“It’s a Paloma. Well, a half-assed Paloma,” Jake says, gesturing at the glass to indicate Sam should take it. “I hope you weren’t saving that can of grapefruit juice in the back of the cupboard for anything.”
“Honestly? I thought it was expired,” Sam admits, but bravely takes a sip anyway.
It tastes fine—good, actually—and Sam makes a pleased noise as Jake smiles and says, “It almost was. Good ’til next month; I checked.”
“The industry’s rubbing off on you,” Sam says, grinning at him, but Jake’s smile shrinks down until it’s barely a sliver.
“Something like that,” he says, looking down into his own glass. He swirls the contents for a moment and then, setting it down, firmly says, “Look. Sam. I can’t do this with you—hell, I can’tlivewith myself—if you’re going to carry on thinking that you…that I—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, tries again. More quietly, he says, “I’m not saying it was great, you know, or that I loved it, but it wasn’t your fault, and it didn’t ruin my life. Changed it, sure; but things are always doing that. I’m not interested in letting it take away anything else, not from either of us.” He meets Sam’s eyes, his own frank and pleading. “Canwe just…wipe the slate? Start again? Agree that it was a horrible freak thing that should never have happened and…let it go?”
“You’re askingme?” Sam blinks at him, stunned, his brain scrambling to catch up and meet the moment. “Butyou’rethe one who should get to—” Sam pauses, takes a breath, realizes he’s arguing against something he desperately wants, and tries again: “I mean. Yes? Obviously,I’dbe fine with that. Areyoufine with that?”
“Be pretty weird of me to suggest it if I wasn’t,” Jake says, with a slightly crooked smile. More quietly, he adds, “You know, I never blamed you, Sam. Not even back then. You were only trying to help; you were the one person who was only trying to help. That’s how I remember it, and I kept a lot of journals at that point on the advice of one of the seven therapists my parents sent me to see, so. It’s on the record and everything. I can prove it.”
Somewhere in the back of Sam’s mind, a door opens. It’s a familiar door, covered in band posters that slightly embarrass him now, a handwritten sign on paper torn out of a notebook insisting,EVERYONE KEEP OUT!!!!The version of Sam it belonged to, seventeen and stuck all these years on the very last night it belonged to him, steps out, and grins, and walks away whistling. So relieved to be free that what had trapped him there in the first place hardly hurts at all.
And all Sam’s inhibitions seem to walk out with him, leaving him only a man, and Jake nothing more or less than someone he’s never stopped wanting.
Suddenly, it’s all very simple.
“I need you to know,” Sam says, realizing the truth of it even as it hits the air, “that if what you want right now is anything—and I meananything—other than to spend the rest of the night in my bedroom making up for lost time, you should leave. Go home. Right now.”
For a second Sam thinks he sees a flicker of hesitation in Jake’s eyes, but before his heart can fall, the moment’s past. Sam probably just imagined it, nerves or something; there’s no doubt at all in the look on Jake’s face as he drains his glass, sets it down, and smirks at Sam. He sounds blissfully, invitingly certain as he says. “Do you know what? Wildly enough, I think I’m good right where I am.”
Sam rounds the counter in three steps; this time when they kiss there’s no question of who’s leading who. There’s a moment where Jake tries to direct things, but it’s only a moment. Sam, sure of his footing now, pushes Jake gently back into the counter by the hips, cradles the back of Jake’s head in one hand, and lets the other one roam as he kisses him with all the unwieldy, overbearing tenderness he’s been containing for months. Jake makes a soft, surprised noise into his mouth and then all but comes apart in Sam’s hands, all his earlier frenetic energy drained away. He’s languid and boneless against Sam, tipping his head back easily when Sam wants access to his neck, raising his arms obligingly for Sam to peel his shirt off. When Sam leans away to get a look at him, meaning to lift him up and put him on the counter, Jake’s eyes are wide and starry, his pupils blown.
“God, Sam,” he says, his cheeks flushed crimson. Sam’s whole nervous system lights up, thrilled, to hear just how hard he’s breathing. “You, ah. You’ve become. Very good at that.”
In the warm glow of this praise, Sam decides there’s nothing the counter can provide for him that the bed wouldn’t do better. But he lifts Jake up anyway as he says, “Well, you know, I’ve had a lot of time to practice,” his body seeming to decide to go forward with his original plan regardless.
Or maybe it’s just talking to Jake’s body, on the deep, physical level more powerful even than speech that Jake used to talk about, way back, when he was talking about why he loved dance. Certainly, the second Sam lifts him, without eventouching the counter, Jake wraps both legs around Sam and puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, balancing himself. In a breathless moment of desire Sam realizes Jake’sonlyusing his hands for balance, and only barely—the grip of his thighs is powerful enough that Sam could probably let go of his weight entirely without his actually falling. A little dizzily, he realizes Jake must keep himself in much the same condition he had when he was in dance classes and rehearsal five times a week, just modified the exercises around his new parameters.
It’s so surprisingly hot—it makes Sam so unbearably fond of him—that he feels briefly and fervently that he might burst from it, pop like an overfilled balloon. He kisses Jake as he carries them both to the bedroom on slightly unsteady legs, overwhelmed by the situation more than by Jake’s weight. It’s that or say something that’s far too much and…well. Either far too soon or far too late, depending on which way you look at it.
Sam doesn’t look at it. He looks at Jake, the way Jake’s responsive and pliable under his hands, his mouth; the way Jake looks and touches him like he’s not sure Sam’s totally real, that this isn’t some impossible, fantastic dream. He looks at Jake until he can’t remember ever wanting to do anything else.
It’s a good night, maybe the best Sam’s ever had. If, once or twice, he thinks he sees that flicker of worry in Jake’s eyes, it’s probably only paranoia, just a remnant from years of misplaced shame. Nothing he needs to worry about.
FIFTEEN
NOW: JUNE
The next morning, despite the fact that it dawns as painfully early as ever, begins with what is easily one of the best awakenings of Sam’s life. Although he’s usually one of those people who finds waking up a series of little agonies, today it’s soft, lazy, his whole body feeling loose and relaxed. He’s comfortable in a way he isn’t entirely familiar with, and rubs his head lightly against his pillow, sleepily confused by the way it feels different against his cheek than usual.
It’s only when the pillow huffs out half a laugh and sinks fingers into his hair that Sam realizes fuzzily that it’s Jake, and blinks his eyes open. He must have fallen asleep with his head on Jake’s chest; when he lifts it, Jake lets the hand in his hair slide down to his neck and says, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sam breathes, half-certain he’s still asleep. Did that all reallyhappenlast night? The bar, and the dancing, and the conversation, and thesex. God, that thing Jake did with his?—
“I turned off your alarm,” Jake says, derailing Sam’s train of thought. “Sorry. I only let you sleep a couple extra minutes, and I wouldn’t have normally. I just think it’s cruel and unusual self-punishment that you start your day with an air-raid siren.”
“’S the only way I’ll wake up,” Sam protests, yawning on it in the middle. “Sleep right through everything else. Should be getting up even earlier, honestly, but, ugh. I can’t bear to.” Sitting up properly, he takes a brief self-assessment and winces at Jake. “Speaking of what a person can bear: I’d kiss you right now, but I think my morning breath might be kind of gnarly.”
“That is decidedly mutual,” Jake says, with a little grimace, and then grins at him. “Let’s risk it.”
They do. As a result—and for the first time in years—Sam is late unlocking the deli’s front door for the staff, and comes downstairs to see, on the other side, the glaring faces of Alphonse and Eileen.
Al pulls him into a brief and surprising hug when Sam opens the door, then pulls away and snaps, “We thought you were dead, man!” as he pushes past him to the kitchen.
Eileen, even more surprisingly, seems almost amused. “He thought you were dead,” she confides, sotto voce, when Alphonse is out of earshot. “ButIheard you copy my drink order. Hit you harder than you thought it would, eh, kid?” She cackles as she heads into the back, and Sam decides not to tell her that he gave the drink to Jake after one overwhelming sip. She seems so pleased with herself.
