“I had to be super butch, so I drank two molecules of Heineken,” Simon says into the corner of Charlie’s mouth. He can feel when Charlie smiles.
When Charlie leans in again, Simon feels the muscles of Charlie’s back shift under his hands. It jolts Simon’s brain into remembering that he doesn’t have to keep his hands politely at ten and two o’clock on Charlie’s back. He’s allowed to touch. Encouraged, even, if the way Charlie bites Simon’s lip is anything to go by.
Simon is not unfamiliar with the shape of Charlie’s body. He’s not unfamiliar with how Charlie’s body feels against his own or the smell of his skin. He knows what Charlie’s shoulder blades feel like, the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. It’s different, obviously, like this, but the collision of familiar and brand-new is electricity under Simon’s fingers, and he wonders if Charlie feels the same way as his hands map out the terrain of Simon’s hips, his ribs, his shoulders.
“Fucking layers.” Charlie pulls at the hem of Simon’s shirt, sliding a hand underneath.
“Get rid of it.” Simon could do it himself, but it’s better when Charlie does it. Simon starts in on his buttons but only gets the first two open before Charlie’s pulling it over his head, throwing it on the floor next to his sweater with the kind of disrespect fine fabrics don’t deserve and which Simon is not prepared to do anything about. Then they’re skin to skin, and it’s a shock, new in every way. Charlie’s mouth is hot and urgent on his neck, his body big and warm and heavy.
Simon’s thoughts are honey-slow, and it takes a minute before he remembers he can put his mouth on Charlie too. So that’s what he does, kissing Charlie’s jaw. Simon is slightly obsessed with the place where the scratch of Charlie’s beard meets the softness of his neck, the way Charlie’s body goes taut at the contact, the sound he makes.
“We should get dinner,” Simon says, feeling like somebody ought to make an effort to hit the brakes.
“Yeah, sure,” Charlie agrees. “Just give me ten minutes.” He presses his palm over the zipper of Simon’s jeans. “More like five.”
Simon, torn between arguing and the need to push into Charlie’s hand, decides to split the difference. “Why aren’t we on the bed? It’s right there, for God’s sake, Charlie.”
The room is cramped enough that the bed is, in fact,rightthere. Two uncoordinated steps, and Simon’s on his back, Charlie on top of him. Simon could stay like this, Charlie’s weight pinning him to the bed, but he needs to know what’s next. He’s no good at surprises.
“What do you like?” Simon asks.
“Right now, I like kissing you.”
It’s a non-answer, and Simon could be annoyed that Charlie’smissing the point. It’s also not something Simon needs spelled out for him—obviously Charlie’s enjoying this, because Simon’s never been kissed so thoroughly in his life. But for some reason, Charlie’s words send a warm rush of pleasure racing down Simon’s spine.
“I like it too,” he says. It feels like the darkest confession, something whispered and secret.
“I can tell.” Charlie rolls their hips together.
“That’s not what I—”
“I know. I just mean I can tell when you like something. All the rubber bands holding you together aren’t strung so tight, just for a minute. That’s how you get when craft services has those muffins or when someone brings their dog to set. Or when I kiss you right here.” He kisses a spot under Simon’s ear.
Simon can feel it, can feel himself slacken in Charlie’s arms, then shivers when he thinks about Charlie noticing, knowing what it means, cataloging the things that make it happen.
“I like it,” Charlie says. “It’s one of the things I like the most about you. I just really do,” he mumbles into Simon’s neck, and Simon can’t figure out how that relates to anything Charlie’s been saying, so he puts two fingers in Charlie’s mouth to shut him up, and also because he wants to, and things escalate from there.
Well, by escalate, Simon means Charlie pulls Simon’s fingers out of his mouth and presses his hand to the bed, says, “For fuck’s sake,” and kisses him some more. Tomorrow, Simon’s going to be red with beard burn and the thought makes him squirm, makes him think about even more places Charlie could mark him up, even more ways.
Simon’s uncomfortably aware that he’s not bringing much to the table, just sort of lying there and letting Charlie maul him, but in Simon’s defense, he’s stunned. Stunned, in the literal sense, likemaybe he suffered a head injury at some point between walking through the door and now. Instead of thoughts, he just has nerve endings. He can barely move.
Still, for years now, he’s been imagining—reluctantly, but it happens anyway—touching Charlie. And so that’s what he does. But for some reason instead of getting a hand on Charlie’s pectorals, like any sane person, or even his biceps, Simon reaches for Charlie’s beard. Charlie goes still, then presses his face into Simon’s hand like a cat. He turns his head to kiss Simon’s palm.
Simon slides his hand lower, skimming his fingers over Charlie’s chest, catching on a nipple and staying there for a moment when he hears Charlie suck in a breath. With his other hand, Simon tries to unfasten his own jeans.
Something in Charlie seems to snap, and he has the rest of Simon’s clothes off before Simon can say much more than “hurry, please, hurry.” He’s staring at Simon, and Simon really likes that. Maybe he preens a little, but also he can’t take another single second of this. “Why thefuckare your pants still on?” he asks, reasonably.
Charlie’s sweatpants hit the floor. Before Simon can even properly look, Charlie is kneeling between Simon’s legs, taking him in his mouth—and, yep, this is what Simon thought Charlie would be like, urgent and a little desperate. Eager.
Simon might be a little eager himself, because he isn’t going to last long, especially not once he gets a hand in Charlie’s hair, especially not when Charlie groans in approval. Charlie’s hand is gripping Simon’s thigh, his mouth is perfect, and Simon’s orgasm hits him like a two-by-four to the head.
When he opens his eyes, Charlie’s kneeling over him. “Do you need the paramedics?” He looks smug.
“Shut up,” Simon says, and pulls him down, kissing him, stroking him lazily, then a little less lazily when Charlie clasps his own hand over Simon’s. He gets distracted by the feel of Charlie’s hand around his, the rhythm of it, the noises Charlie’s making into Simon’s neck.
“Come on, Simon, keep your head in the game,” Charlie says when Simon gets distracted again. Simon tries to bite his shoulder, but it turns into a kiss.
Simon’s experience is that never, not once, has sex made things less awkward. He’s sure that when he gets out of the shower, the fragile thread of civility he and Charlie have been relying on for the past few days will have snapped under the weight of We Just Had Sex.
