“Evie?”Doyle was standing, already reaching for Larkin.
But Larkin couldn’t speak, couldn’t linger in that prison of glass as lightning illuminated his terrors and the thunder gave them a voice.He shoved his chair back, stumbled around Doyle, and rushed across the lounge toward a hall marked with a discreet sign for the restrooms.He shoved open the door to the men’s room and felt like he’d dropped into another pit of blackness—the mood lighting dialed far too low for inebriated men to hit the mark while taking a piss at the urinals along the wall.
Another crash of thunder sounded from outside, reaching this inner sanctuary and echoing off the tile walls.
The room began to spin.
But then Doyle was there, standing close and speaking with an authority that reached into the fall, grabbed Larkin, and pulled him back to the here, the now.
“Start counting.”
“I—I—”
“No, I need you to count,” Doyle reiterated.
“O-one, t-two—”
“You have to take a breath.”
Vision blurring, black spots spreading like mold, Larkin grabbed for purchase, for Doyle.And as Doyle responded by putting his arms around him, encasing Larkin in the jubilance up to heaven, he finally began to cry.
Larkin was aware, in a sort of out-of-body sense, of being walked to the back of the bathroom, a door closing and lock being flipped, but he didn’t dare open his eyes to the blackness, didn’t dare let go of his buoy, instead focused with all his might on the steady rise and fall of Doyle’s chest against his own.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Larkin’s manic breathing eventually subsided into a shallow rhythm, and as he inhaled, he focused on each scent note he could discern from Doyle’s skin, cologne, clothes.The practice had a grounding effect, and the numbness in Larkin’s hands began to give way to painful pinpricks.Sensation returned in the form of heat radiating from Doyle’s back, chest, and belly.
And that heat, that pulse….
If Larkin could feel it, it meant he was alive too.
He didn’t move for what felt like a long time—shaking when the storm roared and shuddering when Doyle stroked the back of his head in response.But eventually, the world outside of summer rain and survivor’s guilt began to make itself known.Larkin noted the subdued Muzak piped into the bathroom via a speaker system, the smell of urinal cakes and Febreze air freshener, and a low conversation in Spanish between two employees outside the door before one laughed and their steps retreated.
Larkin lifted his head from Doyle’s shoulder.His face felt raw and his eyes were sore.He probably looked puffy.He probably looked awful.
But Doyle put a hand under Larkin’s chin, gave it a little nudge up, and smiled when their gazes met.“Hey, sunshine.”
“Hi.”Larkin looked around—they were inside the wheelchair-accessible stall, with Doyle backed up against the tile wall, legs extended in a kind of lazy wall sit that was definitely utilizing his core strength, so he could take some of Larkin’s weight and allow him to lean comfortably.
Doyle tugged some toilet paper free from the nearby dispenser and offered it.
“Thank you.”Larkin took it and wiped his nose.He was still pressed flush against Doyle’s body and could feel his partner shift, reach into his pocket— “What’re you doing.”
Doyle glanced at Larkin before holding up his phone.“Checking the weather.”
Larkin looked at the screen.A radar map featured an outline of Manhattan covered in a radioactive green blob, its dark red center having already passed and currently on an eastern trajectory.
“It’s supposed to end in about ten minutes,” Doyle confirmed.He pocketed his phone and smiled again.
Larkin didn’t reply.He was lost in the study of Doyle’s face—a priceless piece of art crafted from gold and bronze—before he grabbed Doyle’s hips, pulled him off-balance, and crushed their mouths together.Doyle reactively draped his arms over Larkin’s shoulders, pressed into his body, and opened so easily, so affectionately to tongue and teeth and shared breath.Larkin touched everywhere, reading the story of Doyle’s life through bone and muscle and skin.He rubbed the heated cotton of Doyle’s button-down shirt, slipped a hand between his legs.
Doyle gasped against Larkin’s lips.He grabbed Larkin’s wrist to stop him, even as he pushed into the caress and a throaty moan escaped him, like a man truly coming apart at the seams.Larkin took Doyle’s hand and put it to his own chest, nonverbal confirmation he wanted,neededthe same, and Doyle was quick to take what he wasn’t always allowed—hands roaming Larkin’s chest, reaching under his shoulder holster, moving down his belly—relishing in the pleasure of their shared caress.
But Larkin pushed Doyle’s hands lower, whispering, “Touch me.”He’d set a precedent that when making out, he didn’t want hands below the belt.It’d always made Larkin feel like shit that he could have a man as handsome as Doyle and still not get an erection when fooling around, and Doyle had respected the request.
