‘Don’t stop now! Unless… you prefer to?’
‘No…’
Loris pushes Charles’ left thigh until his leg lies straight on the bed to slip his thumb into the boxers. Charles moans with anticipation, then whines and flinches when a pang of acute pain arises from Loris’ touch.
‘You okay?’
‘It’s just… Hip… hurts…’
Confused, Loris falls on his side next to Charles and pulls down the waistband more carefully. ‘Wow, what did you do?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. Carry on, it’s… Holy mother of—’
Charlesbites his lip and arches his back under Loris’ grip.
From messy, his ability to kiss goes wild. Mayhem in the streets. Utter chaos of projectiles flying and barricades collapsing. He starts gibbering revolutionary chants, making up words as he goes while Loris’ fingers are igniting all the right spots.
There’s no more bone under Charles’ boiling flesh. He’s all nerves, searing and crackling, and just as he finds the perfect anthem, they tighten all at once.
His body jolts, trembles, jolts again, and might tremble forever if Loris keeps on caressing him. But he’s also kissing him, gentle and soothing now. Charles is too short-winded to actively partake in it, but he makes a note that he adores it.
‘Damn…Vive la France…’
Loris chuckles against Charles’ cheek and releases him. ‘Please don’t hate me.’
‘Peculiar request at this exact moment.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, go, if you have to go, I’ll just— What the no?’
Charles quivers once more and opens his eyes. Everything is hazy around Loris, but his apologetic pout is very vivid.
‘I need to be out of here in ten minutes.’
‘Says who?!’
Loris rolls on his back and gets off the bed. ‘The rugby club.’
Charles wipes sweat from his forehead, blinking in disbelief. What kind of uprising-worthy decree is this?
‘School holidays aren’t over yet!’
‘The head coach is hardcore and some parents want to exhaust their kids. Here.’
Loris hands him a towel and jumps back when Charles makes a snatch for his thigh.
‘But what about you?’ He points at Loris’ crotch. ‘That needs to be taken care of.’
‘Not by you today. We’re not rushing this.’
‘That’s not fair. And… if you expect me to be ready to move in ten minutes, you’ll be disappointed.’
‘No, you can slam the doors on your way out.’
Charles grumbles and closes his eyes. He finds the towel by feel and pulls it onto his stomach. But when the shower starts, he stays still, hit by a mental picture of Loris taking care of himself in a cloud of hot steam. Charles scrunches his eyelids to smudge it. He doesn’t want to imagine it. He wants to see it, he wants to be there and participates. But he can’t, because an authoritarian coach and overwhelmed parents need Loris. The guillotine should make a comeback.
It turns out that the vision of severed heads, dripping blood around a rugby pitch, is a bit of a turnoff, so Charles finally wipes himself and pulls up his boxers, yawning.
