Jayce

Jayce

The pale skin of his throat almost glows in the silver moonlight; it's slender and strong, the tendons rippling as his body tenses in pleasure. His head is tipped back, his raven-black hair resting against the crumbling red brick wall. His eyes are closed, and he's lost in the sensation of the man's hands moving across his body, across his skin.

They don't know that I can see them. Even though they're technically in public, the space behind the bar is largely hidden. It's only visible for a few feet and only if you're walking along the sidewalk close to the bar, which few do this time of night. The nights here are cold, and there aren't many people stupid enough to linger outside for long. Tourists rarely make it to this part of town, and none of the regulars inside are likely to clear out of the bar before closing time. I didn't see Namid inside. If I had, I'd have asked to join him, and maybe the night would have ended differently. Maybe I wouldn't be standing here, frozen in place, watching a stranger touch him .

They know they're on stolen time. The stranger's hand is rushing, wrapped around both of their hard cocks over the top of open jeans that have only been shoved down far enough for him to gain access. The man leans in, his lips brushing along Namid's jaw until he leans forward to meet the man's lips in a kiss. The way their mouths move is raw and desperate and aggressive. So is the way the man's hand is moving between them.

Namid is so beautiful like this, undone and lost to the world - his chest pulsing as his breaths rush from him, his long fingers curling against the brick beside his hip as they search for something to grasp.

I nearly fall to my knees with the weight of the realization that I want to be the one touching him. I want to trail my fingertips along the curve of his throat. I want to be the one to lean in and taste his collarbone, sucking blood to the skin in prickly tingles until he gasps and whimpers. I want him naked and writhing against me as I take him apart inch by inch until he's keening and begging incoherently, until he's not even sure what he's begging for. I want him to slide down my throat. I want his fingers to clutch at my hair as he thrusts into me, taking pleasure that only I can offer him. I want him to shatter in my arms over and over until he's spent and sated and sleeping against my chest.

Their kiss breaks, and Namid's head rolls to the side against the brick, his eyelids fluttering as he squints into the darkness, almost as if he's looking for something. His eyes snap open as his gaze finds mine through the dark, and the world stills. I no longer see the man possessively touching him. Namid no longer seems to feel him. It's just the two of us. This is what it would feel like to stare into his eyes as I touch him.

Then it's gone.

His eyes rip from mine, and he's shaking his head no and pushing the man away and talking quickly. I've already ruined this for him, already been caught watching when I should have passed by. He knows I saw, and he's not going to understand why I was standing there staring at them. I can't explain why I was doing it, can't tell him that I'd sat in the darkest corner of the bar with half a beer and a plate of half-eaten fries for hours because I hadn't known what else to do with myself when he'd told me he had other plans tonight when I'd asked if he wanted to have dinner. I don't know why I glanced down the small opening into the ally instead of walking with my head down like I always do. I can't explain the life-altering epiphany that was the view of his throat in the moonlight. I can't explain that I want to be that stranger. I can't tell him that in a single instant, my world has turned itself upside down. I can't tell him that I've realized I love him.

I turn and nearly run to my truck. I have the door open and one foot inside before I hear Namid's voice behind me. I don't look back. I hop into the seat and shut the door behind me as I twist the key.

He's here now, just outside my window. His lips are swollen, and there is a red patch on his throat where it's been rubbed raw by a beard. Not my beard. The top button of his pants is still undone. He's talking to me, but I don't hear his words. I shake my head and back the truck into the empty street. I can't tear my eyes away from the sight of him as I pull away. He's shaking his head, and his arm is stretched in my direction. The corners of his eyes are glistening, and his lips move in the same motion again and again.

"Please."

I drive away.

I fall into bed without undressing, hiding under the covers in a way I haven't in months, not since Namid first came into my life. How did I not see this? My grief has been so deep and so overwhelming that I haven't even noticed myself falling in love with him. He's my friend, and I've been so sure that he's straight. Everyone here is straight; that's why I've picked up tourists in the past when I've needed to fuck. I've had a few momentary crushes on men from town, sure, but I tell myself they're straight and that I'm being ridiculous, and after a few weeks, those feelings fade, and things go back to normal.

I did that with Namid months ago. I thought that once I'd convinced myself he was my straight friend, the feelings that started to appear the day I showed him my studio had disappeared, just like they always do. I truly didn't realize that I'd simply shoved them into a locked box in a deep closet and that the moment I saw him with another man, the lock would fly open and my world would collapse into a flaming pile of lust and need and despair.

There are six missed calls and eighteen text messages when I wake up.

Namid: Hey.

I'm sorry .

I'm so sorry.

Can we please talk?

Please.

I am so sorry that you saw that.

Jayce?

Please don't do this.

I don't want to lose your friendship.

I know I should have told you that I'm gay, but I didn't want you to hate me.

Please, can you just talk to me about this?

Jayce…

Please don't do this…

I'll keep it to myself like I have been. I promise I won't tell you anything. You can pretend you don't know. You can pretend this never happened; you never saw that. It's been years anyway. It's not like I do that a lot and you're going to stumble onto it again. You can keep thinking that I'm straight. Really. I'm ok with that. I like our friendship; I promise I'd never hit on you or anything…I promise.

Jayce?

…it's ok.

I'm sorry. I can leave the shop key in the mail drop so you won't have to see me again.

I understand.

They started at 12:46 a.m., a few minutes after I left the bar. The last arrived at 8:32, twenty-three minutes ago .

I am an asshole.

I was so worried that what…that I realized I've fallen in love…and with someone I might actually have the tiniest chance at a shot with because he's miraculously gay too, that I ignored him all night and let him sit alone, panicking and thinking that I'm some homophobic douchebag who has dropped my best friend without a word because I found out he's attracted to men. There are no words that accurately describe this level of asshole-ness.

Six curse-filled minutes later, I finally find my keys under the coffee table and tear out of my driveway fast enough to leave divots in the gravel. I didn't know it was possible to get to his house in thirteen minutes. When I was driving there daily to help with Ken, it took twenty-one.

He doesn't answer his door…or his phone. I bang louder, pounding the wood with my fist and calling his name.

He's in the same clothes he was wearing last night when he finally answers. The pants the stranger had opened, the T-shirt that clung to his collarbones as he strained and tensed at the man's touch.

He says nothing as he opens the door. His eyes are red, his hair is disheveled, and his arms are curled around his body like he's hoping to hide or disappear. I can't seem to find any words, so I just stand, staring at him as he curls further into himself, his gaze on my chest. I step toward him, and he flinches back.

This is what heartbreak feels like .

"Look, I don't know why you're here. I told you, okay? I'm really, really sorry, and I'll leave you alone. We didn't see each other during the first decade I've lived here; it won't be hard for us to avoid each other for the next fifty years." His voice is deep and harsh and filled with gravel. I've never heard him sound like this. I know his throat is sore. I know crying all night will do that. God knows I know that, but this time, it's not my voice that sounds that way, it's his. It's his beautiful, smooth, silken voice that has been shredded, and it's my fault.

One arm is bent across his stomach, his long, beautiful fingers clutching at the opposite forearm, nails digging into his pale skin. I can see the marks they've left when he shifts slightly. What the fuck is wrong with me that I still haven't said anything to him?

"I'll get your key now so I don't have to come by the shop."

He turns to walk away, and my hand is on his arm before I can stop it. I'm pulling him into my arms and crushing him to my chest. He's stiff and tense and scared that I'm going to hurt him, but I'm not. I just want to erase the hurt I've already caused.

He's only a couple of inches shorter than me, and it feels so natural to bury my face into the bend of his neck, to press my cheek and lips against his skin until he relaxes in my arms.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't…"

"I never…"

"I don't… "

I can't find actual words, so I just squeeze him tighter and hope he's able to feel what I need to say. I hope he can feel that I didn't mean to hurt him, that I'll never hurt him. That I'll protect him from anyone, always. That I was stupid and scared and confused. That I love him, and I never want to let him go.