I sputter around a mouthful of Brian’s hair, shivering slightly as his cheek brushes against my chest.  Razor stubble can be both a major turn-on and a major pain in the ass.  Sometimes literally.  He adjusts himself on my body before turning his head to the side to mutter something sleepily.  It might be “What?” or it might be “Shut up and go back to sleep.” With Brian, it’s often hard to tell. 

I try again, this time smoothing down the errant strands of Brian’s bed-head before I open my mouth. 

“Orange juice.” 

Better. 

For the past hour, I swear all I’ve been thinking about is orange juice.  The little popping sound as the container is uncapped.  The sublime splash as the liquid surfs into the glass.  The refreshing slip and slide as it trickles down my throat, cold and bracing and sweet.  Of course, dragging myself from my dual comforts -- Brian’s duvet and Brian’s sleeping body draped across my own -- seemed like too much effort for just a glass of orange juice, tempting though that glass might be. 

Brian groans, curling the entire length of his body against mine before rolling abruptly away.  Cool air immediately replaces the heated touch of his skin, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.  Orange juice, or Brian’s body?  Gee, tough choice. 

“Are you going?” 

I glance toward Brian.  He’s squinting at me in the dim light, his eyes clearly reflecting his lack of amusement at being awakened for something as trivial as liquid refreshment. 

“’Cause if you’re not going, then I’ll just--” 

He makes a playful grab for my crotch, and I leap from the bed before my primal urges have time to triumph over logic.  Again.  If I keep paying attention to my hormones, I’ll die of thirst.  Granted, I’ll die a happy man… 

I slip into a pair of grey sweatpants and leave Brian spread-eagled on the bed, forearm resting over his eyes.  Filtered moonlight guides my way as I stride across the highly polished floor, doing my best to ignore the way my limbs whine in protest.  Every muscle in my body feels loose and wobbly, like jello that hasn’t completely set.  Not that I’m complaining.  Spending a night and a day in Brian’s bed is better than any fitness centre workout.  I tug open the fridge door and impatiently push past days-old Chinese, a clump of something green that may once have been lettuce in a past life, and various bottles of water -- filtered, spring, and carbonated -- before my questing hand finally lightsss on the carton I seek.  Orange juice.  Nectar of the gods. 

I’ve set the carton on the counter and grabbed a couple of glasses from the shelf before the soft shuffle of footsteps impels me to look up.  Orange juice forgotten for the moment, I simply enjoy the view as Brian staggers down the steps, still groggy from lack of sleep.  He stretches languidly, the blue silk of his robe gliding across the sleek expanse of his chest, dipping just enough to expose one smooth shoulder to my gaze.  My hand clenches involuntarily around a glass as I find myself sucking in a breath and lowering my eyes, frantically trying to think of anything but the feel of that flesh against my lips.  Fly fishing.  Cleaning toilets.  How difficult it is to get bubblegum out of cashmere -- and shit, if Brian ever finds out that Molly ruined his favourite sweater, I’m soooo dead.  My mind flips through a dozen different topics in as many seconds, and none of them help.  Brian’s effect on me would be almost funny were it not so fucking intense, even after all this time. 

Rolling my neck to work out kinks of the not-so-pleasant variety, I stumble across the room and manage to make it to the sofa without killing myself.  Sleeping on top of Justin always seems like a good idea at the time.  You’d think my body would be used to it by now. 

I flop onto the sofa and stretch out, feet brushing aside a bag of some horrible junk food concoction to prop against the coffee table.  Not the Mies van der Rowe -- I felt no need to liberate that from the auction house.   Instead, I made a fucking fortune on the resale.  Thank you, Jim Stockwell. 

A subtle sound from the kitchen.  Justin, trying to be quiet for once.  I tell myself that I will lean back and close my eyes, but instead I find myself turning to watch him.  This is no surprise.  I can’t remember the last time that I haven’t been compelled beyond reason to simply… watch him.   My eyes drink in the pale luminosity of his skin, the fluid grace of his limbs, the play of moonlight on his hair.  There was once a time when I would have forced my gaze away.  Slapped on a mask of indifference.  Pretended that the mere sight of him did not make my stomach clench or my heart beat just that tiniest bit faster.  Now… I merely allow myself the pleasure of watching him.   Of enjoying his beauty.  Whether it’s at the dead end of his shift at the diner, dancing at Babylon on Saturday night, or just past dusk at the loft on a quest for orange juice. 

I watch him. 

And know that, for what it’s worth, he’s mine. 

I take a deep breath and reach for the carton, pleased to see that my hand remains steady as I pour.  Cool as the proverbial cucumber, that’s me.  Nobody’d ever know that my heart is beating a tom-tom rhythm simply at the sight of my lover’s unclothed shoulder.  Nobody’d ever know that my insides turn into something akin to warm porridge when he moves, causing the filmy material of his robe to slither lower on his body.  Nobody’d ever know.  Calm.  Level-headed.  Self-possessed. Yup, that’s me. 

I take another breath and gather up the glasses, fully expecting to have to produce at least three good reasons why Brian should partake of something that doesn’t include the words “Jim” or “Beam” on the label.  But when I reach the sofa and raise my eyes to his, it’s to find that he’s watching me as intently as I was watching him, a slight smile quirking the edges of his mouth. 

Cool as a cucumber, my ass. 

Sometimes I think he doesn’t miss a thing.  Sometimes I remember all the things he missed.  Most times, I just love him and he just loves me, and I trust everything else to fall into place. 

Justin settles against the other end of the sofa, a slight flush colouring his cheeks.  He probably isn’t aware that seeing him flustered makes me want him.  Correction:  I always want him, but seeing him flustered makes me want him more.  Maybe because it happens so rarely these days.  I do, however, resist the urge to tease him about it, proud of my formidable restraint.  Who says I haven’t learned anything from the past few months? 

He folds his legs beneath him and rests his back against the armrest before stretching forward to hand me a drink.  Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of drink I want.  I take the proffered tumbler, scowling a little as I regard the bright orange liquid with baleful eyes.   Fuck, it’s practically fluorescent. 

“You’re going to get dehydrated if you don’t drink something,” Justin announces. 

I shoot him a glare before taking a miniscule sip of the hideous-looking liquid.  “Happy?” 

He nods before swigging a sizeable mouthful from his own glass.  It’s not that bad.  Actually, it’s rather good.  I raise my own tumbler to his and take another sip.  Not bad at all. 

At times I think that my life with Brian is made up of comfortable silences, broken by conversation only when necessary.  Other people might find that strange, but it works for us.  After all, we share more with looks and breaths and gentle touches than most people do with thousand-word sonnets.  We connect in a way that few understand. 

And tomorrow, we’ll be connecting in Spain. 

Spain. 

I drain my glass quickly before hopping from the sofa.  A cursory glance through my backpack finds the item I seek.  I drop the brochure in Brian’s lap and shift my hip onto the back of the sofa to watch his reaction. 

He frowns at the brightly coloured photo of the dancing senorita.  “When did you get this?” 

I shrug.  “This afternoon, when I went out for bagels.” 

He raises an eyebrow.  Apparently he didn’t realize that I’d gone out for bagels, either. Does he think this food simply materializes in his home out of thin air? 

“That travel agent down the street had a few of them, but she said that one was the most comprehensive.  I thought it would give us an idea of what we wanted to see and do while we’re there.” 

He idly flips through the pages before tossing the thick brochure aside and grinning lazily up at me.  “This afternoon, huh?” 

“Hmmm.”   I choose to ignore his blatant disregard of my efforts to help plan the trip, and instead slide forward to pick up the travel guide, turning nimbly to one of the pages I’d already marked.  “There’s a section here on clubs,” I manage to get out before his hand closes on my wrist and tugs me forward.  I sprawl onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs only to find myself quickly flipped onto my back and Brian’s body hovering over me. 

“You mean you weren’t sufficiently worn out?” He smirks, his tongue poking from between his lips as his head dips to my neck, lips sucking tenderly.  My back arches involuntarily as his questing tongue finds my earlobe.   “I’m going to have to do better than that.” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” I murmur.  “Between the bed…” 

 “Three times, wasn’t it?” I feel his lips curve into a smile against my neck. 

“Four,” I correct.  Technically it would be six, but I guess we’re not counting blowjobs. 

“And the shower.” 

“The stool.” 

“The treadmill?” Brian lifts his head and winces melodramatically, the memory of our little mishap with the speed control evidently still a little too close for comfort. 

I have to laugh.  “Ohhhh, that was hot.” 

He joins in the laughter before his hand starts roaming across my chest.  “Well, I’m rejuvenated now.  You?” 

His hand tangles in my hair, his breath washes warmly across my neck, his lips seek mine, his tongue plunges into the warmth of mouth, my dick awakens as his body covers me.  I savour the kiss, soft and sweet and oh so slow.  Then I push gently against his chest until he raises up to look at me.  My fingers brush against the silk of his robe, caressing the firm planes of his back, his shoulder blades, to finally bury themselves in the tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Know what I want to do tonight?” I finally ask. 

“Re-enact your favourite scenes from the Zach O’Toole porn collection?” 

“No!” I laughingly push harder against his chest. 

“Then tell me.  I’m all a-tingle with anticipation.” 

I press a quick kiss to his lips before continuing.  “I want to lay on the sofa with your arms around me, eat cheese doodles to my heart’s content, and watch Moulin Rouge.” 

Brian runs his lips along my jaw line before leaning back to rest his forehead on mine, eyes searching my face for any sign that I’m teasing.  I’m not.  Much as I’ve often thought that getting fucked by Brian for days on end would be any gay boy’s Nirvana, the reality of it is a little more than I can handle. 

“Two of those three items are not on my Top Ten list, Justin.” 

“Hmm.  Which two?” I try to squirm away, giggling as he pinches my side in response, but his arms hold me fast. 

“What makes you think I’ll agree to such an unorthodox finale to a fabulous day of sucking and fucking?” 

“Because you love me passionately and want me to be happy,” I tell him matter-of-factly.  Then I grin wickedly.  “Besides, I’ll totally make it up to you in Barcelona.” 

Brian rolls his lips and grunts in response, but he releases his hold and slides off me.  I grab the snacks from the coffee table and slip the DVD into the machine, then wait for him to get comfortable before cuddling into him, my back pressed against his chest, his legs on either side of mine, my head tucked beneath his chin.  He shifts, one leg coming up to rest atop mine, and drapes his arms across my chest.  And at this moment, I can’t help thinking that this is Nirvana.  This is all I need. 

The film rolls by on the big-screen TV, one extravagant scene after another, but I don’t really see it.  The last thing I want to do is watch this fucking movie… again. 

So instead, I watch Justin. 

I tighten my hold around his chest, enjoying the sigh of contentment that passes from his lips.  I brush my chin across the top of his head, relishing the feel of those silky strands against my skin.  I reach down and twine his hand with mine, letting my thumb trace lazy patterns on his flesh. 

I watch him. 

And know that, for what it’s worth, I‘m his.