6. WARREN

Alexi was an enigma of nervous energy, and I felt for him. I truly did. I wanted to hold and squeeze him in my arms. It was the only thing I'd been thinking about since I saw him with his head back against the wall in the hallway at work.

He looked flustered, the same way he looked whenever I asked him to speak about himself. And he did, here and there, but always did most of the talking. He was a great listener, nodding and playing with the whipped cream in his cup.

He also didn't look comfortable at his desk in the office. Not that I was spying, but I was curious, and I wanted to know all I could about him and his cute, oversized clothing.

I'd been complimenting him, watching him blush. He must have known I was gay, I assumed as much from him. The nail polish, the way he held himself, and I saw the tinted lip moisturiser. But there wasn't much I could find online about him, the elusive Alexi Drake.

Perhaps meeting at my place would pull him out of his shell. I wanted him to come over and get comfortable; to feel at ease around me. I felt like a protective bear, and not only because I hadn't shaved my chest since I was twenty-three, but also because he made me feel that way.

My phone dinged with the Uber notification. He'd arrived.

My flat wasn't large, it was the seventh floor of a complex near the city centre. It was expensive, but I was paid well. I'd only moved in about four months ago.

The living room, kitchen, and dining room were sprawled into one. The bedroom was large, with a double bed and a small walk-in closet. The place had been renovated before I moved in.

I had my own nervousness, and perhaps he genuinely thought this was going to be games and films while we spoke to each other. I didn't mind that, but I needed some form of intimacy soon or I might be resigned to the act of backbreaking as I tried sucking myself off. I couldn't suck my own dick—I'd tried, every dick-haver had.

In the lifetime it took since the notification to the knock at the door, I'd looked at myself in the mirror no less than ten times.

I hadn't shaved, and I wore my Ghibli T-shirt; it was old, and there was a stain at the bottom. But I knew it's what he liked, and I wanted him to like me. I wore a pair of black jeans with rips at the knees. They were casual enough but not too casual that I seemed ready to slip out of them and straight into bed.

Alexi stood in the doorway, his hair pushed back with a metal headband, leaving two strands of hair down the sides of his cheeks. He clutched his small backpack. He was—different.

In the light of the hallway, I caught the glisten of his lips and a flushed pink to his glowing cheeks. He smiled, without prompt or joke. He was smiling. Perhaps it was the T-shirt.

"Welcome," I said, opening the door wider as I gestured a hand to welcome him. "This is where I live, alone." I added, I'm sure he got the message.

Walking by me into the flat, he smelled like mint. It was delicious. I wondered if he was chewing gum, and whether he'd be willing to share—from his mouth.

"I like your T-shirt," he said, his head tilting up, looking around.

"Take a seat, take a seat," I said, hurrying ahead of him to present the large open room. "So, I was thinking, maybe I could order food instead, play games, watch films. You know, talk about something not work related."

He nodded back. "What happened to cooking?" he asked, hiding his mouth as he chuckled. "By the way, I love your flat. It's nice." He clutched his bag a little closer to the bear's face on his sweater.

"It gives us more time to play if we order out instead," I said. And he'd also been avoiding the question of his favourite foods. "I have all the games, and I am willing to play whatever you want. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He sat on the leather sofa; it was deceptively soft. The moment he sat on it, he started to sink into the cushions. A wide smile on his face. "Oh wow."

"It's comfy," I said. "Do you want a drink?"

Alexi had wide eyes. He giggled, patting the sofa. In the short amount of time I'd known him, he didn't smile like this.

Opening the fridge, I looked at the contents. I'd just been shopping, so it was stocked. "I have wine, fruit cider, of course, Fizz drinks, they make great mixers for rum or vodka."

"Um, can I just—" the smile vanished. Oh no. He probably didn't drink.

"Water, cordial, fruit juice too," I continued, like I'd meant to.

"I'll take a water," he said. "Thank you. I should really have a glass of wine. It'll help with my nerves, right?"

"No pressure," I said.

"You can have wine, I'll have one when I'm—" he paused, he did that a lot. I didn't mind it. I found it sweet, like he was watching himself.

"If there's anything I can do to make you feel less nervous, let me know."

I poured myself a small glass of white wine and I poured a glass of water for him. Setting them both on the coffee table.

Sitting beside Alexi, this was the closest, physically we'd been. His adorable smile, his wide eyes, he was looking at the TV on the wall. It was already on one of the streaming services, their logo ping-ponging back and forth across the screen.

"You seem so innocent," I said. "I hate to think of you listening to complaints and suggestions all day. But we don't want to talk about work. So, food. I'm still open to cooking something from scratch, I've been doing these cooking classes, and I'm keen to show off. But I'm also down to order food."

What started out with a smile turned to confusion, possibly overwhelming him with too many words.

"If I say pizza, what do you say?" I asked, perhaps easier.

"Pepperoni," he answered, the smile returning. "And do you have ice cream?"

"Absolutely. I'd be a monster not to have ice cream," I chuckled back. "I really like your sweater." I reached out to rub it. He didn't flinch.

"Thank you, it's really comfy."

"If you get too warm, you can take it off," I said, "I mean, as long as you feel comfortable. You have a T-shirt on, right?" I asked. "But it's fine if you don't, the flat gets hot, and I can open a window."

Alexi chuckled. "I have a T-shirt on, and dungarees," he said, "if I get warm, I'll take it off." He pulled his hand away, his shoulder hunching as he shrank into the seat.

"I was thinking of taking this off anyway, it's got a stain," I said, "I just put it on because it's Studio Ghibli. It's super old." I pulled at the end of the T-shirt, stretching it out slightly, the neck of it stretching out to reveal a patch of my chest hair through it.

"Hairy," he said.

"It makes my chest look bigger," I said, puffing out and flexing.

There was excitement in his eyes at the action.

"I haven't grown chest hair, well, I go over it with a razor in the shower, so maybe it's that," he chuckled. It was the first time he looked comfortable enough to share something without being asked.

"I never see you wearing tight clothes, so you probably don't need it to fill out your chest," I said.

He grabbed the ends of his sweater, pulling it into his palms. "Maybe if we're going to eat, I should take it off." He pulled it up over his head. As he removed it, my eyes occupied his body. The pink dungarees and the rainbow crop top. He was slim with a beige contrasting lace underwear sitting on his hipbone, travelling down one side of the muscle. He was delicate.

"Wow," I mustered. "Do you—do you like to dress up?"

Pulling the rest of the sweater overhead, his gaze met mine and travelled to the underwear. "I—um—it's—"

"It looks nice."

"Sorry, I think I misread this," he said, clutching his sweater into a ball against his chest. "I just—I thought—I—I thought you were—you were flirting."

I was. I had been. He was panicking.

I placed my hand behind his neck, my grasp in control.

Turning his head to mine. I kissed him.

His lips were soft.

He smelled delicate like fresh cotton and mint.

I wanted to consume him.