Page 96 of Walking Wounded

Hal pulled back the smallest fraction, and when he blinked, his lashes fluttered against Luke’s, tangling together. Luke smelled beer on the rush of breath that touched his chin, his lips, his cheek. A dozen lines formed and were rejected in that fragile moment: protests, encouragements, desperate questions, declarations. But Luke voiced none of them, his fingers knotted in the cotton of Hal’s shirt, his breath lodged deep in his throat.

“I just,” Hal said, and kissed him again.

Deeper this time. Lips pressing and sliding. The shy stroke of a tongue. Nip of teeth. Quiet gasps drowned in more kisses.

Luke had known this was never a possibility, so he’d allowed himself the guilty pleasure of imagining it. Over and over, waking and in dreams. But this, the real thing, was nothing like what he’d thought, and he wasn’t going to waste this chance.

He catalogued every detail: the rasp of Hal’s stubble, under his fingertips and against his face; the spit-slick slide of their lips; scrape of teeth; the strong flex of Hal’s tongue in his mouth.

Hal’s tongue in his mouth. Hal’s big, warm, strong body between his thighs. Pressed together: hips, and stomachs, and chests. Breathing into each other’s mouths, hungry and hot and gasping.

Luke tugged Hal’s lower lip between his teeth and Hal groaned. A low, guttural sound that went straight to…

Oh.Oh. Luke was half-hard. And his hips were moving in slow little undulations, keeping rhythm with their kiss. A mindless grinding against Hal’s thigh.

Oh God, he thought, stilling. But Hal made another of thosesounds, and angled his head, deepening the kiss.Oh God, oh God, oh God…

Luke found the hem of Hal’s shirt and slipped his hands beneath, palms skimming across smooth, impossibly warm skin. He explored the knobs of Hal’s spine, the strong muscles that flanked them.

Hal kissed his jaw, scraped teeth along the bone, kissed and nipped down his throat, sucked at his thundering pulse. Luke let his head fall back, weak with want. He shoved his hands down, down, under the waistband of Hal’s sweats –

Hal froze. One moment he was rutting against Luke’s hip and working on what would no doubt be a spectacular hickey. And the next he was stiff and still. His mouth pulled away from Luke’s skin. “Oh shit,” he said in a choked voice. “I…”

He sat up. Pain flickered across his face, but he kept going, moved away from Luke, thumping back heavily on the couch cushions.

“Hal?” Luke nudged his glasses, heartbeat strong in his lips, and his hands, and his cock. “Are you – hey, Hal, it’s okay.” He sat up and smoothed his shirt down. Reached for Hal. “It’s–”

Hal flinched away from him. A tiny movement of his shoulder, but enough that Luke’s hand settled on empty air.

Luke felt like he’d been slapped.

“I…” Hal wouldn’t look at him, stared mindlessly at the TV. “I’m sorry, I…I can’t–” He surged to his feet, wobbling.

“Hal.” Luke heard the desperation in his voice. He reached for his friend again. “Hal–”

“I can’t,” Hal said again, and walked across the room. Stepped into the bedroom and shut the door.

Luke stared at the closed door, and waited. Five seconds. Ten. Thirty.

“Hal?”

He heard a muffled sound from the bedroom, but the door stayed shut.

“Hal?” One more time, just to be sure. A whisper.

But Hal didn’t answer. Because Hal…didn’t want him.

Hal was rejecting him.

Luke had told him, finally, told him that he loved him. So much.

And the answer was “I can’t.”

His heart went to pieces slowly, long spidery cracks blossoming across its surface, its meat whitening to marble. But the tears came quick and sure, hot down his cheeks. The sobs rolled up from deep in his belly, and he buried them in a couch pillow, tried not to let Hal hear him.

He cried himself to sleep, and the next morning, when he woke, puffy-eyed and empty inside, Hal was gone.

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