Lucrezia Magazine

"I want you inside me," Garett says.
"Yeah," Dylan breathes, smiles: "You want me to help?"
Garett is already turning around to face the back of the chair, as he likes to do.
"No," he says over his shoulder to glance at Dylan, "I'll do it myself today."
Thick locks, long enough to curl at the ends now, fall over his turned profile as he looks down. And for a moment Dylan feels like he's looking into a surreal mirror, not exact in its replication and not mimicking his own self now; but as he looks at Garett's face, half-obscured by hair, not entirely covering the flush of desire, Dylan sees himself: a glimpse of himself through Garett's eyes.

Garett pushes back the errant strands, tucks them behind his ear so his eyes can smile at Dylan as he holds himself open with one hand, slicking himself inside with the other, stretching himself, his legs splayed as far as the arms of the plush chair will allow. Then Garett's gaze slips to Dylan's cock and lingers. Dylan doesn't linger: he slides his fingertips up and down his shaft, more than practical stroking, playing to give pleasure to Garett's pleasurable gaze. He watches Garett as he does so, watches Garett watching him, Garett's lashes fluttering without blinking. Dylan breaks the play only to get the lube, and then he's stroking again, stroking himself slick, as slick as Garett. Their eyes meet again.
"Ready?" Garett asks, and Dylan smiles as he nods. Sheathes his cockhead in the tight heat of his fist as Garett spreads himself wider with one hand and pushes back onto the dildo he's holding with the other.
Dylan slides off the sofa to his knees, one hand on his cock, the other caressing Garett through the too slick, too smooth, cool (oh, too cool) glass of the monitor. He traces Garett's spine, the curve and arch as Garett's head falls back and the curling ends of his hair slide down his nape, some facing in toward his skin, others curving out toward Dylan; Dylan's fingertip slides up to meet the curls but they don't part for him, they don't wind around him or slide away clinging as his hand falls from them.
Too close and not close enough, Dylan sits back on his heels, concentrates on his cock and the tendrils he can feel uncoiling in his balls. He matches his rhythm to Garett's, upstroke for upstroke, downstroke for downstroke, breath for heavy breath, swallowing his own soft moans to better hear Garett's static-encrusted sighs of "yeah, oh~."
Oh, and Dylan's breathing heavily, breathing deeply, exhaling Garett's name: calling him, yes, and Garett looks back over his shoulder, and they hold each other with their eyes as Dylan comes.
Dylan lets his legs unfold in front of him as he leans back against the sofa. Lets the come dry on his skin as he watches Garett, who is still looking back over his shoulder at Dylan, one hand on the chair back for balance and leverage, the other working the dildo in and out and in and...
And there's a hitch in the rhythm as Garett turns to sit in the chair properly; or, not properly, but facing front. He palms his balls, lifts them to expose himself, drapes his legs over the arms of the chair. So improper and gorgeous in his impropriety, draped over the chair so he's completely open to Dylan, open for Dylan, and Dylan wants with more than his gaze, he wants with his fingers and his tongue and his cock, soft and spent and satisfied, an ache woven into the satisfaction. Dylan wants, "please; Gare, please," and Garett, fucking himself with the dildo, his cock fucking his hand; watching Dylan eye-fuck him, Garett wants too, oh, oh and yes, he does--
They're quiet. Dylan makes no move to clean up because Garett likes this, this moment, this quiet. He likes to be able to look at Dylan in the afterness, even if he sometimes closes his eyes; he likes Dylan to be there when he opens them again.
So Dylan waits for Garett's eyes to open again before he gets up. He's not out of video range for long before he's back, holding up something, grinning as he brings it closer. Garett leans in to look as it fills the screen: it takes a moment for the letters and numbers to resolve themselves into a ticket to the northwestern United States.
When Dylan reappears onscreen, anticipation is riding the curve of Garett's smile: "Are you here yet?"
"Soon," Dylan says, smiling even though it's not soon enough, smiling because at least it is sooner than never; smiling because Garett is, too.

***

Garett is leaning against a column with his arms crossed over his chest when Dylan finally clears customs. He's looking off at something, or maybe at nothing in particular; Dylan doesn't follow his line of vision, he just looks at Garett. Then Garett's gaze sweeps over to the customs exit; focuses, and they're looking at each other. As Dylan crosses the floor, Garett pushes himself off the column, his arms unfolding to wrap around Dylan. They're in each other’s arms and Dylan can feel Garett's warmth even through the layers of polyblend and microsuede. Dylan traces Garett's spine, goes up under the jacket. The jacket is already untucked but the shirt is not, so Dylan tugs; Garett lets him, and Dylan's hand finds Garett's skin. His palm flattens, fingers splaying, his thumb brushing back and forth over the warmth of Garett's skin.
They stay like that, holding in the moment; then they step back and look at each other again.
"Hi," Dylan says.
"Hi." Garett grins. As they walk, he takes Dylan's hand, the one that had touched his bare back. They don't let go until they get to the car.
As they turn out of the airport, Dylan touches Garett's knee. Without glancing over, Garett permissively shifts his knee toward Dylan and Dylan begins to caress Garett's inner thigh, enjoying the gentle abrasions of denim against his palm. He touches his own thigh with his other hand and closes his eyes.
"Are you touching me," he hears Garett ask, "or am I touching you?"
Garett's eyes are on the road when Dylan looks at him.
"We're touching each other," Dylan says. Garett smiles, takes one hand off the wheel and reaches blind; their hands touch briefly before Dylan moves his out of the way, and Garett is touching his thigh. They are, they really are touching other.

"What do you want to do first?" Garett asks.
"I want to go down on you."
"Oh, I meant--"
Realizing only now that Garett was not asking in what manner Dylan wants to fuck him first, Dylan says, "I'm an idiot."
"No, I certainly didn't mean that." Garett grins, and then assures him, "And you're not." He glances over.
"I want to, too. Go down on you. We've never done that. I mean, you did that one time," Garett grins as Dylan's blush deepens at the contortionist memory, "but I'm not flexible enough. And it's not really the same," he adds as they slow for a yellow light.
The light turns red and they come to an idling stop, and Garett is able to take his eyes fully off the road. "We haven't kissed yet, either," Garett says softly.
"No, we haven't," Dylan, agrees.
"Do you want to now?" Garett asks, and Dylan nods.
Flash of Garett's tongue flicking over his own smile, and then their smiles touch for the first time. Their teeth touch, too, and can't seem to get out of the way for their tongues, which glance off each other.
"I can do that much better," Dylan says.