Page 34 of Man On

Panting heavily, I lay there in my mess, fully relaxed for the first time in weeks.

There’s a noise in the hallway just outside my door, and the click of Noah’s door shutting.

He was there. Listening.

CHAPTER 11

NOAH

The front door slams so hard the bathroom door rattles. I’d hoped he wouldn’t intentionally avoid me this morning, but despite being awake at the same ungodly hour, I keep missing him. The way he just ran out of the apartment is a good indicator that it's not coincidental.

I suppose there really wasn't much chance of us having a mature, rational, open conversation about what happened. That I’m the one wanting to be the mature, rational person in this fucked up arrangement is concerning, but I'm on the verge of a crisis of conscience. I was convinced I was doing the right thing last night. That it's what he wanted—what he needed. That I was helping him, but after the post-orgasm bliss wore off and reality set in, I spent the rest of the night second guessing myself.

It's not like I touched him or was even in the room with him. I knew he was jerking off, but it’s not like he had to. He could have told me to fuck off, or just ignored me. But he didn't.

Once I snuck out of my room and pressed my ear to his door again, I could hear his heavy panting. His moans crawled into my brain and made a home there. They haunted me for the rest of the night, and I spent more time dreaming about what he looked like when those sounds came out of him than I did actually sleeping. He was so much more vocal than when I made him do it in person.

After having him on my mind all night, my subconscious is so aware of him, I shot up out of bed the second I heard him shuffling around. I couldn't very well run out of my room right away with the obvious morning wood I was sporting, and missed my chance to see how much things have reverted to the way they were before.

I know I'm partially to blame for how things have been between us. Hell, I'm probably mostly to blame. Okay, I’m all to blame. But his pompous, socially awkward, repressed attitude hasn't helped these past four years. I feel like we’d been making progress the past couple weeks and I’ve been enjoying his company. I don't want to jeopardize that because I made a wrong call. I’m too invested… Too curious.

My cock is begging for attention, and I give in to my body's needs under the hot spray of the shower. It bothers me that Lane can't enjoy simple pleasure like this. It doesn't hurt anyone or anything. It's just a bodily function that happens to feel good.

If God didn't want us to play with it, why would he make it feel so good? I suppose Lane would say that temptations are put there to prove your devotion, but that seems like bullshit. Don't give me a fun toy and tell me not to play with it. That's just cruel.

Lane would be so much happier and more relaxed if he could just accept himself for who he is, and accept his body the way it is. He spends so much time exercising, shaping his body into something that could rival a marble statue. It's a shame he can't appreciate it. All those curves of muscle and hard planes. I've seen bits and pieces, but I can only imagine that his whole body is a work of art.

An unexpected rush of blood through my veins makes my cock pulse, and I thrust into my hand. The beige wall of the shower is coated in streams of cum. I watch it drip for several seconds while I catch my breath, wondering where the fuck that came from.

The water runs cold before I shake myself out of my confusion and get out to get dressed. There aren't any missed messages on my phone. I think about texting him, but now I feel like a clingy girlfriend. He probably just went for a run. He'll be back soon and we can talk it out. And if he doesn't want to talk it out, we can text it out. I just want to help.

In case he tries to come home and sneak into his room, I bring my laptop into the living room. I mess around on social media for a while, spending a little too long on Lane’s accounts. He rarely posts, but when he does, it’s usually a random picture with a Bible quote it made him think of.

With everything he’s learned to not be true, and everything he’s overcome, I find it fascinating that he believes in anything anymore. If it comforted him at all, I think I’d find the strength of his belief beautiful. But it doesn’t comfort him. At least from what I’ve seen, it seems like it does the opposite. He’s in agony from a lifetime of repression.

If he’d just accept himself for who he naturally is, he’d be so much better off.

That thought gives me an idea, and I click to the university’s social media pages, looking for something specific.

He’s going to hate this, but it’s something I have to try.

The next week flies by. Our professors haven’t gone easy on us for being athletes, and I’ve spent almost as much time studying as Lane. I’ve even bumped into him at the library a few times between classes. We sat at the same table, and have been comparing notes on some classes we are both taking.

We barely talk, but fall into an easy routine in the mornings and in the evenings after soccer, we come home and do our yoga. I've gotten rather attached to this little ritual of ours, and even Lane has begrudgingly admitted that it’s been good for our game. I'm feeling stronger and more balanced, which is helping me to be quicker on my feet. And I think Lane is feeling it too. It could be a placebo effect, but I like to believe our bodies are already reaping the benefits, just like the pros. Considering we both kicked ass at the match tonight, it’s easy to believe. I scored two goals on my own, and Coach Carr actually put Lane in the starting lineup, and he played almost the entire match. He’s a beast on the field, and I enjoy watching him.

I've fallen into bed every night this week completely exhausted, but I lie there staring at my phone. I don't know what I'm expecting, or what I'm hoping for. No, that's a lie. I know exactly what I'm hoping for, but admitting it even to myself feels like admitting to something else entirely.

He opened up to me a little that night after we watched Rocky Horror, and I got a glimpse of a different side of Lane. An honest, maybe a little broken, vulnerable side that has become my new hyper-focus. I want to crawl inside that brain of his and figure out what makes him tick. For once, I’m not trying to use it against him. I’m trying to get to know him.

And yeah, I want him to text me again. I’ve been patient, waiting for him to come to me for the release he needs. But damn if it isn’t driving me wild.

I’ve done a bit more research about the church Lane grew up in, and the compound that he lived in his entire life. I know I should keep my nose out of it and mind my own business, but every time I read something else, the more the pieces come together. Like how they controlled everything the residents did. From what they read to not allowing TV or music.

Is that why he likes The Beatles? They’re the only music I ever hear him listen to. Maybe it was the first thing he heard and he got attached? Not that I don’t like The Beatles, they’re great. But there’s a lot of really great music out there.

I think back to how wide-eyed and afraid Lane was of everything for the first year living with us. I don’t think I ever appreciated just how much of a transition he was going through.

Lane: Good game today.

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