Too Deep, Too Real, Too Right

"Can't sleep?"

A shift, a groan, a defeated, painful sigh.

"Damn back hurts. Can't seem to - " more shifting and sighing - "get comfortable. Dammit ... "

You know nothing will ever happen with this beautiful man in the bed beside you, even though you've loved him since you first met. Nothing will happen, because your wife and children wait for you on the other side of the world. Because you're not in his bed by choice - you've been rushed in to double up because the hotel needed the extra rooms. Because you're not gay, goddammit (you've been telling yourself this for the past year of filming), and neither is he. He doesn't know how you feel, and he never has to. So it's safe, it's ok - you can offer him a back rub. He needs it, and you'll have a legitimate reason to touch him. Even now the thought of his bare skin under your fingers is driving you out of your mind with desire. You make a quick mental note not to let your hips too near his back, or he'll know what's up. Literally.

"Want me to try rubbing it?" You wait, then add, "Might help you sleep."

There's a slight pause before he answers. "Yeah, wouldja mind? It's really buggin' the shit outta me."

You have to make yourself breathe again before you scoot closer (not too close, remember), and stretch a trembling hand towards him. He's lying with his back to you, so he can't see you flick a nervous tongue over your lips. God, how can he not feel your thundering heartbeat? Your fingers make contact, your eyes close.

Bliss.

Skin on skin, his body rising and falling under your hand as he breathes. You immediately find the tight muscle, and he moans softly as you start massaging it.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Uh-uh", he mutters into his pillow. "S'ok, go ahead. It just needs to relax."

You continue, tracing the swollen spot to its source and digging in. He moans again, but this time you keep going. Gradually, it begins to soften and loosen. You feel the rest of his body relax too, from the way it slowly sags into the mattress.

"Better?" You ask after rubbing for a while.

"Yeah." His answer sounds almost like a sigh.

"Want me to keep going?" Your mouth suddenly dries up again - you can't believe you had the balls to ask.

"Yeah."

"'K."

Now you move your hand up and down his spine, finding and dispatching every tense fiber. His body gives like a rag doll under the pressure. He starts talking, discussing the day's shoot, the problems you've run into, jokes he's heard on the set. He starts laughing a little, and mumbles something you don't quite catch.

"What? Didn't hear ya."

This is the moment when your world changes. Time and sensation turn to a syrupy ether. Are you breathing? You can't remember. You know he says something as he turns back to face you, but it's some time before you can remember what it was. It was something like, "Didja hear this one about - "

And suddenly there you are, looming over him, looking down amazed into the bottomless blue wells of his eyes. His voice trails off into nothing, and he just looks at you. The way he's turned has put your faces inches apart, like movie lovers poised for a screen kiss. His shoulder is warm against your bare chest, his hair brushes your skin. You don't even notice that the hand that was on his back is now resting lightly on his stomach. It doesn't register that his breathing is as ragged as your own. All you feel, all you see, is his face floating inches below yours, eyes wide, not moving.

We're about to kiss, you tell yourself, somewhere in the dreamtime of the moment.

But that can't be right. This can't be real. So you hold there, suspended, waiting to see what will happen.

What happens is this: his lips and yours inch towards each other through the magically heavy air that surrounds you, and finally meet. Your eyes close. Maybe his do too, but you can't tell. Your heart lurches frighteningly when you feel his lips open. You tell yours to do the same. The motion is slow, slow, slow ... and then the kiss begins, so gentle, as if politely asking permission. You give it willingly, and sparks zoom through you, from your joined lips to the tips of your toes. You can't see it, but his other hand is raised, hovering in midair, wanting to touch you, but afraid.

It goes on like this for centuries, it seems - for what is time to you now? Your brain's muffled cries of I will not do this! are drowned out by Please don't stop, please, please, don't stop ...

Your eyes fly open in horror when you realize you've said this last one aloud. His eyes are open now too, startled and terrified and so, so fucking blue, even in the dimness of the hotel room. His hovering hand trembles uncontrollably as he pulls it with aching slowness through the dreamtime syrup and touches your face. Those eyes never leave yours as his head barely shifts from side to side in negation.

"I don't want to," he says.

And you know you'd go on kissing him even if the building collapsed around you. You dare it to, in your mind, as you slide your hand up his chest and press your lips harder against his. You want to feel his heart, and you're not disappointed - it's beating even faster than yours, if that's possible. Suddenly he shifts, turns towards you fully, takes your face in his hands, all without breaking the kiss. Your warning to yourself about not getting too close goes right out the window when he presses his whole body against you, and you know without a doubt that he wants you as much as you do him. Arms come into play, winding around bodies, tightening like snakes. Legs interweave warmly. Odd ... you thought the taste of cigarettes would sicken you ...

You wonder vaguely at this point, What exactly are we supposed to do? You've never been with a man this way. Has he? Does *he* know what to do? He pulls back then and speaks breathlessly, eyes half-closed with passion.

"I've never done this before," he whispers, answering your unvoiced question. "What do you want me to do?"

For a few seconds, you're speechless. "I don't know," you finally whisper back. "I've never done it either."

"Let's call Ian," he says quickly. "Maybe he can give us some pointers."

You both freeze. You're dead certain, even without a mirror, that you're both wearing thee dee deer-in-the-headlights expression, the one you put on when you've just made a joke at an outrageously inappropriate time - the look one wears when fighting a losing battle with laughter.

You both lose this time. The victory is swift and complete.

When you recover, some ten minutes later, you find that laughter has left you limp and melted against each other, rather like chocolate left too long in a warm room. He smells good, he feels good. Already, you can't imagine him in anyone's arms but yours (nor do you want to). You want to kiss him again, and you do. This time there's no hesitation from either of you.

But there's still the problem of what comes next. Once again you wind around each other, gasping a little when your hips press together. There's no mistaking the hard evidence of your wanting trapped between you. Without thinking, you roll on top of him and begin a gentle thrusting motion, the cloth of your underwear soaked through with arousal. He cries out softly and closes his eyes as you move against him. This, then, is how it will be - this smooth rocking together of hips and bodies, the volatile speeding of breath and heart, until at last the climax is wrung from you both.

You fall sideways and face each other, still clinging, gulping breaths, riding out the last sweet trills of orgasm. You know now as you lie with him that you've crossed into territory from which you cannot return. You're in his land now, a land made up of him, of all that he is to you. When the breathing has slowed, you open your eyes. He's looking back at you, his own eyes naked, raw, fulfilled. He makes it known, saying nothing, that only you could have done this. Again, you know without a doubt that your expression mirrors his own.

This is where you almost say it, what you've been wanting to say for so long. But you don't.

Instead, you roll over and look down at yourself. Not that you need to - your nose tells you everything you need to know. He does the same, and gives a little laugh.

"I think it's shower time," he says, his voice languorous, still tinged with the laughter you shared earlier.

Wordlessly, you get up, sliding carefully off the bed. You stand and offer him your hand. He takes it, and you lead him into the bathroom. You're both just self-conscious enough to stop and rinse out your underwear in the sink, hanging it to dry on the towel rack. It wouldn't do to have the help finding it and running off to gossip in the hotel locker rooms. God only knows what the press would do with this tidbit.

You wash together under the warm spray. As you rinse the soap from your loins, you feel him against your back. His hands gently hold your upper arms, his head falls forward to rest on your shoulder. He breathes out a long, deep, sigh, the kind that says without words I've waited so long for this. You stand that way for a while, until you reach out and turn off the water.

"Early call tomorrow," you say, even though you both already know this. "Gotta get some sleep."

You dry off together. Clean underwear is located and donned. Once again, you find yourselves lying quietly side by side in the cool bed. You don't touch, though you want it more than anything. You and he lie gazing at the ceiling, you wondering if he feels the same dreamlike disbelief that you do. Did this just happen? With *him*? More importantly, why don't you feel the least bit guilty? You try to force yourself, calling up the faces of your wife and daughters, imagining how they'd feel if they knew. Still nothing. After a few minutes of this thoughtful silence, you decide something has to be said. But what?

You open your mouth, wondering what com come out. "How's your back?" is all your dazed brain can come up with. You feel incredibly stupid the second it leaves your lips.

A few tense seconds tick by, and you hear what sounds like suppressed snickering coming from the other half of the bed. You look to your left and find him lying on his side, almost doubled up, with his hand clamped over his mouth.

"Fine, thanks," he manages after calming down a bit. "That massage really worked." His eyes glaze over, and he gives in to full-tilt laughter for the second time tonight. "Sorry ... sorry ... " he gasps between deep, ragged breaths. "Can't ... help it ... "

Soon you're caught up in it as well. It is kind of funny, when you think about it - that *was* a pretty dumb question.

"How's your back" ... God, what was I thinking, you chide yourself between helpless giggles.

This wave of hilarity doesn't las los long as the first, and soon you both calm down and settle into your pillows, still not touching. You stare resolutely at the ceiling, promising yourself that the next thing that comes out of your mouth will be serious and meaningful. On your left, you can feel him silently watching you. Time drags by, you don't know how much, but you can feel things unsaid weighing down the room like an anvil. It seems hours that you lie there together, not saying them.

"Sean?"

His voice shocks you in the deep quiet, sounding almost hesitant. Ylearlear your throat and notice that your heart rate has shot up again.

Oh, boy, you think. Here we go.

"Yeah?"

You don't know what to expect, but what you hear next is definitely not it.

"Would you freak out if I said I loved you?"

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The feeling of unreality slams down on you like a ton of bricks. You blow out a sudden breath, as if those bricks had all landed squarely in the middle of your stomach. You have to say something. And this time, it can't be a joke, or a lame-ass question. This is serious shit.

You will *not* fuck this up, you order your whirling brain.

"No." You swallow hard and finish. "Would you freak out if I said it back?"

And it's out there, finally, FINALLY. The weight of it that you've carried all this time puffs away through your mouth, in your words, like lead turning magically to vapor on your tongue. Gone - just like that.

"Are you kidding?" His voice is trembling. "You have no idea how much I've wanted you to."

Something inside you comes unhinged when he says that, and there's not a goddam thing you can do about it. The tears come, along with great gasping sobs of relief. You put your hands over your face and lie on your back, weeping and laughing at the same time. This feels too good, better even than the orgasm you just had. If it gets any better, it might just kill you. He moves swiftly to your side arapsraps you in his arms, laughing/crying right along with you.

"I love you, Sean," he whispers fiercely. "I love you," he says, over and over next to your ear.

You take your hands off your face and grab him, squeezing as tight as you can. "I love you too, Elijah," you whisper back through your tears. The kissing starts again, but this time it's not the desperate, pinch-me-I'm-dreaming kind. This is full and deep and knowing, succulent with salt, sweetened with light.

The next morning, you leave in a hurry, forgetting the four pairs of underwear draped in the bathroom to dry. On the set, comments are made (in complete ignorance) that you and he appear much more rested and relaxed than the rest of the cast called in for the day's shooting. You don't notice Ian peering intently at the two of you over his newspaper, then going back to his reading with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing smile.