The space between us throbs.
There’s a soft scratch of cotton on my palm. The warm breath of a body I want. I touch him lightly and quickly, ready to withdraw and retreat. To run and pretend it didn’t happen.
I’m quick, but he’s quicker.
His hand tightens around mine like a vise. A hot brand that sinks into my skin. He leans into me without turning to see who’s touching him.
His head tilts back. His hair and ear scrape my jaw. His lips move slowly.
“Lennon,” he says, like he’s been expecting me. Like he’s been waiting for me.
My hand slides around his body, palm dragging over taut muscle. Not only does he let me, but he guides my hand until I’ve encircled him fully. Until my arm is wrapped around him and the music in his veins is flowing through me.
Until the husk that lives in his larynx spins in my throat as well.
It doesn’t feel strange or new to be touching him. It feels necessary and right.
The song that’s playing ends, and so does the next one. My other hand finds its way to Connor’s hip, and every time he moves, we find a way to be closer to each other.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel strange. I feel necessary and right.
At some point, we drift back to the table where Georgie, Tank, and the others are, and I have another drink. And another shot. The closeness Connor and I have experienced is unbroken. Intact. It persists despite the change in our location. Connor stands next to me, and when he talks to me, he puts his hand lightly on my lower back. He does it like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. Like it’s something we’ve always done. Like it doesn’t ignite sparks that dance across my skin and race up and down my spine.
Connor’s body is curved slightly toward me. His hand is on my shoulder now. It’s warm where he’s touching me. It’s warm everywhere. In my mind. In my dick. Everything’s hot. Sluggish and slow. Swollen and thick.
People around us take turns talking and talk over each other. The entire time, I look at Connor. At his lips. Into his eyes.
His reactions are slower than usual.
He’s happy, but tired.
I cup my hand to his ear and lean in so close to him that my lips graze his earlobe. “Do you want to go home, Con?”
His eyes light up. Tiny stars flicker in an emerald sky. They burst and flicker again.
“You called me Con,” he says with a goofy smile.
“Everyone calls you Con. It’s not a big deal.” I smile back, in part because I’m pretty fucking drunk and I’m not sure I remember how not to smile when I’m around him, and in part because I’m almost a hundred percent sure I know what he’s going to say next.
Because he’s Connor, he doesn’t disappoint.
“Of course it’s a big deal.” He keeps his head exactly where it is, so close to me that his stubble brushes against my neck. Then he leans a little closer. “’Cause you’re a big deal.”
Leaving the bar is a discombobulated process involving shouted goodbyes and screeches of dissatisfaction that we’re leaving. One of us calls a ride. We must, because suddenly, we’re outside and the night has closed in on us. Laughter skips down the street, bouncing off cobblestone and brick. Our car appears out of nowhere.
Doors open and slam. Buildings and streetlights fly past us.
My thoughts become scrambled.
Connor and I are in the back seat. Him on the right, me on the left. The seat in the middle is empty, an ugly chasm that makes no sense at all.
We stop at a red light, and I notice we’re near Georgie’s building. We’re only two blocks from home. I have no idea how it happened so quickly.
“Want to walk the rest of the way?” I ask him.
“Do you need some fresh air?”
I don’t need fresh air. I need Connor’s arm around me or mine around him, and I need us to walk in step with each other, with no ugly chasm between us. “Yeah. Fresh air.”
