“You could give me a hint. I could probably help you plan?” His heart is pounding. What is it? What is Sebastian planning? What if it’s a disappointment? What if it’s incredible?
“No, just know that it’s going to be great. I’m planning it. Now put me away.”
Peter presses a final kiss to the head of Sebastian‘s cock and carefully tucks him back in his underwear. He buttons up Sebastian’s jeans. Sebastian extends a hand down, helping Peterto his feet. And then Sebastian is pressing close, arm wrapped around Peter’s neck, hand on Peter’s cock, stroking him roughly through his pants.
Peter groans, grinds into the touch.
“You should come like this, fucking up against my hand, rubbing that cockhead until it’s sore, making a mess in your pants, and then you can sit in your own spunk for a little. Sweetheart. Doesn’t that sound?—“
And then they’re interrupted. There's the harsh sound of Peter’s back gate opening and closing. He jerks away, putting distance between them just as Mark appears around the corner.
“Where’s your phone? I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes,” he says, annoyed. And then he looks at Sebastian. “Wait, aren’t you the artist?” Mark asks speculatively.
“I am the artist, and gardener… apparently,” he says and wipes his hand on his jeans. He extends it for Mark to shake. “Sebastian Craft, nice to meet you.”
“You’re very talented,” Mark says. “Why the hell are you slumming it doing manual labor?”
Sebastian cuts a glance to Peter. Peter, who is now blushing and utterly mortified. “That is the question.”
“We’re supposed to go to the Elks Club. They’re one of the only groups that didn’t cancel once Peter stepped down from office. Can’t believe you forgot,” he says.
“I’ve been… enjoying the break.”
Mark snorts. “Well, hurry.”
Peter hurries inside, shocked and unsettled and so discombobulated he trips on the uneven pavement. Peter goes straight to the kitchen and washes his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice uneven as he scrubs at his dirty fingernails. “I should have… introduced you before now.”
Sebastian’s hand settles on his shoulders. “What’s going on?”
Peter sighs, but it hitches with emotion. “I don’t want to go. I’m dreading it. I’m like a child scared to go to the dentist. It’s so stupid.”
Sebastian presses a kiss to Peter’s sweaty neck. “That isn’t stupid. It must be hard to decide what to say now that you’ve left the party. If they didn’t cancel then you just be honest. People can be curious and even understanding. There is still some empathy in the world.”
Peter shuts off the water and turns around, grabs a dish towel and tries to dry his hands, dividing his attention between Sebastian and the towel as a distraction because it’s too important and revealing otherwise.
“Aren’t you wise?” Peter snaps and then he shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to snap at you. It’s not fair. I think of you as my… person. You are the one I rely on and come home to, fall apart to,” he says and grimaces. He’d like to fall apart less. “If I’m being honest, I think I probably rely on you too much. I spend so much time thinking about you when I’m at these events that it’s, well, honestly it’s terrifying to need someone so much.”
Peter moves aside, needing distance after that revelation, and Sebastian washes his hands, silent for so long that Peter starts to get stressed out and antsy. Maybe he should just go and they can continue this conversation when he gets back?
“God, Peter,” he says, shaking his head. “We have to talk about this when you get back. You’re going to be okay. I see you and I know you. You’re a good man. And I want all of you.”
Peter presses his hands to his eyes, horribly close to bursting into tears. “I have to go,” he says and forces himself to start moving.
He looks around, trying to figure out what else he might be missing. He’s so frazzled and emotionally unsettled he isn’t evensure he’d remember what it is even if he did have longer to think about it.
“I think that’s everything.”
“What about your clothes?”
“Fuck,” Peter says. He dashes up the stairs to shower and change.
Sebastian is standing next to the door, shoulders a little hunched and hands in his pockets when Peter comes back down. He looks young. Unguarded.He straightens when Peter gets close, shoulders back, trying to assert himself.
“Call me when it’s over, if you want,” he says.
Peter nods.
