“They’re pretty. But they’re also… sharp. As if they can see right through things. Did you ever buy X-Ray Spex when you were a kid?”
“I never did.”
“Well, they’re a scam. But I think you have X-ray eyes.”
Frank reached up to stroke Carver’s cheek. “I don’t.”
“You saw the real me, didn’t you?” That seemed to settle the matter for Carver, who dropped the subject and instead used his mouth to explore Frank’s body. It was all so leisurely, and somehow both lighthearted and deadly earnest. Frank had never experienced anything like it. And since he probably never would again, he did his best to live in the moment while also committing as much as possible to memory.
It couldn’t last forever, though. Frank somehow ended up on top of Carver, holding their cocks together while they both did their best to thrust, Carver alternating between needy whimpers and cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. They climaxed almost in unison and so spectacularly that Frank once again felt as if he’d leapt from a plane into the sky. He surprised himself by calling out wordlessly while the world’s most wonderful explosion went off inside his body and mind.
He collapsed soon afterward, barely managing to fall to the side so he wouldn’t squash Carver. Then he braced himself for what he knew would come next: Carver standing, gathering his clothing, getting dressed, and leaving. He’d be nice about it because he wasn’t an asshole. And Frank would have a hell of an afternoon to remember.
But Carver didn’t get up. In fact, he snuggled close to Frank, sighed contentedly, and toyed with Frank’s chest hair.
“Thank you,” Frank said, meaning it most sincerely.
Carver raised up on one elbow and sternly stared down at him. “Thank you? Did you think this was an act of charity on my behalf? Like signing an autograph, only a bit more?”
“No, but?—”
“I wanted this, Frankie. Wanted you. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Why?” Frank held up a hand to stop objections. “I’ll concede that some men have found me at least reasonably attractive. I have had sex before. But I’m curious about why you would find me attractive. Apart from convenience.”
“Ugh.” Carver collapsed onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not shallow just because I’m an actor. Pretty faces are everywhere in Hollywood. But you’re more than that.”
“I’m the X-ray-eyes fellow.”
Carver poked him in the ribs, hard enough to make Frank yelp. “You’re slightly infuriating, that’s what you are. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?” He rolled onto his side for better eye contact.
Frank took a moment to think seriously about this question. Did he want to know? “Yeah, okay.”
“I see a man who deserves an Oscar and an Olympic Gold Medal for self-control. No, don’t argue. Listen. You’re worried about ending up like your parents so you don’t touch a drop of alcohol. You’re worried about being like your grandmother so you don’t make many connections to other people. You’re worried people might think you’re weak because of your injuries, so you hide your pain. You’re worried people will find out you’re queer, so you fence yourself off.”
“They’re all reasonable worries,” Frank said evenly.
“Absolutely. But it takes a huge amount of effort to deal with them, doesn’t it? Maybe not the booze part—I don’t know about that. But you, Frank Porter, are a person who delights in whimsy, who has a wicked sense of humor all locked away, who aches for other humans as friends or lovers. And you don’t allow any of that to show.”
If the words had been false, they wouldn’t have stung so much; Frank knew that. But he couldn’t admit it. “I’m here now. With you.”
“After I literally threw myself at you. Jesus, Frankie, we spent hours together at the studio, and I was flirting my hardest, and you… you kept your distance.” Carver sighed again, as if this had been some great tragedy.
“You barely know me.”
“Buzz! Wrong answer. What did I tell you was my hobby?”
Frank pretended to spend time trying to remember, although he recalled perfectly well. “Finding out what makes things tick.”
“Bingo.” Carver playfully tapped the tip of Frank’s nose. “So you see through me, and I know what makes you tick. A good match, wouldn’t you say?”
“Match,” Frank replied wistfully.
“We’re compatible in bed. Obviously. God, I can think of a hundred ways we could spend an hour together, and I bet with time I could think of hundreds more. And when we’re not fucking, you’re still good to be with. You’re interesting. You listen. You have Christmas parties for frogs.”
“It’s not a party, just some decorations.” Even the protest sounded ridiculous. And really, Frank didn’t want to protest. He wanted to buy into Carver’s cotton-candy fantasy. But Frank knew it was a fantasy. Perhaps Carver had forgotten that real life wasn’t anything like a romantic movie. Real lovers rarely had their sunset-on-the-beach happy ending—especially when they were both men.
Instead of answering, Carver resumed playing with Frank’s chest hair. It was distracting, but Frank did his best to be rational. Which might have been more of that self-control crap that Carver was talking about, but somebody had to remain rooted in reality.
