they hadn't been when he hadn't known Charlie was watching, his words getting biting and anything but sweetly wistful.
“Stay the night?” Will had asked, almost childishly longing after whispering nonsense about faded movie stars and constructed romances.
Charlie was too old for this almost teenage jealousy, too tired to be standing in his kitchen and getting hard when he had only to walk to his bedroom, reach into the drawer in his nightstand for something to help take the edge off. His hands were wet, but his skin felt rough and dry.
Charlie hadn't been able to see their hands, not for more than seconds at a time, but he took one of his hands from the counter's edge and imagined letting Will's fingers curl into the hair at back of his neck, making him gasp in that same quietly hungry way and talking classic film in that excited voice.
He had water on his hands. His fist was tight, but it wasn't anything like what Will's mouth would be, what his body would feel like, clenched around him. His own breath was noisy, his pulse fast and alone in his ears, and this wasn't going to be enough, he already knew it.
Charlie lowered his head, heard his breath rasping, felt his face burning despite the breeze that had left his apartment so cold. His voice shocked him, the words that slipped out, that he could hear himself grunting into the curve of Will's ear, because he had ordered, again, in this fantasy, and Will had obeyed him.
“Will,” he said, and his fist still felt rough around his dick, then slick with the cold water puddled at the sink's edge when he wet it again. His mouth was dry too, but he shook his head, shook hard but stayed on his feet with his body heavy against the counter.
He pictured Will saying his name, Will forgetting his voices and accents, that black and white even existed, when Charlie pushed inside him, and they gasped together, sticky, loud, clear over the sound of skin on skin and heavy breathing. Charlie could feel the orgasm, close, bigger and sharper than anything he'd felt in a long time, opened his eyes to nothing as he came, nothing but his own hand and the mess he'd made.
Chapter Five
“What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Charlie?” Jeanine huffed. She was right next to him, with his arm draped over her shoulders, trying to help him get to his car.
Charlie muttered under his breath before he stumbled a step away to lean against his car. He'd given in and taken ibuprofen a half an hour ago, and it wasn't doing a damn thing.
He'd woken up stiff and sore. Now there was a red-hot pain flaring out down his left side whenever he moved, and his right side from his toes to his shoulders was tense and shaking from how he'd been trying to compensate.
He'd gotten through three classes before Jeanine and an assistant professor had cornered him in his office and told him he was leaving early whether he liked it or not. As though there was anything waiting for him at home to make it better.
He put a hand to his side and rubbed a circle with the heel of his hand, though it wasn't doing any good. He could still feel the edge of the counter digging into his skin, cold though the rest of him was a sweating mess. He shifted, his face warm with the strain of trying to walk, the early afternoon sun beaming down on him, and felt his right leg start to give.
“I'm fine,” he told Jeanine without looking over at her, without thinking about what exactly he had been doing to himself. “I just need some sleep.”
“That's obvious with one look at you.” He caught a glimpse of Jeanine's hand as she waved it his direction. “Why the hell aren't you sleeping?” she demanded, and Charlie raised his head. She was red in the face too, and sweating. He should never have leaned on her; he would bring the cane with him from now on.
“I'm sorry.” Charlie frowned down, put more of his weight on the car.
“Look at you.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “You look like you
“Stay the night?” Will had asked, almost childishly longing after whispering nonsense about faded movie stars and constructed romances.
Charlie was too old for this almost teenage jealousy, too tired to be standing in his kitchen and getting hard when he had only to walk to his bedroom, reach into the drawer in his nightstand for something to help take the edge off. His hands were wet, but his skin felt rough and dry.
Charlie hadn't been able to see their hands, not for more than seconds at a time, but he took one of his hands from the counter's edge and imagined letting Will's fingers curl into the hair at back of his neck, making him gasp in that same quietly hungry way and talking classic film in that excited voice.
He had water on his hands. His fist was tight, but it wasn't anything like what Will's mouth would be, what his body would feel like, clenched around him. His own breath was noisy, his pulse fast and alone in his ears, and this wasn't going to be enough, he already knew it.
Charlie lowered his head, heard his breath rasping, felt his face burning despite the breeze that had left his apartment so cold. His voice shocked him, the words that slipped out, that he could hear himself grunting into the curve of Will's ear, because he had ordered, again, in this fantasy, and Will had obeyed him.
“Will,” he said, and his fist still felt rough around his dick, then slick with the cold water puddled at the sink's edge when he wet it again. His mouth was dry too, but he shook his head, shook hard but stayed on his feet with his body heavy against the counter.
He pictured Will saying his name, Will forgetting his voices and accents, that black and white even existed, when Charlie pushed inside him, and they gasped together, sticky, loud, clear over the sound of skin on skin and heavy breathing. Charlie could feel the orgasm, close, bigger and sharper than anything he'd felt in a long time, opened his eyes to nothing as he came, nothing but his own hand and the mess he'd made.
Chapter Five
“What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Charlie?” Jeanine huffed. She was right next to him, with his arm draped over her shoulders, trying to help him get to his car.
Charlie muttered under his breath before he stumbled a step away to lean against his car. He'd given in and taken ibuprofen a half an hour ago, and it wasn't doing a damn thing.
He'd woken up stiff and sore. Now there was a red-hot pain flaring out down his left side whenever he moved, and his right side from his toes to his shoulders was tense and shaking from how he'd been trying to compensate.
He'd gotten through three classes before Jeanine and an assistant professor had cornered him in his office and told him he was leaving early whether he liked it or not. As though there was anything waiting for him at home to make it better.
He put a hand to his side and rubbed a circle with the heel of his hand, though it wasn't doing any good. He could still feel the edge of the counter digging into his skin, cold though the rest of him was a sweating mess. He shifted, his face warm with the strain of trying to walk, the early afternoon sun beaming down on him, and felt his right leg start to give.
“I'm fine,” he told Jeanine without looking over at her, without thinking about what exactly he had been doing to himself. “I just need some sleep.”
“That's obvious with one look at you.” He caught a glimpse of Jeanine's hand as she waved it his direction. “Why the hell aren't you sleeping?” she demanded, and Charlie raised his head. She was red in the face too, and sweating. He should never have leaned on her; he would bring the cane with him from now on.
“I'm sorry.” Charlie frowned down, put more of his weight on the car.
“Look at you.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “You look like you