Gang of Five

by Douglas

Chapter 15

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It was Monday night -- the day after the beach -- before I worked up the courage to call his cell.

And I got his voicemail, without any ringing; his cell was off.

What I wanted was for Zach and me to get together -- just us.  But it wasn’t the kind of request I could leave as a message.  Not even remotely.

So I left it.  I didn’t want to show up as too many missed calls, on his phone.  Not now.

I tried again, Tuesday morning; same thing.

I knew Zach has his advanced-AP science class, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays; almost all day, so I figured I’d missed him.  Until late.  If I could get in touch with him then, even.

I felt kind of -- hollow.  Weird.  Wondering if he was avoiding me.

So it was a little later that morning, when I knew for sure Zach was in class, that I wandered down the hill -- by myself -- to, I don’t know, just get away, get out.  Have a latte.  Feeling, at least temporarily, just a little relieved, maybe.  Temporarily at peace; temporarily.

And as I walked into Starbucks, -- there was Zach, parked in a corner, laptop and textbook open, iPod phones in his ears -- and looking out the opposite window, lost in some thought, a million miles away.

I know, I just know, I flushed bright, bright red, and I looked away and down, and my heart went to hammering inside me.

I went up and ordered my latte, carefully not looking at Zach; then waited a slow eternity in the coffee-flavored steam as the cheerful girl behind the bar made the espresso, steamed the milk, poured it into the cup, added the espresso, slowly, spooned some cream on top, put the plastic lid on the cup, said something to the other girl and the cash register, then finally, finally bent down, read the name on the cup, and called me.

Zach was facing away from the counter; he was still gazing out the window as I walked up to him, his laptop screen gone dark, in powersaver mode.

And even in my flush, and my awkwardness, and embarrassment -- I noticed his look.  His expression; kind of serious, kind of withdrawn; and -- sad.  Not about-to-cry sad; just -- sad.  Like he’d been sad for awhile, now.

And he looked alone.  So alone.

“Hey,” I said.  He didn’t look up; so I touched him, on the shoulder.  He jumped, a little, his head whipped around, and he saw me; and I watched, as a bunch of different emotions crossed his face.  Surprise, for sure; pleasure, maybe?  And then -- an awkwardness of his own, I guess, maybe some embarrassment, as if I’d caught him at something, and he looked down, and when he looked up again, taking his earbuds out -- those shields were back up.

And I really didn’t want to look at that, any more; so I slid onto the bench next to him -- it was a long, padded bench, against one whole wall, so there was room -- and we were both looking in front of us, and it was easier to talk.

“I thought you were in class all day today?”

Zach shrugged.  “It’s projects week; we’re supposed to be doing presentations, later, so we get mornings to do preparation.”  He touched a laptop key, and his screen came to life.  “I haven’t been making a lot a progress, I guess.”  He kind of turned up one side of his mouth.

“Yeah.  I guess I should enjoy my time off, while I’ve got it.”

“You should.”  He paused, a second.  “But.  Actually, it’s getting pretty late, and I need to get going pretty soon, now -- ”

“Zach?”  I took a breath, to try to keep my voice from sounding weird.  “Do you think we could, like -- get together?  To talk?”  I was back to flushing, I knew, a bright red, and I couldn’t look at him.  God, this felt so bizarre.  “I -- kind of need to talk to you.  Maybe -- I don’t know.  Maybe you could come by my house, after your class - ?”

He didn’t say anything; not, ‘talk about what?’, or act surprised, or something like that.

“I -- guess,” he went, finally.  After a long pause.  “My class doesn’t get over ‘til five, though; and I won’t be back up here until, like, six -- ”

“Please?” 

I really, really wanted to touch him, to put my hand on his; but the place was way too crowded.  I looked down; he was sitting crosslegged on the bench, his empty flipflops under the table, so I took his bare foot in my hand, where it peeked out from under his thigh, and squeezed it, and held it, and looked up at him.

“Yeah.”  Pause.  “Okay.”  He looked at me.

Whatever else has happened between us, we have too much history -- WAY too much history -- for either of us to turn down a request like that.  We both knew it.

“Thanks.”  I figured it was the beginning of something that was going to be long and awkward and probably really horrible, for me at least, but I needed to seem grateful.  “So -- my house?  Around six?”

He just breathed for a second, still looking at me; then looked down.  “Yeah.  But . . . how about my house, instead?”  Again, that ghost of a half-smile.  “My dad’s in L.A. for the night, again, some client meeting.  We’d have a little more privacy -- ? ”

“Okay.  Good.”  I was relieved; no gauntlet of parents to run, getting in and out of my room.  And maybe I wouldn’t even have to face them over dinner, after.

“You could wait for me there, if you want,” he went on.  A little more normal-sounding, not-quite-smiling.  “You could even get some time in the pool.  You’ve got the key.”

“Okay,” I said.  Trying for the same sort of tone.  Still caressing the sole of his foot, with my thumb, which was making it not-normal.  “Maybe I’ll even clean it for you.”

It was an old joke.  Zach always spent hours and hours, each week, keeping the pool clean; we used to tease him about it, when we were kids.

“Without me to supervise?  No way.”  He looked back at the laptop screen, briefly.  “Now I really do have to go, or I’m going to be late.”  And he started gathering up his notes, and putting them away in his binder, and closing his iBook and his textbook, and I got up to let him slide out.

I waited a decent few minutes, after he left, before I got up and started back up the hill.  I threw my full coffee away in the trash on the way out; my stomach was way too knotted up to tolerate it, just then.

*

I got to Zach’s before five; just in case his class let out early, or something.  I wanted to be there when he got home.

I let myself in the usual way, through the gate to the back yard; then I used the spare key hidden under the bricks to open up the French doors to his room, and made sure to punch in the security code on the box in the hallway before the alarm system went off. 

It was weird, being there without Zach.

I guess I’ve been alone in his house before; I must have been, sometime, though I can’t really remember when.  But with all this place MEANT to me -- well, it was important to me because of Zach; and Jarod and Liam and Tim, of course, too.  But mostly Zach.  And being there alone -- well.  It felt -- different.

Maybe sometimes a place is just -- a place.  Without the people.  Maybe a home, without the people, is just a place.  I thought.

I knew where everything was, of course.  I stripped in Zach’s room, leaving my clothes more carefully folded than usual; then I grabbed a clean towel, rinsed off quickly in the shower, and headed back out to the pool, still feeling a little creepy, being alone, walking through his house alone.  But I knew Zach would be going into the pool, after his class; he just would, as sure as water finding its own level, so I might as well wait for him there.

When his key scraped in the lock, I was floating on the air mattress, on my stomach, going over the things I was going to say; going over, in my head, the filmstrip of his reactions, what I figured his reactions would be.  I jumped -- I’d been waiting long enough for him to come home, waiting for that sound, I almost jumped a foot -- and I slid off, so that I was holding onto the mattress, standing on the bottom, facing him.

“Hey,” he said, when he saw me. 

He didn’t seem a whole lot happier to see me, than I felt about being there.

“Hey,” I said back.  Standing there.

He looked at me a second, then closed the gate.  “Let me put this stuff away, and I’ll come join you.”

“Okay.”

It took a few minutes.  I knew Zach; he had to shower off before using the pool; he just had to.  He always would.

And then he was there, coming out the French doors, still glistening from the shower, holding his towel at his side; smooth, slender, perfectly tanned all over and bare and so, so beautiful, and I just looked, as he dropped the towel and dove in, cleanly, and I wondered if this was it, if I’d ever get to see him like this, wet and naked, again, or if I was going into the exile of let’s-just-be-friends, with all sorts of big issues left hanging between us . . . .

I choked, when it came down to it.  I just choked.

We swam, and floated, for awhile, not saying much of anything; not really relaxing, either, and I thought how easy it would be to chicken out, to say I had to go home to dinner, and just leave and not face it.

But I couldn’t stand that either.

So I floated up to him, -- this time, he was the one holding onto the air mattress -- and, in the neck-deep water, I just touched him, lightly, on the shoulder, and he looked at me, and we both knew this was it, and I started, “Zach -- ”

And I choked.  I so utterly, utterly choked; I locked up worse than Tim ever did, ever would.  I felt my eyes beginning to fill, and Zach was looking at me, and for once his shields were down, and I could tell he was concerned -- concerned for ME -- and I said “Zach,” again, kind of helplessly, and I couldn’t go any further --

So I did what I’ve always done with Zach, when I couldn’t find the words.  I touched him, again; and I looked at him, then I pulled him close in to me, into a long, long hug, and he let go of the air mattress, then he was hugging me back --

And then, fool that I am, I kissed him; because it was the only way I had, to tell him, that I had those kinds of feelings for him.  Not best-friend feelings, not even loving-best-friend feelings, but -- real love. 

So I kissed him; but I put everything into that kiss, all the frustrated love I had, from the last few weeks -- weeks when we’d never touched each other like this, even with Jarod and Tim and Liam around -- I put in all the tenderness and feeling and love that I felt into it.

He didn’t really respond.  His body felt tense, against mine, even in the water.  He didn’t push me away; but his lips -- well.  He didn’t really respond.

We’d come to that.  We really had; after all this time, all these years, all the experiences.  As close as we’d been, for so long, we’d come to that.

I was about to pull away, and face the scene I knew was going to come, that filmstrip I dreaded so much; but I still didn’t have the words, and before everything was final, and irrevocable, I wanted one last, long moment, one last connection, so I just said “Please?”, and put my hands on the sides of his head, and LOOKED at him, just for a second, his beautiful face all kind of watery through my filled up eyes, and then I kissed him, again, gently working his lips between mine, his lower lip, my tongue just barely grazing between his lips --

A goodbye kiss, on my part.  Not asking, for anything; but full of all the love I hadn’t been able to show him, all the love I wouldn’t be able to show him, after today . . .

And right there, right in the water, just him and me -- his mouth opened, a little; and his lips moved against mine, and he began kissing me back.

Hesitantly, at first; not sure where we were going.  But really kissing me; showing me more feeling, more affection that he had -- well, since the day he fucked me, at Clay’s Beach.  When I got fucked up about us.

And I broke it off, and I heard myself whimper, and I nuzzled under his jaw, under his ear, and then it was back to kissing him, really KISSING him, still trying to say everything, without words, still memorizing the moment --

And then I felt his hands come around me, and hold me, the way I was holding him; and then we were moving together, and we were more than just kissing, we were making out--

And then we were REALLY making out.  We started doing things with each other, to each other, with an intensity I’d never known before; even that first weekend I was back, or even later when he was fucking me.  Exploring each other with our hands, with our mouths; making noises, our dicks pushed up against each other, our whole lower bodies grinding into each other --

He opened up to me.  The way I opened up to him.

Even after three years, we still knew each other that well.  Our bodies knew each other, that well.

And, miraculously -- impossibly -- he began showing me how he felt about me; the same way I was showing him how I felt.  He really did.

And I was so, so amazed, at getting this from Zach, getting these FEELINGS back from Zach, I couldn’t believe it, but I couldn’t think about it, because it was all in the moment, all just happening, all I could do was FEEL, and express myself back, and feel him reacting to me . . .

At some point we sort of wound up against the side of the pool, and Zach was the one to hoist himself out first -- impossibly graceful, the water sliding off his smooth skin -- and then he held out his hand and helped me up, and we dried each other off with our towels, a little, really clumsy --

And then we were in Zach’s bedroom; on his bed, on that sleek, soft duvet, still half-wet, and rolling around, rolling over and under each other, and pushing, and pressing, and rolling, as we made out.  And the noises we were making sounded like crying, part of the time, because I think maybe we WERE crying -- I know I was, a little, for all the pain, all the pain I’d caused Zach, and just everything . . .

There are so, so many different kinds of sex.  Of lovemaking. 

Every possible kind of variation; from a group of twelve-year-olds, wet and laughing in the sun, as some of them work over the bare smooth boy lying on his back beneath them, that boy’s balls drawn up tight against his body as he wriggles and squeals as he’s just about ready to come --

To the couple in the dark, quiet, private hour before dawn, sweaty and wet with semen; on their sides, one of them deep, deep inside the other, both of them lying still, because they’ve already cum once -- or twice -- in that position, but still penetrating and being penetrated, still FUCKING even though they’re not moving, and the boy who’s been fucked is just starting, just now beginning, to squeeze the dick inside him with his anal muscles, again, just gently, just a little, because even though he’s exhausted, he wants more --

And, yeah; I’ve done both.  I’ve been both.  And more, since.

I’m so lucky.

What Zach and I did, that day -- was different.  It was lovemaking; but it was also so, so emotional.  It was mind-fucking.  Heart-fucking. 

And so needy.  For both of us.

We rolled, and sort of wrestled, and rolled around and almost off the bed . . . until, eventually, we wound up in that position, again; the yin-yang, wrapped-up together position of two boys rimming each other, simultaneously, between each others legs, faces in each other’s butts, arms around each others waists, so open to each other, fingers and tongues probing, tickling, teasing, so incredibly, incredibly intimate with each other --

Some ways, rimming has become our specialty, since then; it’s something we do really, really well.  For the sake of doing it.  For the sheer joy of it, the intensity of it, the incredible sexuality of it.  Maybe this is where we really started. 

Unless it was that last night before I left, so long ago; maybe that’s when it really started.

We rimmed each other for a long time; urgently, still moving around all over the bed, making a crumpled mess out of the duvet (and I noticed, when I came up for air, the incredible contrast between our tan, bare skin and the creamy smoothness of the bedspread, and it made it all so much hotter, made us so much more naked, somehow. . . )

And Zach was the one who broke away first, and I groaned, and really, really MISSED his smooth tongue on me down there, IN me down there, and I felt the wetness, and I wanted him back . . . .

Zach kind of half-dived across the bed, sprawling on top of me, his butt moving away from me; and one hand was rummaging in the drawer next to his bed.

And the next thing I knew, I was on my back, and Zach was straddling my legs, my thighs, facing me; his eyes were slits, and he was panting, and then the cold lube was being smeared all over my own dick, and the LOOK he gave my dick, as his hand ran up and down it, caressing, getting it wet --

I’ve been on the other end of that look, since then.  Gazing at a dick; knowing it was going to be inside me, deep, deep inside me, in just a few more heartbeats.

Coming inside me, getting me wet inside, soon enough after that.

That was the look in Zach’s face.  So, so priceless.

Then he was up on his knees, and I was holding on to his thighs, and his back arched and his torso twisted, as he reached behind and fingered himself, a little desperately, opening himself up, making a few little noises as he stretched, his hard cock bobbing in front of him --

And then he kind of scrambled up my torso, on his knees, still straddling me, and I put one hand on his waist and I grabbed his smooth, hard dick with the other hand -- gently -- as he reached behind him, and lifted my own dick up, and he arched his back again, and his face was all screwed up in concentration --

And he did it.  I felt it; the tickling on the tip of my dick as he moved it up and down inside his crack, lining it up just right with his anus; then his warmth, and then his slickness, and the sheer, utter THRILL I felt, just the incredible thrill of knowing it was happening, feeling it, as he sank down on me and I was penetrating him, and I felt his slick, lubed anal ring wrapped around my penis, moving down, and I was in him, INSIDE him, and he kept on going, down, down, until he was sitting right down on my pubes, and I was all the way in him, trying not to buck my hips up into him too strongly, and I was fucking Zach.  My Zach.

I didn’t know it could be so intense.  I just didn’t.

And then we began to really fuck.

Zach fucked me, in the sense that he was the one moving; moving his ass up and down my shaft, moving his whole body, little jerking movements, side to side, up and down, deciding when and where and how he wanted me in him; so, so expertly.

And as he did, he was mostly propped up on his hands, over my shoulders, his face so close to mine, his mouth open, his eyes still slitted -- his breath coming in puffs, and gasps, as he moved, and impaled himself on my dick, over and over and over.

I didn’t masturbate him.  I kept my hand on his own cock, warm, squeezing a little, but I didn’t jack him.  I knew Zach, I knew his body; he was close, and I didn’t want him to come, yet.

And finally, as his breath was getting jerky -- I put both hands on his thighs, and pressed down, gently, and held him there, keeping him still, as his dick bobbed in front of me, out of reach of my lips.

“Hold still a second,” I whispered to him.  He just looked at me, panting, almost whimpering, and I felt his anus squeezing me, in spasms, he was that close, and so I just kept him there, quiet, until his breathing slowed, a little, and the squeezing went away.

“Good,” I whispered.  “Good.  Now, hand me that,” and I motioned with my eyes towards the lube.

His eyes got a little wider, but he did, he reached over and found the lube, and gave it to me.  I felt him move on my cock, as he reached and stretched.

“Can I do this to you?  Without you coming, yet?”

I saw in his eyes, he understood.  “Go slow.”

Like I said, Zach is a force of nature.  When it comes to sex; when it comes to getting sex, doing sex, getting other people off, just his sheer, overwhelming sensuality.

But, sometimes -- pretty often, actually, as we were growing up -- I’ve been the one to try something new, first.  Do something -- new and unusual -- first. 

Usually on special occasions, when I’m so, so sexually excited, when we’ve really been doing wild stuff with each other, when I feel like I’m almost out of control, kind of seeing things through a haze, almost ready to come --

Like that particular moment.  Yeah; like right then.

I mean, partly it was just logical; the way I felt, what I was going through emotionally, the hyper-sexual feelings that had been running through me since Clay’s Beach, there was just no way Zach was going to get out of this without fucking me. 

Fucking me really well; the way he had, the first time. 

And he was the one who was going to be the one to come inside me; not the other way around.  Sorry; it might be selfish, but that’s just how it was going to be.

But before that -- before we came -- my idea was that we could switch back and forth.  Fucking, and getting fucked.

Repeatedly.

So I gently -- very, very carefully -- squeezed a big, fat line of clear lube, along the top of his dick, on the theory he was less sensitive there; and he gasped, and a big drip of precum dropped from the end of his dick, trailing a strand as it fell to my lower stomach; and I felt him spasm again, around my own dick, so I held still for a second, and made him sit without moving.

Then I smeared it, with my right hand, all over his dick; really, really slowly, careful to get his whole dick really slick, and careful to avoid bringing him to orgasm.

And as I did -- I looked at him, all of Zach, his whole, beautiful body, his soul, just shining there, open to me at last --

And I did what I’d seen him do before; I looked really, really closely at his dick; his penis.  I smoothed my hand carefully down his shaft, starting at the head, making his urethra open and wink at me, as another little globe of precum appeared there, and his dick was so WARM in my hand, and hard, but the skin was so light and soft under the lube, it slid around on his hardness so easily -- and I knew this beautiful, incredible, erotic thing I loved was going INTO me, up INSIDE me, and I wanted it, so, so bad . . .

“You’re going to have to get off me, to lube me up,” I whispered.

“Not yet.”  He panted, then half-grinned back down at me, and it was a grin coupled with other things -- but partly, that thousand-watt sexual energy I knew so well, before, and I understood.

I handed him the tube -- and I spread my legs, as best I could, with Zach sitting on my cock, -- he lifted up a little, to give me room, and I followed, keeping my dick in him -- and as I did, I lifted my knees up, just a little, as far as they would go.

And Zach leaned back, supporting himself on one arm, the slender muscles of his arm and shoulder and torso standing out so beautifully, and for a second I jerked up a little, I was afraid my poor cock would break from being forced down towards my feet; but he didn’t go that far back.

And then he came upright again, for a second, and spread some lube on the fingers of his free hand, and then he leaned back on one arm again --

And he did it.  I didn’t think he could; but he did it.

He penetrated me -- first one finger, slowly, gently, wriggling around inside me, probing, pushing -- and then two fingers, squirming, twisting, and then beginning to push, push, push -- while still sitting, impaled, on me.  While I twisted underneath him, opening myself, pushing back on his fingers, just a little, the best I could with him on me like that.

Oooohhhhhhhh.  Oh, my dear god.

Fucking; and getting fingered.  At the same time.  In the middle of an emotional storm bigger than any I’d ever experienced; by and with this boy I loved . . .

“Uuunnnngghhhh - !!!”  I arched my back, as Zach’s middle finger hit that spot inside me; and I grabbed his thighs, and pushed up with my feet, and I felt his fingers freeze.

“Uhhhh . . . . ohh, kayyy,” I breathed, raggedly, as I came back from the brink.

And then his fingers went THERE again, and I almost screamed, and tensed up, and I almost, ALMOST came --

“Yeaahhh . . . . sorry.  I couldn’t resist.”  He was still panting, his face a mask of total lust; he was almost as out of it as I was.

“Ohhhhhhhhh . . . . Zach, just fuck me.  Fuck me!  Please!!”  His fingers in me, still, I was whimpering, my voice almost blubbery.

“Okay,” he breathed.  “Okay.  I’m pulling my fingers out, now.”  And he did; carefully, slowly, gently, first one, then the other, and I whimpered again at the slick feeling in my anus, and the way I just kind of closed up, down there, when I wanted to be open.  And then he was leaning forward again, propped up on his hands, his torso over mine, his face so close . . . .

“I can’t last long,” he whispered.  “But I want you to come inside me.  Next time.  I want to feel it, I want your sperm inside me.  I really, really do.  Okay, Christian?”

“Okay,” I whimpered back, my voice strange even to me.

And he was kissing me, then, mouths open to each other, tenderly, very, very sexually; and it went on for awhile, and he pulled back.

“Ready?”  His eyes were locked on mine.

“Uhhh -- huhhhh.” 

And he slowly, slowly lifted himself up, and I felt him sliding off of my cock, until it kind of squirted out of his bottom, and then he was over me again, and on me, and pressing against me, and we rolled completely over, once, I was on him, then on my back again --

And this time, my legs were really, really wide up, to either side of Zach’s body, and my butt was lifted up, and he was down there, moving --

And I felt it.  I felt the head of his smooth, slippery dick right up against my anus, and it just opened for him, and he pushed, and everything was so slick and lubed down there, and I opened up for him, and he was in --

“Uuunnnnnggghhhhhh - !”

I felt Zach freeze.  “Okay?” he whispered.  I felt the puff of his breath on my face.

I was almost beyond speech. 

“Yeaahhhhhh . . . . slooowww?  Please?”

It didn’t hurt.  Not at all; like I said, I’m lucky that way too, I think, it almost never hurts, when I get fucked.  But right now, I was gasping and jerking because it was just so incredibly intense, so EROTIC, combined with everything we’d been doing -- my whole groin area, my anal area, my pelvic muscles, were so, so sensitive --

Here’s the thing.  I’ve found, anyway.  Sometimes, making love, getting deeply, deeply physical, deeply erotic -- it seems to me that it’s all cumulative.  I get pushed to a kind of sensual, erotic high, and then we do more stuff, even different stuff, different acts, but even then that high just keeps building, and building, until I’m almost frantic, to the point when even the slightest touch of a finger or a tongue makes me shudder, and jerk, and spasm . . . .

Sometimes.  Sometimes.

This was one of those times.

Zach moved in.  Moved more of his dick into me; slowly, steadily.  Relentlessly. And just that feeling, of that big, smooth, slick part of him sliding INTO me, without me having any control over it --

It was like our first fuck, at Clay’s Beach.  But ten times, a hundred times more intense.

It was more than just our bodies fucking.  It was more than just old friends fucking.  It meant something.  Our souls were bare to each other, in way we’d never been before; and we were fucking, that way.

It was intense.

I pulled him to me, my arms around him, and his chest came down on mine, getting as much contact between our bodies as we could -- and he moved his pelvis, he moved his dick inside me with these sinuous thrusts I didn’t know anybody could do --

Not just in and out.  Not one rhythm.

Zach probed, inside me.  While I lay on my back, so totally open to him, legs wrapped around his thighs, he probed inside me; different angles; different pressures, different forcefulness, sometimes gentle, sometimes really PUSHING, and by now I really WAS beyond speech, I was just whimpering, making noises in time to his thrusts --

I wanted to come.  I wanted to come so, so bad; I wanted to come more than I could ever remember wanting to before.  I was dripping, I could feel it, and Zach’s chest felt so GOOD against mine, and his lips were on my neck, and oh, God, the way he was MOVING inside me, down there --

“Wait,” I whispered into his ear, and he slowly, slowly came to a stop.

He wanted to come, too.  I could tell.  He really did.

I made him stay there, a second, as I held him, and we panted against each other; I squeezed down on his cock, once, with my anal muscles, and that made him twitch, but then I realized that wasn’t really fair, so I relaxed . . . .

“Okay.  Now -- pull out . . . . ”

His head came up and he looked at me; eyes still wild, but then I saw the understanding finally, finally dawn, and a kind of wondrous hint of a smile came to his lips, and he carefully, carefully, gently pulled back, and I moaned as I felt his dick leave me, and I didn’t want it to leave me, and I groaned as I closed up again --

And then he was kneeling over me, again, one hand behind him, on my cock, and he came down, squatting, maybe twisting his torso a little, and I felt it again, I was inside him again as he moaned, and I felt myself go deeper inside him, then deeper, as he sank down, and I penetrated him  --

And this time I pushed myself up by my elbows, then -- careful, both of us so careful, trying so hard not to lose that connection -- I moved us, slowly, up and over, and his legs came up around my waist, and then he was on his back, looking up at me, and I was IN him, propped up on my elbows, my face to his face --

We couldn’t last.

It was our first time trying it, after all.  Both of us, lubed up, slick; almost overwhelmed by the mix of sensations, but even more, our emotions all raw from -- everything . . .

We went back and forth a couple more times.  Wildly; free-form, without planning, frantic, just so intent on getting INSIDE one another.  Rolling; switching from front-to-front fucking, to front-to-back (I really LIKE being fucked, back-to-front, with Zach’s whole body pressed up against mine, his arms around me, his dick moving so, so deeply inside me . . . . ) and then back again --

We almost fell off the bed, once.  We were rolling, and rolling, and came to the edge, and Zach had to throw down a leg to keep us from falling, and that made his cock thrust deep, deep up inside me, and I almost screamed and had to hold really, really still, for a second, to keep from spurting all over both of us . . .

And that was kind of a warning; so we switched again, for awhile.  But it didn’t delay things long.

Not too much later than that, it ended.  With me on my back, again; and Zach inside me, again, but this time, as he was probing, and thrusting, and FUCKING me, he was panting, and making moaning noises between kissing me so, so deeply, and I was making more noise --

And then he was pulling back, and LOOKING at me, so, so intensely, in the eyes, and back to kissing me, and still thrusting, and probing, and deliberately probing my prostate, and then backing off, and then LOOKING at me, with so, so much -- love. 

So much love.  Such an intensity of love   And all I could do, as I lay there, and moved against him, and moaned, and held him, was look at him, and feel so, so much love for him in return, and so much wonder, that this should be, that this disastrous day should turn out this way --

And then, finally, he put his chest down against mine again, and I held him so, so, tight, and he shifted his thrusts kind of upward, so that the tip of his dick was hitting me RIGHT ON my prostate, once, twice, three times --

Have you ever had the kind of orgasm that almost outruns itself?  Where the cum just spews out of your dick, frantically, harder and faster than you can even PUSH it out with your pulses?  The kind of orgasm that makes your balls hurt, after, and makes you sort of involuntarily curl up around yourself, as you come, and as a slick, smooth dick keeps assaulting your prostate as you come, making you come so much harder still -- ?

Yeah.  It was that kind of orgasm.

Not that I remember it that well.  It was way too intense to remember, to analyze.

“UNNNNNGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH - !!!!!” I finally did sort of scream, as it happened, and I jerked, and I squeezed Zach with my arms and my anus as I spewed, and spurted, and then he was making the most incredible noises in my ear as HE came, and pushed, and twitched, and he CAME --

And I felt it!  I felt something happen inside me, anyway; I felt -- something hitting me inside.  It was Zach’s come, hitting me inside!   Once, twice, three times . . . .

There were probably more.  But I felt those three pulses; I swear to God, I felt them.  Inside me.  Zach’s sperm; inside me.

Just as my own sperm was on both of us, now, between us, making both of us wet, as Zach finally stopped thrusting, and just stayed there, on me, in me, pushing a few last, little thrusts, little squirms, inside me, and I felt him shuddering, under my hands, against me, as we panted, and panted . . . .

At last, after a long time, Zach made a sound -- his face still buried in my neck, his chest still pressed against mine -- and I felt him move, slowly, gently, and then his dick was gone, out of me, and I relaxed down against the bed -- it felt bad losing him, but at the same time it felt good, stretching out my back, relaxing my cramped muscles -- and he collapsed his body down on mine, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, both of us smeared in our lube and semen.

And it was good, like this, holding him so, so close, without looking at each other, without taking the next step.

Sometimes I’m slow.

Sometimes I’m very slow.  And I wish -- I still wish -- I could go back, and change some things.

But I thought I’d figured it out.  Somewhere along the way, as Zach and I fucked, as Zach and I finally communicated with our bodies -- I thought I’d figured it out.

“Zach?” I whispered, looking up at the ceiling, as he nuzzled his lips into my neck.  I ran my hands through his hair, down his neck, down his smooth back, feeling the muscles, feeling the shape of him; wonderingly.  Wonderingly.

“Ummm?”  

I almost hated to ask.  It would mean so much -- karma.  Penance, really; for me.  So much.

“Did you -- wait for me?”  I whispered it.  “All this time?  While I was away?”

And I felt his body stiffen, under my hands, against my own body; and I knew.

I knew.

Nobody knows Zach’s body, under his hands, the way I do.  Nobody.  Not Liam; not Tim; not Jarod.  Nobody ever will.

Nobody knows Zach’s soul, the way I do.

I kept running my hands over him, up and down his back, along his sides, soothingly, feeling his whole smooth, warm body against mine, as my eyes filled up, and the tears started running down my cheeks.

And then I heard him make a sound, and his body was relaxing against mine, collapsing, molding itself against mine, again, under my hands.

“The next time you go away,” he sobbed, softly, into my neck, “take me with you?”

My Zach.  My strong Zach. 

“I promise,” I whispered back, and I held him so, so tight.  “Oh, I promise.  I promise.”  And I kissed his cheek, where I could reach it, over and over again.  “I promise . . . . . ”

And it occurred to me, as we lay there, holding each other so, so tight -- that maybe I’d been kind of self-absorbed.

Maybe I’d been a lot self-absorbed. 

Maybe I’d been so absorbed with my own feelings, and my own fears, and with feeling torn between Europe and here, and my fears about coming back home, and trying to fit in with my old friends --

Maybe I’d been so self-absorbed that I’d completely, utterly screwed up with Zach.  Screwed up even more -- a lot more -- than I’d thought. 

Maybe I’d totally failed to see who he was, and what he was feeling -- feeling about ME -- and what HE needed, instead of just my own needs . . .

He’d waited for me; for three years, he’d waited for me to come back, loving me -- loving ME! -- the whole time.  Not sure of who I’d be, when I came back.  Not sure if we’d be just-best-friends, -- or more.  Not sure if I’d ever love him back.

My invulnerable, strong Zach.  Maybe I should have just fucking NOTICED, instead of blathering about Philippe Coudrot, and about me maybe going back to England . . .

Maybe Zach had really, really good reasons for those walls he put up, to keep me out.

Maybe he was protecting himself from getting hurt. 

Hurt worse.  Hurt again.  By me.

And as I lay there, Zach pressed against me, me stroking his body, feeling him under my hands, feeling the wetness between us, I thought, just maybe, maybe, I’ll be able to make it up to him.  Over enough time.

Maybe.

I was going to try.