Page 81 of Puck You Both

A new lesson, running the other direction. Each of them has spent tonight handing me the other one, piece by piece, and I don't think either of them planned it. I think it's just what they do.

Patrick's thighs quit pretending.

His control doesn't break. That's not how it works with him. It comes off in layers. Breath first, then the jaw, then his hips, which start pushing into my fist in small, tight thrusts, like they've been asking all night and only now got a yes. The twist on my palm over the head of his cock pulls a sound out of him, so I do it again. And again. I'm greedy for it now, watching the composure come off this man one stroke at a time.

"Wallace." Half warning, half surrender. Wholly new.

I don't stop. His hand grips my shoulder, and he comes over my fist in thick pulses, cum running hot down my knuckles, while his eyes stay locked on mine the whole way through it. The most composed man I know, unwound exactly one full turn.

By me.

Something lands in my chest, and the closest word I have for it is victory.

For a long while, the bedroom just breathes.

Then, in the quiet, my ears finally admit what they've been ignoring for a few minutes now.

The timer, beeping, alone and forgotten.

Patrick’s brain seems to come online at the same time mine does. "The frittata."

"He died doing what he loved," Theo says into my shoulder blade.

Patrick rises, and I follow him with my eyes all the way to where he disappears into the bathroom, then comes back with a warm washcloth. He doesn't hand it to me. He cleans me up himself, slow passes over my stomach, my hand, and my softening cock.

I lie there and let him.

Two months ago, letting a man do this would have required sedation.

Theo stays draped where he is, mouth pressed to my shoulder. Not kissing. Just there.

"That was—" I start, quit, and start over, and it’s only because of my current, temporary state of pure post-orgasmic bliss that I allow myself to admit what’s in my mind. "I want the rest. Eventually. All of it."

Theo's head comes up off my shoulder. Patrick doesn't even pause the washcloth. "We have time," he says.

The words land somewhere in the middle of my chest and stay there.

***

THE FRITTATA IS a black disc.

Patrick extracts it at arm's length and sets it on the stove top. We make toast instead and eat at midnight, around Patrick’s kitchen island. I’m wearing my jeans while Theo sits cross-legged on the counter, wearing my flannel and nothing else.

He didn't ask. It was on the bedroom floor, and then it was on him, sleeves swallowing his hands.

Finally, we end up on the couch. More accurately, Theo ends up on the couch and pulls the two of us down with him, arranging us until he's satisfied: Patrick in the corner, me in the middle, Theo draped across both our laps. His comfort show comes on at a volume nobody's listening at, and his fingers find my hair, combing through it, and my head goes heavy and lets it happen.

The fingers stop. "Nooooo," Theo says.

I straighten up and blink. "What?"

He sits up. Both hands come to my scalp, and he parts my hair, inspecting. "It's going away."

"What—"

"The roots. Look at the— Well, you can't look, but there are roots. It's going blond under there. It's leaving quietly, like a coward, in the night."

I chuckle. "That's how hair works."