knees up to hide my painfully embarrassing morning wood. Jules stirs and shifts beside me, moaning under his breath–
“Zander, stop hogging the blanket…” He reaches out with his eyes still closed, making grabby hands dangerously close to the situation.
“Giiiiiive,” he whines, nestling himself into my side like a little heat thief.
“Jules, I– I need to get up… I need to piss.”
He just buries his face deeper into my chest, and my dick twitches in approval. What the fuck?
I turn slightly, pressing my hands to his shoulders, rolling him back, but not before accidentally stabbing him in the thigh, fuck.
Jules’ face screws up as he bats his hand between us, trying to find the offending item.
“What’s digging into my leg?!” His hand grows frantic, but I can’t move without giving away that the ‘problem’ is actually attached to my body. My heart is hammering in my chest at the prospect of being punched in the dick at eight AM.
“Jules… please, just– just go back to sleep,” I plead, my voice desperate. I’ve got to move, I weigh up the only two options I have– serious damage to my manhood, or irreversible damage to my friendship.
I’ll do it fast. I’ll spin around, jump out of bed, and run to the bathroom; he’ll never know.
But of course, he does. The moment my body leaves his side, and I’m standing beside the bed, his eyes ping open at the loss.
See, most people would need a few seconds to blink away the sleep in their eyes and just enjoy the haze of a good night’s sleep.
But not Jules, of course not fucking Jules.
He’s bright-eyed and alert immediately, staring at my erection pointing toward him accusingly.
I just stand there, waiting for the embarrassment to swallow me whole.
He’s been staring for a few seconds now, whilst my treacherous body froze over, refusing to move– there’s absolutely no hope we can pretend he didn’t see it.
A tingling sensation sparks low in my stomach, sending pulsating aches straight down my length. Move, Zander.
“Why is–” Jules starts, and I groan. Of course, he wants to talk about it.
“Can we not?”
“It's fine, really…”
“What about this is fine, exactly?!” I ask, wondering how he can suggest anything about this situation is any less than completely fucked. He lets out a chuckle and scrubs his face with his hands.
“Well…” His face is suddenly tinged pink, and his eyes move down to his lap–
No, not his lap, his crotch… his obviously. bulging. crotch.
“Jules! What the fuck?!”
“What the fuck me?! What the fuck you!”
“Oh my godddd. Why have you got… No, never mind.” My head is spinning, reaching for answers I’m not sure I want.
“It’s completely natural, it’s just a hormonal response–”
“Jules, please stop,” I groan. But he doesn’t, obviously. That would be too easy.
“...As I was saying, it’s just a hormonal response to the proximity, paired with the usual case of morning erections. It was kind of bound to happen, if you really think about it,” he reels off the information like he’s giving a lesson in male anatomy. It only serves to increase my discomfort.
“I’d rather not think about it.” I turn away from him and grip my arousal in my hand.
No, not arousal, that would suggest some sort of attraction, right?
Don’t get me wrong, Jules isn’t bad looking, not by a long shot.
He’s got a thick mop of soft, curly brown hair and a face that resembles a Greek god; all smooth lines and perfect symmetry.
“I’m going to shower,” I huff out, grabbing clothes from the drawer and stuffing them under my arm, before shuffling awkwardly from the bedroom, my back to Jules the entire time.
Steam quickly fills the bathroom, the fog creating a haze as thick as the one clouding my judgment right now.
What the fuck was that? I get the biology side of things, of course.
What I don’t understand, however, is why once my mind caught up with the fact it was Jules–my best friend–my body didn’t instantly recognise how inappropriately it was behaving. Bad dick.
I thought the shower and the wall currently separating us would deflate the situation down below; apparently, I was wrong.
Each drop of water that lands on my swollen manhood is like a zap of electricity straight to my balls– I’m so hard it’s painful.
I stare down at a tiny droplet gathering momentum as it rolls down my length, collecting beads of moisture on its journey until it reaches the tip.
It glides along the smooth surface before dangling from the end, the heightened sensitivity making the sensation almost unbearable as my legs tremble beneath me.
Holy shit.
If I ignore it, surely it will just go away– right?
It’s not like I can have a hard-on forever.
So, I get to washing my hair, the heavy weight between my legs throbbing and bobbing with every move I make.
The muscles in my legs are screaming through the tension pulling them tight, and my stomach aches all the way through to my spine as it twists and squeezes trying to hold on to the restraint I have to show.
If I don’t, what does that make me? A very confused, and shitty friend– that’s what.
But the ache is almost unbearable, and the feeling of being right on the edge is too strong to ignore.
I can’t let this go on any longer; the strain on my body is too great.
Pushing all thoughts aside, I grip my length in my fist, screw my eyes shut, and pull.
I know it won’t take long for me to find my release, my balls are already tight and fit to burst. The cool tile against my forehead is the only thing keeping me from combusting as I repeat the process again and again, each pass drawing a quiet moan from my lips.
I stroke up, twisting when I reach the head before pulling back again.
Just as my orgasm crests, a loud thumping noise comes from the other side of the wall, the one separating our bedroom from the bathroom.
I know it’s him, and it only encourages me to pull harder, faster.
I tell myself I just need to be quick and get it over with, but the reality is– it feels so fucking good.
That’s when my cock decides to erupt, emptying itself all over the tiles in front of me.
What feels like an endless stream of come squirts out in pulsating waves, as my legs tremble and my strokes grow lazy and stuttered.
The pleasure, along with the sense of wrongness, suddenly creeps in, only making my balls squeeze tighter.
Satiated and completely spent, my cock deflates as quickly as the post-orgasm high at the thought of Jules being on the other side of the thin wall.
A heavy sense of shame blankets me, immovable and unbothered by the soap I’m scrubbing into my skin.
My mind is throwing out scenarios faster than I can begin to comprehend them.
I woke up with a hard-on after sleeping next to my best friend.
I panic wanked.
I shot my release all over the wall he was resting against.
I pretty much jizzed on my best friend’s back.
What the fuck is wrong with me?