Page 58 of Paint Eater
Jay just watched Logan for a moment, thinking about sacrifice and loyalty, and wondering why Logan would even bring it up if not out of some sense of guilt, some impulse to confess his own regrets.
It struck Jay as ridiculous, the fact that they were twenty and would already have regrets, but life was a strange and winding thing.
Jay wrapped his arms around Logan from behind, pressing a kiss against the nape of his neck. He didn’t have any words of comfort, just his touch and affection, and he hoped it would do.
They moved to the bed after a minute of just swaying there. They lay on their sides, kissing, soft and sloppy, stopping to just breathe each other in every once in a while. The room around them was fuzzy, the darkness gentle. The kisses barely heated even as they undressed slowly, one piece of clothing for every dozen kisses.
“Logan,” Jay said quietly, wrapping his hand around both their cocks.
They were slotted together, legs tangled, arms curled around each other. Jay watched Logan’s face, his parted lips, closed eyelids fluttering. He went slow, stopping only to get some lube, and the wet slide of his hand had even Jay whining a little.
“Fuck,” Logan groaned.
Jay went back to staring, drinking in every reaction, every twitch and aborted thrust, every sigh and grunt of frustration. The slanted pull of his eyebrows, the wet inside of his mouth.
“Come on,” Logan finally said after minutes upon minutes of that torturous pace. “Please. Please, Jay.”
God, Jay loved to hear him beg.
He tightened his fist around both of them, speeding up, and the sound that Logan let out, the pained cry of relief, shot right through Jay, almost making him spill right then.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Jay babbled. “Look at you. Fuck, baby, look at you.”
Logan whined, and Jay swallowed it up, pressing their lips together in an open kiss.
Logan was trembling, obviously trying to hold off, but Jay just sped his hand up further, sweeping over the heads of their cocks, hips thrusting against Logan.
“Come on,” Jay said. “Let go. Come on, baby, let go.”
With a cry, Logan spilt between them. Jay stared, pushing his orgasm down so he could watch Logan break and give, the beautiful collapse of his face and body.
Jay came only moments after, overwhelmed by the wash of it, the light that bleached all thought in its wake.
They panted, sweaty and sticky, their breaths contained between them. Jay knew that he should clean up, but all he could do was pull Logan closer, pressing their bodies together until Jay couldn’t quite tell where he finished and Logan began.
**********
Despite having only a week in Boston, they found some semblance of a routine.
Jay would say goodbye to Logan every morning, pulling him in playfully, kissing him like the farewell would be long and painful.
Jay mostly wandered when Logan was at work, enjoying the time alone a surprising amount. He’d never travelled by himself and had always been the type of person to want people he knew surrounding him. Even exploring Brooklyn and Queens was different. He felt accompanied by a city that was as close to him as any loved one, and he always kept an eye out for places to graffiti.
It was different to justbe, invisible and unknown. To watch without purpose, to walk without destination. It gave him time to think, and even though he rarely came to any solid conclusions, the process was enlightening enough.
After work, he and Logan would go do something Jay had found out about during the day. On Wednesday they went toLove is Calling, an exhibition by some artist named Yayoi Kusama. They entered a dark room lined with mirrors, wading through colourful, polka-dotted tentacles that glowed like an alien forest.
“Whoa,” Logan said, looking impressed.
“Like tentacles, do you?” Jay asked, waggling his eyebrows.
Logan rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to find out.”
Jay watched Logan’s skin illuminate with green and purple and pink, endless rows of him across the mirrors, endless versions of Jay always standing just a step away. He caught Logan’s hand, and the army of Jays did the same, each with identical desires to touch, to be nearer.
On Thursday, they went to a street art show made of flowers—massive, twisting forms, petals rippling like moving scales. The sweet scent baked in the summer air, filling up Jay’s head as they passed creature after creature, each a few days from death and decay.
Every evening they would eat out, Jay not objecting to Logan’s insistence on paying, not wanting to cause an unnecessary fight.
