Page 127 of College Town

He has the same double bed he’s had since he graduated from his baby crib: a pale wood frame shoved into the corner to give him more floor space. He might still have theStar Warsposter – it’s a collector’s item, and it’s framed, now, matted and everything – on the wall above the desk, but he’s updated his bedding: a plain blue down comforter and matching pillows, one of which Tommy lies back against while he pages through one of Dad’s borrowed books.

It's not a sexy pose by any means, unselfconscious and honest, Tommy’s upper body twisted on the covers so he can angle the book closer to the lamp on the nightstand. Lawson wants to look at him and fill with lust; wants to burn, and blame it on a seductive gaze, or a suggestive posture. Wants it to be purely physical, because he’s old hat at walking away from physical temptations these days.

But instead, his attention fixes on the small details: the red toes of Tommy’s clean white socks on top of the coverlet; his New Balances upside down on the rug where he shucked them without untying the laces; the lines branching back from his eyes as he squints up at the page; the way he holds the book in the center at the bottom with one hand, while the other scratches absently at his chest through his shirt; the way hefitson the bed, when Lawson typically lies on the diagonal so his feet don’t stick off the end of the mattress. Lawson sees all of this, and his heart swells and his whole body warms, and he wants to pick Tommy up and put him in his pocket. Wants to snuggle him in close to his chest, and smell his hair, and feel the heat and slowness of his breath over the throbbing pulse in his throat.

Lust is a bodily craving, but love is a heart affliction, and Lawson still has no idea how to cleanse the wound it left behind, not even twenty years later.

Lawson drags in a rough breath, and the sound of it pulls Tommy’s gaze. “Making yourself at home?”

Tommy closes the book and sits up, but not in a hurry as though he feels guilty or caught-out. He sets the book on the nightstand beside Lawson’s glasses case and the book he’s currently reading – a smutty werewolf romance – and then shifts his legs around so they stick out in front of him, socked feet waggling over the edge of the mattress. He pats the coverlet beside him in clear invitation.

Lawson snorts. “Are you seriously inviting me into my own room?”

Tommy smiles, small and close-lipped. “Yes.” He pats the bed again.

Lawson shuts the door, and then goes to join him, mirroring his pose with his back against the wall and his legs stuck out. His feet reach much farther off the side of the bed.

He left a good three inches between them, but Tommy shifts his hips over so they’re touching all down the length of their sides, and Lawson’s heart leaps in automatic, unwanted response.

He knocks their legs together. “You’re short.”

Tommy laughs, a low, pleased chuckle. “You’re a sasquatch.”

“Well, that just means you have lousy taste in men.”

Tommy kicks him back, harder. “Shut up.”

“What are you doing in here?” Lawson leans over to shove at him with his shoulder, and Tommy shoves back. They fall into and easy side-to-side sway, a pantomime of childhood roughhousing.

Tommy lifts his foot and points with his toes. That’s when Lawson sees the duffel bag sitting in his desk chair, and the stack of Dad-loaned books on the edge of the desk itself.

“Is that a fucking Dolce & Gabbana duffel bag?” he asks, to cover the nervous titter of his laugh.

Tommy puts a little more oomph into his next shoulder shove. “It’s roomy. And lightweight. And durable–”

“And Dolce & Gabbana. Don’t try to logic your way out of this one, princess.”

“How do you even know what the Dolce & Gabbana logo looks like?” Tommy counters.

“My best friend is very fashionable. She drills me on these things. She’s got flashcards and everything.”

“Hm.” They settle back into a gentler rocking, left and right, left and right. Tommy’s voice lifts into a hopeful register. “Can I spend the night?”

Lawson could have argued against a declaration, or a grudging question, but this honest, little-kid, wishful asking…oh boy. He’s not strong enough for that.

“Do you want to spend the night?” he asks, hedging.

“Yes,” Tommy says, simply.

Lawson feels him watching him, the weight of his gaze on the side of his face. Goosebumps break out down his arms, visible thanks to his short-sleeved shirt.

Tommy’s hand lands slow and light at his elbow, and then strokes down his forearm, fire pressure, smoothing the hair in the correct direction.Your choice, that touch says.You can kick me out.

They spent the night together at the mansion, but this is different, and it makes it marginally less terrifying that Tommy seems to know it. The mansion is a non-personal, rented space, not much different than a hotel.

But this is Lawson’s home. This is where he grew up. This is the bed where the two of them learned how to love one another with their bodies, while the house creaked and drowsed around them, and snow drifted up in the windowsill.

Lawsoncouldkick him out. It’s tempting, in a way. But as he’s done since the day Tommy first walked into Coffee Town, he tortures himself with choosing to take what he can get while he can get it, and damn the consequences.

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