The Best

Glam woke before the sun, when the room was still awash in predawn blue, everything fuzzy at the edges like an old photograph. He shifted, still halfway between sleep and waking, registering the feel of another body along every inch of him. There was a leg hooked casually over his hip, an arm slung around his waist, and a mess of spiky hair nestled beneath his chin. A pair of lips mouthed aimlessly at his neck, and he squirmed at the strange yet familiar sensation. The lips began to suckle more insistently, hands traveling up the xylophone of Glam's ribs to pinch and squeeze appreciatively. “Ches,” he warned, too groggy to sound stern, already pulling away on automatic. Ches made a low humming groan but obediently withdrew, a garbled apology smothered against Glam's shoulder. The two disentangled from each other, skin sliding innocently across skin—Indian summer made it too hot for sleepwear, and the stuffy trailer didn't help—until the two lay side by side. This was how Glam and Ches greeted every morning. They'd start the night platonically enough, back to back, hands to themselves, but at some point in the midnight hours, their guard would lower, and they'd end up entwined in each other's arms. The narrow, twin-size bed didn't afford much in the way of room anyway, but Glam had to wonder if that was really the only reason why. Not that it made much difference. In another hour, they'd be fully awake. And by the time they'd slipped out of bed, life would continue on as usual, just the way it had for the past few weeks. After the first night of Glam's “exile”—that was Ches's word for it; said it made him sound like a tragic hero or something—living under the same roof had worked out as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. There had been a few logistics to sort out, like convincing Ches's mom that Glam was just crashing for a few nights without really going into the details. The lie worked just fine so long as Glam stayed out of her sight now and then. Her memory not being the sharpest, she would eventually lose track of the time and at her next interrogation, the two would simply reset the counter over again. His wounds had healed by the second week. But that didn't mean they itched any less, and he made it a habit to cover his wrists whenever possible. Ches didn't say anything on the day he unwrapped the bandages for the last time, but when he surprised Glam with a gift of black leather cuffs to take their place, Glam cried for the second time in front of his friend. He was almost never without them. With summer break still in full swing, Glam and Ches were able to dedicate their time purely to their music. They'd spend the day in Ches's room, playing records, trying their hand at songwriting, and practicing cover songs and originals. They even busked on sidewalks and outside record stores for a little extra cash. They never hit another $100 jackpot, but it was still fun. And at least he could use it to cover his portion of the groceries, Glam insisted. It was a time of newness, of countless firsts. Sometimes clumsy, sometimes exhausting, but always invigorating. There was so much to occupy Glam, it was weeks before he even picked up his violin case. It had remained near-forgotten behind the wall of empty bottles beneath Ches's bed, but at Ches's urging, he managed to play a short piece. The tone was strident to his ears, humidity and neglect wreaking havoc on the violin's strings, but there was still a certain giddiness he got when he played it left-handed. Ches had told him he sounded awesome. And in the evenings, there were the shows. WhoAreThoseFreaksOnStage?—band name still pending—had already performed two more times at the same venue, with another gig lined up at the new club across town. They'd even drawn a small following, the same groupies tailing them from show to show. Heavily tattooed metalheads slapped them on the back after each performance, and teenage girls with long legs and sweet-smelling hair would wait outside rehearsals. Glam still had one of their numbers, hastily scribbled on a bar napkin and signed in pink lipgloss. If he could just remember where he'd put it. But it wasn't the girls that had him yearning for the shows. Glam came alive on the stage. He'd slam down on the whammy bar, the notes shrieking higher the lower he went, fingers strumming out a brutal riff. He could whip the crowd into a frenzy, pulse pounding at their screams of ecstasy. He was young and wild and wholly in his element. Unstoppable. His friend beside him could sing with the best of them, wailing into the mic like a cat in heat, making it vibrate with the force of his vocals. When their eyes met across the stage, it was like they were the only two in the whole room. Grinning and delirious, sweat-slicked skin glittering under the spotlights, Ches was a vision. Eyes bright with exhilaration, he would raise his arms to gesture to the cheering crowd. But he was all there was to see. There were late nights and after-parties and a joint passed around on occasion—although Glam never participated—and when they came stumbling back home, the bed made for one was somehow just enough for two, because sure enough, one or both would curl into the other as naturally as if they'd done it their entire lives. And when wakefulness found them, they'd drift apart again as though it'd never happened. This was how Glam and Ches greeted every morning. Until, of course, the morning they didn't. Something woke Glam earlier than usual. He was naturally a light sleeper, especially compared to his bedmate. The front door shutting, a raccoon rummaging through garbage, or a morning birdsong was often all it took—a childhood built on anxiety and paranoia having sharpened his sensitivity to a razor's edge. He took his time, in no rush to leave dreamland if he could help it. Eyes closed, he lay still, letting consciousness sift into place, filling the cracks of reality where a dream had just been. The details of it were long gone, eluding him as swiftly as sand in a tight fist. But whatever it was, it'd been nice. Slickhotfrictiontightsuckingburst— Oh, right. That dream again. More like actual events based on a true story. His brow pleated as he willed the images to stop mid-replay. But that was about as easy as trying not to imagine a blue kitten vomiting rainbows. See? The memory of his first night here was tucked away quietly on a corner shelf in his mind, prized and guarded. But that didn't mean it wasn't often brought down again. Glam found himself peeking into it whenever he had a moment of privacy, briefs down around his knees, cock in hand, and trying so, so hard to focus on the girl with the long legs. Stacy? Or was it Tracy? But invariably, those forbidden memories would supplant even his most valiant efforts—sorry, Gracie—and he'd hole himself away to pore over each meticulously recorded detail, reliving the sounds and smell and taste of— Ches shifted behind him. One strong arm was braced across his torso, scooping Glam against his chest, while his knees bumped beneath Glam's thighs. Something hot and thick prodded along his crack, and Glam nearly swallowed his tongue. If he had been trying to be still before, he was made of stone now, not even daring to breathe as his mind spun with the one, overwhelming fact: Ches was hard. Morning wood wasn't an unusual occurrence. Hell, he couldn't fault Ches for something perfectly natural—especially when he himself was equally guilty of it. But with the vestiges of the dream still in his loins and his mind aflame with fantasies, the thought was enough to stir the arousal that was pooling in Glam's stomach. Brought it to a boil. I could push him away, Glam thought to himself. Same as usual. A gentle shrug here, a firm elbow there, and they could turn away from this, let daylight fizzle it all away like one more dream. A roll of the hips, and Ches's erection slid deliciously along the cleft of his ass, and any thought of stopping this vanished. His briefs grew uncomfortably tight. He clutched reflexively at Ches's hand just as it caressed his chest, a thumb grazing carelessly over one nipple. Glam sucked in a breath, telling himself it was purely accidental, and that he had no right to read any more into it. After all, they hadn't done anything—not after that first night. What had passed between them had gone largely unaddressed, left to smolder on coals that were very quickly burning a hole in Glam's resolve. Sexual tension sizzled on the cusp of every interaction, but because Ches never broached the topic, Glam took that as a sign to leave it. He'd been prepared to write the whole thing off as a mere lapse in judgment or possibly even a hallucination. It had certainly felt surreal enough. Nothing about it had made sense with his typical worldview. Glam had awoken the morning after, fully expecting to face a barrage of shame, years of Catholic guilt promising to rain down fire and brimstone on his immortal soul. Instead, Glam had felt sound in himself, replete with a cozy sense of self-assuredness. He had been changed by the experience, made better by it. Because after a lifetime bereft of affection, the act had given him a taste of what it meant to be treasured, to be wanted. And Glam wanted more of that feeling. But what about Ches? He still held Ches's hand flat against his chest—not pulling it away, not removing it. Just holding it in place. Through the palm, he could feel the frenzied pizzicato of his heart plucking away, and he had to wonder how in God's name it hadn't woken Ches up yet. Its siren call was getting harder to block out. If Glam had learned anything in the months of knowing Ches, it was that he never did anything unless he wanted to. His onstage persona evidently extended to his personal life as well, motto and all: He played what he liked. The candidness of it startled Glam at times, who was accustomed to passing up his own needs in favor of pleasing those around him. He envied Ches his courage to be so honest. Just then, Ches snuffled around a sigh and squirmed closer, burying his nose at a spot beneath Glam's ear that had him biting off a gasp. When his tongue flicked out to graze Glam's skin, desire shot across his nerves. Desire? Now who was being honest? A hum, then "Glam," Ches's unwitting answer was little more than a mumble, lips working their way over to nibble at his earlobe, breath rasping across his skin in light puffs. This shouldn't have been so hot. He shouldn't have been letting this continue. But why the hell did it even need to stop? Glam's mouth fell open, trying hard not to pant but doing a shit job of it. Two hearts beat in place of one, each throbbing pulse of his cock rallying for attention. He grasped Ches's hand tighter, stopped to think—stopped thinking—and guided it lower down his front, past the plane of his belly, knuckles brushing the waistband of his underwear. "Ches," he breathed. "Please." Because dear God, he wanted this. He needed this. He'd been yearning for that touch, that release, that sharing in something incredible. With Ches. Fire lit his cheeks, made his head go steamy. His hand tingled while it moved further south, following the shape of Ches's fingers as they smoothed, spread—touched him. He gave a whiny keen, turning his face into the pillow to smother it. "Please," he said again, eyes clenched shut. And Ches needed no more instruction than that. He kneaded his palm gently over Glam's clothed erection, a sumptuous combination of pressure and friction that had Glam arching into him with an indulgent sigh. His movements grew more confident, more sure. Fingers stroked up and down Glam's shaft, massaging his girth between the V of pointer and middle. He squeezed. Glam buckled. "Glam, can I—" Ches exhaled sharply, canting his hips to rub shamelessly against Glam's bottom, thrusts matching the rhythm of his hand. He planted a wet kiss on the juncture between neck and shoulder. “No underwear, 'kay?” It wasn't so much a question as a plea. Glam nodded jerkily, taking his hand from where it had been guiding Ches and hooking a thumb around his waistband to slip it halfway down his thighs. Ches was grunting behind him, busy wrestling with his own, and when his erection finally sprang free, it smacked against Glam's thigh like a fire poker. Before Glam could think much about the implications of that, Ches's fingers were wrapped around him again, the heat of his palm outmatched only by Glam's blazing temperature. This was different than the last time, all frantic groping and blind desperation, because Glam had been wanting this—wanting him. Glam rolled towards Ches, burying a hand into the hair at the base of his neck and pulling him close, crushing their mouths together so that their teeth clacked before the kiss dissolved into a tangle of tongues. It was sloppy and harried, but the two boys thrilled in the simple exchange of spit and taste and heat. Glam forgot his shame as his other hand skittered down Ches's chest, barely having time to marvel at the expanse of uncharted skin before he took his friend in hand. Hot enough to brand. There was no finesse, Glam going off of the playbook of his memories, the little he'd picked up from their first time embellished by countless fantasies. But where he lacked in skill, he made up for in eagerness. A pained grunt by Ches made Glam pull back, an apology fast on his lips. "No, it's okay. It's okay." Ches's voice was a full octave lower, heavy with sleep and lust. Hair even more disheveled than usual and his eyes glassy, he looked as wrecked as Glam felt. "Just—like this. Here." He stopped jerking Glam off long enough to guide his hand into a rhythm that worked for him. His approving hiss was almost enough to push Glam over the edge right then and there, but he wanted to hear that sound again too much to lose himself just yet. Ches renewed his grip around Glam's cock, propping himself up on his free arm and granting them both a better angle with Glam flat on his back. When their lips met again, it was slower this time, more care taken to the exploration of each other's mouths while they stroked in unison. Glam mimicked Ches's corkscrew twist with his hand that had him seeing stars each time, and the sweet groans from Ches sent jolts down to his dick, like the two were connected by the same live wire. Every warm slide of their tongues fed a closed loop, an endless feedback of pleasure, the mounting electric charge threatening to overload, before Ches broke the circuit. "Glam." Ches's voice squeezed out around something in his throat, his back a question mark as he curled over him. “Glam, I want to—” For once, words didn't come easily. Another kiss and a hiss: “Fuck.” "W-what?" Glam's focus was still scattered, caught somewhere between his heart and his groin. Empty air cooled Glam's kiss-swollen lips as his best friend pulled away, just far enough that their mouths still brushed with every word: "I want to fuck you." Glam's brain flatlined. What? It took him a few attempts to jump-start it again, each resuscitation exposing only snippets of conscious thought that splattered across the walls of his mind like a Pollock painting. Kissing and handjobs were one thing. But that? Can I? The question went unspoken, Ches studying him with half-lidded eyes. No judgment nor expectation. Just standing by with an open acceptance of whatever Glam was willing to give him. Longing and trepidation wrestled over Glam's heart in equal measure, the prospect of doing something so physically intimate as thrilling as it was terrifying. Tension bore down on his chest, his stomach curling painfully into itself like he hadn't eaten in days. Starved. And in a way, he was. Touch-starved and aching, at the end of his rope, desperate to make up for so much that he'd let pass by unclaimed. He had lived more in these past few months than all the years of his life, old constructs being disassembled in favor of new ones. And at the center was Ches, the catalyst for his transformation. For too long, Glam had been a stranger to himself, no more substantive than the music he simply performed at his father's direction: pleasing to the ear but cold and impersonal. By contrast, Ches had invited him to sit back and merely listen. When he listened now, the answer came without refute: He wanted this. Because Ches was his best friend, a genius, a rock star, a wild thing, a sea of limitless possibilities, and he wanted to see how deep he went—how deep they could both go. And there was no better time than now. Here. Together. When he finally managed to get his brain online again, he was blindsided by the intensity of its resolve: "Yes." The simple word hung loud and uncontested in the quiet room. Ches groaned his thanks into the side of Glam's neck, leaving marks wherever his lips touched. “Shit, Glam. You have no idea how badly I've wanted to hear you say that,” he panted around a smile. Never before had a single word held so much power, and Glam felt it closing one chapter and opening a new one with all the gravity and splendor of cathedral doors. And he was long overdue for his baptism at the altar of Ches. They fell into another round of heavy petting, Ches drawing Glam to the edge again and again until he was a dizzy, blithering mess in his hands. If Glam was steamy before, he was a raging inferno now that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving him panting and lightheaded. But in what Glam was recognizing as a pattern, Ches pulled away just before he could burn out. With a parting peck on Glam's forehead, Ches hopped out of bed and scurried around the room with a boyish giddiness that played counterpoint to his earlier passion. The first thing he did was kick the turntable into action, notes from whatever record had been on last night filling the air once more. From the bed, Glam groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Are you seriously setting the mood right now, dude?" His cock twitched on his stomach, simultaneously moved by the sentiment and missing Ches's attentions. Ches tsked, his voice coming from somewhere closer to the floor as he rooted through the desk's bottom drawers. "You'll thank me when the guitar solos are there for your petite mort." There was a pause, as though he were listening for some sign of life on the other side of the door. Seemingly satisfied that they were well and truly alone, he went back to what he was doing and soon gave a whoop of glee. "Found it!" No sooner had he clambered back onto the bed with his spoils, than Glam shuffled to his elbows to stare. “Y-you just keep this kind of stuff lying around?” He couldn't take his eyes off the small plastic bottle and foil packet. “Well, you never know when opportunity might come knocking,” Ches answered slyly, rolling his eyes to the side as he grinned. “I was trying to get with that girl from the conservatory. You remember her?” He paused to pop open the bottle of lube. “The one with bacon-brown eyes?” Glam just blinked, realizing how wrong he'd been to call Ches “green” all those months ago, when it was now clear that his friend was anything but. A part of him was intimidated by Ches's repertoire of grown-up experience: alcohol, smoking, sex. It felt like there were decades between them, Ches an old soul in a teenager's body, while Glam was just recently coming into himself. Born yesterday. “Hey, stay with me.” Ches's hand on Glam's cheek interrupted his thoughts. “I want you here for this.” He pressed their foreheads together, long fingers curving around the back of Glam's head and sinking into his nest of blond hair like he was cradling something precious. “We're the only ones here.” A kiss on his right cheek. “And I told you.” Left cheek. "I've been wanting this. You." Lips. "Since—" “Since when?” Ches hummed. “Let's see. Since du-du-du?” That nearly earned him a punch right in his face. But Ches was too quick, pinning Glam's hands above his head and diving in to smother him with kisses. Every attempt to act offended failed miserably, and Ches ended up swallowing the laughter that bubbled up Glam's throat. Of course he remembered the day at the conservatory. It was the morning right after he'd first discovered glam metal, walking straight up to Ches with that maniacal grin plastered on his face. Not his most flattering moment. He remembered Ches looking at him funny like he'd had a few screws loose at the time. Maybe he did. Life-altering experiences tended to have that effect on a person. But then Ches had picked up on Glam's insanity, lifting a hand and du-du-du-ing right along with him. Was that when it had clicked for Glam too? The realization that Ches was not like any other boy he knew. That they saw things in that same odd, off-kilter way, two outsiders in a world that didn't quite know what to do with them. Perhaps whatever they had really couldn't be defined. But that didn't matter, because it made sense to Glam. It took only a little reconfiguring—kisses and high laughter filling the awkward spaces while they tried to arrange themselves comfortably on the narrow bed—until Glam's legs were on either side of Ches's hips where he knelt between them. Glam's hands flexed at his sides as he watched, nerves and apprehension squeezing his breath to a shallow stream. Ches worked slowly, deliberately, broadcasting every move so that Glam could follow. Dribbling the lube generously onto two fingers, he rubbed them together until it had warmed. He shifted forward enough, letting Glam's legs rest on the tops of his thighs. His tongue peeked out from the gap in his teeth, and Glam looked at that rather than his hand as it disappeared out of sight to probe where he was splayed open and exposed. He flinched when Ches's fingers first made contact, but a crooning hush and another hand on his flagging cock—and things went from chilled to fiery in the span of a heartbeat. Because those hands that had never touched ivory keys, never held a Stradivarius violin, never performed in a symphony orchestra, played Glam's body with a skill that would have made Paganini himself blush. Ches didn't simply play music, he breathed life into it, made it sing. Stroking and pressing, circling and pulling, coaxing and teasing, Ches eased Glam open beneath him. It wasn't long before Glam was panting, hair plastered to his cheeks with sweat, the effort of holding himself together while he was undone from the inside out teetering on a delicate E string. His whole life, Glam had been told he had perfect pitch, but even he had never known the full range of his notes, his vocal cords sliding up and down the scale, ushered by Ches's hand. And his fingers—God, his fingers!—heated Glam until he sizzled, moving with the aim of prepping him to accommodate something bigger. To accommodate him. Glam clenched at the thought. And Ches was right there to guide him through it, all reassuring kisses and words of praise against his temple. After a bruising kiss that had Glam wanting more—and it was hard to believe there could even be more when he was already so full—Glam grasped Ches's arms, nails biting crescent moons into his biceps. Moisture welled in the corners of his eyes as he shook through his next words: “J-just do it. I'm ready.” Ches's hand never paused as he regarded him with a curious, lilting hum. “You don't sound ready. In fact, you sound like you're about to fall apart.” As if to illustrate his point, he bent down to run a tongue across one pert nipple, chuckling when Glam yelped. “I swear to God, Ches. If you don't do something soon, I'll break your fucking guitar.” It was a plea disguised as an empty threat. Ches sat back onto his heels, slipping his fingers free as gently as he could but still leaving Glam gasping with the sudden relief-slash-ache of being emptied. He spoke, cool and unhurried as ever, as he tore open the packet and unrolled a condom. “Just let me know if I do anything that hurts. Got it?” The slightest tremor belied his ill-constrained excitement. “Can you do that?” Glam nodded, casting both arms across his face, the words racing out of him. “YesIknowIgotitalreadyjustgetonwithit.” One of Ches's hands came to rest on Glam's knee, leaning onto it with enough weight to urge it open further. Like that was even possible. Glam was about to tell him as much—but then he felt the hot bulb of Ches's cock at his twitching entrance. And he decided to save the quips for later. Sucking in a breath, he tensed, waited. One infinite moment passed, then another. “Well? What are you waiting for—” But fingers were then entwining with Glam's own, his right hand being lifted from his face so that he had no choice but to look, really look at Ches, barechested and flushed, poised on the brink. Pupils blown wide, those hazel eyes were almost black, like bottomless pools that Glam was tumbling into. Drowning. At their depths was something that made Glam's heart stutter. Ches looked as if he had something to say, but he didn't say a word. Just moved. With a single roll of his hips, Ches breached the tight ring of muscle and slid the head of his cock inside him. Glam's breath escaped him in a whoosh. For a moment, his senses took leave of him, his mouth opening and closing, working uselessly around a word—a thought, an impression, a reaction. Anything. But his brain refused to cooperate, couldn't get over the image of sheet music being torn in two. Pain flared where he was skewered, and his courage scattered like a flock of spooked birds. He clenched down in a fit of panic, squeezed his eyes shut just as fiercely, every instinct telling him to get rid of whatever was stabbing him, to get away. The harder he tensed, the worse it got, and it hurt, searing, vicious, and he was going to break— “Glam, stay with me.” Ches's voice filtered into his hearing, soft as sunlight breaking through cloud cover. Lips grazed the backs of his curled knuckles, drawing out the strain from his tendons with each tender kiss, until his claws softened by degrees, went limp. He pulled Glam's hand to his chest, cradled it against the warm wall of flesh as he husked, “You're doing great. Just focus on the music.” And he could hear it now. Music was all around him. It was in the twang of electric guitar chords wafting through the air. In the thrum of his own blood in his ears. And in the steady beat of Ches's heart beneath his fingers. Life's original metronome. With it, Glam found his center. Gradually, the lines of tension that had etched themselves across his face lifted, muscles unwinding one by one as Glam dissolved into the music. Into Ches. For the first time in forever, he breathed, the flood of life-giving oxygen in his lungs taking the edge off the pain. What had burned now merely tingled, hurt diluted to a dull ache. His nerves were changing, adapting, reinterpreting stimulation and it felt—good still seemed like a long way off, the sensation of being stretched and filled still an unfamiliar song. But Glam was beginning to pick up on the notes. He opened his eyes. Ches must have sensed the transformation, felt Glam relax around him, because he murmured his thanks, wrapped a hand around the top of Glam's thigh for leverage, and pushed in. This time, Glam offered no resistance, and he sheathed himself completely until they were flush against each other. They shared a lyrical gasp. “Ffffuck.” Ches shuddered around a wanton moan, posture crumbling so that for a moment the only thing holding him up was Glam's hand braced against his chest. “You feel amazing, Glam,” he panted. “So goddamn good. Don't ever let me leave.” Brows puckered in some unnamed effort while his lips hung slack, he was rapture in human form. Ches's eyes slid open only to half-mast, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looked at Glam with the kind of dazed concentration reserved for a particularly challenging power chord, body and mind churning over the piece because he wanted to play it perfectly. When he started to move, he did it with care, dealing out no more than what Glam could take. It forged the way for Glam's pleasure, and gradually, suddenly, mere discomfort came into tune, becoming something that sent sparks zinging throughout his body with each thrust. His erection, which had floundered, found itself at home again in Ches's palm. As he was stroked to the rhythm of those hips, Glam clasped his hand over Ches's, wanting to touch himself—wanting to touch Ches even more. Together, they drew his arousal bit by bit towards his center. Time stretched into infinity, every second offering a tome's worth of sensation that left Glam reeling with the effort to read it all. It was hard to spare a thought to anything outside of this. His whole world was spiraling down to the one point of connection where Ches moved within him, occupying every space, the lines of their identity blurring into this singular, inseparable unit. Something more. There was only this, only him, his one constant, his one saving grace. All things leading to this foregone conclusion: to be cherished was to be loved, and to be loved was to thrive. Expression steeped in adoration, Ches lifted Glam's hand to his face, nuzzled a cheek into the curl of his fingers, turned his head to plant a kiss on the heel of his palm. Locking eyes with Glam, he let his lips skim lower, lower, right over the scars of his wrist. Touched the ugliest part of him—and kissed it. Without warning, Glam came. Arousal flared inside him like a struck match, sudden and hasty. It punched the air from his lungs so that he could only manage a cracked moan as his climax razed through him, without him, a hungry fire on too small a pile of kindling, because this was still so new to him, and he was yet unschooled. He stumbled, tripped over the edge rather than soared, then crashed back down to reality in a messy jumble. But Ches was there to catch him. He was still coming back to himself in increments as Ches milked the last drops of his orgasm from him, cock red and rubbed raw with overstimulation. No sooner had he finished, than Ches traded his hold to grab Glam about the middle, pressing thumb-shaped bruises into the crests of his hips as he thrust. He abandoned all sense of tact, rutting fitfully into Glam to chase after his own climax. It was on him soon enough, Ches stuttering, bucking, crushing himself against Glam's body as though he could possibly fit in any more of himself. He came without a sound. Features softened by sex's glamour, he went still, the throbbing of his cock deep inside Glam ticking off the measure of his release. When he came down from heaven, he descended with the grace of an angel. Heaving a luxuriant sigh, he melted down into Glam's chest. For a while, there was no reason to move, every shared breath and pressed-close beat of their hearts slowly crystallizing the moment around them. Gingerly, Glam took stock of his body, cataloging the assortment of minor aches and pains that had lain hidden under the veil of pleasure and were now making themselves known. He hurt in places he didn't even know he had. Glam felt disheveled, dirty, debauched. He couldn't dream of being anywhere else. Lifting his arms, he wrapped them around Ches's shoulders, not knowing what else to do but knowing it felt right to hold him. He marveled at the simple gesture, so chaste compared to what they had just done, but it still made his heart sing a grateful hymn. He could have stayed like this forever. Reality, however, was not so patient. The pool of cum still sandwiched between them was beginning to cool into a tacky mess on his stomach, the visual tainting the otherwise blissful mood. He wrinkled his nose and shifted in place. “I take back what I said about your ass,” Ches drawled from somewhere south of his chin. Stretching luxuriously like a cat, he propped his chin on one hand, giving Glam the dopiest grin he'd ever seen. “So? Whadya think?” “It was—” Incredible, exciting, overwhelming. “New.” At Ches's arched brow, he hurried to correct himself. “I mean, it wasn't what I was expecting. I didn't think it'd, uh, work that way.” “Yeah. Me neither, honestly.” In an impressive show of discipline, Ches extracted himself from Glam's embrace, spent cock slipping free and leaving Glam shivering at its departure. With unnerving skill, he peeled off the condom, looped off its top, and tossed it into the trash. It hit with a wet thud. Reaching for the box of tissues, he glanced over his shoulder to ask, “You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?” But Glam only blinked at him, the gears in his head still processing the first thing Ches had said. “Wait, you mean you've—” His voice went squeaky. “You'd never done that before?” Ches wiggled a finger in his ear and made a face. “Uh, no. Why, could you tell?” “No, it's not that. It's just—” Glam tried not to squirm as Ches began to clean up the mess from his stomach, the contrast of musky skin and perfumed tissue making his head spin. “You're—I mean, we're not even—” Glam looked around, trying to dodge the truth staring him in the face. “Gay?” Incredible that the word left a bad taste in Glam's mouth despite the fact that he could still feel the ache left by Ches's cock inside him. The irony would've been hilarious if it were happening to anyone but him. “I thought you liked girls,” he finished lamely. “I thought you did too,” Ches said, shooting a meaningful glance at the evidence of their lovemaking still painted in abstract lines across his stomach. “Hey, you like what you like. And that's nobody's business but your own.” He balled up the wad of tissues and scored a three-pointer into the trash bin. Taking his place by Glam's side on the bed again, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. The mattress creaked as he shrugged. “Life's too short to get caught up in labels anyway. Why complicate things?” A part of Glam's mind dug its heels in, refusing to be lulled by Ches's oversimplification. It couldn't possibly be this easy, could it? There had to be something he was missing. Confusion knit its questions across his brow. Ches nudged him with one shoulder, jostling him from his thoughts. “Would it help if I said you're a great lay?” He scooched closer, emboldened by the blush tinging Glam's cheeks, voice dripping like honey. “It was so fucking hot, seeing you squirm on my dick. Hearing you whimper like that—” Glam scoffed, shoving his face away. “All right, Casanova. Give it a rest.” Who knew Ches could be such a dirty talker? In one fluid movement, Ches ducked beneath Glam's hand, weaving their fingers together and bringing them to his lips. He brushed kisses idly over the backs of his knuckles as he mused, “I mean it. I liked hearing you, seeing you like that. And I wanna see you like that again.” Again? Love flickered its wings against Glam's heart. He tried to deflect the implication with a laugh, unsure if it was meant to be a joke, just more sappy drivel. With Ches, it was sometimes hard to tell. His emotions often ran so contradictory to his actions, Glam doubted he would ever really be able to figure the boy out. But if he had any doubts as to Ches's intention, they dissipated beneath the sincerity in his gaze, and Glam's vision went hazy with affection. Mischief curled Ches's lips as he nestled closer, eyeing Glam's mouth for a long moment before leaning in and claiming it with his own. So easily, so naturally. So confident in the knowledge that he would always be welcome there. And that Glam would always respond in kind. The record had long since run out of tracks, skipping in place and waiting for a new song. In the quiet room, words were whispered between them like prayers in church. “How long will we have this?” “As long as you'll have me.” “What am I to you?” “Mine.” “What does this make us?” The answer came effortlessly: “Together, the best.” A promise sealed with a kiss. They were alive to each other's hands and lips, each caress fanning the embers of their previous lovemaking until flames erupted anew. Ches was the leitmotif of Glam's passion, setting the tempo and pitch. And when next they joined, rhythm came naturally to them. If Glam had found their first time bumbling and incomplete, then their second—ah, their second taught Glam why it is that people keep trying. Again. And again.