Chapter Six

Noah's bedroom feels like a trap of his own making, each corner of the darkened space closing in on him as he twists restlessly in his sheets. The crickets chirp away outside, indifferent to his sleepless state, and he’s grateful that Nathan isn’t here to witness the restless battle against his tangled bed. Nights like these, when his mind won’t shut off, make him feel like an unsettled animal, pacing in circles. Maybe he should put on some music, drown out his thoughts with one of those relaxation apps everyone’s always pushing.

He rolls over, staring at his phone, its screen blank except for the soft glow of moonlight. Noah reaches for it, his fingers brushing the smooth surface as he clicks the home button, revealing nothing new—no notifications, no messages. The mocking digits stare back at him: 2:49 a.m. He has class in a few hours, but sleep feels as far away as the moon itself.

He drops the phone back onto his pillow, letting his eyes drift to the closet door, distant and unfocused. His eyebrow throbs, a dull reminder of the impulsive choice he'd made earlier in the night, but that’s not why he can’t sleep. No, he knows the real reason he’s wide awake. He knows exactly why.

Ellery.

His night with Ellery had ended too abruptly, leaving too many things unsaid, too many questions unanswered. Had Ellery gone home, locked away any thoughts of Noah, and drifted off to sleep easily? Maybe. He had seemed so calm, so at ease with their parting. Noah wonders if, for Ellery, the night was already neatly tucked away, boxed up as a memory to revisit later, or maybe not at all. For all Noah knows, Ellery could be perfectly asleep right now, the events of the night already forgotten, while Noah lies here haunted by everything he didn’t say, everything he didn’t do.

Noah sighs, running a hand through his hair. He knows he’s a mess. Mess of a person, he thinks to himself. Guys who have their lives together don’t lie awake at night, obsessing over whether they’ll get to talk to someone again, or whether they missed their chance entirely.

The feeling gnaws at him, the kind of restless anxiety that won’t let him live until he acts on it. He should’ve done something sooner, acted when the moment was there. But it’s not too late, he tells himself. It might seem desperate or weird or even obsessive, but at this point, he’s willing to risk it.

Grabbing his phone again, Noah opens his texts, scrolling past unread messages from his mom until he finds Ellery’s thread. The last message from Ellery stares back at him:

Noah: I’m here.

Ellery: I see you! Hiiii

A small smile tugs at Noah’s lips. He remembers that moment, picking up Ellery for their trip to the tattoo parlor. Ellery had been so… light, so easygoing. His texts are comfortable, playful in a way that feels like second nature for him. Noah’s smirk fades as he looks at the timestamp: 7:45 p.m. That was hours ago, well before Ellery had said, I’ll catch you around, like their time together was a fleeting moment of chance, not something to be repeated.

Noah’s fingers hover over the keyboard. He shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. What does he even say? He needs to be honest, but how honest? Could he be bold enough to make Ellery blush? Could he say something that would make Ellery’s heart skip, the way his own does whenever Ellery is around?

Noah’s cheeks flush at the thought. He’d like that, he realizes. A lot.

With a deep breath, he begins to type, fingers trembling slightly as he forms the words he’s been too afraid to say.

Noah: I’m thinking about you.

Send.

Noah lingers on the text, and it’s both embarrassing and exactly true. Ellery deserves to hear it. And Noah needs to say it. But hopefully it doesn’t come off as clingy and double-hopefully it won’t make Ellery uncomfortable. It is late, after all. He’s probably going to wake up to it in the morning, and it could potentially start his day on a creeped-out note if he’s not into it.

But then the message flags as “read”.

And no bubbles indicate that Ellery is typing.

So Noah restarts, trying to save face. He’s got half a message written about his eyebrow bar before the chat window jumps to life and Ellery is on the verge of responding. The spike of thrill trains Noah’s eyes to Ellery’s side of the screen.

When it comes through, the message isn’t as long as Noah’s anticipating—

Ellery: I’m thinking about you, too.

—but it sets him aflame.

Texting with someone this late at night feels like whispering across time and space itself while the rest of the world spins on, and Noah can’t help wondering what it looks like wherever Ellery is. Is he in bed? Is he alone or with someone, is he doing homework or maybe at another party, earning judicious twice-overs from people with alcohol in their system in the same way Noah had once looked at him?

It’s suddenly too hot under the covers, so Noah tosses them off and lays back, holding the phone above his head. With the “silence” broken, words come easier.

Noah: I wanna see you again.

Ellery: Do you really? I thought you were for sure sick of me after tonight.

Noah: I know. I’m sorry.

Noah: I don’t know why I act that way around you.

Ellery: I do. It’s because you’re scared.

Noah: You’re not scary.

Ellery: You change your mind?

Noah: What?

Ellery: You called me terrifying.

Ellery: When we met. Before you kissed me.

Noah had kissed Ellery, hadn’t he? He’d been drunk and lost in it and absolutely unable to resist. Ellery had checked every single one of Noah’s hidden boxes, and under the influence of alcohol he’d been brave, and he’d fallen. He’d been so brave, that first night. Where had that courage been in the car, when they’d been alone and Ellery had clearly been waiting on a verdict of yes, more or I think we’re done here? ‘Cause Noah’s floundering had pushed them into the latter.

Noah: I’m not scared of you.

Eyes burning, Noah clamps his teeth down on his tongue and writes.

Noah: I’m scared of myself.

Ellery: Ah.

Ellery: I know that feeling. It’s okay.

Ellery: I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I never want that.

Noah: You don’t make me uncomfortable.

Noah: You make me a lot of things, but uncomfortable ain’t one of them.

Ellery: Are you drunk...? Lol

Noah: I wish lol.

Ellery: You really want to see me again?

Noah: Yeah.

Noah: Texting is good too, though.

Noah: Feel like I’ve been taking up a lot of your time.

Ellery: I like you, Noah. I already told you that.

Ellery: I like talking to you.

Ellery: I like being around you.

Noah soaks in the heat. Uses it as a fuel to keep this going—it’s what he needs tonight. It feels right, and there’s a bizarre sinking sensation that comes with saying these things sober, but it’s good.

Noah: I like you too.

Noah: I’m sorry I tried to say I don’t.

Noah: I’m so confused, Ellery.

Ellery: I know.

Noah: It’s scary.

Ellery: It is.

Ellery: I was there too, when I was younger.

Ellery: Take your time. It’s a process.

Noah: If I take my time

With shaky fingers, Noah sends the half-finished message on accident, unsure of how to ask what he wants to. What right does he have to Ellery? A magnetic attraction to a guy he’s spent all of three nights with, who he’d recently scolded for being over-familiar—what claim could he possibly have on Ellery? Why burden him with this shit?

...Because he has to ask. He can’t not.

Ellery: Hmm?

Noah: I don’t want you to have to wait on me.

Noah: No matter how much I like you, I can’t ask that.

Ellery: Doesn’t it feel right?

Ellery: When I sit in your lap and hold you?

Ellery: When your hands are on my waist?

Ellery: You kissed my neck without meaning to.

Is he really doing this? Writing it out for someone else to read in proof he can look back on, to read it out himself? A catalog of half-formed truths and secrets? His heart pounds, ribs turned to ice yet sweating in his sheets.

Noah: It does. It feels right.

Noah: Doesn’t change that I’m scared.

Ellery: That’s okay.

Noah: I still like you, though.

Ellery: If you’re into me, too…

Noah: I am.

Noah: I’m really, really into you, Ellery.

Noah: I couldn’t sleep.

Ellery: ...then I’m willing to see where this goes.

Noah wipes his brow with the back of his arms—wipes the moisture from his palms on his pillow and feels the warmth radiating from his phone, his head, his gut.

Noah: Does that mean…?

Ellery: What?

Noah: I uhh.

Noah: Are we… putting a label on this?

Ellery: Do you want to?

“Boyfriend.”

Noah tries the word out on his lips and it surges a reality check through him. He is doing this—this isn’t a dream. He’d caved and texted Ellery, and this is where their conversation had steered. His stomach churns at the thought of waking in the morning and sunlight exposing the late-night exchange, of things morphed in the early hours of the day and how he could end up hurting Ellery if he pushes himself too hard. Forces himself to adjust.

Noah: No.

Noah: Not yet.

Noah adds hastily. Maybe… someday. Maybe.

Ellery: That’s okay. I understand.

Ellery: Are you asking me not to sleep with anyone else, though?

Noah imagines it—and a prompt surge of jealousy rocks him, tightening his stomach and worsening the illness at the edges of his mind.

Still. He knows where the line is drawn.

Noah: I can’t ask that of you.

Ellery: I’d do it. For you.

Ellery: I’ll take down my dating profile.

Ellery: I’d give us a genuine shot, Noah. If you’re willing to do the same.

Noah: I… yeah.

Noah: I am.

Swallowing, Noah lets out a shaking exhale.

Noah: I want you that badly.

Noah: You deserve to hear it.

Ellery: I can tell. You’re not as subtle as you think you are. Lol

Noah: Rude lol.

A glance up at the name Ellery Brooks with the blank image space next to it reminds him of something he’d been meaning to ask.

Noah: I have a question.

Ellery: What’s up?

Noah: Can you send me a selfie?

Noah: I need a contact image.

Noah: I was thinking maybe your profile pic.The one on Grindr. That way you wouldn’t have to take a new one.

Ellery: Oh yeah?

Ellery: Like that one, do you? Haha

Noah blushes, wondering how transparent he is. If Ellery’s to be believed, he’s incapable of playing anything cool. So why try?

Noah: Yeah. Sorry.

Ellery: Why are you apologizing? :)

And the image comes through, there on Noah’s screen, and it’s a punch-to-the-jaw of a reminder: Noah’s talking about being with this guy. Ellery is drop-dead stunning: the angles of his face, the dips of his collar bones, his hand gently resting on his forehead, his clean hair that Noah can practically smell through a picture alone. His eyes.

Noah: Jesus.

Noah: I can’t believe you’re into me.

Ellery: Why not? You’re funny. Kind, deep down. Loyal to those you like. Considerate. Make me feel safe.

Ellery: Plus you’re hot as hell.

Noah’s ears flush, the praise skipping along his veins when he glances between the words and the photo. Surreal.

Noah: You took the reasons right out of my mouth.

Ellery: I like it when you’re honest.

Ellery: You really wanna be with me, Noah?

Noah: Yes.

Noah: I wanna try. I’d hate myself if I didn’t.

One of Noah’s hands comes to rest on his stomach, attempting to tamp down his libido. The picture is—he can’t stop looking at it, and it’s already saved to his phone, but he’s not going to do anything while he’s talking to Ellery. That would be skeevy, right? God, he wants to—if his resolve were just a hair weaker he would’ve crumbled the second Ellery had responded and roughed himself up through their entire conversation. Ellery’s attention would be enough to do the trick, if Noah’s current state is any indicator.

Ellery: Then… there’s something you should know.

Noah pauses while a series of assumptions flit through his mind, none of them good.

Noah: What is it?

Ellery: If I’m gonna be yours, you’ve gotta treat me like I’m yours.

The oxygen leaves Noah’s room. He doesn’t mean to, he swears he doesn’t when he huffs a soft breath and palms himself through his boxers, biting his lower lip to prevent noises too telling to himself from slipping out.

Noah: What do you mean?

Ellery: I know the real reason you asked whether I got off after I serviced you.

Ellery: You want my cock, don’t you?

Yes. Fuck yes, yes. Noah swears quietly and pushes under his boxers, fingers grazing over himself in tortuous touches. He’s leaking, stomach and underwear slick with wet that he dabs onto his palm. More proof.

Noah: Fuck. How could I not?

Noah: I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Ellery.

Noah shivers and slips into it, lids low and face hot as he types with one hand.

Noah: I wanna see you come.

Ellery: Then you’re gonna be responsible for making that happen. I’m gonna restrain myself from making the first move. Can’t push you like that.

Ellery: So if you want me, you’re gonna have to claim me.

Noah’s already curling his fingers around himself—staking this safe territory to finally show some mercy—when the image comes through.

It’s a selfie, but it’s so much more than a selfie; Ellery’s shirtless, laying in bed and cast in a soft yellow glow, smirking up at the camera. He looks absolutely sinful, with his flawless complexion and teasing eyes, those goddamn angel wing nipple piercings tight and perfect. But what commands Noah’s entire attention and presses a winded “Oh, fuck,” from him—the part that kicks his fist into gear and pulls an airy whimper from him—is that Ellery’s cock and balls are exposed at the bottom of the screen.

Ellery’s briefs are pushed down just enough to prop his sex tight against his stomach, clean-shaven and blushing and caused by Noah. He knows—he’s hard and willing, wants Noah to see this side of him in person, had taken the photo at an angle to give the illusion that he’s under Noah...

...and he has more piercings.

That’s what had happened last summer.

Little silver spheres poking out of his cock’s length, four bars and eight metal balls in total. It adds another depth to the selfie—one of measurement and realism and arousal and Ellery.

The captions come moments later.

Ellery: Hope you don’t mind that I’m decorated.

Ellery: Enjoy the pic, babe. ;)

Noah moves without thinking—a man possessed.

He’s on his knees, spinning and dropping the phone to the mattress, leaving the photo to take up all of his screen before hovering over it and fucking his fist for all he’s worth.

Crumbling to his unused elbow, Noah brings his face close to the screen and drinks in the selfie like water in the desert. Ellery’s looking at him, wants this, wants Noah, had given this with the clear intent of Noah using it. Permission and consent and fuck, his dick is pierced!

Noah’s sweating bullets, fighting against his waistband—to be good and do exactly as his boyf—shit, Ellery expects of him. But his last article of clothing is in the way, so he shoves his boxers down and frees himself, marveling at how much precum he’s already dripped when he takes himself in hand again and jerks off.

It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open against the onslaught, but like hell he’s going to close them. Not when he can come while staring at his own smiling, aroused cocktease. His very own, Ellery is his now and no one else’s, looking up at him from his bed—from both their beds—all lip-biting desire and not a wink of shame or hesitation. The photo’s not even that explicit by Noah’s standards, but it’s Ellery, and it is. It’s the filthiest picture he’s ever laid eyes on.

Noah’s knees shake, and that’s never happened before—but then, he’s never been this worked up, never needed release as badly as he does right this second. Never thought Ellery could ruin him as hard as he had when he’d pulled him into his mouth on that porch, never thought about how it would feel to have hot skin and metal in his own mouth—never thought about Ellery’s studded tongue on his and Ellery’s studded cock slipping through his wet fingers, pressed against his own, Ellery being on him, noises pounded from him until he cries loud into Noah’s throat, wracked with it, and—

“Ellery,” Noah hisses, shivering all over as it slams into him.

He convulses into himself, eyes locked on Ellery’s as he shoots ropes onto his bed, onto the phone, into his hand. Ellery is beneath him when Noah shuts his eyes and rides it out in gasps, thoughts of blue and warmth and a promise of sex far too arousing to seem real.

But even after it’s over, Noah still has the evidence. It is real, still smiling up at him from behind strings of cum he’d been too wild to bother trying to catch. He deflates onto a clean stretch of the bed, chest heaving and limbs tingling and throbbing in time with his racing heart, mumbling obscenities to the room on loop as he calms down.

He should respond. That had been incredible, and once again, Ellery deserves to know.

Removing his boxers, he wipes the mess from his phone and bed as best he can (he’ll have to wash the sheets in the morning) and heads back to the text log.

Ellery hadn’t sent anything else. Patient as ever.

Noah laughs—actually chuckles—and types.

Noah: I kinda wish I’d recorded what just happened for you.

Ellery: Lol! That was fast.

Ellery: You really needed that, huh? A video would’ve been nice.

Noah: I’ll make it up to you. Promise.

Noah: For now, here.

Noah angles his head towards the moonlight and opens the camera—a bit humiliated to see the strands of his own relief shining in his pubic hair like pearls—but it’s a good show of how much he’d enjoyed himself, and it’s the least he can do. He snaps a photo that hopefully doesn’t look too terrible and sends it.

Ellery: Holy shit

Ellery: Noah

Ellery: Are you serious

Noah: Yeah lol.

Noah: I kinda lost my mind.

Ellery: Fuck, dude

Ellery: Thank you for the photo.

Ellery: You’re unbelievably gorgeous.

Ellery: I… I’m gonna go take care of myself, before I bust from the next slight breeze. Lol

Ellery: Gonna have wet dreams tonight if I don’t. God, Noah.

Ellery: Was I good? In your head...?

He’s fishing for more. More praise, more fodder, and Noah’s more than willing to give it. He closes his eyes for a moment and sits up to start for the bathroom, trying to pick something exactly as enticing as Ellery deserves.

Noah: In my head, I made you scream.

Ellery goes silent.

He’s doing it. Right now, on the other end of the phone, Ellery’s getting himself off to thoughts of Noah fucking him senseless.

They’re together now, after all. In some form.

...Maybe it’s Noah’s turn to make plans.