Chapter 14

Memphis, 1946

"Like that… Fuck, yes," Bobby moaned, forehead pressed into Bill's shoulder.

"Shhh, be quiet," Bill hissed, his hand still moving between them.

Bobby meant to ask how he was supposed to be silent when he was being ravished in a broom cupboard, but the words were stolen from his mouth when Bill twisted his wrist and thumbed the head of his cock.

It hadn't even been his idea. Sure, there wasn't a day when his thoughts weren't filled with images of pressing Bill against the wall, or kneeling at his feet and having his hair pulled while he went down on him, but he'd been good, today. Had barely thrown Bill a filthy glance over lunch as he licked his spoon.

So he couldn't be blamed if, in a quiet corridor, just before dinner, he was grabbed by the sleeve and pushed into a cramped space that must have seen many a romp, but still hadn't been permanently locked by the janitor.

He clung to Bill's neck, muffling his sounds of pleasure into the collar of his shirt, making a mess of him. There was a shelf digging into his shoulder, and he couldn't have cared about it less.

He came with a whimper, and didn't even react when Bill wiped his palm on his briefs and tucked him back inside his pants, doing his fly up with his cleaner hand. Bobby was still catching his breath when he started pressing open mouthed kisses in Bill's neck, getting ready to take care of him too.

Footsteps outside the door.

They both froze, holding their breaths. There was a group of people out there, walking past, laughing. Bill's face drained of blood and even in the relative darkness of the cupboard, Bobby could tell how pale he had become. The muffled voices out there became distant again, until they couldn't hear them at all.

When Bobby slid a hand down to cup Bill's crotch, he was soft. He looked up into his lover's eyes and found him shaking his head.

Bobby pulled back with a sigh. This was nowhere near the first time, and though he couldn't blame Bill for his physical reactions, he knew how the rest of the day would play out, now. Bill would leave their hiding space first and disappear, never making it to dinner, pretending he didn't even know Bobby in the first place, and barely talking to him for several days.

And Bobby would drag himself back to his room, then to the showers, clean himself and hope he didn't look too suspicious when he would make it to dinner with a scowl.

As predicted, Bill placed an almost perfunctory kiss at the corner of Bobby's mouth, listened for a few seconds, and went into the corridor without a word. Bobby slumped against the door. He didn't know what was wrong with him that he still went with it every single time, chasing those orgasms despite knowing he'd usually feel like crying afterwards. Maybe he had a masochistic streak in him.

He mouthed a curse, wishing he could shout his frustration away, and set about straightening his clothes for when he would be allowed to exit the cupboard.

He left a few minutes later, and didn't meet anyone on his way up to his bedroom. Everyone was probably at dinner again, and he'd get the second servings, all the bread already gone and not enough mash on his plate.

All that for a hasty handjob. Yeah, he definitely had a problem.

Oh, well. He'd be starting his internship in a nearby hospital before the end of the year. Surely then, Bill wouldn't have anything to worry about any more. He could visit his friend at school, and when he went back to work, nobody would ever know anything about William Mercer and how much he liked it when Bobby sucked his cock.

Memphis, 1948

"I heard them say it, Bobby!"

Bill was pacing around in his dingy apartment, despite the obvious lack of space to take even a few steps between the bed and the wall. Bobby was leaning against said wall, arms crossed over his chest and mouth set in a stubborn pout.

"And so what, they could have been talking about anyone," he snapped back.

"They weren't!" Bill shouted, eyes going madder the longer he went on about this. "They specifically said ‘that Bachelor fag'!"

Bobby's heart froze over at hearing the words again. With a tight throat, he argued:

"You do know bachelor is a word in the English language."

Bill threw his hands in the air. In all the time Bobby had known him, he'd never seen him get quite this worked up.

"Why would anyone be talking about single fags at lunch break, Bobby?!"

He knew his friend was right. He'd been less careful, recently. Smiling at Bill with too much tenderness whenever they could meet for a coffee break. Not pretending hard enough when he got trapped in conversations about nurses and who had the best rack. Or who would fuck who by the end of term. Bobby might have snorted one time too many, thinking that he'd rather like to be the one getting fucked.

"I just don't want to come in one day and hear you've been beaten up," Bill pleaded, turning to look at him at last.

Bobby held his words back. How he didn't want that either. But this, what they'd been doing, it didn't feel like living either. Pretending to barely know each other when Bill had been his best friend since he was fourteen. As if the last ten years hadn't counted. As if the fact that Bobby had never kissed anyone else didn't mean a thing.

He let his arms fall at his sides, fists still balled up tight.

"I won't be," he grunted, knowing his stubbornness in believing it wouldn't be enough to save him.

Bill's gaze was desperate. He was begging too, except they wanted different things. Bill wanted safety. Bobby, freedom. But how could he begin to say that he'd been thinking about moving away, more and more?

That in his dreams he thought about Europe, and France, where his proclivities hadn't been considered illegal in centuries. How could he begin to explain how torn he felt at knowing there were places on Earth where they could be themselves without fear, but that he knew Bill would still refuse to follow him there?

That he knew, deep down, that Bill had internalized enough hatred that even if the law changed tomorrow, he still wouldn't hold his hand within a mile of other people?

"I'll be more careful," he conceded, knowing it was the only way to end this conversation.

They'd had it before, after all, and he knew how it played out. In a few days, Bill would be placated, and he would kiss Bobby again, away from prying eyes.

Bill sank onto the edge of his mattress, lightly bouncing there.

"Thank you."

"I'll let myself out, then," Bobby croaked, and walked to the door.

When he turned around to close it behind himself, he could see it all on Bill's face.

Please don't. Stay.

But there was something sour growing, taking more and more space in Bobby's heart.

Some time ago, he would have taken pity, and answered that pleading look with a caress, a kiss.

Nowadays, he knew to keep a certain protective layer around his own heart. If Bill wanted him to stay, he would have to properly ask him. Aloud, with words.

"Bye," he said, and walked away.